aimless shadow words

My mind challenges me all the time. It is an endless crematorium of my accomplishments or desires to create. I must say it is a blessing that something else, inside me, does not listen to these aimless shadow words. No matter how dark the shadow appears, I ascend to the light of the occasion to create. This time of year always seems to amplify the worst of the worst anyway. The longest day and the shortest night, seems ironically off.

Jupiter, Mars, Saturn and the full moon come along to celebrate tonight’s summer solstice this year. I have taken out a book, I have had a long time, and have started reading it again. Dimensions by Jacques Vallee. I post about him from time to time. He has whisked me away to so many other books. As a scientist he is also creative and intuitive. His perspective on tradition, folklore and UFOs always amazes me. With the many questions, alone, I have on these subjects, he alone, answers them; intense to say the least.

Proposition 1: The behavior of a superior race would not necessarily appear purposeful to a human observer. Scientists who brush aside UFO reports because “obviously intelligent visitors would not behave like that” simply have not given serious thought to the problem of nonhuman intelligence. Observation and deduction agree, in fact, that the organized action of a superior race must appear absurd to the inferior one…” Pg. 167.

I also like how he blends in the conversation of psychic and mystical with the UFO experience. Also that historically, this is a long going tradition that must not be ignored and viewed only scientifically. Knocks at the door when no one is there, lost time and space, and strange dreams are, in fact, nothing new. This all has been written about for a damn long time. Many traditions that go back for generations. As Jacques Vallee points out, “Ones that must not be forgotten or they die forever.”

So tonight, as I look into the night sky and see the wondrous lights there, I am thankful for this consistency and the mystery; within the darkness there is light!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/aimless/

Endure …

Understanding life as one gets older is harmonious

things lost and insights gained

winds blow in the memories

time travel is easy…

child like fantasies still inspire

and adult responsibilities endure.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/understanding/

Sunday Random pick, The Mysterium Coniunctionis

I reluctantly picked up a book that seemed to urge me to open it, and despite my hesitation, I obeyed its call.

“This investigation was rounded out by the Mysterium Coniunctionis, in which I once again took up the problem of the transference, but primarily followed my original intention of representing the whole range of alchemy as a kind of psychology of alchemy, or as an alchemical basis for depth psychology.

In Mysterium Coniunctionis my psychology was at last given its place in reality and established upon its historical foundations. Thus my task was finished, my work done, and now it can stand. The moment I touched bottom, I reached the bounds of scientific understanding, the transcendental, the nature of the archetype per se.”

A Carl Jung book.

BUGS RULE !!

A knock at the door. I open the computer room window and say, “hello?”

“Hi are you sick of all the bugs around you, like ants,” said the young saleswoman?

“No, I have a bio dynamic garden where my garden is in balance with nature.”

“Don’t you hate bugs crawling on you?”

“I don’t mind them crawling on me. In fact, when we die they will win in the end.”

“Yes that may be true.”

“It has taken me many years to reach this balance, and I don’t want to use any form of pesticides in my environment.”

“Well this is my job.”

“You could find a better job, like solar energy or organic companies?”

“Maybe but this is my job. I want to keep it. WE all have to work.”

“Ya know, if it wasn’t for trees and bugs, WE, most likely would not have a very good life. A healthy garden is so important for the world we live in.”

“Well, this is my job, right,” she said happily.

“OK … your karma too.”

“I guess so.”

“Have a nice day.”

The young saleswoman was laughing as she said “you too!”

As a crone who loves her environment with a passion, I feel it is always my place to let a young woman know about life.

I love all sorts of things that creep and crawl in my garden.

No fucking pesticides. I want lots of healthy bugs in my garden like: bees, ants, butterflies, worms, flies, water bugs, lady bugs and the mighty praying mantis.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/purpose/

Bold and sweeping horror dreams are now gone.

To flourish with the same electrical sounds around us every day can become an adventure wrapped in strange amusing memories.

Such as today when I used the lady’s room at my favorite store. A large fan vibrated throughout the small tilted covered bathroom. The sound reminded me of a scene from the horror film Phantasm (1979). In the film a youth named Mike Pearson finds a room in a mortuary where there are two large round metal polls. The room that contains the polls is bright. The polls vibrate and flourish relentlessly. A strange overwhelming loud pitched sound is heard. That is the same sound as in the lady’s room I visited today.

I once turned on our old dish washer every night. It sounded like the Alien UFO Machines in the remake of War of the Worlds. Images of long legs, tripods, squirting blood and the horror stimulated my scary dreaming. The sounds of the dish washer. Oh man, were a constant reminder every night of War of the Worlds. The old dish washer did not flourish. Now our new dishwasher sounds fine. No more scary dreams…. too bad.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/flourish/

Lynn, She’s not there.

“We can meet Cain, Judas and Lucifer by being aware of our own desires to be false and to betray, to kill our brother and to kill ourselves, that our kiss has death in it and that there is a piece of the soul that will live forever cast out from both human and heavenly company.”

~ Pg. 169 Praxis, James Hillman The Dream and the Underworld.

Lynn drove into the Wall-Mart parking lot.

She was driving a 1960 Pontiac convertible.

Sunglasses pulled back her dark hair.

A cigarette moved as she pulled it out of her mouth to talk.

Don Henley’s lyrics came to mind,

“But I can see you, your brown skin shining’ in the sun, you got your hair combed back and your sunglasses on, baby,”

Lynn’s image passed.

In Wall-Mart,

the Radio

A dagger a song.

into my heart

by The Zombies.

She’s Not There,

Anymore.

Lynn’s lycanthropy biting at our heels

Dear Lynn here comes another Autumn I can feel it and you…

Slight but it is right!

The Seminary of Praying Mantis Publishing

Hudley Flipside

In the comfort of my bedroom-turned-office, I’ve become a publisher and a documentarian, passionately exploring the vibrant world of punk rock history as both a historian and a professional consultant. Every day, I cherish the opportunity to pursue my dreams in this space, feeling truly blessed, as if guided by the gentle presence of a praying mantis.

II. Love’s Nature Love
Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

“…In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.

True love’s the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven;
It is not fantasy’s hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind…”

Close to 40 something years ago, as a co-publisher of a small underground fanzine I helped out many bands and individuals. It was an unofficial official job. Lots of work every day. As the years went on, I kept my mouth shut and did my job. I had many opportunities to confront and talk to the punk oligarchy that presided in our office home.

I turned away and did not speak up. If I had the opportunity to speak up now and go back and confront the internal control that moved like a rip tide toward magazines, records, and videos, I would have stood up and defined my needs as a member at the table of true anarchy.

A place of communication and ideas. Here is what I would say,

“I want to publish books and open up a coffee shop.”

This was before that mermaid opened her fins and poured her vast empire of java. Little up-town Whittier California was prime at that time. It would be a place of publishing, art, good coffee and maybe some beer for sale too! This idea still pivots in my mind since reading a book during the late 1970’s.

I have lost the name of the book or the author. The book’s title is “Spooky Foot” or close to that. I do know the general ideas and concepts in the book.

There was a woman who was a very sensitive person. She engaged in an artist underground movement.

In her biography she lived in England, and she opened up an art center, coffee shop, music live, gallery, beer shop. It was a place for all ages and kinds of people to come together and be creative.

To share their inspirations. Oh yes, the best part is that the author of this book said one of her dreams was to open a small publishing company in her back house. Small but respectable and she achieved her goal. That is what I would have changed back then.

So, I try to live up to that invisible dream still. Slight but it is right.

Elfenlied

At midnight, when asleep are men at length,
Then shines for us the moon,
Then gleams for us the star,
We rove and dance and sing
Nor gay till then we are.

At midnight, when asleep are men at length,
We seek the alder grove,
And in the pale moonbeam,
We rove about and sing,
And gaily dance a dream.

~ Goethe

English translation by W.G. Thomas

Equilibrium and Sparks

“This he [she] feels, is my proper vocation, this is the optimum, the law, the life for me to live. Here I find the degree of equilibrium, safety, calm and leisure which I need, or here I find the challenge, passion, fight, and hardship with which my soul’s energy expires.”

~ Pg. 256 Par. 1, The Varieties of Religious Experience William James

Making fruit salad this morning is a proper thing to do for breakfast. It is when I got to the pineapple, after the strawberries, that I thought about Dad. He was the one that showed me how to cut up a pineapple. He grew up on the California Santa Monica Pier.

His mother gave him his own stand on the pier selling pineapple. She set him up good for a young teen. He cut up the pineapple and sold pineapple on a stick.

All profits were his to keep. Along with diving off the end of the pier for two bits, or body building at the original Muscle Beach, his stories where nice to hear while he taught me just this skill.

Generational Differences

Punk Rock Colleague & Historian and Professional Consultant

Hudley Flipside

Martin Sprouse and Tim Yohannan (RIP) at the MRR House, 1987

~ maximumrocknroll.com

RIP Tim.

I know that Punk Rock is supposed to hate hippies.

Joe Strummer pissed on The Beatles, but he was once a hippie before he merged into a street punk as well as our friend Tim Yohannan from the ongoing Maximumrocknroll.

I grew up living and experiencing the ‘sixties. I have one older brother who seemed, at one strange time, to be a flower child. Pot unites both. Yet I must say my heart and soul resonate to the punk scene with lots of jazz on the side.

I have often thought that John Fogerty and Colin Abrahall have similar strong singing voices. They hit me the same way with generational differences of course.

Also, Eric Burdon and Keith Morris both have that deep singing tone, of continuity and rebellious style, which turns my blood to a boiling point.

Me like!

Conductor 71

“I fell in love because of your mistake”

A Matter between Life and Death is an excellent film from 1946. One I recommend for the holidays. This film has some strange and lovelorn characters, my favorite being Conductor 71. He is an angel or appointed heavenly being / worker who makes an error, or does he? His character is whimsical and deliciously androgynous.

“One is starved for Technicolor up there…what a night for love.”

I think Johnny Depp stole from this character in his impersonation of Willy Wonka.

The soundtrack is provocative. This film crosses the line, holding a relationship between life and death; space and time. Moments of surrealism and logical deduction pull this film onward. There are elements that address the blending of culture and intelligence; via history, politics and the game of chess. One book is exchanged between the dead and the living.

My Best Games of Chess 1908 – 1937, Alexander Alekhine

A Matter between Life and Death answers the question, “…what sort of people are American Citizens.?”

“A bunch of men getting their wings for dying in WWII.”

Marius Goring as Conductor 71

Pretty remarkable! The beautiful pink rose that blooms throughout this story is love. How the simple tear of a loving woman moves heaven when placed on his rose. The master of L’AMOUR an irresistible French cupid named Conductor 71.

Ophiuchus’s Song

“those born between November 30 and December 17 fall under the sign of Ophiuchus.”

~ Dr. Jacqueline Mitton, from the prestigious Royal Astronomical Society

“Every Time A Bell Rings An Angel Gets its Wings”

I woke up with a treat this morning. I set the cell phone alarm for 7:30 AM. Time to get youngest son up for school. This morning I found someone rumbling at the front door. I was surprised to find that it was oldest son. He had some Jack’s breakfast burritos. He got me a coffee and a grilled breakfast sandwich because I am on a low cholesterol diet.

Mine is a rebellious campaign against free radicals and hydrogenated oils. Scum of the earth I declare!!

Today was my Dad’s birthday. A Sagittarius to some Ophiuchus to others. As I stood in my computer room, having a window facing the west, I heard the front doorbell ring. I walked to the door and called out,

“Hello, who’s there?”

No one answered. I looked out the window and there was no one there. I opened the door, and no one was there. No packages on the ground or UPS truck racing away at a 100 miles per hour. Not a laughing child playing ding-dong-ditch.

It was cold outside with only the sound of a few crows barking with the dogs.

I am thinking about my Dad in the best way possible today. All those special little things he did just for me are good to think about. He was a great storyteller. When I grew up and out of the house my dad told me that late at night, he would get up hearing a sound outside his bedroom widow of someone calling his name. He thought it was me asking him to get up and out of bed to open the front door and let me in. In my wild teenager years, I would often not come home until 3 AM.

Dad created the best fires in the family hearth. My parent’s original fireplace opened on two sides. On a day like today when the chilly air makes your face cold: my best memories are of coming into the house after a hard day of playing. The warmth of the fire and the smell of my mother’s kitchen are comforting thoughts today as I think of my Dad’s love on his once happy birthday.

Ophiuchus’s Song

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophiuchus

I am not a big Foreigner fan… at all… but this song has haunted me since it first came out…1984…. Ophiuchus in mythological stories is the serpent healer.

An ancient and archaic image of wisdom and knowledge. Associated with Hermes Transmigrates.

A time of great healing is possible. A time of Orbs in the sky and saviors being born. The shadow shows its face and the ancient battle of light and darkness continues outside of us and within us.

Leaping times of resistance and change …

In the Creative Process:

“Make your obstructions or limitations productive by stimulating greater intensity of thought and a deeper sense of spiritual freedom”

~ The William Blake Tarot Cards

Los Angeles River

21_13_1800 — Kate Rentz http://www.katerentz.com/Tunnel-Vision

The Los Angeles river flows along concrete. Vanowen St. is where, I travel by and over the river every day; from Calabasas to home again. A water flow that is older than this congested city, that grew up around it now controlling the wet flow. I still hear its watery whisper, Knowing wild animals, still transverse these pure and dirty waters.   The flowing hill waters still carry, a harmony of wild-ness. Resonating in the glowing eyes of the raccoon, skunk and coyote, that I have viewed at night. Taking me back to my wild days, of roaming the same hills, dipping my feet, into the same streams that flow, forming the Los Angeles River.  Once I had a dream. I was playing on a golf course near Canoga Ave. A mound formed on the grass, Slowly a grayish woman came forward out of the grass. A full aboriginal woman covered with grey earth. It was not so much of what I witnessed there, but how she made me feel, A pure wild freedom of earth and sky, projected out towards me.  Quickly she turned to run south up Canoga Ave. Running and galloping with her wild animals. They also came up and ran as a strong wind, forward. My heart and mind wanted to go with her. I still wonder where she went and who she was?  Circulating the San Fernando Valley, my home town and where I was born, where I most likely will die. Here is where I will have my body cremated, at the base of Bell Creek and Arroyo Calabasas, my ashes freely thrown. How confronting this seems to me.  Last night while leaning on a city tree, that hums up food from the good earth, I think about my home and the Los Angeles river. I look up to see, The pushy Saturn has fallen, the Pleiades now greets me,  The cool grass on my bare feet feels great, my soul is listening to an epiphany of a whispering river. Sometimes calling me late at night; Real comfort and that same wild-ness. I heard as a child! Now I have come back to hearing it again. Sounding all at once, like a shrill, scratching, glass chimes, circulating in the wind.    ~ Hudley Flipside

***

Westfield Village Westfield-topanga-public-art-display- About the Los Angeles River

http://www.dailynews.com/arts-and-entertainment/20150807/village-at-westfield-topanga-public-art-display-to-tell-valleys-story

Los Angeles early photos

The Los Angeles River’s official beginning is at the confluence of two channelized streams – Bell Creek and Arroyo Calabasas – in the Canoga Park section of the city of Los Angeles, just east of California State Route 27, at 34.1952°N 118.601838°W (the east side of Canoga Park High School). Bell Creek flows east from the Simi Hills, and Arroyo Calabasas flows north from the Santa Monica Mountains. From there the river flows east through a concrete flood control channel and very soon receives Browns Canyon Wash, which flows south from the Santa Susana Mountains. The river then bends slightly south and receives Aliso Canyon Wash, whose watershed adjoins that of Browns Canyon. The river then flows through the district of Winnetka, then Reseda and enters the Sepulveda Basin, a flood-control reservoir formed by the Sepulveda Dam.^[4]^[5]^[6]^[7]

Suffragette Glory

As a baby boomer from the Jones generation I get sick when it comes to the idea of a war machine. Like prostitution it is one of the oldest rights of man; and unfortunately war is now for women.

SUff

When we hear about Ezekiel’s Vision of Divine Glory we most likely think about some strange and wonderful images. William Blake even illustrated them. Very remarkable and inspirational. Yet if one takes a closer look past all the inspiration one finds a testimony of war and war machines. Ezekiel’s glory turns to the horrors of religious war.

1“As for you, son of man, take a sharp sword; take and use it as a barber’s razor on your head and beard. Then take scales for weighing and divide the hair. 2“One third you shall burn in the fire at the center of the city, when the days of the siege are completed. Then you shall take one third and strike it with the sword all around the city, and one third you shall scatter to the wind; and I will unsheathe a sword behind them. 3“Take also a few in number from them and bind them in the edges of your robes. 4“Take again some of them and throw them into the fire and burn them in the fire; from it a fire will spread to all the house of Israel.” ~ Ezekiel Five

william-blake-the-whirlwind-ezekiel-s-vision_i-G-23-2365-K35JD00Z

My Dad was shot down near the shores of New Guinea. On a last flight as a Captain. He survived the water with a broken back. Every year my mom made a beautiful cake with his plane crashed on the New Guinea cake coast in remembrance of that day. I did not get it as a kid and was only interested in the blue and green frosting.

All this weaved tightly together means when as a child of a WW II veteran I found out that my dad was the recipient of a Purple Heart; I still held no glory for war. I just liked the purple heart as a play thing.

The suffragette movement was a real good war. The right to vote and be heard.

Not to be as a man but new and powerful as a lady.

I think we should take the focus off glorifying war and its veterans and focus on the ones in control. The war machine. Take the few and put them on an Island like New Guinea and have them fight their wars. (yes, this is not a new idea). Most likely that would come down to about 5 or 6 men. Powerful war hungry men and corporate heads who search & destroy for profit, land resources and religious or political insanity.

Yes, even though I love William Blake’s illustrations of Ezekiel’s Vision of Divine Glory, Ezekiel was fucking insane. If you have not taken the time to read this from any Gideon’s bible… prepare to be amazed.

Only after the last tree has been cut down, only after the last river has been poisoned, Only after the last fish has been caught, Only then will you find money cannot be eaten.
~ Cree Prophecy

Fuck Wars

~Flopside Comics are Offbeat absurd adult toilet paper humor funnies.
Not for those without a nasty and stupid sense of humor.
Staring Mr. Fuck and his adventures in life.

Is that comic relief coming out of your “be more than an asshole?”

Proceed at your own risk at all times… no big deal really….

“Art of Fugue”

…. in contemplation on something…all possibilities… and I still say “Fuck Wars”…. around and around we go over the subject… persistently…. I say “Fuck Wars!!”

Where we stand

Here I stand where there once was a field ! I ran on it and played! I went to seasonal carnivals here! It progressed to a miniature golf course and large slides as I grew! later was a theater here where I viewed films upon a CinemaScope screen! Now there is my boy carrying toilet paper on the same spot years later! I wish I could take him back with me to the same spot years ago where I ran, rode the octopus carnival ride and lived my wild free youthful days! Where there once was a field, carnivals… But now only assault, concrete and a fucking Costco! Well at least the toilet paper is cheep!!

“Where art thou?”

Two pieces of white cake with yellow frosting. Thick yellow butter cream frosting. Before going into a sugar induced slumber, I will force myself to write. Coffee fights the sweating as a homeopathic fight …good against evil.

Flopside comics suck and so do you

My fictitious Mr. Fuck “where art thou?”

You once hung with me and we laughed

creating those fucking awful comics. My friend your musing has left me.

When is it you last crossed my path with jest and obscene ways?

With your old story books piled high;

found in a dumpster behind the Goodwill store?

The echo of your fart from the alley as I walked down the street under a crescent moon…

those dark dark nights.

My muse, my pal;

out drinking anyone under the table.

Music so loud in you crib it was as if living in Queens near the Subway.

Vibrating, rotten trash and pizza but laughter that reached the Gods.

“Where art thou?” …

Your image blurs, wanders and your black boots and purple tie are silent in my closet.

I know you are living in our Bomb Shelter.

Come out for a shot of good Whiskey

I call on you. My muse and jester.

Let’s spend a day soon walking our walks and talking our talks…

cracking jokes and knowing that idiocy is around every corner.

I might even smoke a cigarette with you in an alley while I barf by the dogs’ lamp light.

~ Finis

Minus one on the Richter magnitude scale

Today while performing my shopping chores as part of my multitasking profession as a big mama mantis. I came to the checkout lane. There I was beholding to all the magazines before me. Cakes, ladies in low-cut dresses and The Pope. Oh boy was I delighted.
“Hey Miss, if you haven’t started to load your groceries come on over here.”

I let the tan man holding a bag of ice go ahead and we followed. Oldest son was helping me today. He had a smirk on his face over what I just did previously. I try not to embarrass my children… yet as a repulsive creative anarchist my libido is now set on little humorous self-indulges.
My confession here is funny to me and eldest son did seem to make a little smirk like I wrote before.

Two magazines assaulted my beholding them. One was Mr. Pope on a magazine cover, and close by was a Miss. Revulsion model on a magazine cover. The image of Mr. Pope and what he represents as that Holy man of this earth; penetrated my consciousness with my resounding “N0”! Thousands of years scanned by my brain of all that patriarchy goo.

Then that lady with the purple dress posing with her trained model stance, a photo shopping glowing smile made me itch with revulsion. Two smiles from Mr. Pope and Miss. Revulsion model needed to share an X-rated embrace.
“Hey son, look at this!!”

I took the magazine of Mr. Pope cover turned it over and with a slap placed him on top of Miss. Revulsion model magazine cover. Then we were interrupted by a check-out guy and so the story goes.

The blending of paradox is a great feeling. I accomplished my silly little anarchist humorous self-indulge. Minus one on the Richter magnitude scale … so oldest son and I went on our way. He likes Southpark…

Random Pick Book day is Sunday; “shape the raw creative vision.”

On this Super Full Moon in Pisces where my emotions take over every little hair on my body. I think the long hand of mantis is pulling randomly. A green-golden flash pulls forth a book dusty on the shelve. Portraits and Observations The Essays of Truman Capote. The book is opened to A Voice from a Cloud. I usually only read the first paragraph but so satisfied , my eyes wander with my desire to read two.

“…mysterious, deep, very clear creek…wade and swim in the pure water…”

“One frosty December afternoon I was far from home, walking in a forest along the bank of a mysterious, deep, very clear creek, a route that led eventually to a place called Hatter’s Mill. The mill, which straddles the creek, had been abandoned long ago; it was a place where farmers had brought their corn to be ground into cornmeal. As a child, I’d often gone there with cousins to fish and swim; it was while exploring under the mill that I’d been bitten in the knee by a by a cottonmouth moccasin-precisely as happens to Joel Knox. And now as I came upon the forlorn mill with its sagging silver-gray timbers, the remembered shock of the snakebite returned; and other memories too-of Idabel, or rather the girl who was the counterpart of Idabel, and how we used to wade and swim in the pure waters, where fat speckled fish lolled in sunlit pools; Idabel was always trying to reach out and grab one.” Pg. 283 Par. 2.

“In toto” as a whole : totally or completely

” Excitement-a variety of creative coma-overcame me. Walking home, I lost my way and moved in circles round the woods, for my mind was reeling with the whole book. Usually when a story comes to me, it arrives, or seems to, in toto: a long sustained streak of lighting that darkens the tangible, so-called real world, and leaves illuminated only this suddenly seen pseudo-imaginary landscape, a terrain alive with fingers, voices, rooms, atmospheres, weather. And all of it, at birth, is like an angry, wrathful tiger cub; one must sooth and tame it. Which, of course, is an artist’s principal task: to tame and shape the raw creative vision.” Page 283, Par 3.

ritualistic gesture

Now being presented: The Haggus Society, Edges and Curves July 1 – Sept. 30, 2015

As a ritualistic gesture eating ones power animal, or totem, is practiced globally around the world. I won’t even go down the pew aisle of what the body and blood of Christ is all about. It is an act that empowers us. At church, in the amazon jungle or …wherever the unconscious and the conscious dance that voodoo dance.

Over the years I have done this dance with the Praying Mantis. In a dream I had, there was a bowl of sweet and sour praying mantis soup. Ingesting my totem is ingesting into my conscious mind …my unconscious. I bet that makes you feel like you’re upside down under water. Praying Mantis teaches me about life, death and rebirth. She teaches me about love and the continuity of life. She shows me that family and friends are not as dependable as the sun in the sky or the pattern of the cosmos. Standing tall and silent is a power gesture of her power and I make it my power. Praying Mantis is a beautiful nature colored creature. This art piece is my expression through art of my dream. I used things around the house and the computer to create the piece; cardboard, acrylic, watercolor / photo shop, printer via the computer. Four golden buttons from my mothers collection; items that I touch and use every day. Embracing around the piece is a dark green handmade Paper Mache’ frame made from recycled paper. I like to compose and then compress a lot of information into my essays and art that brings forth an archetype, myth or a thread for the possibility of communication between our mysterious collective unconscious.

http://hudleyflipside.org/my-art-story/