Tag Archives: Writing

till I drop

“I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”

 ~ Jack Kerouac

I grew up during the 60s, 70s and 80s. I was 30 years old when I was bumped blindly into a world of a new education. Each generation I lived though, I loved. As a song, friend or lover, which in fact… all three generations supplied me with abundantly.

I fell into the late 70s punk scene blindly and without any ambition but the rebellious call of youth and ideology built on an underground scene. Yet what I witnessed in the 60s was wildness of a different rebellion.  I miss the hitchhiker’s ways. People on the streets at every corner. I felt safe and awake.

Then as I have written before, the end of the 70s brought the multiple attacks of serial killers and we all pulled into ourselves.  Now I drive by the many blocks where I grew up and see all the streets are empty. Cars and more cars blindly drive right through my memories of those street kids. They were just hanging and talking. They improvised life without any hand-held device. Only the feel of a hand.

I feel the need to move to a new place where there are no memories. I did it at the end of the 80s. I left to a place of no memories for a short time.

As a culture we have become so pulled into ourselves. I am guilty of this as well. I am not blind to what is going on yet, I am getting to old to do anything about it.

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

The Daily “FUCK” Gazette Vol. One , Number 5

Venus

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It seems contrary that Venus goes retrograde
As Spring vividly approaches!
The underworld is spilling upwards
I’ve noticed shadows and illness
Addiction, handicaps, and depression.
My heart is hurt and overwhelmed.

Man at the parking lot asking for money
Young man in a wheelchair
As parents push him through the supermarket
his eyes deep in a world of despair. 

I hold on to the pain as it washes over me with tears
Helpless tears of acknowledgment and power
As we walk through these dark times
To acknowledge it all with observing hearts
That hear and feel!

We help by our vibrations of
compassion, empathy and caring.
A silent prayer of hope,
So, the wounded can find a gentle joy
That pleasure brings
upon their vivid blood-red hearts.

She knows and she descends to us
the gift of her sweetness
for all times.

Walking with those that hold the lanterns
In the dark desending spiral into the underworld.
Light that eliminates the darkness
By acknowledgment, letting go.

As hearts grow in applied ways
This is our wisdom
A balm for our world…
Breast bending up
Chest falling down
And love will be found there too.
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Venus on seashell, from the Casa di Venus, Pompeii. Before AD 79.

https://hudleyflipside.com/my-shop-get-my-weird-stuff-here/

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

Now has come the smell of anticipation to create…after the pain of loss…

“What is actually new in these interactions is the introduction of the financial aspect; if desired, the user has the possibility to monetize his expertise. Although, we can always share our experience for free, giving users the opportunity to have some financial compensation may enhance the potential of interactions by providing them credibility, recognizing their value and establishing a relationship of equals between the parties. Some people may well feel more at ease if, to complete their project, they have the possibility to ‘buy’ someone else’s know-how.” ~https://www.quora.com/What-do-you-consider-to-be-your-greatest-asset

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Hudley the Jester…

It is ironic. My jewel, my opus magnum,  and creations destroyed by the very same scene that gave me a voice. The punk scene gave me a voice. I self-taught myself or created myself in this void of rebellion. A new world. The ideologies, punk community where we helped each other. We confront the status quo and want to change things. My memories are something I share. It took me a long time but, a validation from financial gain is a necessity for a value of one’s art. What makes it valuable is relative. Time, attempt, joy, bliss, and humor. A joining in. I join into the community of the history of punk now. I took a vow in Jung’s terms.

I am confronted with violence, destruction and hate. What is my psyche doing now? How is the Cosmos responding to this? The fire of destruction. The depth of despair. The wheel of talk that becomes tiresome to others.

Pity, maybe.

Hope, lost.

The band plays on…

I smell nothing today.

But the recurrence of something I cannot change.

I move forward as a phoenix

new possibilities new awareness

leaving the gutter behind me !

 

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

The key

Marching down memory lane. I have mentioned this stencil before. I was inspired by a book by Tim Lyons about generational astrology.  What really rang true for me was his knowledge of Chiron. At the time I was living in a little apartment with my family in Van Nuys California.  I had to do something to express my excitement. So I created a stencil on available cardboard with my trusty X-Acto knife (that I still have ). This image is the last I have of Chiron. I lost the stencil. It does not matter if you view this image from the perspective of mythology, astrology, or depth psychology, it is a key that I found to healing and regeneration. I love Chiron.

The key is Chiron

chiron-2

Stencil by Hudley Flipside 1999

“Chiron teaches us the philosophical perspective, and the perspective that our wildness, which may put us outside the status quo, may be our wisdom.”  ~ Tim Lyons

We Need More Power!!

“Hi, it’s another year and you asked for it, here it is, RODNEY ON THE ROQ VOLUME 2. ALL of the bands that you hear every weekend on my show as broadcast on KROQ FM in Pasadena California” ~ Rodney Bingenheimer

What a time we are living in. Forty years of Punk Rock now in museums, a political civil war in the United States and the need to find the meaning of life. Well, back in the day our youthful ways confronted many of these issues with foresight, intuition, rebellion, and music.

I want to share Flipside Fanzine Issue 28 for those that may not have viewed it. Maybe you have the vinyl but never got the insert that Flipside did for this compilation. Most of the insert information was taken from interviews and pictures form other Flipside Fanzines. It has the Flipside Fanzine look and is branded such.

You can do an, “I Spy.” You will notice persons that are still with us and others that are not. Yet, it is an amazing documentation of a growing punk rock scene. Flipside provided a service to that scene.

Ok, I did not burn all the stuff I have with me either, it sets in my special closet with the rest of my art stuff and projects completed, or on the ways to creation. I love working on projects.

At that time working with Posh Boy Records and Rodney was just another way to promote the punk scene that I loved. I still love it and continue to be amazed by that time and place in our Los Angeles punk rock history.

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Friendly Echoes

“Eventually, Echo, too, began to waste away. Her beauty faded, her skin shriveled, and her bones turned to stone. Today, all that remains of Echo is the sound of her voice.[12] “

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Hudley Clown party ’83

The echo of music is all that is left of the experience we shared. Just like Echo, we begin to waste away. Knowing the melting of my brain towards this reality, is something we all face. Is there comfort in the echo of music?

Yes there is!

It can be like an old friend that does not age. It is like an eternal echo from the past that is consistent with the present and beyond.

Lyrics echo this and books echo that.

Memories are echoes in my mind. I can go over the memories again and again.

I miss so many scenes and groups of people who have gone. I still hear the sounds of their voices but they are not there. People, places and things that hold on with an echo.

That eternal echo of music, clubs and beer.

Screaming, dancing and holding friends near!

Dear long friendly echoes.

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

A memory play list for Veterans day

You’re only as good as the best thing you’ve ever done.

~ Billy Wilder

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Dad a WWII Veteran (RIP) and his Grandson JF. Santa Cruz CA 1992

I was always listening to music while working on Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine: Social Distortion to Jefferson Airplane, J.F.A. to Mott the Hoople , The Ramones to C.C.R., The Clash to David Bowie, The Crass to The Who! I was always linking the past to the present and those punk records keep coming !

I know  you can hear little glitches throughout  these videos. Some sort of subliminal mind-control media profit annoyance. Well, they have not got me yet…. it just sounds like scratches on my vinyl records. Nothing new.

Blues for Baby and Me…The Adventures of Sony and Raubie

I don’t remember what season it was. Just that it was in the early morning before the sun came up.I dressed myself in blue jeans, t-shirt and a blue jeans jacket with Dove written on the back. I went down to Sony’s corral. I dressed him up for a long ride. I had some money in my pocket.  Parents did not have a clue, only Ruff and her horse knew where we were going. But, we were going in defiance to their repeated nos. We were hitting that unknown trail to the beach. We did not know how we would get there, besides on the back of our horses.

We knew our way to Mulholland. The wild Santa Monica trails are old fire roads of adventure. We road towards the west / south sands of Topanga beaches. The Pacific Coast Highway were shining dreams to us. Ruff wondered how her horse would respond to the sound of waves. I told her I craved riding Sony galloping over salty ocean foam!

A long ride over the hills emptied us in the middle of Old Town Topanga. In the center of town was an old gas station. Ruff and I took turns at the bathroom. While I was alone in the restroom two women held me hostage. Crazy women that laughed as I confronted them. I ran for the door and didn’t look back. I heard them laughing as we jumped on our horses and trotted away with fingers in the air. The sun wan overhead. We walked the horses along the heart of Topanga. The traffic was building up which was dangerous for us as any biker.

The canyon turned and we rode as determined as a couple of teenage girls can get.

“Hol, I think we can head down one of these trails, and ride a stream towards the beach. What do you think?”

“OK, lets do it!”

We must have taken the wrong path. Sony started slipping on falling rocks. I fell off Sony. I rolled down a hill landing on a big bouquet of fragrant ocean fennel. Sony took off by himself. He ran back towards the center of Topanga. Ruff helped me on to the back of Raubie and we galloped towards Sony. I was terrified that he might run into a car. After a few moments, we found Sony eating some grass on the side of the road. I hopped over my horse and we found another trail towards a stream.

“Hol, don’t you ever tell my mom what just happened! Or Raubie will be gone for sure!”

“Ruff, OH YA!”

The four of us traversed the spotty streams. Waterfalls, large boulders and deep pools of sparkling water filled us with beautiful wild silence. We stopped and rested for the food that Ruff packed. A couple of sandwiches, a coke, and carrots for the horses. Ruff was a mastermind of probabilities because she read so many damn books! We both had a wild wonder in our bellies that pulled us on.

On the right side of Topanga Canyon we came upon a large pond. The water was deep enough where the horses could swim downstream.  A scream from Ruff alerted me to danger! Raubie turned around in the pond with Ruff on him.  Ruff swam up from under her horse. Ruff was pissed. I tied Sony’s hackamore reins to a nearby tree and jumped into the pond. I got Raubie on land. Ruff followed safely. We were both soaked to the skin.

Eight hours and we were almost there.

“I swear I can hear and smell the ocean waves Ruff!

At Topanga Canyon and Pacific Coast Highway we crossed on a green light. Traffic exploited by. Two miles down on either side was a long fence. The beach was fenced off. We stood there with the horses ears sticking straight up. The waves crashed as our dreams dropped. Regardless, it is a magical moment etched in my heart.

“Hol, I think it is time to get back before our parent’s start to worry about us.”

It was a long cold ride home. The sun set by the time we got there. I could hear Ruff’s mom screaming at her, in German, across our small valley. It echoed as my dad and I laughed. Dad was drunk on the porch looking over the San Fernando Valley lights. My mom had me take off my clothes before I entered the house. Into the wash they went. I cleaned up, dressed and went back outside. I told Dad about my adventure as we sat and watched the valley lights together.

Ruff was not allowed to ride with me for a month.

Everything goes…

A funny thing happened while watching the Alfred Hitchcock Hour last night. The Photographer and the Undertaker (1965) was the episode I watched. I realized I had viewed it before, but today it had a new meaning. As I watched the show I was also researching Jack Cassidy. He is the main character of the episode. He is the original Mad Man character actor. He was married to actress Shirley Jones. After their divorce, he seemed to melt down into alcoholism and mental health issues. I’m saddened by my research because to me he always seems like a sharp, upbeat and intelligent swinger. He has a deep history in music and brilliant acting career. It is his demise that shocked me.

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Shirley Jones & Jack Cassidy

In this episode, or story, Cassidy’s character is a photographer who gets wise to a scheme that he is a focus of a hit man. He is scheduled to be killed. Cassidy turns it around and catches the hit man at his own game and kills him. To cover the evidence, he burns his darkroom down. In the news it is confirmed the next day. The photographer is burned to death. Cassidy’s character collects the money from the man who hired the hit man and assumes a new life. A great story with some ironic twists and turns.

As I was watching the story unfold I was thinking how clever Cassidy’s character was, and how he cheated death, something hit me hard. As I watched the flames burn the dark room and the hit man….I realized something.  At that moment I read something profound. Ten years later, in real life, this is how Jack Cassidy dies (1976).

Cassidy returned to his apartment alone, by which time he was drunk, as he had consumed alcohol at various bars across West Hollywood that evening. In the early morning hours of December 12, Cassidy lit a cigarette and fell asleep on his Naugahyde couch. [11] He then dropped the cigarette, which ignited the couch. The flames quickly spread throughout the apartment and the building. [4] At 6:15 a.m., the blaze was discovered by Deputy Sherriff Jon Dimeter, who evacuated the building and entered Cassidy’s apartment. A charred corpse was found in the doorway of the apartment. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Cassidy

I felt a terror over come me. What a strange revelation to perceive. I quickly said a prayer for the man. Last night he whispered a short story in my heart of his ironic demise.