Tag Archives: hippie

Universal Mind on a Breezy Day.

Today I found a snail sort of frozen like on the footpath – maybe it had just missed being stepped on or ridden over. Cold blew the breeze suggesting freeze up North. I picked Snail up and loved watching its two, four, six sets of eyes as it explored its world – it could pull feeler things back inside itself, the 3rd set doesn’t have perceptible eyes, sometimes just one of them sticks out to explore and, feeling my skin, pulls back like a new baby reaching its little leg out into the air and finding nothing familiar, contracting quickly.  i.e.My mind, you understand , not only projected into it , but also watching it :    it might expect it would feel the same as where its whole body was stuck to mine but the new little feeler was visible to me, in a way its body contact with my hand was not, so I guess it was discovering its unique identity and fearing the new, pulled back.

We humans, so lost in our unique identity by the time we are, well 6 yrs old, forget our unity with all. We identify with our own skin and not with the consciousness that is within every creature and every human. In my mind , that universal consciousness sees with my eyes and finds its oneness in me. Universal Consciousness is not bothered with human concerns, it experiences:  I Am  Snail waking up, I am my granddaughter learning to walk uneven ground and get on up after falling. I Am that Universal Consciousness  in a limited skin calling out for re-cognition here. To be known again, as first people know  – that we are one with it. Wankan tanka, Sacred Mystery.  Ra – Sun .

Will we co-operate or die off.?

At my age, I find many of us have given up on political agitation, as I have given up on local strivings, but the new people are undoing the work we did. An old friend was lamenting to me this morning in the park. Grass planting we put in to save the river bank, “they” want to tear out; “they” have already cut down a tree… We need to teach them what we did, so that they may implement their dreams ( floating dock etc) within the parameters of what we built. It is for all our future, the snails, the children, the old …. let the boat ramp be built where the shore is already hardened..I hurt so much when I realised what was going on and the old man telling me said they wont listen…
I say they just dont know, let ME come to the meeting , I’ll tell them!!!.

It makes me sad, and yet the incredible beauty of everyday, of the sky and the speaking clouds let me know I am so so so not alone. This is new age consciousness. It co-exists here, in my heart where I lay down the rage at dispossession and say to myself – do I not still possess eyes to see snail and river and clouds ? do I not still have skin to feel the cool breeze which speaks of the arctic so gently and the mid day sun which parches thirst? Am I not yet ALIVE. I am always here in my heart mind. I am heart mind of my world which includes thee, who read this rant. I thank you. This morning the fish were jumping, like Salmon going upriver, but just mullet jumping for joy or escape… Fish cannot express that same joy I feel at being alive? Both are true – for I Am my truth.

I guess we either think its too late and shrug or we do whatever we can to help raise awareness in the corridors of power. OR we comprehend how we are in this together. That survival belongs to those who value the common good more than questionable amounts of personal excess.

silk painting and studio experiences …



Fearless Fibre – Protestry

FEARLESS FIBRE. to take place at Carrollwood Cultural Center. Tampa. July August 2017

This exhibition features the work of 8 Fibre Artists who create Art out of that which is to hand, using methods which are as old as the hills, and as new as the moment. As artists we are divinely creative! In fibre art, nothing need be wasted.
As with all material arts, we deal with uncertainty, we find solutions to apparent mistakes, and we repurpose failures. We wish you pleasure in the tactility, sensuousness and expressiveness of  Fearless Fibre.

I , Lib,  Curator, offer Protestry  – Poetry which declares and defends a Wombmanist perspective.

Godesses whose Anxiety is Balanced by a Cool Head.

We are *feminasculin. We are creative. We restore to language a role of respect, honoring that of which we speak.
Our feminasculine mind can find the **dialectic:

Thesis – Evolution is happening to the story ***wombmen tell ourselves.
Antithesis – Words can neither be invented nor evolved.
Synthesis – An evolutionary  Future  not  only Loves the Present, ( Evolution IS happening)  but also evolves the Past, (some do not comprehend the creative power of evolution) without needing to destroy it.  Hatred and Fear are that story of the past, still, dying, Here.  In this story we are telling Now, we dance on the grave of misery, and offer flowers to the corpse in respect of human suffering.

Fearlessly we weave our new story,  our fabrics speak of creation. Joyously we reach out to you, Viewing Listener, with  our  fabricated artistry. The is the Synthetic New.

*  Feminasculin – Original concept of Phillippe Sollers
** Dialectic – A way to get beyond duality, vital in these times – so we can talk to those who think  differently from ourselves.  Thesis, meets Antithesis, and the Synthetic New is created.
***  Wombman – New linguistic offering from Yours Truly. By naming something we give it existence. This is the creative power of words. We can own our story. Each one of us has our own unique vision which can not only invalidate, but also can be invalidated by, the current fearful collective vision. 

Gender is a higher level concept than sexual preference, which has its mind in the bedroom.

All our wombmenish, feminasculin hearts beat with the wings of a peace dove. God, goddess and good are words for concepts representing our ideals. Our ideals are thoughts or signs existing in our heads –  artists  strive to create their idea – an ideal vision. Meaning is interactive when art, which is communication, is put in a public space.
The following Protestry is written to accompany the works of Barbara Pittman Forgione. BPF’s work is a series of paintings representing women in traditional dress. Women of the world come to America with dreams of freedom alive in their breasts.

Vietnamese in America

Americans in Vietnam
were blind to Tiresias
the soothsayer,
old and snaggle toothed,
hearing the leaves that float down the river.

 Synaesthesia is a form of sensing that Wombmen ( evolved humans) are beginning to recognize.
Blind Tiresias, Cassandra, archetypes of those whose image of the future is ignored by the populace. In this poem, representing simply an old fisherman of Vietnam whose life was irrevocably changed as was that of his people, by contact with Americans.

Africa’s Women in America

My Stephen sought to liberate the toe of my shoe.
My Ken fought to liberate my water from oil,
spilled there by careless greed.

Mama Wangari planted trees,
and ‘Tunde made music.
My guerrero amplifies those songs.

Now we write the story anew.
We seek to liberate women,
We make peace with justice
as fairly as we know how.
We plant seeds and make music.

 Stephen Biko – freedom fighter killed in South Africa
Ken Saro Wiwa – killed protesting de rigeur oil spills where his people farmed and fished and washed their clothes.
 Wangari Maathai, – created a program to plant trees in distressed areas.
‘Tunde is a Yoruba word for “Returns”,  and means Nigerian. Black in Latin is Niger. ( nee-gere ) For artists, all colors have value and different uses.
Guerrero – warrior –  refers  in this Protestry to all imprisoned by ignorance who continue to struggle.
Tunde  reminds me of  “Regresare y le dire a la vida” – “I shall return and tell life [all about it]”, a line from a poem by Antonio Guerrero. He was imprisoned in America while peacefully fighting for freedom for Cuba. Fibre Arts, weaving and painting, and also other arts –  are returning , as part of people’s daily lives.


(Antonio Guerrero – Fernando Borrego)
Regresaré y le diré a la vida
he vuelto para ser tu confidente.
De norte a sur le entregaré a la gente
la parte del amor en mí escondida.

Regresaré la alegría desmedida
de quien sabe reír humildemente.
De este a oeste levantaré la frente
con la bondad de siempre prometida.

Por donde pasó el viento, crudo y fuerte,
iré a buscar las hojas del camino
y agruparé sus sueños de tal suerte

que no puedan volar en torbellino.
Cantaré mis canciones al destino
Y con mi voz haré temblar la muerte.


Tibetan Women in America

See the beauty in which our culture still lives.


Aboriginal American
(aka Native American)

This land is Mother.
Our waters are our life blood.
As the sun rises and sets we stand here.
The sun also rises.

ab – origine – a proud word meaning originating out of the land.
 Aboriginal people – In the big picture we all originate on earth.
In the tiny picture, “aboriginal” disparages people. The tiny mind in the small head does not understand that in honoring others we grow ourselves.  
Maori Haka ( song with rhythmic beat using the body as instrument)
Ringa Pakia!  Ka mate ka mate, kia ora kia ora.
Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru
Nana i tiki mai , ka whiti te ra.
A upane , kaupane, upane kaupane,
Whiti te ra.

A feminasculin translation – Create the beat!  it is death, it is life, it is death, it is good. [“This too shall pass”; “the old order changeth giving place to new”.]
Here is the powerful “hairy” man , behold  man who makes the sun rise.[ ie has power over energy] . Sun rises and sets [regardless of humans, before us and after us]. The sun rises.  [This is awesome.]


BPF CA girls

This image is not in the exhibition but it is the earlier work of Barbara Pittman Forgione. whose works inspired all this Protestry.

Muslim Women and the American Style Goddess.

Our traditional dress is our pride and our shame.
Our bodies are our shame and our pride.
Our book is responsible for suggesting that woman is evil.
We choose what we wear in freedom from, or servitude to, manipulation by those who misinterpret male and female ideals.

This poem is relating to both images, the American women, runway models, insouciant in their exposure of flesh and wealth, blind to accusations of arrogance and disrespect. And the Muslim women, one in full Burkha, modest in their uniformed appearance, blind to accusations of bondage and disrespect.
Do we turn a blind eye? Do we and they see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil of women? Do we and they  comprehend and rejoice in our creative potential in THIS moment?  We, wombmen, are story tellers in all our arts. I Lib, curator, can get lost in the web of words. Thank you for your listening eye.


Elizabeth Mitchell

silk painting and studio experiences …

dre Combinant

A swathe of realistic butcher’s grass (the synthetic type) cushioned her feet as she wandered ‘neath the lantern hung trees to the perfect circular day bed – facing the moon which delighted the dark sky above the courtyard green.

They stayed in their own spaces – his trim beard clear in silhouette above the ipad; she doing her yoga – torso, then feet, arms, head visible beyond the wicker sides of the round, cushioned platform. As though co-ordinated, they  moved to leave at the same instant.

He smiled. She thought to speak, but crushed the words inside herself – she would have to write seeing she had spared him her story.
She  was envisioning a bomb destroying the set piece she saw before her – the various couples, strolling by, the music so cool, the occasional family, people arriving at night with their bags, crossing the lawn to their room for the first time, seeing the trees and the lights and the people. The older woman lounging alone and gazing at the moon, the young man studying his ipad at the table next to her.

She saw the bomber, for whom a hotel with a pool was not remotely in the probabilities.
She could feel  that the bomber was right to see her as a wastrel taking privilege while so many had nothing, and his family history was full of sorrow.

She knew it is the way of the world to blame those within sight, for that which is stolen by players in a different game altogether, in which we are pawns.

She recalled living with a rasta man in Jamaica and getting a new room put on the one room dwelling in which he lived with his three children. She talked of glass window panes and he said, “Nah, dem people who na have so much, dey go bruk ya glass”. He told her of folk who had just scraped up enough to buy a second hand car, and found the window broken overnight – by those who had less who did not know how to get just a little bit more. For it was hard times in Jamdown too. Manley had been replaced by CIAga. The economy had gone bust when Manley nationalised their aluminium and USA refused to buy the product any more, or some such deal. Look it up – late 70’s.

She walked to her room, subdued light revealing leaf shape and color of tropical plants lining the realistic looking lawn, Moon at full outshining the hanging lanterns.

Her dreams revealed themselves, like grapes left on a vine after harvest which sweeten and shrivel. The sweetness of Life Force will come to be, ‘ere the body disassembles. Life Force, uniquely sweet in each individual, collective in the  unseeded egg of potential, individual here, and recombinant on the other side, which has been brought to this side in genetically modified DNA e.g. rBGH. Are we dissolute, recombinant, or drunk with pride?

She snored gently, a pillow over her head as well as one under. The typewriter l a i d o w n s y m b o l a f t e r s i g n w o r d a n d t h e n w o r l d i t w a s w i t n e s s t o i t s e l f a s e a c h l e t t e r e a c h c o m b o h a v i n g i t s o w n e x i s t e n c e t h e  t  a l w a y s s y m b o l i s i n g t h e c r o s s w h a t e v e r t h a t m e a n t – s o m e t h i n g d i f f e r e n t t o e v e r y o n e  g o i n g b y h e r s e l f a  n d s o  m e t h i n g t h e s a m e a l s o t o e v e r y o n e w h o c a r e d a b o u t i t.

Everyone has their own story of love. This is what makes us human.


images not of my work in this post..

The World is my Sermon

The World is my Sermon.

Sandra knew she was “wierd”. She stood between the two trunks of one ascending oak tree and looked up into the spiraling branches becoming smaller and smaller and closer and closer to “heaven”; five fingers on one hand spreadeagled on  the bark of the trunk in front of her, the other hand resting on the trunk behind her.
i am tree consciousness, i am human,  all humans dead and in my head can see their five fingers splayed before their eyes seeing through mine; we are “god’s” five finger exercise; we live forever in the present awareness. We get this awareness when we are in this body; or disembodied, through the awareness of the living who are aware; or when our divine consciousness is embodied anew.
She took the comfort offered by this rational story of irrational ie spirit based awareness. The Consolations of Philosophy , she had never forgotten the title of the ancient manuscript by Boethius. The title alone was sufficient – reading it was more than enough.
Walking on, her arms rising and falling and creating shadows on the path, she recalled Mitch whose arms reached up to “heaven”, lifting his torso slightly, an expression of delight on his face as he exhaled for the very last time. You can enjoy this lovely day with me, Mitch, I’m so glad to have you here in my head.
“If thine eye be not single, pluck it out.’  the words came unbidden. What can that mean? Does it mean to see through the third eye?  that seems to be a rational description of an “irrational” ie immeasurable, or spirit experience. Does it mean I am one with all human thought when I think thoughts all humans could have thought, or see things all humans have seen, or feel emotions all humans feel? And as for being cast into the fires of hell if mine eye be not single – this world is hell, oh hell, for so many. Aleppo dies, people starve, there is no work for the poor who resort to stealing, so often they are non white. Oh hateful skin color that is associated with greed and wealth and defines others by its insistence on its purity. Dang there is a non singleness right there. The focus on duality, the privileging of one pole of a duality  – white over “black” , male over female, rich over poor, work over play, human over every other life form, oh yes we assuredly have created a hell here on earth.
The ecstasy she had felt earlier, evaporated in waves of helpless sorrow, her steps veered off the path into the trees. Adjusting her spine into the comfort of the trunk where it exactly supported her, and letting her hands move like spiders into a comfortable hold on the bark, she looked up into the branches.  Tears rolled down her face, her  heart hurt heavy in her chest. The tree communed,
A crooked smile began to play on Sandra’s lips. That word “without” :  a green hill without a city wall?  outside the city wall or lacking a city wall?  Without her ? outside of her or when she no longer existed?  The greater unity that lay behind all language was her bliss.


Two ducks had their heads in the shallow water, the dark head crest of the third one, continuing down the back of its neck between the paler side feathers made it look like a young black man with a box cut. Very stylish, I thought , complimented it in my mind.  Shyly, he hid his  head in the water. Another lifted it’s head and looked at me. I looked at it.  Our intense scrutiny made her shuffle her feet in the water. I queried her  telepathically. With a tail wiggle,  she put her head under. The ducks continued skimming the shallow sandy bottom for food.

I walked over the damp grass to my favorite tree, It too has felt the ravages of time and temperature and is split at the base, with several levels of interior structure  around the innermost long shaft. A shelf mushroom grows at the top of the cleft. I leaned against its leaning trunk, and watched another person on the path. Were they male or female, or ungendered ?? I wondered. At Quaker Spiritual Formation Group, we had heard from Kay about the new gender statuses:
ungendered – identifying with no particular gender
cisgendered – identifying with the gender assigned to you at birth
trans – moving between genders.
These are not the same as the already existing terms for sexual preference.
Later, the same flat chested, pear shaped person, with short blond hair and gender neutral clothes exchanged a warm smile with me – we recognised kindred spirits. I guessed they might be exulting in gender neutrality, ungendered, after a double mastectomy.  No need for a burqua now – to be free of gender assigned presuppositions.

I danced my jerky robot flow dance  to the radio waves of a chap in the gazebo. He had a black tshirt and a long red braid. His girl friend whose teeth were not expensively dentured, stretched out along the same park bench. They were 80’s children, born in the 70’s .
“What IS this ?”
“D. R. I.” He answered, “ like when the floor is wet, and you put up a sign saying D.r.i..”
“That ….. that is…. that’s totally messed up.” I said. We all laughed.

A kid ran on stocky little legs up the path. Parents were nowhere in sight. Then I spied a mother pushing a large carriage with two other small children nearby going as fast as she could up the hill. As a Trump advertisement bombasted, I ran to head off the toddler before he got to the road.
Scooping him up in my arms and setting him down, we were panting and laughing, I asked him , “What’s your name”
“Is that your sister?”
“what’s her name?”
“I dont know.”
WHAT, I think. The little girl runs up to us. “Are you his sister” I ask? She replies in the affirmative, her name is Iris, and she says his name is Theo. “We have an aunt called Theo”.
Hmm I think.
Two mothers pushing multi baby carriages and with a scattering of other small children come up alongside us. We all continue on our way. I wave a conspiratorial goodbye to IanTheo.

I think of whether I should talk to the 80’s kids in the park about voting. Decide against it. My mind considers the candidates and imagines, Trump winning and revealing his friendship with Hillary has turned into an affair. Now America moves…His childish understanding of world politics moderated by her experience, his vaunted determination to protect American workers and end bad trade deals shaped in a way that improves conditions for workers world wide, his ignorant conception of America as a leader turned towards a green energy revolution;  yeah and Trump and Clinton’s love child comes out of hiding and leads America in a 60’s hippie dream of an earth restored. Peace and Love Man!

I am in your head