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The Dead Horse

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The Annus horribilis nears its final demise,
and another tear traces its way down a weathered cheek.

A mother misses her child.

The bullwhip strikes the next blow,
and a 24/7 mind re-runs the last 365.
A mother’s heart never rests easy, the maternal mind replays, 
everything.

The deep welts of self-flagellation burn white-hot,
and the mother agonizes, over where and when she had failed.

A mother, no matter how exceptional, will rarely never,
feel adequate.

The bullwhip is heavy, heaved high for the next exquisite, 
unforgiving lashing, but of a sudden, the mother recoils in revulsion 
as the mirror reflects her self-inflicted wounds.

The child’s choices are their own.

The bullwhip falls from her hand, shatters the flawed belief that 
she had any control over, and little to no contribution, 
in what has transpired,

and a mother comes to the stunning revelation that:

she is but flogging the rotting flesh of a long dead horse.

Rest in scarred and jagged equine pieces,

A mother must find joy!

~Marcela, December 31, 2020: looking back to move forward. 


Writing: All Rights Reserved
Image: Google Search 'Palomino'

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Forty Hours

Forty Hours

I glimpsed her in my peripheral vision as I sat quietly in my vehicle, waiting in the ferry line. I had been savouring the warm, fresh memory of forty hours. Forty hours of beautifully easy moments, forty hours of small, but powerful adventures on the little Island called Thetis, with the man of many monikers and few (extraneous) words.

She, whom I had glimpsed, wore the layered, long and flowy patchwork skirt that I have come to associate with the mature, nature-loving wild-spirited women of the Gulf Islands. The skirt was topped by a ¾ length puffer coat, and a bright white Smurf-toque, and she wore them with an ease and comfort only one well at home in one’s own skin, can wear.

Her little dog was clad in a red sweater that reminded me of the Arbutus berries I had attempted to capture with my camera just yesterday, and matched her wild-woman hair, in a shade of vermillion not available in any beauty counter bottle.

She felt my gaze as she walked by my car, turned to look me in the eyes, and gifted me with a smile so genuine and warm, a smile of such depth, a smile of intensely wise knowing, a smile the likes of which only women of a certain age and wisdom have the capacity to bestow upon other women. A smile bereft of competition, insecurity, or envy.

And I left the Island feeling as though I could, possibly, make it through another week of intense human suffering, and perhaps, even lessen the burden for some, because: 40 hours and her smile.

~Marcela: focusing on the beautiful, in the midst of ugly all around us.
December 06, 2020

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The Reindeer

 

I was a bit giddy when I came upon him, and grateful to self for 
having dragged me out, for it has been a long while since my last 
walkabout.

The level of vigilance needed in my job and PPE/safety protocols 
changing daily create such high anxiety; do not contribute to a 
desire to brave the world on days off, so unless absolutely 
necessary, I'm not going out much. But I was glad I did, because 
I need outside, it drives everything good about me.

And had I not dragged myself out, I would have missed him! And it
made me smile that someone went to the trouble of creating him,
so that people, people like me, could smile.

I took my photo and went on my merry way, to run the stairs at the
marina, and 'trespass' at my beloved breakwater, visit with
'Resurrected,' smile at the irony of her, and watch the aerialist
acrobatics of the Jonathans in the world.

I walked back the same way I came, because I wanted to see him
again and to check if my own 'art du jour,' was still there,
or if it had been swept away by the tide.

And as I got closer, I smiled to see him, and my own Sea Eggs'n Ham
in the distance, still perched on the log, the one with my
favourite piece of chain on it.

And that, is when Entitlement walked up and said: "Hey did you
see that Reindeer? I think I'll take it home, I mean, there's more
'material' here for them to make another one, they probably made it
for that, don't you think"? I said: "...or maybe they just like to
make public art, to make people smile, people like you and I."

I pointed to Sea Eggs'n Ham, and said: "I build them because they
make me smile, and sometimes, if the tide doesn't take them too
quickly, they make other people smile."

I call him Entitlement because he was well-dressed, well-shod,
and his pure-bred dog was well-leashed with leather gear. He did not
appear to be a man 'in need' of free ornaments for what is very
likely his well-manicured yard.

He did in that moment, however, appear to be a man 'in want.'
A man quite accustomed to getting what he needs, and wants, when
he wants and needs it. And he demonstrated this to me when he told
himself, tried to have me co-sign, a story about the person who
built the reindeer, building it for someone to take home.

And while that could certainly be the case, I doubt it. I think I
know something about public art, and the people who create it, and
I don't think it has anything to do with someone taking ownership of
it, someone removing it from its 'public' space, to be enjoyed
privately, by only one.

I harbour no ill-will toward this man, his utterances and thought
process regarding the Reindeer, are but a reflection of the mass
self-entitlement, the other pandemic, plaguing human kind.

I wanted to say to him, "if you had taken it before I got here 
today,I would not have seen him, I would have missed a most welcome
reprieve of joy in my somewhat joy-less world," but I did not,
say that.

I work extraordinarily hard to be kind, most of the time, but my
kindness cup was running precariously dry, for there had been several
'sketchy' moments during my longed-for and sorely needed outside-ing
this day, so I said: "I'll be going now, have a great day."

Entitlement said: "I'm going to go take a closer look at your
Sea Eggs'n Ham," and I could not bear to turn around as we parted
ways, to see if he was heading for the Reindeer.
Marcela: Wondering about the Reindeer,trying not to judge, not always
succeeding. 
November 28, 2020

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Vestiges

And as the last vestiges of summer 
relinquish their hold 
on this special place 
so I lay down this sceptre 
and bow out of a reign 
long due a new sovereign. 

For it is imprudent 
to cling to that 
which is neither my current reality 
nor domain. 




















~Marcela: desperately seeking a desirable next, 
in Ye Olde Queendom of Quack. 
October 25, 2020



















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Tomáš Mrnka – October 24, 1935 – July 07, 1971

Dear dad:

I think about you every day, miss you every second.

Whenever I have cause to go to Vancouver I look for the places we lived, and remember the early days of our life as immigrants, how excruciatingly hard you and my mother worked to build a life, from nothing, absolutely nothing, in a country and culture so foreign to us it may have been another planet… but it was exciting, and your energy, your never give-up was, is to this day, palpable, and it lives on inside me.

When I lived in Switzerland and started going back to the old country, I sought out Nerudová 1, every.single.time, and remembered the old coal storage downstairs, what you hid there, in preparation for our escape… When I went back there with mama and my boy in 2014, tread upon some of the same cobblestones in Karlovy Vary that we had all tread upon at some other point in time, I drank up mama’s stories of where the two of you had spent time together, regaled my son, one of the grandchildren you never met, with my own recollections of the first 7 years of my life there, and my recollections of you… and I cried like the small child I once was there, when we visited Božý Dar, our old ski cabin, and vague memories of being on those ski hills, on your back, in a rucksack, and then on my own tiny skis, came to life brightly, and as it does in these moments, time stood still…

When I went back to Stewart a few years ago I walked until my feet bled, until I found our old townhouse… and the nearer I knew I was, the more intensely I felt your presence, and I remembered the 20 foot snow banks, and that we had walked this road together, and desperately I tried to make out your voice, failed, for it had been so many years… decrepit, rotting, moldy, the carport caved in by decades of big Northern BC snow, and overgrown by the vegetation that takes its environment back when we abandon it, but also seemingly untouched, it was all still there, frozen in time…

Walking through the front door was the single greatest moment of surreal of the entirety of my years, and no drug on earth would match this high, the emotional crash of it, rolled into one intensely profound experience… so intense profound, because while I cannot buy into the spirit world, you were there, because I was there, because we had all been there, at another time.

I walked into the small square of a kitchen, and I remembered you shaking up the resourceful man’s milkshake, for you were nothing, if not resourceful, for my big brother and me, in a mason jar – canned milk and strawberry jam… I walked into the living room and saw the giant tree through the streaky, fungus-covered window panes, that tree our Collie Sheba chased a bear up into… and I as I made my way up into our bedrooms, where the lamps you had so skillfully MacGyvered for us once hung, I remembered your words, but still, could not conjure up your voice as you told us to put the sheets on our beds… when I walked upon the molding carpet, the same one we had all walked upon all those years ago, I heard your footsteps, coming home from the mine that took your life.

I could not bring myself to walk the rotting stairs down to the basement, where you kept your rifle, the one my mother was tempted to use when we were told you were dead. For that news was and remains the single most impactful event in our respective lives. The mine, the people associated with it, took your life, and with it, my mother’s joy, and my brother’s and my childhoods, in one fell swoop. And while I am aware that it is an exercise in futility, I cannot help but wonder, often, what life would have been like for all of us, had you lived beyond 36 fast and furious years, to see a birthday past that one, to see this day, what would have been your 85th year.

Your rebel lives on inside me, and maybe even some wisdom, which only years can bring, I see more of that in my brother, and I like to think that you would have been like him, at this age, and so in this way, and so many others, you live on inside him. Your rebel, your energy, your wild, your survivor, your wise-man, and sometimes your impulsive adventurer, they all live on inside me and my brother, in a thousand different ways.

I think about you every day, miss you every second.

Love, your Macek.

October 24, 2020

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2020: Season Finale Preparations

Some folks have expressed concern about the 2020 Season Finale, I’m building a bunker in my garage for the New Year’s Eve Party… cause I’ve given up all hope of the Aliens taking me with them… you know they’re out there going:

“What in the Flying Fuck’? President Covid and a virus called Trump! Abort mission to land Alf! Abort the fucking mission”!

Alf’s screaming “fuck you Mork, I’m starving, gonna get me a cat! Look, there’s one on the Virus’s head”!

A girl can dream, besides, it’s 2020, anything is possible…

xoxo
~Marcela.

 

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Downside-Up

Cups runneth over 
straws break a Camel’s back
bitter icing on cakes
did you step on that sidewalk crack?

Injuries are insulted
actions scream silent words
Bushes assaulted
did you throw the stone that killed the 2 birds?

Cats scurry from bags
blue eyes wide/tightly shut
Wild a-flutter red flags
Pandora you slut!

Sleeping dogs wide awake
a blue moon appears daily
Chewing on shoe-leather steak
Where the fuck is my baili(wick)?

Madness no method
mirrors reflecting but smoke
silver plated linings
world’s a fetid, acrid cloak!

Grace(land) left Elvis
a cat sat still, un-curious
barked down a tree head over pelvis 
tragic slo-mo life, in a lane fast and furious.

Because... just because... 
~M.

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Quietly, she wept

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The diamonds did their water-dance,
A salty sailor slept.
Pondering life’s happenstance,
Quietly, she wept.
Wept for all the years she squandered,
Living someone else’s dream,
For all the years she wandered,
In the box’s maze of schemes.

Moon-shine lit the captain’s bunk,
A salty sailor slept.
On liquid light rays thinking-drunk,
Quietly, she wept.
Wept for so much love and fielty,
Bestowed upon folks unworthy,
For trusts recompensed with cruelty,
They wrung her dry like scurvy.

The stars winked and dimmed and sparkled,
A salty sailor slept.
To milky way-days thoughts harkened,
Quietly, she wept.
Wept for the quirky wild-child,
She knows is her inner world,
For that curiously clever bright-eyed,
That precocious little girl.

The wind sang aloud its wind-songs,
A salty sailor slept.
The cool breeze assuaged her done-wrongs,
Quietly, she wept.
Wept not with remorse or worry,
For life’s folly, yours, theirs, mine and ours,
For her twisting-turning story,
The racing pace of hours.

The Diamonds did their water dance,
Moon-shine lit the captain’s bunk,
She was awestruck by her choice, perchance
to heave overboard life’s junk.
The stars winked and dimmed and sparkled,
The wind sang aloud its songs,
She wept the tears of chains unshackled,
She slept the sleep of crones.

~M.Y.M.:  new(ish) in old(er) age.
Summer, 2020

Photos and Poetry: All Rights Reserved

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I Set A Place For You

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I set a place for you 
For you have long sat 
At my table 

I set a place for you 
For I miss the meals 
We often shared 

I set a place for you 
For you have long lived 
In my heart 

I set a place for you 
For I cannot but love you 
In Absentia 

Marcela: loving you. July 25, 2020

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STOP Calling them ‘Schools.’

 

Please: STOP calling them ‘schools’! Just stop it! Let’s just be clear: they were never ‘schools,’ the institutions we call ‘Residential Schools,’ they were prison camps.

Period.

Their sole purpose was the torture of children, to ‘beat the Indian out of them,’ and by direct extension of course, their extended families and communities.

We really need to call things what they were, what they are. And if we think it has stopped, we need to think again. We just hide it all better these days.
~Marcela

https://www.capnews.ca/news/here-are-all-202-children-known-to-have-died-in-vancouver-island-residential-schools#e.7l8g9k.pd3kdc

 

Image: https://opentextbc.ca/geography/chapter/4-4-case-study/