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Parker’n me…

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The roar of a trusty steel steed,
beneath a lead foot, 
masks the rolling thunder of a cascade,
down a tear-stained cheek.

And for but a split second,
a mortally wounded, though upright warrior,
considers swerving self and her metal mount,
into the final oblivion.

Parker, Dorothy that is, in all her glory and folly,
calls on me to live another day. 
And so I resume, and re-revise, 
this life's resumé.


~Marcela: consumed enough to resume.
August 18, 2018
Photographs and Writing All Rights Reserved. 

RESUME by Dorothy Parker: 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44835/resume-56d224150522

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Happy Un-boxing Day

I have been doing battle for and against others for so long, that I have been too weary to dedicate time and energy to that which is the core of who I am: A storyteller. I have been so preoccupied with the survival of self and others, that I may have hovered around a particular opportunity for too long without attempting a landing. But if you know me, truly know me, at all, you will know that I would rather put forth the significant energy required to try, knowing it may well be for nought, than live with never trying at all because it ‘might’ be too late, because I have fear and still suffer from imposter syndrome and engage in ridiculous self-talk like ‘why-would-they-consider-someone-like-me,’ and other bullshit. And as the next piece of corrugated cardboard, stop: revise: and as the next piece of re-bar enforced ‘culturally-appropriate’ cardboard and its inhabitants, threaten to box me further into the harm-laden world and systems I abhor, the ones which are sucking the health from my body and the soul from my being, the ones driving me further into a pit of financial instability, I look at my well-tattooed left arm, and remember, I am the girl who makes pigs fly! Lift-off must occur soonest, for detonation of the box has proven futile and I am out of explosives and expletives alike. I will beseech them, the unboxed, to please give me a shot, for I can do this. I want it more than most things. It is what I have been looking for without knowing exactly how and where I would find it, and without knowing them, but knowing them, because I found me a long time ago, and I know me. The box never has. The box never will. The box is not programmed to know, love, learn, nurture. The box is programmed to destroy. I am programmed to thwart its efforts.
~Marcela.

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Forty-Seven Years In…

Dear dad:
This day has rolled around once more, and almost 5 decades,
in this moment, feels more like 5 seconds, for I will always,
and forever, miss you. Forty seven years are but a breath,
a single thought, a single wistful tear rolling down my cheek.
Forty seven years of reaching in to find you, forty seven years
of letting you go. The contradiction of you/me, is ever present.

This  apple never fell far from your tree, just as I see in my
own sapling, and for better or for worse, some bits are still 
hanging on. I get my rebel, my power, my wisdom, my intense and
sometimes impulsive from you, as well as my ability to see the
truth, and my stubborn-never-give-up. The fragility and 
dandelion fluff inside, the stuff that we both hid/e from 
the rest of the world, so that they cannot damage our 
oh-so-vulnerable human core(s), are also saplings of the 
gnarled old apple tree I see, the one that represents 
you in my visual mind, in my heart,in my very core.

It never changes for me, this day, when we lost you.
And I know, that it has never changed for her,
you were the one and only love of her life.
Time does not heal all wounds,it simply grows scar tissue over 
them which dulls the ache,sometimes, allows me to think about
you with some clarity,remember the entirety of your being,
and how you still,47 years later, teach me, guide me, help me
keep my rebel on,with some measure of grace and dignity.

So here we are, July 7th 2018, and I want to tell this story
again. The evolving, always newly told story of a hero, my hero. 
The day never changes, but the story does, as I do. 
Through the never-ending process of growing up. 
He, my hero, had to be seen, by me, as human, before he could be
my hero, for real for real. He was my first and biological 
father, Tomáš Mrnka. He was born in the country formerly known 
as Czechoslovakia on October 24th 1935, and died, under extremely
curious circumstances, in a mine shaft in Stewart BC,
on July 7th, 1971.

It was 12 days before my 10th birthday. He was 36 years old,
and when he died, everything I ever hoped for, and dreamed of,
died with him. For a while… a very long while.
I held him hostage on a pedestal of my own making for many,
too many years after his death, and only ever thought about him 
in a haze of golden glory and undeserved persecution. 

I only ever told stories of his heroic actions: his undeserved 
imprisonment in the old country for a democratic cause, 
his valiant battle to get us, his children and wife, out of the 
clutches of communism following the Soviet invasion of our 
original home and native land, and into the country that he 
wanted more than anything to provide us a new life in. 
I knew this story so well I could recite it at the mere whisper 
of his name, and expound at length on his virtues and sacrifices; 
for his beloved country, for his beloved family.

The parts I left out of the story, the human bits, are as
important a contributor to the true nature of his hero-status 
as his me-created perfection. He was the first man of many, 
to hit me and tell me he loves me in the same moment. 
He did not do this because he was evil, he did it because that 
is how children were disciplined; it is what he learned in the 
environment and culture he grew up in.

He was unfaithful to his beloved wife, my beloved mother, 
and considered somewhat of a Casanova. He was a catch: 
he had one of the few motorcycles in the country at the time, 
and a full set of leathers, a rebel with a chip on his shoulder, 
but he had a cause. He had attitude and the inimitable grin, wit 
and charm of Rhett Butler, and all the girls wanted him. 
My mother got him, and forgave him, over and over, to keep him.

She had endless discord and conflict with her beloved mother
because of him. He was not only imprisoned for voicing his 
political beliefs against the status quo, he was imprisoned 
for shooting a law officer. I tell you all of this not to 
be-smudge his memory; I tell you this to illustrate the full 
context of his humanity, he was so imperfect, so human, 
but still a hero not despite it, but because of it. 
He worked very hard to redeem himself when he brought us here, 
to make it right, to atone, to take responsibility for the things 
he did not do well, those things which caused harm and pain.

I tell you this because we all have a dark side, a side that side
which requires constant work and effort to keep in check, 
to make certain that it is not given more priority than the hero 
in all of us. The side that makes poor decisions based on fear, 
the side which is driven by the outside, all the world’s 
influences, rather than the inside, the core of our humanness, 
our hearts and souls, the piece of us housing the belief that 
we will get through anything, not necessarily with less 
suffering, but through, if we are diligent and ethical 
in our work. 

That piece, the hero in all of us, lets us know that 
love and abuse cannot co-exist in one environment, and is the 
piece which informs every act of kindness and compassion we have 
ever given freely because that is what gives us the most true 
happiness.It is the piece that would die for the people we love, 
and sometimes for those we don’t even know, but feel true human 
compassion and empathy for. That piece, is the one we must 
nurture, nourish, and encourage to grow and empower.

I could not see my father, Tomaš Mrnka, as the authentic hero
he was and is, until I could see the full extent of his humanity,
without judgment, or the childish notions I carried about the
perfection of a hero. I tell you this story because I have
experience with imperfection and humanity, and because I miss my
hero today, because even 47 years in,this day, is the day that
informed the rest of my life, like no other.

Back to you dad:

Despite myself, my atheist and anti life after death beliefs and
world view, I could not help but feel your presence, when my own 
off-shoot and I visited the places from which I have some of my 
strongest and fondest memories of you in 2014; Karlovy Vary, 
Boží Dar, Plzeň It was one of those trips, the journey of a 
lifetime with your widow, my mother Marcella (with two L's ;) 
and my son, your grandson Thomas. We told him stories about you 
that he has likely heard a thousand times before, but it was 
different, for you had walked these streets that we were walking, 
you held my mother’s hand there, you held mine, my big brother 
Tom's. You came back to life for us in moments of memory so 
vivid that they caught our breath, and we all got to know you, 
and ourselves, a little better than we did in the days, 
the moments prior.

And then 2015: I waited 44 years to go back, to the places we had 
you last. The place we loved so very much. It was so wild then, 
so gloriously out there in the mountains between BC and Alaska, 
it still was 3 years ago. Just like you, just like me.
Rest in peace my beloved dad, and know that the lessons of your
life, your imperfect self, and your true heroism, have followed
me, taught me, led me, often astray, but always back, to the true
hero inside me. 

Forty seven years ago, my life and world changed
in a way that I spent too many years trying to numb, to feel,
to figure out, to forget, to remember; and 47 years later
I come full circle to face my own imperfection and humanity,
in a way more painfully profound, than ever here-to-fore.

Thank you for the continuing lessons. We have done well.
And although my dark side comes out to play and wreak havoc in my
heart and life periodically, I believe that my hero generally
triumphs in the end.

I miss your person every day, but you live on, in me, 
every second.

Always yours, and with all the flawed humanity I have,
~Marcela.

July 07, 2018.

Writing and photos: All Rights Reserved.

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Farewell to you sir…

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Farewell Mr. Bourdain, I will always be grateful to you for knowing more about me, because I watched you, saw you, and I will miss your (hu)manity, beyond mere words.

If you watched Anthony Bourdain, read any of his words, listened to the conversations he had with other Rock’n Roll high-powered folks and the everyday humans he engaged with in the course of his work, and you still failed to see, hear, the angst, the vulnerability, beneath the unfiltered, the Rock’n Roll, you were not paying attention.

Surface level thinking, instant fucking everything, generalizations, assumptions, falsely drawn conclusions, few critical brains, and much too much attention to all things fucking woo-woo, are the scourge of our culture.

I’m sorry for the profound loss everyone who loved you is feeling in this moment, I’m so very sorry.

~Marcela.

Image: Google search – Writing: All Rights Reserved.

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The Guarded Peony does Haiku


Imperiled by Elk
I have watched you like a hawk
Pretty Flamingo

 

 

 

 

 

It is not without awe, that I scribe these words, for I am, Peony.
this day. Yours, most burgeoning-ly in full bloom, and with an attitude
of Elk-peril be damned,
~Marcela.
June 08, 2018

Writing and Images: All Rights Reserved

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Remnants

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Remnants

Like an old flag in the wind,
tattered remnants of fear,
flap relentlessly,
in the recesses of my heart and mind;
denounce and decry my worthiness of,
the unorthodox life I crave.

Whispers the fearless wild-child inside,
“…burn the flag woman, burn the flag.”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With thoughts of my maternal grandmother, Žofie Schlosser Ševčíková, 
June 06, 1911 – November 17, 1995. 
She was inordinately dignified and quite literally worked her fingers to
the bone for my mother and her. She did it while standing up to, 
and then leaving (unheard of at that time), a violently abusive, 
alcoholic husband. She did it during a time in war-torn Eastern Europe 
most of us cannot fathom, no matter how many history books we profess 
to have read. She was profoundly gifted in languages,and well-read. 
She toiled with her tiny body and life-worn hands,in a way we, of more
recent generations cannot know. One of the things I remember most about
her is the importance to her, of quality, in everything. And I wonder, 
knowing what I know about the drudgery, the losses, the sacrifices that 
were the bulk of her life, I wonder, given the opportunity to ask her 
about what she would have done differently, had she the chance to be 
anyone,to do anything,she desired,what that would have been.
I am anxious this day,and she came to my mind. 
She was born 107 years ago. A mere blip on the radar of our Universe, 
not known to most, but remembered well, by me and my mama,her daughter, 
this day.
~Marcela: tattered in the process of (more, always more,) unfurling.

Writing: All Rights Reserved / Image: Google Search
June 06, 2018

 

 

Announcement!

 
Verdant,
bordering on showy,
the lush greens of spring,
…announce their inimitable presence!

Ferociously,
not unlike yours truly,
the Fiddleheads unfurl,
…to dazzle us anew!

And so I,
a self-reinventress,
emulate them with an abandon wilder,
…than even amok!

We are HERE! Hear?

~Marcela: unfurling, again... 
May 15, 2018
Writing and photograph: All Rights Reserved.

I Saw A Great Cloud…

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,

I saw a great cloud,
out my kitchen window,
and I yearned to share it with you.

I was going to run,
down to the dock,
to snap a photo for you.

I remembered wise words,
on the age of the immediate,
pervasive and constant, visual.

I considered my love for images,
created by a sharp mind,
when we read other’s words.

I do not wish to rob you,
of an opportunity to exercise,
your own imaginative psyche.

I saw a great cloud,
out my kitchen window,
a colossal rectangle!

I saw a great cloud,
out my kitchen window,
quilted, in a perfectly recurring motif!   

I saw a great cloud,
out my kitchen window,
a bouncy strato-cumulus sky-duvet!

I saw a duck,
out my kitchen window,
as if landing, on its (eider)downy surface!

I laughed at the irony,
of the (duck)down duvet,
and what we may have missed,

had I run,
to snap a photo,
in my desire, to share this experience, with you. 

~Marcela: introspective; 
on all the things social media could take away from me...  
March 30, 2018


Poetry and writing: All Rights Reserved

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One fine day, child… A Birthday Poem

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One fine day, child,

you will know,

that the single fiercest battle you will ever wage,

the only one from which you must emerge victorious,

is the one against and with,

yourself.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that the only human behaviour,

which you ought critique in any great depth,

the solitary one you possess any capacity to revise,

is your own.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that in order to live a life you want,

you must tune out the auditory barrage of the box and masses,

ignore all but one voice,

that, of your deepest self.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that to err is the essence of humanity,

and risk is the singular path upon which you must tread,

in order that you become,

your truest you.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that failure lies not in mis-steps,

but in lack of trying,

and that success is yours to gauge and judge,

yours, and yours alone.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that we occupy a world laden with the land-mines of our own, and other’s planting,

that detonation will pain you but you will suffer less,

for you will have learned to navigate,

the rough patches.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that ours is a culture cancerous of spirit, and bereft of critical thought,

that no action is benign and the choice of impact,

as detriment or contribution is yours,

solely, yours.

One fine day, child,

you will know,

that love without labour is something else,

that joy cannot be known in the absence of sorrow,

and that contradiction is at the core,

of a life well thought.

One fine day, child,

you will, of-a-sudden realize,

that our time here is indeed finite,

that procrastination is a drug as powerful as heroin,

tempting as a sea siren and equally deadly,

heed not, her call.

This, is one fine day, child!

Happy 27th birthday Thomas, I love you more than life, and we know that’s a big-ass bunch, because even in the middle of life’s biggest bitch-slaps, I have a fairly healthy love affair going on with her, crazy bitch that she is… I still love you more, there can never be enough, or the (w)rite, words…  Thanks for your limitless patience with my human folly, a loyalty defying description, and for providing me with that most ubiquitous of concepts, hope, for our species…

Fully yours, with every ounce of everything I am, and always with some awe and madd gratitude that you turned out to be you, despite me.

Love,

~Mama.

March 22, 2018

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Your Chainsaw Voice – a nod to unruly work-folks… and others…

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Your chainsaw voice  
has dismembered
the last vestiges of sanity
in my human shell
severed the final tendon
connecting compassion to my heart   

Your rusty-grater words
have shredded
the final ounce of patience
in my once limitless hoard
corroded beyond salvage the walls
containing my desire to be your ally

Your atomic bomb behaviours
have irradiated
the remaining molecule of hope
for your salvation
jaded this now impermeable spirit
to anything but its own voice.

It is a brutal irony, that as my desire to exit the work-world I so grindingly (yes, that is a word!) and lovingly built grows with a vehement vengeance each day, the place and space for which I pay such a hefty premium to escape to, has been anything but peaceful in the oh-so-limited time I have to enjoy(?) it, of late. The level of human disregard for others in some of my neighbours runs deep, the ridiculous human folly of my most inglorious work-folks, along with our culture’s obscene systems and structures, follow me home for longer and longer stays, and the gargantuan contradiction that is my life continues… on the flip-side, I have, without fail, only ever built anything meaningful, to me, on the foundation of strife, struggle and/or suffering… it appears that a skyscraper is in the making here…

~Marcela: corroded and unchained

March 18, 2018

Writing and original images: All rights reserved.

Chainsaw image from google search.