I am not content to fall, any deeper, into the hole in my soul, which was once occupied by the relationship with you, my only child. I am not content to dwell, any longer, on that which has befallen us, respectively, my dearest friend. I am not content to remain, paralyzed, in a robotic survival, originating in the grotesque realities of this life and world, yours, mine or ours. I am intent, on creating something, anything, other than: black holes broken hearts and trudge. I may not know, may not see, yet, this new future, but I am fervently and passionately, intent, on creating it. One Foot In Front Of The Next I am not content; therefore: I am intent. ~Marcela: moving toward that which has eluded me most of my life, one well-shod step at a time. February 20, 2021 Photo and writing: All Rights Reserved.
If you hate the commercialization of a holiday that literally had nothing to do with romance, rather “originated as a liturgical feast to celebrate the decapitation of a third-century Christian martyr, or perhaps two," by the Roman Emperor Claudius Gothicus, then please, by all means, STOP commercializing/bastardizing it. I am still a devout Atheist, but that does not preclude my belief that people should not be decapitated, for theirs. I have long abhorred this particular Hallmark Holiday, single or attached, and have repeatedly requested of my Royal Consorts to kindly, NOT engage.
~M: Still the Queen of This here Quackdom, and happily not receiving Valentine-specific overtures from one Salty-Ass Sailing Man, without having to ask, because he gets it, all by his-self.
Sources: Historical info: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/gory- origins-valentines-day-180968156/ Photo: Google Search - Banksy - Lovesick
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'
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
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
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
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
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…