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Eight Thousand Four Hundred and One, Days…

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23 years

276 months

1199.29 weeks

8401 days

201624 hours

12,097,440 minutes

725,846,400 seconds, and counting…

These are the numbers representing the back-to-back time I have spent living in my own skin, for better or worse, without the bullet-proof shield of substances to kill the pain, kill the pain, kill the pain; or at the very least, obscure it some, so that I didn’t take myself off the planet.

I am not you, and you are not me, so what is painful to me, may not be to you, and vice-versa, though the experiences I speak of here, are in my personal and professional experience, a source of great pain for many, if not most. We all deal, or don’t, with these things, anything, in different ways, and many folks have barriers that the rest of us will never know about to accessing support, and/or, like me, have experienced more pain, in the pursuit of said support.

So please, read MY (abridged) list of pain, with an open mind, but more than that, use, hone the skill of critical thinking, listen with an open heart, and try not to paint my experience with the tainted and dirty brush, of yours, or others’. For when we do that, we inadvertently, or purposefully, judge another’s pain, measure it, against our own. But when we open our hearts, minds, and eyes to another’s context, the possibility that even the very same experience can be perceived and experienced very differently by different humans, we cannot help but have empathy for any given soul, no matter their circumstance or the ‘choices’ they have made; because choice theory, while a very useful tool, is limited, often severely so, but that is a digression I have neither the time nor inclination to pursue in any depth here. My point: we are not all born, raised, gifted with, the same set of choices, abilities, and ‘fairness,’ is a great theory, but an ill-fitting concept and rarely to never doable in practice, in far too many situations.

I wielded my shield to protect myself from these pains:

-The pain of losing my extended family and the most important pieces of my cultural heritage, to the Soviet invasion of my original home and native land in 1968, becoming refugees

-The pain of losing my hero just two short years into our new life as immigrants in Canada, and by direct extension, any remnants of a childhood

-The pain of watching my mother and barely older brother, take on the gargantuan task before them: leading our little family of 3 in this brave new world, with no money, little to no language, no extended family to speak of, and little to no hope

-The pain of watching a man take advantage of my mother’s position, and when she had had enough and sent him packing, the pain of losing everything we owned, because in vengeance, he set our home on fire

-The pain and guilt I watched her writhe in because she hadn’t understood a detail about our insurance, and we were uninsured

-The pain, the exhaustion, of constantly trying to fill the void, the one that only got deeper as I got older

-The pain of filling the void with boys, and later men, who looked only to their own wants, discarding me by the wayside like so much trash on the bottom of their often ‘well-heeled’ feet

-The pain of Lou, the wealthy ‘hobby pimp,’ with no actual need for the money, who professed to love me by turning me out and then kicking me out at the age of 18, because in his words to my brother, I was “all used up.” I had to force those words out of my brother’s mouth;  he did not want to tell me, to slay me with those words, and they did, slay me. Lou, at the time 32, didn’t possess enough man-balls to kick me out himself, so he summoned my brother to collect my things, but not many of the fancy things that stayed in his penthouse, payed for with my body. He loaded my brother’s valiant and sent him to my ‘day job,’ in a nail salon he (Lou) owned, to have my brother “let me know” that it was over. Chew on all that for a minute or two and imagine what it may have done to a hurt, already lost soul of 18. I was a hurtin’ little girl before I met this man, in one of his salons, getting my nails done, by a friend, who he had turned out… this series of events set the stage for years of choices, which for several decades I did not understand, did not recognize as being related more to Lou’s actions, and what happened in the course of my sex-work career, than to anything I had experienced previous to him. This is the Reader’s Digest version of less than 2 deeply and profoundly impactful years of my life, that unbeknownst to me, would serve as the fuel for too many years of suffering; suffering I acted upon, in a myriad of ways that simply caused more pain, to me and everyone I cared about, everyone who (truly) cared about me.

-The pain of violence; of physical, sexualized, verbal, emotional, psychological, intellectual, and financial violence. Vile and deliberate violences perpetrated against my person by various individuals, including some I loved, trusted, individuals who purported to ‘love’ me, who demonstrated their ‘love,’ returned mine, with vileness and violence.

-The pain of violence perpetrated against my person by individuals in the systems and groups I reached out to for support

-The pain of being pathologized, for THEIR violence and bad behaviour

-The pain of being patronized, invalidated, belittled, subjected to too many indignities, and victim-blamed and shamed, for my pain

-The pain of never being ‘enough,’ for anyone, least of all myself

-The pain of being ‘too much,’ for everyone, and conflicted about it, within myself

-The pain of doing the bidding of other’s dreams for me, rather than my own

-The pain of running, back and forth across several countries on two continents, only to find that where ever I went there I was, and there it was, the pain.

-The pain of a large, intensely wild, creative spirit, wounded, broken, silenced.

These are the primary reasons, I say primary because they all had extensions, nuances, bred offshoots, but I digress, how odd… these are the primary reasons I needed a shield. The shield’s chemical make-up and methods of delivery to my traumatized brain and spirit, changed as my needs did, depending on the circumstances of the physical and psychological spaces and places I occupied. The chemical make-up and methods of delivery encompassed an ever broader spectrum, ranging from mild, to wow and fun to holy fuck and almost lethal. All of it, did what I intended for a while, saved my life, and believe it or not, in some ways my sanity. Because the only other choice I felt I had at various points in my life, was to end it.

And at some point in 1997, I stopped making decisions that were related to anything but the procurement and use of the shield, any shield, and my coping strategy, my survival mechanism, my best friend, became my worst enemy, took the meager remnants I had left, of me, and every.single.human I loved in the world, every.single.human who loved and needed, the me now buried so far below the detritus of the pain, that the void had swallowed me up.

Fast forward to September, October, and December 1997, several stays in detox, and a 16 week residential treatment program. And then, April 22nd, 1998, I picked up and wielded that shield for the last time. In the course of those detox stays, and a fairly brutal treatment program (now there’s another story), I had experienced tiny fragments of myself, real hope around becoming a mother again to my child, and at least enough belief in myself that I could build some kind of life for us, to start over yet again, so on April 25th, 1998, I started counting days, and have not stopped since.

I did so with the help of a number of counsellors, a compassionately brutal and very effective day treatment program which went to heart of the matter, the traumas listed above;  went to my very core, helped me start the arduous process of resurrecting a Marcela I could not only live with, but one who would eventually stop caring, so much, about what anyone else thought about her. It was a ground-breaking program really, in its time, pre- the joke that has so sadly become most trauma-informed practice in the ‘helping world, which unless used with the greatest of care and attention to language and human dignity, does nothing but ladle a bunch of pathological symptomology onto people who have been violated in the most horrific ways, and attempts to ‘treat’ them, coming full circle to: it’s on you/me. Watch The Keepers, in its entirety, if you want a painful look-see at an example of that… but there I go, digress again, look, shiny-shiny Unicorns… stop! Revise: I digress because nothing, nothing about any of this, for me, for the women I once mentored in the BaNAclub, for the humans I have supported in the course of my work, for the countless humans struggling with all manner of trauma today, and its related responses (read: coping mechanisms, survival strategies), nothing, nothing at all, about it, is straight forward, no matter its roots and causes.

I did so, kept counting the days, primarily with the support of a group of people I have lovingly called the BaNAna club. I did so by attending countless meetings, and with very deep involvement in its service structure, thousands of hours of volunteer work sitting on committees, supporting people in various institutions, mentoring other women, and a handful of gay men.

And as the years wore on, I did so while trying to remain loyal to some of the individuals responsible for some of the pain, and living, trying to stay ‘part of,’ with an ever increasing, ever more disquieting discomfort, with most of the club’s basic tenets, principles, and a constant push to believe in something I cannot, have not, since I was a small child. Though in all fairness, I tried, really really hard, for many, too many years. False loyalty has been an Achilles’ heel, a constant companion, in the complexity that is I.

And then at some point, I just kept counting them without significant involvement in the club, but for too long, with the ever-present internal struggle of false loyalty, and more and more harmful (to me), attempts to maintain my ‘membership.’  I kept counting the days not because the club told me I had to, not because I believed the rhetoric that I would re-erect the shield if I didn’t practice what had become stifling rote, and an act of psychological and spiritual violence against self, every time I crossed the threshold into one of ‘the rooms,’ every time I heard myself or someone else repeat the tenets.

I kept counting because somewhere along the way, I had come to the conclusion that I did not wish to ‘filter’ my life, my view, my experience of what Salty likes to call ‘damned reality,’ had no desire to filter me, with anything, least of all with the shield, any shield.

I could not, knowing everything I know about my life, about myself, and a great deal about the lives of others, buy into something which insists that I view myself as someone with “defects of character,” as “powerless,” and as “self-centered” to the core. I cannot buy into a disease model of substance use or the contradictions in the club’s literature about our ability to recover but to never be cured, healed. I cannot stomach any longer, the notion that I do not have enough power to make decisions for myself, as related to a resurrection of the shield, or maintaining my back-to-back count, and I cannot, will not, have the entirety of my person and the entirety of my life, defined by something that I stopped doing 23 years ago. For that matter, I will not have it define any part of my life, prior to, or following April 25th 1998. I will not define myself, the entirety of my wildly creative spirit and my 19 lives in one skin, by any one aspect of my life, any more than I allow Lyme disease to define all of these things about me. I don’t call myself a ‘Lymie,’ I abhor terms like ‘survivor,’ and the word ‘victim’ has been hijacked for purposes of judgement, so I will not use that one, either. I will not label myself an addict for doing something that saved my life, for as long as something like the shield can, before it turns and consumes one’s life and being.

It comes as no surprise to me that the very thing I relied on to ‘save’ myself, ended up turning on me at some point, too, at least it felt that way. Although when I really think about it, I find that it simply reached the end of its utility for me, and I could no longer ignore the contradictions inherent to it. And it began, at some point, to stunt my growth. I know for certain that it began to harm me long before I walked away, but I believe I was a bit trapped, by the previously noted false loyalty, and by fear.

And that, is what I believe to be at the core of my disengagement from ‘the program’ and most of its members. It, they, limited me to living in fear, which is completely contradictory to that which I believe for myself, have demonstrated over and over again, prior to, during, and post, the BaNAna club years: I have long chosen faith, in my ability, with the help of others I choose to have in my life, when needed, to figure shit out; without having to dig the shield out of its musty, dusty closet. I am quite happy for it to stay there, with the other skeletons I have picked through ad nauseam, and chucked back in to rest in their jagged, now useless to me pieces. For I categorically refuse, to keep flogging the rotting flesh of long dead horses.

It is important for me to articulate that I have the deepest gratitude for some of the people I have crossed paths with in the course of my involvement in the BaNAna club, and for its utility in helping me find enough of myself, to help me figure out that the way, for me, is about healing my wounds, both self and other inflicted, and for moving on. It does not mean that I don’t continue to support people looking to find and heal themselves, it does not mean that I actively dissuade others from trying/using ‘the program(s),’ it does not mean that I stop my own personal work, and it most certainly does not mean that I’m going to run out tomorrow, or the next day, or when Bitch-Slappy decides to deliver her next blow, because she slaps whether or not I am a member, to pick up the shield, it never means that, unless I choose, decide, that it means that. And whether I choose to or not, at the end of the day, there exists no permanent affliction, in any event.

So I continue to count days, because I am loyal to myself, and to a decision I made 23 years ago today, to refrain from picking up the shield, no matter what. At this juncture, that choice is a subconscious one most days, but it is a choice, and despite feeling very limited in the choices I had, and they all felt equally shitty, it is a choice exactly as it was to wield a shield, in the first place.

And if I should choose to pick up any of the legal and/or illegal substances I have long put down, it is because I made a decision to do so, and not for a lack of gratitude or a lack of tenets and dogma in my life, any dogma.  And certainly not for a lack of some of the people who populate the rooms of the program(s).

Francis Mallman is one of my food and philosophical heros, and I’ve had the hots for him for a good long time now. If you watch the episode of Chef’s Table that tells his story, you will understand more about why this me, in so many ways, and you will understand my break-out of many boxes, including the relationship (any relationship) box I lived in for way too long, and you will understand why me and the Sailor… all that said, one of the unequivocally most beautiful things about growing (up), without constraints, into my own skin, is that I no longer need any of you, to understand any of it; though in all honesty, it is still heart-warming when you do. So thank you for the souvenirs and most especially for the deep and lasting bonds that continue to flourish in my life. I am acutely aware that they would not have occurred, without my membership in the BaNAna club.

“I can’t spend time with people I don’t enjoy. I can’t do it anymore as theater. I make choices, and that’s a beautiful thing about growing up, learning to say no, in a nice way, just say no. I have this friend…we just went different ways in life. Once he came to me and said, “Francis, you don’t like me anymore.” and I said “No, it’s not that I don’t like you, we’ve chosen different styles of life. I still have beautiful souvenirs of all the things we did together and how close we were, but the truth is it’s not that you bore me, but I don’t enjoy talking to you anymore and I don’t want to fight with you but there’s nothing in common between your life and mine nowadays.”  I would have never said that but he asked me. So what could I say? I said the truth. Growing up has a bit to do with that, to be able to tell the truth, to show who you are, even if it hurts.”― Francis Mallmann

With all the love I have, and a wish for smoother sailing for all of us, here’s to the next 365, of whatever we are counting, or not…

~Marcela: still counting…

April 25, 2021

Writing and Photo: All Rights Reserved, because sharing is great, plagiarism is not. Things like quotation marks and attribution, are a great way to avoid that…

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Oh those Russians…

I think Mr. Chekov’s words are more relevant than ever, with all the airy-fairy, faux enlightenment we are encouraged to pursue in this culture of every-thing-is-a-business, including health (care) and spiritual practices.
 
Industries like ‘health food,’ ‘wellness,’ and yoga also come to mind… but there are so many others…
 
Oh those Russians… ;)
 
“”Do silly things. Foolishness is a great deal more vital and healthy than our straining and striving after a meaningful life.”
 
-Anton Chekhov

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I am not content

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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.

 

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Heads out of asses, please…

Seriously, heads out of asses people! What’s happening in the town I work in is getting more terrifying every.single.day! A lot of really smart people have (correctly) predicted for some time now, that we have not seen the worst of it, and while that is difficult to digest, I cannot disagree. Come join me on any work day if you need (more) proof. I dare you. This article (link below) is a long, but to my mind, necessary read, and if you have even a tiny smidge of common sense and/or critically thinking brain, you will understand Mr. Niforuk’s very valid points and get behind the ‘go for zero’ movement.
~M.

https://thetyee.ca/Analysis/2021/02/19/Snap-Out-Pandemic-Passivity-Canada/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&utm_content=021921-1&utm_campaign=editorial

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Gag me with the decapitated head of a martyr…

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. 

xoxo
~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 

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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/