Would you like your coffee here, or there? Would you like to have it, with some flair? Would you like it in a cup? C’mon Sailor, bottoms Up! Oooh! Bottoms… blush… Would you like your wench, to serve, your cuppa Joe with a lil’ swerve? Would you like it with a wink of her eye? Would you like it, with some (bacon) pie? Aaah! Pie… tee hee… Would you like it with some ‘spice’? Or should I add a little ice? I could oblige your salty, here, or there, I can accommodate you, anywhere! Oh! Even there…? wink… Would you like your coffee on your boat? Though from this lake we cannot float, there. We’ll just have it, in my lair, sorry ‘bout that curly hair! OhMy! Good morning Sailor ;) Writing and Images: All Rights Reserved.
I (re)bid farewell to a Sailor,
then I stacked wood and cried.
I was tempted to talk to a Sailor,
so I swept the deck and cried.
I pined for the touch of a Sailor,
but remembered my heart and cried.
I ached for the wit’n winks of a Sailor,
so I ran the stairs and cried.
I re-read fond words from a Sailor,
wanted to burn them and cried, cause they’re in my damn phone and lappy!
I remembered the ‘delete’ features of modern technology,
smiled wistfully at self and realized holy shit I’m a grown up,
And then I laughed and laughed,
‘cause it’s all such a fucking ride!
There is something so much less satisfying about a more grown up perspective to romance, love, sex and knowing more about how we work, and don’t. Acting in my own best interest, despite the requisite pangs I know it brings is sad, because there is something a little more self-righteously gratifying, in the immediate discomfort of the moment, to childishly expounding on another’s un-virtuous behaviour, than in owning one’s own. Knowing, accepting, that I went into something that probably wouldn’t work for me over the longer term, but being willing to have a go anyway, eyes truly wide open, is so damned mature, that I’m angry about it because it takes away the previously noted gratification of stomping my (fifty)six-year old feet. Someday, other than this one, I will publish the (for real) ‘Dear John’ letter (yeah, I did that) and other correspondence associated with this most grown up parting of ways, for it holds all kinds of ‘interesting’ in relation to the psychology of love and the human folly of romance, but for now;
Against all odds and my own attempts at not, I am Adulting today. Who fucking knew?
Momentarily dry-eyed and temporarily in my right mind,
~Marcela: maturely unfiltered.
Photos and writing: All Rights Reserved
And as the waves crash onto the shores of my beloved bay on a blustery-warm, almost end-of-summer day, so the wind blows through away the remnants of the havocs and hatreds you wreaked, upon every square inch of my world.
It is not that I still writhe in the agony of your countless and sundry tyrannies, it is my astonishment at the brilliance deceitfulness and deliberateness, with which you so expertly executed them, that prompts me to waste my words thoughts on you again.
And as the last of the summer-people roll up the dirty mats outside the glamping monstrosities they rolled into this tiny bay on, so I endeavour to roll up the dusty track upon which I have trudged, in my efforts to expunge the dirty, self-hating demons that set up camp in my person, when I realized who what you were are, and what your mission was is.
It is not that I am regretful of my suffering over these 14 months, for it has brought me to the wisest, fiercely-softest incarnation of me to date, it is that I am bewildered at the calculated depravity with which you pursued orchestrated the demise of my core, in order that you could take from me that which you came for: my stability, my worth; emotional, psychological, intellectual and economic.
And as I pack up my favourite things and sort through turf the last vestiges of you from my being, my home and my worlds, so I prepare, with peace and gratitude, to leave the place and space I escaped you to, for one with nary a trace of your existence… and I leave dispose of you, for good.
And as the Maples and Cottonwoods drop their riotous fall colours, and frost and snow hit the tiny Bay with the same vengeance with which you collided slammed into my being, so I drop the frozen weight of your revile and it shatters on the ground into a million tiny ice crystals.
It is not that they are sharp, broken shards; it is that they have landed on my new ground, formed created frozen images, beautiful, like the hoarfrost I marvel at, fragile, powerful, and vulnerable to the thaw which inevitably occurs, at the end of a period of iciness, frostbite, even.
It is not that you held me hostage for the 14 months since I fully uncovered your sociopathic duplicity imposture and ran limped away, it is that I held myself captive, with self-reproach and other useless recriminations, and it behooves me to end the ‘As Is…’ saga with this, my final message to you:
Your dirty, narcissistic misdeeds have backfired, for I am the exact opposite of what you so purposefully endeavored to tear me down into.
And while I have very little but pity and the DSM diagnoses I normally abhor left for you, I hold myself, in the highest, kindest, esteem.
November 29, 2017.
Images and Poetry: All Rights Reserved.
As I pluck, the stray hairs from my face, I try to ponder with some grace, this crazy thing, called Aging. As I take my locks, from gold to dark, With silver strands just for the lark, I smile, for I have Lived. As I view the lines on this visage, every day is vernissage, and mostly, I care Not. And as I judge this culture, youth obsessed, no more couth do I possess, than (T)rump-a-dump, himself. In this world, where absurd is King, I wag and wonder at this thing, the phenomena, of Stupid. We're teaching children, to regurgitate, are raising mindless reprobates, in bubble-wrapped, Entitlement. I yell at them, to read a book, get your brains back off that fuckin hook, you call a life, on-line. And as I sit, with 56.5 I rejoice the years I am alive Live(d) and Love(d), with frenzied fire’n Passion A youthful spirit, in its tweens the wise chick in me hears’n gleans that this body, doth Protest! In recent words, to my well-(b)read child I spoke of this my big wild ride, and uttered this, fair Warning: If tomorrow, I should die, know that my life was not all pie, but holy fuck me, what a Ride! Lose no tear, for my time lost here, I sped through akin to Buzz Lightyear, had no time, to sweat the small Stuff! No such burden, as regret, for NO dull moment did beget, a single breath, I Took! And so I enter, this next phase, In a blur of crazy-dayz, and with electrifying, Verve! I ought to warn, you faint-of-hearts, my new grand plan will have no chart, to map out how this goes! So if you love me, in all my glory, you will know that this next folly, will be, of proportions Epic! BOOM. FALLOUT. AFTERSHOCK. SPLASH. SMILE’n WAVE, like the Queen I am. Quack-a-fucking-doodle-dizzy and with a brand new energy, for an old(er) chick! ~Marcela. October 21, 2017 Photos and Poetry: All Rights Reserved.
Unfathomable surplus- (in)human cruelty, suffering, crisis…
…compassion fatigue settles deep- into my bones.
Even this- watery place, loved and trusted, denies me solace…
…betrays- this beleaguered soul.
New- this anguish, and frighteningly familiar…
…tables turn- this crisis, is mine.
Bereft- until the next incarnation… only…
~Marcela. July 25, 2017
All Rights Reserved (image and written content).
She, Valkyrie cradles tattered remnants a slaughtered spirit, in her intrepid care. Goddess vision greets wounded gaze and I beseech her, to choose life, for an oft wounded, heart. To Valhalla for mead, and her. Salve for the psyche, soul and flesh, of gods mythical, and mortal, and their concubines. ~Marcela: beautifully lost, in a real-time myth, of my own creation. February 18, 2017 Image: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valkyrie
Limerick I have crushed on a sailor named Zeke His ‘Salty’ some havoc did wreak On pink oh-so-tender Defenses useless he rendered With nary a peek or a tweak
Haiku On a tranquil sea A salt and pepper Sailor Quells this raging squall
Cinquain Let’s sail said the sailor my vessel’s safely moored in the haven of (y)our harbour moon’n stars
Yours, fairly unfettered: Myla
February 12, 2017
Poetry and Photographs: All Rights Reserved.
It is tragic in its fitting-ness, that the long sought (perfect) light fixture for my beloved cage, is from the Marcel(l)a series, from no less a cultural cage than Home Depot.
The perspicuous view, the vistas upon which I gaze from my current prison, pain me greatly.
~Marcela: quite fettered, and bereft of gilding on the cage.
January 17, 2017.
“Stop,” she said to herself! “Do refrain from accusing the accusers, from negating the Nellies negative, from despising the Debbies downer! And focus, on the freedom that comes with designing, with owning, your feelings, your thoughts, your life and your choices”!
“Know,” she said to herself, “that as long as you are breathing, life will bitch slap you, over and over again! Feel the fury, agonize in the pain, and then stand up to her like the fucking Warrior Woman you are.”
“Love,” she said to herself, “self above all, for it is not an act of ego, rather the only real survival skill you will ever need.”
~Marcela: Moving, at the speed of a woman Too Much!
January 02, 2017
Photograph: My personal collection. All rights reserved.
It is not that I was in need of repair because you broke me, for I was never broken
It is that my voice was lost in the roar of the tsunami that was your disdain for me
And as a new blanket of white refreshes the grime of salt and snowplows
So renewed faith in self cleanses my heart of the detritus you left behind
It is not that I was the dung you believed to simply wipe off your sullied soles
It is the vehemence with which you shoveled your manure onto my person
And as the streetlight on the far shore casts a long glowing ripple across the lake
So another crack opens in my heart to allow the light back in
It is not that you succeeded in extinguishing it with relentless revile
It is that I erected shelter for my very core
And as I turn the plans for this, my most recent incarnation into fruitful reality
So I recognize your singular, constructive contribution to my life:
I choose not to forgive you for the myth of forgiveness as salvation is not my creed
I will, however, put you behind me with nary a thought to our dalliance, beyond these words:
I win. Not despite your efforts to destroy me, but because of them.
And I feel nothing for you.
~Marcela: Newer than this year.
January 01, 2017
Photograph: My personal collection. All Rights Reserved.