Farewell to you sir…


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.


Image: Google search – Writing: All Rights Reserved.


The Guarded Peony does Haiku

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





With an attitude
of Elk-peril be damned,
June 08, 2018

Writing and Images: All Rights Reserved




, , , ,



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




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

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…



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


One fine day, child… A Birthday Poem


, , ,

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,


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.



March 22, 2018


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


, , , ,

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.


Good Morning Sailor…

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!
Good morning Sailor ;)

Writing and Images: All Rights Reserved. 


Ugh, a grown-up goodbye…







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 cried.

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


The Myth of Unfuckwithable

This is not a pretty story; you should know that up front.

Have you seen that meme floating around out there, the ‘Unfuckwithable’ one? A number of folks who love and/or profess to know me have sent it my way since it first made its appearance in our social media worlds, but I receive it most during times of personal human struggle. It is always intended as a compliment of course, and to remind me of how ‘strong’ I am. I appreciate and know the intent, but as a rule, I do not allow it on my social media timelines/feeds/profiles, for I cannot buy in.

My friends, my family, the folks I serve in my social-worky worlds, other professionals, often call me things like Warrior Woman, Rebel, Superhero, even, and I repeat: I appreciate and know the intent, but it has all sat rather un-well with me, for a good long while now.

All of those same folks are the most diverse group of people you ever want to meet, and for all their diversity and difference, they have two things in common in regard to who they think I am.  1) most of them believe I was/am, in many ways Unfuckwithable, and 2) they could not be more wrong.

I have always known it to be a fallacy. For a never-give-up mindset, plain old attitude, an indelible will to survive, thrive, make lemonade out of those proverbial life-lemons, and Unfuckwithable, are not even remotely related, at least not to my mind, and not to my heart. My attempts to live up to the other-created image known as Unfuckwithable came with a very dear price; a 3 year odyssey which cost every last shred of self-esteem I have worked to build over decades, every penny in my bank account, and damage to every relationship I hold dear. It harmed me in a way that very few other experiences ever have, which speaks volumes given I have lived a life fraught with lemons the size of tanks, literally with the tanks, and metaphorically speaking. Don’t get me wrong, I learned a very long time ago that we do not live in a benign world, and this is not about whining, and it is not a poor-me story.

The odyssey of which I speak is to date, the thing that has hurt me most, changed me most, jaded me most, aged me most, and grown me up most. And in keeping with my contradictory self, it is the thing that has led me back to the amazing kid inside me, the one who has always grasped the value of contrary stances: wisdom and innocence, knowledge and naiveté, normal and crazy, intelligence and ditz, boxed and creativity, power and fragility, even love and hate.  I’ve never really let go of that kid, but too often I have hidden the ‘real’ her from view in an effort to live up to a lie. A lie that sounds and looks good on the outside, but is damaging beyond words to my inside, and quite likely, a great many other ‘strong’ women, just like me.

Let me be clear: I am not holding those who deem(ed) me Unfuckwithable responsible for the harm, it was me, partially trying to live up to that image, but it goes deeper than that, much deeper. The depths of that darkness is what I will endeavor to throw a beacon on in this tale, which is really a story of abuse. I cannot tell the story without also analyzing the Myth of Unfuckwithable, because to my mind, they are closely related.

Months ago, I wrote these words: “I have to, absolutely have to tell you the story of abuse, the vile, vilest abuse that I partially co-signed, until not that long ago. My recovery from it has been one of my longest, toughest, darkest, loneliest trudges, to date. His name rhymes with Peter (which he has also used as an alias), and I don’t give a fuck if you know him, tell him I said so. His actions were deliberate, planned, cruel, and I repeat, Vile. It is a story that MUST be told, over and over again, so that none of us, not a single one, ever start believing it’s OK for other humans to treat us this way, in the name of love, no less. And more importantly, so that when we do fall prey to his ilk, we get out before, way before, I did. I will tell the story soon.”

Fast-forward to October 24th, what would have been my original dad’s 82nd birthday, had he made it past 36, and I find myself working up the courage to tell it, this story of abuse, with some clarity, and without the agony of months past, more than an entire year, in fact. It is only in the organization of preparing to leave the space and place I literally, hindsight being what it is, escaped to from the tyranny of his ‘love,’ that I am finally able to do so. So hot is the fire in my brain and heart to put these words on a page, that I cannot do anything else until I am, literally, done with it.

Done with him. Done with abusing myself for having let him, touch me, in any way. Ever.

And I laugh aloud as the hot tears flash to my eyes and roll down my cheeks, again… but this time, they are the hot tears of joy, at knowing a new self. You can read about her here: As is… Finale.

But let me digress back to unfuckwithable, which in this story of abuse, starts here: manipulation, the art of the sociopathic con. It is not my default, not how I function in the world, not my expectation. Therefore, I am con-able, manipulate-able, fully fuckwithable.

Trite little platitudes the likes of ‘you’re too strong to be fucked with,’ are fallacious at best, and damning at worst. They often serve to set up powerful women (like me) with the unrealistic expectation (internal and external) that we are not impacted when people treat us badly, or worse, that we are too smart to let it happen, so when it does, and it does, all the time, we suffer in silence. We do things like gouge holes into our arms in the privacy of the shower, or in the woods, when hiking, running, posting pictures of our adventures, our ‘love affairs’ with our tormenters, to our unsuspecting friends and family, because to them you see, we are Unfuckwithable, and not being that way, will bring victim-blaming judgements, opinions, and most tragically, has created deep-seated shame, because we have chosen to be with this person and brought it upon ourselves. When I say we, it means me. It means I did all of these things. It means I felt this way.

If you know anything about me at all, you will know that I quite despise our culture of DSM-diagnosing everything and everyone to death, but if the box fits, get the fuck inside. In this case, I have no other way to describe his actions toward me (and people around me) than Gaslighting, and to tell you that he was/is an absolute genius at practicing his self-described Narcissistic Sociopathy. Why oh why did I not believe him when he said so??? I really thought he was being funny. That joke, was on me, so big!

The thing that has come back to haunt me most often during the time since my escape from that hell, is the palpable memory of a really wise intuition, of sinking feelings, gut-wrenching doubts, which I experienced shortly before I literally moved him into, and allowed to take over the life I had so painstakingly, so grindingly, so manically built over the past 35-plus years, out of rubble, over and over again. He was pushy in a way I interpreted, (partially because he convinced me I should), as his mad, passionate, love for me. Please read that with the sarcasm and irony I intend. In my defense, I repeat: he was damn good.

You should know, it is not that I cannot live without a man that I continue to date. It is not that I am desperate to be in a relationship, for I quite enjoy my own company, and prefer living alone. It is that I spend my life caring for others in the nastiest human follies imaginable, and sometimes, I just really fucking want someone to give me something back that I cannot get from family, friends, or friends with benefits. He made all the right noise, and I repeat: manipulation is not my default, so I don’t automatically look for it in others. And that’s the last time I will defend myself in this story.

So here’s how he got me: he presented me with enough ‘real life’ evidence for who and what he was, how/where/with whom he had lived, and how he ended up in his current life, including in terms of money. The ‘evidence’ to prove my ill-feelings about it, about him, was so vague in comparison, nothing to ‘sink my teeth into,’ so instead of doubting him, I doubted self: exactly as he had planned, exactly as he intended, exactly, I learned later, according to the minutia of the agenda he had painstakingly laid out.

And it grew. His deliberate, meticulously planned and executed manipulation of my very core. He picked apart every.single.thing about me, about my family, about what I believed in, about my emotional, psychological, creative and intellectual capacities, about what my money was for, about my physical appearance, about his distaste for me sexually, and he did it right after expounding on how I was all that and then some. And he did it all so insidiously, so covertly but in plain view, so contrarily in every way, that I really started to believe I was truly THE problem in this ‘relationship,’ while that same intuition kept trying to yell muffled screams that I was being played, in the most sinister of mind games.

It all grew inside me to the point of a physical, emotional and financial ruin that even my serious bout with drug addiction many lifetimes ago, cannot touch, when compared with this ‘broken.’ This fractured, was simply easier, and somehow more necessary, for me to hide from the worlds I occupy, than that other battle, because at this juncture, I had become Unfuckwithable to so many of the people I care about, who care about me.

By the time I started to put it all together I was so plagued with anxiety and self-doubt, which of course was part of his plan, and which he used as weapons against me. He purposely incited doubt in the minds of my family about me, and hurled all of it like so many grenades when he threatened to ‘take me out for good,’ in the four walls I was trapped in with him. The ones I paid for, along with everything else in his world for the better part of two years.

I began to think that not seeing another day sounded like a good idea, so I reached out. I called a helping professional. Someone I thought knew something about me. It didn’t go well. I got a bit of a psychobabble-platitude and words like ‘you’re too strong to let him get to you, Marcela,’ and of course the famous, ‘why don’t you just leave’? Well, I had no money left to leave with, nowhere to go, and no-how left to get there. You should also know that I know something (too much), about the statistically proven reality of women (and men) dying, after they leave abusive spouses, partners, whatever word you wish to call them, at the hands of said spouses, partners, whatever word you wish to call them. I will use the word perpetrators; of physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological and financial manipulation, abuse and violence.

But I digress again, sorry, no I’m not, this is not a neat and tidy story and I cannot tell it truthfully, in a neat and tidy package, in any orderly fashion, for it was a nasty, messy affair. So I come back to the falsehood of ‘unfuckwithable,’ and the words of that helping professional and the painfully invalidating (m)utterings of others, however well, or jokingly-intentioned.

Such a conversation was born of a post from me, which reflected my sarcastic truth, when someone I know was liquidating their clothing store, and selling off the remaining accoutrements of said store. It was a powerful example, at that point in my process, of what I am attempting to articulate in these pages.

I really wanted what I named the Good(Man)nequin, yes, I anthropomorphize, and play with words, among other things… in any event, I really really wanted it, for so many reasons, including that I just like odd things, things that speak to my creative (some say eccentric) sensibilities, but alas, she had already sold it by the time I saw her post. So I posted the following, along with the photo she had in her ad:

“A friend of mine was selling my potential next boyfriend and I missed out…. quite sad about it, he’s so reminiscent of many a past suitor and both ex-husbands… no head and no balls… …he would’ve made the perfect addition to my oh-so-stylish and eclectic home decor… multipurpose too, I could decorate him at Christmas, use him as a clothing rack in my closet-room… the possibilities would have been endless… ”

My friend GR, a woman I have the utmost regard and respect for, made the following comment, which at that time, felt more like salt in the wound, than anything else. Please note, I own that feeling, her words did NOT ‘make me feel.’

She said: “What a cruel tongue you have my friend.”

I responded with the following:

“I will admit that my tongue is slightly more acerbic than usual, even for my unfiltered self. However, I fail to see the point in extolling the dubious virtues of, or worse, staying silent about, men who thought it was necessary or even OK, to resort to violence of every ilk and variety when they realized I was not on this earth to do their bidding (sexually, financially, emotionally, psychologically), and while I’m up for almost any adventure, using and abusing me is not OK, ever. The level of male violence and abuse I am party to in my work world right now, and have been subjected to in my own life, in further and more recent pasts, is beyond anything I am able to filter, co-sign, or even forgive in some instances. And I believe I am finally done and done trying to be compassionate about everyone’s ‘context.’ With the exception of deliberate thought about their actions, there was nothing brainy or ballsy in the actions of both of my ex-husbands, and my most recent longer-term-live-in-liaison. Cruelty to others is the epitome of cowardice to my mind, and the acidity in my words rings more of truth, to me, than cruelty. Coates and Wade have a significant body of over 2 decades of research on this and related topics, and I have written an academic paper, or twelve, on it myself. The sharpness in my words speaks to those individuals only, who have used manipulation, control and violence, and by no means reflects my thoughts and feelings on all the men in my past, long ago or more recent, and most importantly, is not a generalized descriptor for all males of our species, from my viewpoint. My recent and current dalliance with the Sailor included, I know, have known, and loved, many a beautiful man.”

Today I would add, I have also raised one.

That comment/conversation was the beginning of the turnaround, but their initial impact, much like those of the helping professional, felt at first as though they just broke me more. It’s called Negative Social Response and there’s a huge body of research on it as well. Slowly though, those same words became the fuel to provide the flicker, which eventually (re)lit the fury of that little girl inside me. That child who learned more than any child ever should, by way of life’s most vicious and dramatic, yes, dramatic slaps, about how to a) survive, b) rebuild and c) fucking thrive not despite, but because of, those very bitch slaps, and the humans(?) and systems we choose, or end up around/in, who deliver them.

And as life will, she presented my then 25 year-old son with a bitch-slap of his own, which in turn presented itself, in the form of him, as my salvation, again.

It was his temporary presence back under my roof, which helped me find enough of the strength I am so often credited with, to make a move. A move I knew I was now safe enough, literally, in the physical sense, to follow through with. For the sociopath could not fuck with me, through my child, but especially not with that beautiful soul of a young man, in my immediate midst. For months before ‘Sunny’ came to stay, I no longer considered the roof over my (and the sociopath’s) head our home, and in the safety of my own mind considered myself single, long before I told him I was, long before I busted that all important move. But I could do it now, for this hu(man), my son, has always given me a courage and will that are not my own. Fret not at this statement, I am deeply and profoundly aware of the pitfalls of making other humans my strength, my power, and as such that is not what I mean.

And while my son’s presence in my home did not prevent the sociopath from attempting to continue his manipulations, what a narcissistic sociopath cannot possibly know, is how real love works, the kind my mother has always had for me, the kind I have for my child, the kind he has for me, the kind I have had and received from other men, and ultimately, the kind I have grown for myself over decades of hard core personal work, and the sacrifices I have chosen to make in the name of that personal work, and for that child.

It is all that, which his presence in my home, brought me back to, and while perhaps not back to my senses right away (see above under ‘trudge’), I remembered who the fuck I am, and that it was NOT, what and who the sociopath had worked so diligently to make me, and others, believe, in order to serve his own ugly ass and heart. Yes, he has an ugly heart. And perhaps someone will dig far enough into that dirty to uncover something else, but it will not be me, not even in ‘pretend-friend-land.’

This is how I became unfuckwithable (by him) in a recent, the last, text communication:

Him: “bla bla bla bla bla”
Me: I would much prefer it if there was no further communication between us. After all, I don’t even actually like you.

And then I blocked his ugly ass number.

Fast-forward to December 31st, 2017 and it is pushing 11 p.m…. I do not put much stock in New Year’s Resolutions and the like, but I have been sitting on this, with this essay, for far too long now, and while it may not be wearing its best and final edits yet, I feel a burning desire to be rid of it, the way I have exorcised myself, literally, of him, the sociopath.

On December 31st, 2014, I started an essay called ‘The year of Fly.’ Turns out, I made a series of decisions shortly thereafter, which when combined with some lifey-life-slaps, and (too) many bitch-slaps from a conscience-less-sociopathic-bitch, dressed in lover’s clothing, turned my anticipated ‘Year of Fly’ into ‘Four Years of Flop’n mop – up the tears and other messes.’

So I will press ‘publish,’ while in my head and heart, I hear and heed the words of that same glorious friend who noted the cruelty in my tongue, GR. She recently reminded me that:

“You are in possession of a cast iron Spirit, and a matching mouth… I’m sure you will prevail, after all, you’ve conquered your own demons… “

So with my well-dented but solid, and beautifully seasoned cast-iron spirit, and clad in super cozy lounging attire on this Eve of another New Year, I sense that I might actually finish that ‘Year of Fly’ essay, this day next year.

With all of my Maddest Madd love and appreciation for those of you who continue to follow me here, and support me in any beautiful way, anywhere in the worlds I occupy,

~Marcela: Not fully Unfuckwithable, but so much smoother and more non-stick.

PS: Please feel free to do your own research, I have, and continue to do mine. The links are added for your convenience only and intended as a starting point, if you feel inclined to look further.