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Open Letter to My Child: Gifts and an Advanced Directive – March 22, 2020

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Dearest Young’en (it’s a new one, aren’t you excited?):

But I digress, how odd…

Dear Thomas George Raphael Turjančík (see, I remember your real name!): this day, at 13:29 Central European Standard Time, in the year 1991 (I did not have to look at the tattoo on my left forearm to remember), I met you.

You were as calm about it as you often are today, outwardly anyway, though we both know it’s different on the inside, I and your father on the other hand, wore our stuff, loudly on our sleeves.

We were happy, so very very happy, and excited beyond measure, and not a bit frightened, a great many bits frightened, each for our own reasons. The inner demons we had yet to quell, respectively and as a couple, had not yet been fully outed, never mind sorted.

But this event, your homecoming, changed us, at least for a short while, for the better, so much better. For you took us out of ourselves and into a frontier that your father had traveled to previously with your brothers, but one that I, had not yet ventured into; a world in which someone else is 100% reliant upon my reliability; a universe in which by default, I became the center of your universe. I was not ready for that, and I had so much to learn.

We know that there was a time I failed you, failed us, and we have jumped and tripped over many hurdles, vaulted over seemingly unreachable bars, and spent time in a deep, dark, abyss, individually and together; but we have both made it here. And you, the perfectly-imperfect child you have been, continue to be for me, have found to yourself, in a way that inspires awe in everyone you meet, and inspires awe in me, every.single.day.

And while I like to believe that my particular brand of parenting, what I stand for, has had a positive influence on who you are, how beautifully you function in the astonishingly complex world we occupy, that is; with a critically thinking intelligence, with grace, insight, with compassion, and kindness, all of this and more, is yours, yours alone, to own and take credit for.

It is the fruit of your labour, Thomas, of the hard, often painful personal work I have watched you wrestle with these past few years, supported when asked, but viewed from a distance that was often excruciating for me to keep. Know, as I believe you do, that I was (am) always ready and waiting with a life-ring when needed.

I cannot ask for a better gift on this day, the day I met you 29 years ago, than knowing, trusting, that when life offers up her lifey-life bitch-slaps, or we walk willingly, stupidly into them with eyes wide shut, for to believe that we do not, is to lie to self first and foremost, you will eventually find your way back out, and with a newly forged, temporarily, until next time, sense of self.

It is a gift for me to believe that you understand the importance of introspection, and personal revision, the critical role of, and need for personal evaluation and re-evaluation, the imperative of personal evolution as a constant, not as an event, and I thank my F.U.Gs that I can believe you are aware of this, central tidbit: every response or reaction you choose, to anything or anyone else, that while fueled by those outward influences, is a thing generated internally, by self, and self-alone, it is a choice.

This is important, for to believe otherwise cloaks us in a coat of personal powerlessness, a coat I could not bear to watch you wear, the coat of blame and perpetual victim-hood. I have worn it; it is an outdated, heavy, ugly garment, best recycled into something more useful, like a pair of really great shoes, or better yet, an I-love-me/you-jacket.

And so this, my child, the child I would have chosen had I been given a choice of who I want you to be, is my Advanced Directive: do not wait for lifey-life to get back to ‘normal,’ ever. Live it as best you can, in the moment, right-the-fuck-now, under the current circumstance, and/or restriction. Live it with purpose, and accomplish, take a single step toward something you yearn, burn to do, every.single.day.

Take my advice, for I was not using it. I have wasted too many of my days on irrelevant (to me) endeavors, in the name of others, their beliefs, their needs, their power, their ill or well intentions toward me… bla bla fucking bla…. Do NOT, I beseech you, under any circumstances, follow my ill-fated lead in this regard.

I love you more than any word will ever do justice to, and I thank my F.U.Gs for you, every.single.day, for 10,593 days, and counting.

All my love,

~Mama.

March 22, 2020

 

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The Bright Red Freighter  

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There have been others since I came to live here, but you commanded and kept my attention, from the first time ever, that I saw your extraordinarily bright, red paint.

And since that moment, when you dwarfed everything around you and obligated me to see you, I have wanted to get closer, wanted to get a better view, and always wanted, always yearned, to see you again.

I needed to experience your power, relentlessly, and with great fervor. And for weeks now, I have been captivated by you, visually, psychologically, emotionally, and with irrevocable commitment.

And I have compulsively sought you out, with the diligence and precision of a skilled stalker, from every vantage point, in this hilly town.

For weeks now, each and every morning, I have clambered groggily up to the step-stool view in my sleeping chamber, because knowing you were there allowed me to face another day, and I have been awed by the turmoil you create, deep, so deep inside me.

For weeks now, each and every evening, no matter how fatigued, I bid you good night, because you give me some measure of consolation, succour, in my solace-less world.

You have represented all that is true about me, the contradictions, and I am as contentiously conflicted about you, as I am about most things.

Your intensity screamed to my own; and like the others in the bay, like me, you are a political and personal hot-potato, and I love you-I hate you, come here-go away, fuck-off, no! fuck-on!

And you present me with a familiar quandary: what is right for the world around me versus what I get, what I need, from you, from the world around me.

And so by direct extension, you have been a secret, conflicted indulgence, analogous for me, to beautiful footwear, but made in China by slaves and their enslaved children.

And I have viewed you with my naked eyes, and through binoculars, and I have captured you with my camera over and over again, from my step-stool view, from the highway coming home, from my excursions on the hilly trails, and from my perambulations about the town.

And this morning, when I opened the curtain to greet you, you knocked the breath right out of me, for the light had you glowing in shades of gold and pewter, and I was mesmerized, shaken to the core, by the beauty of you, and the light, the indescribable, iridescent light, and the way you played together, with, and in the sea.

And I remembered Barrett-Browning, and knew I will do well to concern myself with, fly toward the light, despite additional bruising of my oh-so broken wings.[1]

And my despair collided head-on inside me with the memory of who I am, the shine and vibrancy used to describe me for decades by others, now hoarded away far too long, by me, recently, because: pain.

And I wonder; if like me, despite meticulous maintenance of mechanical parts and attention to aesthetic details, you may meet an undignified, rusted out, abandoned, demise?

But your light rouses me from the melancholy of this early morning reverie and while you are neither Sunflower[2] nor Water Lily[3] on a A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte[4], van Gogh, Monet, Seurat alike[5], would have been as awestruck by that light show, by your radiance, as I.

So it is little wonder that this evening, upon reaching the place on the highway, the place where I always spy you first, returning from my hated-reality, hot tears burned my cheeks with a vengeance that took me by surprise, but at the same time, not at all.

For I realized that you had left me, as I knew you would; suspected this very morning, that today might be that day, the day I find you gone.

And all that, in a painful morning stupor, while bedazzled, so very smitten, by your glow, your nod to me, to heed Browning’s wise words, to keep fluttering my wings, toward the light, toward my light.

And I am so very grateful, to me, for all the times I hunted you down, from yet another place and angle. I am richer for having enjoyed you, and you fueled, no, you ignited, new fantasies of leaving, to live my art, whenever my eyes, my heart, the core of me, met your steel girth, your vibrant and vivacious red coat.

And I never coveted you more than this morning, never appreciated you more, than in those parting moments, when you willfully, boastfully even, occupied that space, your space in the vast vast sea, wearing the gold,

of the Queen you are.

~Marcela: one skin, 58.7 years, life/version 19.9, and counting.

March 04, 2020

[1] https://www.brainpickings.org/2018/03/05/elizabeth-barrett-browning-happiness/

[2] https://www.vincentvangogh.org/sunflowers.jsp

[3] https://www.claude-monet.com/waterlilies.jsp

[4] https://mymodernmet.com/georges-seurat-a-sunday-afternoon-on-the-island-of-la-grande-jatte/

[5] https://www.oxfordartonline.com/page/impressionism-and-post-impressionism/impressionism-and-postimpressionism

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Frida and Minju, and me…

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The stunningly beautiful, awe inspiringly humble, and magically talented 
Minju Kim, on Next in Fashion: 

"...my collection is inspired by Frida Kahlo, ...she never gave up."

I must remember that for a thousand and one reasons, and for decades 
now, I too, am inspired by Frida Kahlo... and while that which ails me 
physically, is vastly polar in nature and circumstance, its
ramifications, share everything in common, with that which ailed her... 

...and I remember what she accomplished, who she was, not despite, 
but because of it.

Just for this moment, I will channel Frida, and Minju.

~Marcela: Hanging on by Minju's thread.

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A bark with bite…

“True adulthood… is a difficult beauty, an intensely hard won glory, which commercial forces and cultural vapidity should not be permitted to deprive you of.”
 
-Toni Morrison
 
A culture that ‘fetishizes youth’ is exactly the one we live in… the older and wiser, the more knowledgeable I become, about self and the world, the more valuable I am to others… but: this is precisely when they begin to devalue much of what I have to say… …interesting, that when a great deal of what I had to give was simply loud bark without substance, no bite, they all paid attention… it is little wonder that the Hitlers of the world, like what’s his fuck in the USA, get where they do…we exclude the input of those who know in the decision making.
~Marcela: thinking out loud on real and present adulthood. 

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Parker’n me II – The Culvert

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The roar of the culvert
spewing forth the runoff,
raging like the internal and external storms
of the night previous,
temporarily assuages my tinnitus and pressure addled brain,
with this other,
din.

I walk on
leaving the culvert behind, and,
with the relentless vengeance of the intruders in my body,
they cut anew; the razor-sharp edges of my current reality
and I wonder:
why I still choose to live this wounded and broken,
life(?).

Parker, Dorothy that is, in all her glory and folly
calls on me, again, to live another day
for while increasingly troublesome,
my vision endeavors to see, that “cherry bough gone white with Spring,”
and so I walk on, desperately seeking;
the next “prettiest, thing.”

~Marcela: not done yet, according to Parker anyway.
02, 02, 2020

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Love is Not About Ownership

One of the greatest things I have learned in the course of my entanglement with the Sailor, is that true intimacy, and anything even resembling love, of any quality or depth, in any kind of relationship, cannot, absolutely cannot, be about ownership, or the expectation of filling other’s voids, needs, even.
~Marcela.

His language is a little more flowery than I am generally fond of, but he was a very, very wise man, I’ve been reading him since I was a kid, but only relatively recently, come to appreciate, understand, his teachings:

“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond[age] of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.”
-Khalil Gibran

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The Twelve Days of Crass-mess (11)

11- 11 x 6 million sheople following 1 orange piper

On the 11th day of Crass-mess my true love sent to me
11 x 6000000 sheople following an orange pied piper
10 Leaping Chippendales
9 bombshells dancing
8 old-maid starter seeds
7 plastic seas a floating
6 geezers laying (down)
5 golden thongs
4 cat-calls
3 French fry gift cards
2 xmas turtle pics
And a voice-mail xmas grting (press 1) on my automated phone tree

~Marcela: checking (y)our cultural realities
December 23, 2019


Photo Credit (edited-M.Y.M.): 
https://2big2fall.wordpress.com/trump-sheep-one-e/

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The Twelve Days of Crass-mess (10)

9-(ish) Leaping Chippendales

On the 10th day of Crass-mess my true love sent to me
10 Leaping Chippendales
9 bombshells dancing
8 old-maid starter seeds
7 plastic seas a floating
6 geezers laying (down)
5 golden thongs
4 cat-calls
3 French fry gift cards
2 xmas turtle pics
And a voice-mail xmas grting (press 1) on my automated phone tree

~Marcela: checking (y)our cultural realities
December 22, 2019

 

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The 12 Days of Crass-mess (9)



On the 9th day of Crass-mess my true love sent to me
9 bombshells dancing
8 old-maid starter seeds
7 plastic seas a floating
6 geezers laying (down)
5 golden thongs
4 cat-calls
3 French fry gift cards
2 xmas turtle pics
And a voice-mail xmas grting (press 1) on my automated phone tree

~Marcela: checking (y)our cultural realities
December 21, 2019


Photo credit: Atomic Bombshells 
https://www.thestranger.com/events/41781863/
the-atomic-bombshells-injadore-a-burlesque-valentine 

 

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The 12 Days of Crass-mess (8)

8-Old Maid Starter Seeds
On the 8th day of Crass-mess my true love sent to me
8 old-maid starter seeds
7 plastic seas a floating
6 geezers laying (down)
5 golden thongs
4 cat-calls
3 French fry gift cards
2 xmas turtle pics 
And a voice-mail xmas grting (press 1) on my automated phone tree
~Marcela: checking (y)our cultural realities
December 19, 2019