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Marcela: Unfiltered

Tag Archives: Truth

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8036, of 21, 466 days… Stepping Out

25 Saturday Apr 2020

Tags

Autonomy, Truth

This is not the simple little bit of writing it started out to be, I had intended it to be at 8:30 this morning, because it is too important to me for quick and dirty, and because I am having a very ‘bad brain day.’ The ramifications of Lyme & Co. and the hard-hitting anti-biotic I was taking and have now aborted, my latest effort to keep the bugs at bay, factor largely to above noted ‘bad brain day.’ So unless you have the capacity to finish what I/you have started, I respectfully request, that you refrain from exercising the hubris, the temerity, to comment, chastise or congratulate.

As I sat enjoying my space and a really great cuppa Joe this morning, I was texting with the Sailor about all manner of personal and global bitch-slappy and interesting, when he quipped about my life being more 🙃 read as: upside down ‘interesting’ since we have known one another, than most people’s…  I responded with: “it has been that way for 58.9 years Sailor, not just since we have known one another, for I was born into all manner of  🙃 and ‘interesting,’ and have also created and stumbled into, a great deal of my own  🙃  and ‘interesting,” and that, is truer than true my friends! And then, in the middle of that communication I remembered the date today: April 25, 2020!

What that means is: I have lived my life, made my choices from the ones available to me, had some made for me, because I do NOT have control over everything that happens, impacts me, only what I do with it, but I digress, how odd… What April 25, 2020 means, is that I have lived my life for 22 years, or 8036 days in-a-row, without the protective plexi-glass wall of alcohol, other drugs, and many auxiliary self- and by direct extension, other-harming strategies, that I learned to use at some point. I know exactly what ‘that point’ was by the way, down to the second, the words uttered at me, the actions that precipitated ‘that point,’ to get through life and her bitch-slappy, for without the plexi-glass wall, my only other option felt like that thing Parker’n Me  have thought about, written about, joked about, were never really kidding about.

What that means is:

22 years of bitch-slappy unfiltered,

22 years of learning how to own what is mine, without suffering through, without taking responsibility for that which is NOT; this piece in particular has been a ‘capital C’ Challenge.

22 years of attempts at navigating the rocky road NOT leading to ‘blame,’

22 years of attempts at avoiding the donning of the grossly unfashionable ‘victim coat,*’

22 years of trying on and pulling off identities, pursuing, completing, abandoning, personas, goals, dreams, achievements considered desirable, assigned to me by individuals and systems/groups I both ‘landed’ with, and chose,

and 22 years encumbered by, trapped in, often held hostage by, the exorbitant number of boxes in the world we occupy, the ones I now take infinite pleasure in blowing up, for the buggers multiply at a rate quicker than bunnies,

22 years, to find myself located rather firmly, for better and for worse, here:

I have done better at it on some of those 8036 days than on others, better and worse at navigating calm and rough seas alike, better and worse traversing goat trails, maneuvering hair-pin turns on precarious mountain roads, and better and worse travelling with grace, on the few and far between straight-aways, the stretches with gloriously beautiful views, literally and figuratively speaking.

Recently, I have ‘enjoyed’ a most eclectic rain-storm, a rainbow coloured nuclear fall-out if you will, of several years in-a-row of WTF have I allowed, done to myself and my life(?), how the fuck did I land here?!? Me, who busted her ass so hard for exactly, NOT this!?!

But: I have done much of that, the bulk of it, on my terms, her (bitch-slappy’s) terms, and for the last several months, unapologetic, truly for the first time in my life, unapologetic for any of it. For I was acting on the often intentionally obscured-by-others information available to me, and in no small part, on what I believed at the time was the right thing for me, along with that all important thing called the context of where/how these things occurred, and the events/people/places I am powerless to exert any manner of control or influence over, regardless of any choice I may have made, to ‘be there,’ whatever that means in any given context, mine, theirs, yours, ours.

That is not to say I am unapologetic or regretful, and more importantly willing to ‘amend,’ in cases where others have suffered as a result of my actions, or even misunderstandings about my actions, not at all. I am unapologetic for who I am, and for being a flawed but most-willing-to-evolve, adjust, revise self and only self, human-woman.  And as I believe is true for many women ‘just like me,’ contrary to popular belief and the often misguided conventional wisdom which has some folks believing to know who I am, what I am about: I have not had the she-cojones, big enough, strong enough ovaries if you will, not to care about what others think, how they respond to me, not to be gutted by how they treat me, who they think I am, who they think I think I am, the truth, my truth, of the inner workings which actually drive the outward me; not other’s perceptions not their assumptions about it, but the invisible layers of my machinery, the nuances of each tiny bolt, the contribution of the older, some rusty, some broken bits, to the entirety of this human ‘mašina,’ and her original ‘culture and tribe,**’ The culture and tribe I identify and find myself planted in more firmly, rooted deeper in, attached more firmly to, as time does that thing it does, marches on, with or without me, with or without my permission, it doesn’t give a shit, so I have to.

What that means is: I was not born tough, or even resilient. I was born wild, creative, funny, fun-loving, smart, painfully sensitive, and with an imagination and heart bigger than big, with a seemingly bottomless capacity for understanding, compassion toward even those of us humans who have committed unspeakable acts of heinousness, the most damaging of wrongs, toward others, including me. I was born to and with, and have honed, a significant capacity for knowing that context is everything, for taking the time to look for it, for it is rarely to never obvious, and almost never pretty. I was born with a view to the contexts which often drive human behaviour, born with and to, a clear and painful understanding of the fact that we do not live in a benign world, one in which all is fair and just. Those are words. Like love. And they are demonstrated, like hate, ignorance, fear and anger, through actions, not utterances. I was not born many things, I came to them, battled for and against them, most often out of necessity.

And I am a realist, and like Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, I know that:

“Life is beautiful in spite of everything! [and that] There are many thorns, but the roses are there too.”

What that means is: shit happens! People do good shit and people do bad shit, and bitch-slappy has played a very strong game in my world. And while outwardly it has appeared as though I have kept up with her, the inner working parts, my inner working parts, are often battle-weary. For I have willfully or willingly, at times not-so-much but stoically, waged too many wars, engaged in too many wars, on my own and others’ behalf over the years, and on a handful of dubious occasions, I have waged war against and upon myself. Most often, however, I have picked up arms in the name of those ubiquitous but rare-in-real-life philosophies; fairness, justice, human rights, human dignity, love; I have gone into battle against and with individuals and/or systems, that I had not the slightest chance of emerging as anything other than slaughtered from, barely limping away with my wits and life, a handful of times, literally so.

And while parts of that ‘wild child’ have never been vanquished,  the child who was always heard singing aloud, the one who loved nothing better than to try different tastes in her mouth, the sound and impact of different words on her tongue, the one who still lives to find new and exciting ways of putting conventional words and other life and real food ‘ingredients’ together in unconventional word- and real food recipes, loves nothing more than feeding them to others, people I know and love, and people I have never met and love, and even people I have never met but love to hate and hate to love.

And like so many of us who care to, are awake enough to know, are not so beaten by it all that a flicker of that human child remains to find back to, I have had to battle relentlessly, repeatedly, to find my way back to her. And in this context, 8036-days-in-a-row, have been a key component of that war. For as much as I want to be a pacifist, I was born into a war-torn rebel’s world, and contradiction is as irrevocable a piece of me, as are intensity and softness, just some of the many cogs’n gizmos in my inner workings, along with the night visions, which often call upon me to see, to examine more than simply one, flipside.

And so today, April 25, 2020, at 8036 of 21,466 total days to date, I make the decision, out loud that is, for it has been resolute within me for a very long time, a decision I have been avoiding for the better part of a decade, and since a particular set of momentously important to me flashes of introspection, flashes so hot that they took my breath away. The fire started burning 10 years ago, along with one in 2006 which served as the original kindling. These moments, this blaze, burning over the past 14 years, are about a deepening understanding, awakening to that thing I have mentioned here, and in other articulations: context.

It is, has been about, using the cognitive abilities I was gifted with, to think beyond the obvious, the easy, the overly simplified. For complication and complexity are not one and the same thing, and while simple may suffice in some instances, complex problems and issues are rarely-to-never solvable, with simple, surface-level, easy, band-aid if you will, solutions and fixes and with punitive, self-deprecating, other-worshipping practices and beliefs.

So I made a decision in 2006 NOT to make a decision about continuing involvement in a movement I have been a more and less active member in since April 25, 1998, a movement I have incredible gratitude for, but the core tenets of which I have ‘bought into’ less and less, the more I grow into me, and my ever evolving world view. I know that I made that decision not based on my own needs, wishes and desires, but because I was afraid. Afraid of what others told me would happen if I didn’t go, afraid that I was too bad a human do deserve anything better, because those messages, had been beaten into me repeatedly, literally and with words. Afraid to rock the boat, because while one half of my original people spent his life doing just that, and it is in my blood, the other half spent a good piece of hers running, having to hide, from her and her mother’s violence-inflicting tormentor, and rocking the boat was a life-threatening endeavor for them, also in my blood. So for years, I continued to make a decision I was not happy with, but kept convincing myself I could ‘live with,’ because other people’s tapes, other people’s history, other people’s choices and thoughts about what I should do, who I should be.

And in all fairness, over the years since 2006, I was able to at least in part, ‘take what I need and leave the rest,’ but the truth is, my truth is, that I cannot buy into most parts of it at this point, and believe strongly that some of the ‘instructions,’ and for lack of a better word dogma, are so damaging, that it is not possible for me to continue on as even a part-time participant, and live comfortably in my own skin. My own skin happens to be the only one I have to be, need to be, comfortable in. And so I wish most fervently that you are picking up what I am putting down, though I already steel myself against potential backlash from lack of exactly that.

Because people will read and interpret the articulation of this decision as all manner of things I am NOT saying, and because people will inject all manner of things I do NOT believe, and will NOT do, and people will discount the fact that I will continue to ‘count,’ because I have no desire to be anything but Marcela unfiltered, Marcela undiluted by anything but life-pure, with internal and external vision clouded only by age and the bacterial war inside me known as Lyme & Co., NOT by the survival tools I put away for good, 22 years ago today. Because please, know that there is more than one way to skin a cat, sober up a horse thief, more than one way to find and keep, self.

And while the one person who has been with me in that movement since before April 25, 1998, including through several years of physical and other separations, the one who would have remembered the date before I did today, but is not in a position to think about anything but her own battle in this moment, the one other really important one, the human I started counting for in the first place, did remember, and called to let me know.

And because of his context, and something beyond my control, our relationship has taken a most unexpected turn, but after the initial shock and pain, in an odd way, I am beginning to see the parts that are for the better, though I haven’t quite worked out the exact bits around much of it, yet.. but my point, and I do have one, is this: that human my son Thomas, understands, deeply, far beyond the surface, why I stayed, and why I cannot at this juncture; why my world views, my belief systems, my inner ‘mašina,’ no longer allow me to consider myself (and others) in the terms and labels ascribed us by our culture, in regard to so much of life, but specific to 8036 days, in regard to human responses to trauma and general bitch-slappy, and that not everyone comes with the same set of ‘resources,’ or choices, or birthright, to deal with said traumas and H.R.H., bitch-slappy.

And that, his ‘getting it,’ his remembering, is gold that no medallion will ever give me, though along with counting, I may still collect them too, because we can buy all kinds of fun’n fancy ones online, just not all the work and battle, that is not available on Amazon, in case you were about to google that shit.

And please, make no mistake: the difference between now and the years I speak of, is not that I am going to do anything differently in maintaining a back-to-back count, it is that I am telling you I won’t be coming by anymore, to eat cake, for counting back to back, and to be told how great I am, or to have my dignity affronted with assumptions/conclusions and uninformed opinions by people who have met me less than a handful of times, some for less than 5 minutes. Really, it comes down to where/with whom I want to expend the precious time, exert the precious little energy and other resources I have available to me, and it does not mean I am not grateful, or that I will not always cherish the ‘beautiful souvenirs,***’ please do not make that mistake, or do if you must, but do, please spare my oh-so vulnerable heart.

I picked up my plexi-wall on April 24th, 1998 for the last time, and I have as little desire to raise that battle shield again as I did in my most fervently ‘in’ days of service and ‘movement’ involvement, but pretending to be part of it, knowing I have not bought in for more than10 years, is not something I can, not something I want, choose, to live with anymore.

Thanks for reading, it has been a laid back, eat too much, and do whatever-the-hell-I-want-kinda-day, and the neighbours’ fence panel, is the only bit that turned 🙃 ‘interesting,’ during a big-ass gust of wind this afternoon. I, have been unwell, but calm as the proverbial cucumber. I think I’ll make a Czech, Okurkový salát outta that!

~Marcela: Stepping out, gracefully, with gratitude, and bereft of a single dram, of maleficence or even resentment.

*A very different phenomenon from true victimization, something I am also familiar with.

**This is a vast topic for me, to be investigated and noted in a different context than the one in this piece of me, and it includes my original home and native land, its food, customs, belief systems, ways of living and being, my original tribe, their history, and their influence on my deepest self.

***“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 Mallman

 

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Commentaries: On what matters to me, Life Lessons & Stories, My World(s)

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Let’s NOT Make a Deal

04 Saturday Apr 2020

Tags

Humanity, Life, Poetry, The Other 'C' Word, Truth

A book of Mormon
or a lion’s head bowl
your dirty old sneakers
and a used camisole

A camping potty
and a broken TV
world’s ugliest chair contest-winner
and its mate, the settee

A tall concrete tiki set
or a big rusty clock
and bald vroom-vroom tires
for the wannabe jock

A Loong Foong vintage cookie tin
and a scuzzy old toilet
or a decrepit old rocker
but don’t sit lest you spoil it

A pair of leather-like boots
or a real-plastic dresser
and some moldy old books
from a dusty professor

An inflatable hot tub 
and fake-rattan patio chairs
or some lightly used razors
includes gross chinny-chin-chin hairs

Some creepy old doll parts
or a bagful of ‘hemp’ seeds all ready to sow
and 2 dozen duck eggs
though not in a row

A box of A & W Mugs
and ‘a fake owl to scare birds’
or a disgusting old hamster cage
opportunely pre-soiled, comes with used turds

An ‘Old-antique’ horse lamp
and a ‘dead’ cow rug
or some grossly stained mattresses
replete with bed bugs

A giant Yahtzze set
and miniature chairs made of wicker
or a pre-cracked ‘antique’ mirror
prices are firm, please do not dicker

Cement garden pigeons
and barbicide for dog groomers
or 4 and 6 inch flex hoses
for all the DIY boomers

These are but some of the ‘treasures’
You want me to buy
Steals of a Deal
And (crap)Pies in the Sky

Thank you but no deal,
at the best of times I would pass,
but now during COVID
I’d like to kick your sad ass.

So Fuck-the-Fuck-Off, which means stay-the-fuck-home
re-use and re-cycle up-cycle that thing
please stop being a chump
or WHEN COVID is done with us
take your shit to the dump!

 With all the love I have, 
~Marcela: Asking, begging FB Marketplace and local buy/sell/trade groups 
everywhere, to take the example of Ladysmith BC, and PLEASE shut.it.down,
for the duration! These are NOT essential services, but they ARE actively 
contributing to the problem! No amount of legal-ass-covering-guidelines 
are going to change the thoughtless actions of STUPID; 
the OTHER pandemic. 
April 04, 2020

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The Bright Red Freighter  

16 Monday Mar 2020

Tags

Humanity, Life, Power, Truth

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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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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Commentaries: On what matters to me, Life Lessons & Stories, Poetry

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Parker’n me II – The Culvert

02 Sunday Feb 2020

Tags

Life and death, Poetry, Truth

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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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under My World(s), Poetry, Rants & Other Musings: Unfiltered-Raw

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This is NOT a Sob Story: Part I

19 Sunday May 2019

Tags

Life, Truth

This is NOT a sob story and it is just the beginning.

The more I learn about this thing, and trace back to what at first glance appeared to be unrelated ‘health issues’ over the last couple/three years, Hashimotos is just a single example out of many, the more I understand this ‘thing,’ and the angrier I get with my (ex)GP and the mainstream healthcare system.

I have had to become my own doctor in so many ways, and so much of my (and others) suffering could have been pre-empted, treatment could have been so much simpler had a few connections been made, that I have now made myself. There could be a thousand and one reasons I tested negative for Lyme, including the fact that it may well be different bacteria, with very similar, equally serious symptoms, and/or, how we test for Lyme remains inadequate at best, and negligently pathetic at worst, resulting in many (documented) false negatives. Whichever it is, I am well beyond ‘acute’ which is the most treatable phase of this beast, well beyond ‘chronic,’ into the third phase, which impacts every single part of my body, every single system.

Some days the only thing I can do is stand, because sitting is too painful… and that’s just the tip of the symptom iceberg… Game changer does not begin to describe it, this thing. In a pm conversation with my BFF, I likened it to addiction, in that it morphs, hides, changes, is resistant to treatment for all of those reasons, just as stigmatized, judged (but you don’t look sick… fuck you!), and mis-understood.

The mainstream healthcare system did fuck all to support me in that battle, why the fuck would I be so delusional as to think they will help me with this one! No seriously? Why? This is not a sob story, this is my reality, it is complex, brutal, and there is no quick fix. So if you find it overwhelming (imagine how I feel?), fuck the fuck off already, permanently. Don’t bother just unfollowing or snoozing, please, that is so fucking passive-aggressive that it seriously brings out the ‘violent’ in my hard-core anti-violence stance. Stupid as they generally are, some interwebs memes are at least accurate: “…if you can’t take me at my worst, you do not deserve me at my best…”
~Marcela.
Crown in place, at the bottom of the sea floor, closely guarded by PinkFish and her compagnons silver fishes… Don: like my other favourite artist, Vincent, you lay the paint on thick, in layers, because real stories cannot be told in veneers and with thinly brushed, watery strokes, for the truth, rarely lies at the surface.. I love you, and you MySue. I would drown without both of you right now.

PinkFish – original art by Don Bruce, Terrace BC

Writing and Photographs: please share if so inclined but do refrain from plagiarizing and using photographs without permission. Thank you.

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No Permanent Affliction

04 Saturday May 2019

Tags

Life, Poetry, Truth

The truth is:
There is no permanent affliction or injury
physical; emotional or psychological,
sustained in the day to day sport of human living.

The truth is:
There are only innings, periods, heats and quarters
of battle, endurance, triumph or loss
in this game called life.

The Truth is:
the ether or some mystical inhabitant of it
keeps not, (y)our score of wins or losses, deserved and not
you and I, solely, are umpire, referee, and judge.

The truth is:
There is no permanent affliction
physical, emotional or psychological
only Game Changers
permanence and winning are a Lie.

So play the game
play it well,
play it now. 

~Marcela.
May 03, 2019.


An intruder has taken up squatter’s rights in my body.
Whether microbial, myco-toxic, fungal or parasitic (all four?)
in nature, it is fucking me up but good: my hair is falling out, 
there are moments during which I feel like I'm going to have a 
seizure any minute, I can't feel my limbs half the time and the 
other half it feels like something is crawling around inside them, 
or biting me, from the inside out. My kidneys hurt all the time, 
my vision has taken a beating, it is blurry half the time, 
my eyes are pinned all the time, and I see floating spots 
every time I blink. I have a constant 'cold,' I am in physical 
pain all the time, it ‘travels,’ my ears ring most of the time, 
I sound like a crack whore, I have had a tooth (molar) removed 
because my (awesome) dentist and I thought maybe the numbness 
was because of that, way back in December, when things first 
started. That hole in my mouth severely impacts my ability to 
eat certain things and the way I talk. I talk for a living.

I have been treated (to the tune of what is adding up to 
thousands of dollars) by my (awesome) naturopath for (potential) 
mold/mycotoxin illness and parasites, gotten rid of furniture I 
can’t afford to replace because potential mycotoxins, taken more 
(unpaid) time off work, lost too much income, to travel and see 
the most useless doctor on earth almost weekly for pretty much 5 
months (here, have some anti-anxiety meds and/or pain killers… 
no, thank you anyway…), and everything I have/am experiencing 
points to Lyme, or some other bacterial/parasitic/fungal thing, 
but she does ‘not believe’ in that, ‘does not have time’ for 20 
different things, symptoms ( but that’s how Lyme, and other less 
common microbes work in the human body) in one visit or 40, 
couldn’t be bothered to test for anything outside her limited 
box, and literally gets (intimidation) uppity when I mention 
anything I have talked about (including Lyme) with other health 
care professionals.

The list of her endless negligence and tyranny toward me is so 
big and hurts so bad I can’t even go there. It is safe to say 
that other than pregnancy when they said I couldn’t, I have 
never hoped for a ‘positive’ test result from a healthcare 
professional in my life, until now. The walk-in doc I saw in 
Nanaimo last week gave me no useful news yesterday, and won’t 
take me on as a patient because he’s leaving that clinic anyway… 
but he did give me the name of another doc there, and I managed 
to get an appointment with her for next week. In keeping with 
the recurring theme in my life, none of this is straightforward 
and it might even go way back to something I may have picked up 
working at the hospital in Duncan about 3 years ago, remember the 
Hashimotos thyroid thing (?), and I will continue to work with my 
naturopath, who unlike the ex-GP, is not intimated by other 
perspectives, mainstream medicine or the folks in it, 
she believes they should all work in a complimentary and 
collaborative way. Yeah, me too, but it feels like that is 
so far away from what we have that it borders on wishful 
thinking and we all know how I feel about that shit.

I am not giving up, while at the same time, 
working extraordinarily hard not to let my anger 
and hurt consume me, for it is not productive, 
harms me more, and attempting to regain some measure of life 
quality, while working full time (there is very little choice 
here) in a field and area of said field, which requires my full 
physical, mental and psychological acuity. I am out of energy, 
out money and out of credit, but I repeat, more to hear it myself 
than for your benefit, I am not giving up. 

She is a brutal fucking bitch at times, this game called life, 
and she is in a particularly bitch-slappy mood at this juncture. 
What she doesn’t know however, is that at least in this very 
moment, right here, right now, so am I.

~Marcela: Battling, unwell, wielding all power toward 
living, for survival is no longer an option I am inclined to 
entertain.

The Score

Illness: 5 (months, maybe years…)
Marcela: 1 (tenous)
GP: Useless but winning, because safely swathed, in God-like 
white coat, and unbeknownst to her, fired.

PS: Please, oh please, spare me the ‘you got this,’ and any 
manner of ‘positive energy’ and other platitudes. And please, 
oh please, respect my beliefs by not, under any circumstances 
praying for my Atheistic-Realist soul, in the same way I don't 
atheist all over your posts/struggles/issues/triumphs... 
for the only defense I have left for this manner of 
un-helpfulness, is delete and block. No tackle left for 
bullshit, not a smidge. Comments the likes of ‘this sucks ass,’ 
are so much more meaningful, as are none at all, if positivity 
and prayer are all you know how to do to support someone in pain. 
Thanks.

PPS: If I have to 'deal,' with whatever is eating me alive, 
I will do it wearing cherries and polka-spots...



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Open Letter To A Salty Sailor: Less, the Ultimate More

27 Saturday Apr 2019

Tags

Life, Love, Relationships, Self, Truth

Dear John (yeah I did that, again)! I write these words as nothing more, or less, than information. Know that, first and foremost. They change, complicate, nothing, or everything, as the case may be.

You, the man I have come to know and appreciate as ‘Your Sexy-Ass Saltiness,’ and your trusty (real)steel steed, Marty the Sexy-Ass vintage Mercedes,

embarked upon the first leg of your current adventure, some weeks ago now.

I met your recent text update with both pure, unadulterated pleasure, and not a bit of envy, but a great lump of it!  When I read in your missive that with friends and family visited, and Marty safely stored in Manitoba, the real adventure part finally began, as you sat in a train station, awaiting your East bound train.

And my ripe imagination envisaged your chill, sexy-ass self, man of many names, many adventures and few words, doing exactly that, which pleases you most. For you are, that unlikeliest of souls, a true traveler, not, in your words, ‘a vacationer.’ I imagined you at that train station, smoke in hand, looking something like a cross between Hemmingway and Van Gogh (two of my historical heros), on a train station bench, outside… because smoke in hand… and then on the train, bumping along the tracks, living in that exact moment, eyes out the window. Perhaps you were thinking about the boarding of that freighter in Halifax, disembarking in Liverpool, and traipsing ‘cross many a country to this adventure’s ultimate goal, mother Russia, and her many parts unknown. But those thoughts never stray too far from that which is right in front of you, and I imagined you applying your vast knowledge of world histories to it, that which is right in front of you, right now, in the moment. For you are, among so many other things, a master of that art, and I have learned by observing you in moments we have shared. I have been paying attention.

To your words, but more importantly, to your actions, and always, to your quiet.

You are a skilled, gifted, even if inadvertent, instructor.

I have thought a great deal lately. I have thought of many things, including of those pertaining to your role in my world, not the least of which, is that you have already been, and will be, gone a long while. If my various and sundry lives have taught me anything, it is that game-changing shit happens, at the drop of a dime, often leaving us with little to no opportunity for communicating the important stuff, to those we are connected with. And so given some of the game-changers thrown at me, historically and in more recent times, I am compelled to articulate previously noted words, for I feel it is important that you know, this:

I appreciate your part in my life Sailorman Zeke. I care about you. The unintentional but most powerful tutelage of our dalliance, has been the source of more insight about myself, and what it is that I really want out of my remaining time here, than most things. And that right there, is a big-ass statement in and of itself, for it is not news that I have lived/led/survived/crashed in/resurrected, more lives, than most folks get, in just one skin.

In happening, quite intentionally, for we know I buy not, into vague and useless concepts like fate, but I digress, how odd… in the intentional happening across that which I believed not to be for me, you, your presence, your particular way of being, in the world, in relationship, and in my life specifically, I have experienced, and mostly enjoyed something that has evolved from (in your words following our first ‘date’), “pleasant enough,” to rude awakening, to something that I am challenged to describe adequately, but it is pleasing to me now, most pleasing indeed. This is important in my current world and incarnation of self and the life I am attempting to lead, while barely treading water. And perhaps more importantly than anything else, it is straightforward. It is transparent. It is uncomplicated. It is nothing more and nothing less, than what we have both agreed to, at any given moment in time. It has developed into a most satisfying surprise.

But you lead me astray yet again, in the best possible way, though astray none the less… so, to those words I have been compelled to scribe for weeks now: I believe, and I could be wrong, shockingly it has happened at least once before… I believe; that the word love is one you do not bandy about often, if at all. At this juncture, nor do I.

That said; I do harbour feelings of love for you Sailor. Interestingly, most refreshingly, they are nothing like anything I have experienced previously, they are so much more, and so much less, all at once.

More, because these feelings are grounded in a process, one which I have either not been provided here to fore, have not provided for myself, or perhaps even, could not ‘deal’ with in pasts further and more recent. The process I speak of is the space required to truly learn another. The space required not only to accept, but to appreciate those very traits, ways of being, I once found unacceptable in a sexual relationship.

More, because bereft of the traps of ownership and ex-pectations, we have afforded, each the other, and selves something only others who function this way, can know, can understand, can appreciate, can savour. More because these feelings I harbour for you are not based in fear of what I would miss without you, for I am secure in my person without any other. More, because they are based in genuine affection, respect for exactly who the other is, not that which we think they ought or desire them to be, or need them to be, to be OK with, to be OK in, our own skins.

More, because they are grounded in continuing curiosity, rather than the erroneous and arrogant trap of believing to fully ‘know,’ the other, any other, ever. More, because curiosity, in all manner of things pertaining to said dalliance and the world in general, historical and current, is what keeps us alive, truly alive, interesting, and interested, to and in self, and the other, any other, ever.

Less, so much less, in the most un-encumbering of ways, has become the ultimate more. Less, because my feelings for you are utterly bereft of, unweighted by, any semblance of clingy need. Less, because I (we) have few-to-no expectations about anything pertaining to ‘you-and-I,’ and so by direct extension, only curiosity remains, and like a full moon, it draws me in, it is enticing, always.

Less, because I feel no pressure to be anyone other than exactly who I am, at any given point in time, and I have not, even for a second, in the course of this thing I call our dalliance, wished you to be anyone, but exactly the person you are, at any given point in time. Not through the (now hilarious) miscommunications and literal ‘Dear John’ and ‘Dear M’ moments, moments of big (for me) heart ache. Not through the differences and varying life experiences informing our respective world-views, political positions, psychological and emotional places, and not through those moments when I questioned myself, because training, in previous romantic failures of proportions most epic, and (too) high prices, paid.

It has been shifting for me for a while, but the most noticeable, most profound change, came about for me last July, during that most memorable, for so many reasons, birthday voyage we shared.

The word love can be such a trap, and also not. I choose not. I choose to continue harbouring feelings of love for you Sailor, for however long, for however we choose, or not, to be connected. And I wanted you to know, because shit happens, and seemingly nothing, nothing at all, changes, complicates, everything.

So from this stark-raving Atheistic-realist of many names, to you, the quieter one of like-beliefs, but no less intensity, the sexy-ass renaissance man of few words, many names, and more real-life adventures than many a more famous traveller:

“No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone. The accidents happen.”

-Adrienne Rich

That works for me… and so do you Sailorman… so do you.

Stay safe out there Zeke… smooches,
~M. (Aka, well, you know who she is).

 

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Welcome, The BigSteelBox!

02 Saturday Mar 2019

Tags

Life, Self, Truth, un-boxed

"I honor every woman who has strength enough to step out of the 
beaten path when she feels her walk lies in another; strength 
enough to stand up to be laughed at, if necessary. 
That is the bitter pill we must all swallow in the beginning, 
but I regard these pills as tonics quite essential to one's 
mental salvation."
-Harriet Hosmer

Harriet was a very wise woman! Fortunately for me, I have yet to 
find the rule, stating an age limit for stepping out of said 
beaten path, a maximum number of out-steppings, or a ceiling on 
failed(?) quantity of attempts to blow up the proverbial box. 
And should I come across these rules at any point in my trudges, 
travails and travels, I shall, happily as ever, break them. 

In keeping with my contradictory life and self, it begins 
(again) now, with a sexy-ass BigSteelBox.

~Marcela; moving off the beaten path, coming un-boxed one more 
time, in a BigSteelBox.
March 02, 2019

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Un-learned; an Intelligence of Self.

26 Tuesday Feb 2019

Tags

Poetry, Self, Truth


“The Artist is no other than [s]he who unlearns what [s]he has learned, in order to know [her]himself.”
-E.E. Cummings


The longer I write, create anything, the more I get this on a level so profound it hurts; and it hurts so good that at some point it stops hurting, and serves to validate, that, which I have always known, self.

The less I care about what you or anyone think, of anything I create, written or otherwise, the more I unlearn about all you and they have inured me with: false concepts and ideas, of who and how to be.

The more I unlearn about these things you have gifted me with, the less I need your, and their validation for my art; or anything, pertaining to me, any little thing at all.

And the less I need your validation, the more forth-rightly I can inform you, when you have mis-read me, again, and care little, if at all, about what you do with that. This is a freedom, an intelligence of self, I have not known, here-to-fore.

~Marcela.
February 26, 2019.

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Life is Not a Black and White Photograph

03 Sunday Feb 2019

Tags

Life, Negative Social Response, Personal Power, Relationships, Self, Truth

Talking about this very concept, idea, led to a mass Marcela un-friending, online and in-human, a few years ago. Even following lengthy and meticulously laborious explanation and clarification on my part, these folks continued to deliberately misinterpret pretty much every word I articulated/wrote, and to convince themselves and others, that I was co-signing, excusing, or even welcoming nasty/brutal life events, acts of rape and other violence and vileness that had occurred/been perpetrated against my (or others’) person, physically, emotionally, psychologically, culturally speaking. Things are not as black and white as, if I don’t hate it, I must love it. Drives me crazy, this kind of thinking. We live in living colour, in the grey areas, in the pastels and neons, we travel on goat trails, detours, derailments and on hair-pin turns, but people insist on thinking in terms of black and white, and on linear highways. I do not miss said (un)friends. Not even for a second, but the memory of it all still breaks my a heart a little. Fortunately, I have people in my life today, who get what I was/am putting down in relation to this train of thought and its (positive) impact, on my person and life.
~M.

 

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Where do we run to, Sister….?

03 Saturday Nov 2018

Tags

Self, Siblings, Truth

Where do we run to Sister? The noise on the outside, the noise in our heads, where do we run to Sister? May we find a place to rest our minds for the noise all around is building prison walls with no means of escape, where do we run to Sister?

I run no more Brother, I run no more. I find solace in my mind for I know it to be aware and fertile. I find peace in my heart with self for I know me better, now. I seek peace and solitude in my personal environment for my public environments are loud with others’ pain. I run no more Brother, I run no more.

Be still in your heart my Sister, for it knows the true meaning of truth & tranquility. Run no more my Sister. Be still in your heart…

My heart breaks my Brother, my heart breaks. It breaks or us, for them, for me… and I understand, why Vincent cut off his ear… .

I understand as well, we are here for other reasons, not to gouge out our eyes or cut off our ears. We are here to witness and listen. We must give credence to those who cannot do for themselves… he says as he carries his 20 year old dog outside, because he can no longer make the journey alone. Along with the fear in his eyes I see much love and understanding as he holds on knowing that he is safe in my arms. Soon I will have to let go, where do I run to sister?

I held Gloria’s hand, for she had no other, when her eyes saw no more, and I had to let her go. I understand. I seek Brother, and we run no more, we run no more.

Gloria was honoured to have held your hand, she moves on knowing that some one cared and now she too, runs no more. I love you sister…

We have battled over our differences, only to find, that we are so alike. I love you brother.

We battle no more my sister, we battle no more… we took different paths to get to the same place. One can only fight with one self for so long before the futility becomes evident and it is evident to me that we are ONE my sister, we stand together as one, and we run no more.

I cry tears of joy my Brother, I cry tears of joy. And I laugh my Brother, I laugh aloud! For we are cut from the same cloth, and our seams are crooked, but they tear no more Brother, they tear no more!

Yes, they are crooked and you know we wouldn’t have it any other way, the straight path was never meant for us… we are adventurers of sorts and must stray off the path every now and then. It is what makes us feel alive. Walk the crooked path my sister for I am behind you sewing up the seams and filling the potholes as you do for me.

Where do we run to sister, where do we run…? We run no more Brother, we run no more.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………….

This poem is the literal and direct outcome of something I posted to my personal Facebook page. It is the ensuing thread of comments/replies, to the original post. In it, I was expressing my dismay with others’ disregard for their neighbours. The post occurred in a moment of significant emotional, physical and psychological fatigue and pain. The unwitting poem began with the heartfelt words of my brother Tom in response, and took us somewhere quite unexpected, or is it… that? Out of current and more long ago struggles and battles, individual and mutual, we created something deeply meaningful to me, and I am thunderstruck by its depth and the reverberations still going through me, hours later… I am beautifully blind-sided, by its acuity and by its power to break me down, in the most beautiful way, though not without some anguish, to the core. This could not have happened, without his input, which only serves to underscore and demonstrate, the entire point of my original post, and what I am challenged with on a daily basis: what we do (good/bad and all points in between), matters, has impact, good/bad and all points in between. We are connected to everything and everyone, and we live a world which increasingly diminishes, denies and destroys, that. The words of my brother are his heart, my responses are mine. The continuing love and loyalty of my one and only ever best friend Sue, the immediately raw responses of my friends Collie and Carol to the thread/poem, are theirs, and I am profoundly moved by and grateful for, the presence, in my unruly and precarious life, of these women, and my brother Tom. You have done good work mama Marcella, you have done good work. All of your toil, sacrifice and pain, have not gone unnoticed, have not been in vain. And we love you. This poem is yours, mama, it is of your making, word for word.
~Marcela & Tom, with Sue, Collie and Carol.

November 03, 2018

Writing and photographs: All Rights Reserved.

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Remnants

05 Tuesday Jun 2018

Tags

Fear, Humanity, Personal Power, Poetry, Truth

 

 
Remnants

Like an old (Czech) 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 damned 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

 

 

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Of GoldieLocks and OldieLocks…

20 Friday Oct 2017

Tags

Aging, Life, Poetry, Self, Truth














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.

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Life Lessons & Stories, Poetry

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My (un)Gilded Cage

17 Tuesday Jan 2017

Posted by ~MyLa in My World(s), Poetry

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Tags

Life, Poetry, Self, Trapped, Truth

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.

 

 

 

 

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Image

“Stop,” she said…

02 Monday Jan 2017

Tags

Life, Love, Personal Power, Poetry, Self, Truth

20161225_133507“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.

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Posted by ~MyLa | Filed under Poetry, Unfettered

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