ST24 ... it was long ago, yesterday

when i was dreaming of a tomorrow for you

It was long ago, yesterday, when i was dreaming of a tomorrow for you. Sierra died with an overdose of prescribed pharmaceutical psychiatric drugs. A variety of twelve at the end of her 24 years on this planet. The story is long. Not for today. Another reason in my arsenal for my lack of respect and trust for much of the pharmaceutical drug pushing industry. Though it resembles miracles and sometimes is, it has a rotten core, often opposing the sacred forces of nature for a dangerous wealthier control.

Investigative spirits have illuminated this darkside in the wake of the sleeping giant for listening ears to hear within the turmoil of the last few years. From the birthing of Dupont to the conniving of Gates and as far back as the take over and hunting down of the herbal healing white witches, enforcing a legal university degree patriarchal doctoring medical system. Makes you question how far back can a plan spread. There is evidence everywhere if one cares to look. If not, be open.

This is the awakening of the era of the new main stream conspiracy theorist.
Many have and will perish but none so dear to this mind, this heart of mine as Sierra.

Sierra Kachina - a silent angel in a pure natural body

Sierra would have been 32 on the 29th of Dec. 2022, 132 years from the last major massacre entitled Wounded Knee of 1890. She was born in the early morning as was the cavalry attack on 300 mostly women and children in a bitter cold dawn on the sacred Lakota in the barren Badlands of South Dakota.

This is a celebration for me. I survived the pain, suffering, anger and emptiness that clouded my mind, tortured my heart far into the depths of my soul. A few years after she died from a lack of unmentioned salt one night alone in her bed, a very strong presence of her came to me along a little creek by the side of a bicycle trail i frequented. As in the memory of the waters and the spirit of everything i knew and felt her presence inside my heart and she told me to love her by letting her go, as does the waters flow. I cried my eyes empty by the side of the clear waters onto the cedar forest floor. It was more than i could do. It was my heart that had to promise to honour her by letting the delicate strings of painful love loosen and fade away. I couldn't, i did, I promised.

her seventh year to where the angels lay

Nothing seems to end perfectly sharp when it comes to the mind and memory and love but from that day on, it did quickly change from devastation to a lighter life of love. I miss her as much as i could possibly miss any one. She was the angel of my being. No one, nothing can replace this caring i felt for her special soul. I don't presume i’ll see her again as many need to feel they know, and possibly, that is so. That is the beauty and the hardship of life, most everything comes around but once, so treat things dearly in the now because new time sucks in everything no matter how hard you try to not let it go. Sierra enforced that in me, to let go; letting go, is love.

Sierra was not my biological daughter, as if that matters at all to love. I was with her most days from before birth until her seventh birthday. At my step fathers grave i wrote a poem that had the lines, 'blood is thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood'. My mother was excommunicated for divorcing and remarrying……imagine that! Those Holy Catholic men. So i made it a point to clarify to members of our family that had the audacity to shove their christian interpretations and dogma at a woman that was just attempting to live a decent life with a new man, my mother with my step father. I was the youngest of eight. There were many in-laws and righteousness was prevalent in those days, the fifties and early sixties. I presume it still is. That all changed in our family and love for my step father wove into the fabric of our days.
It always amazed me how two people from different blood lines could come together, marry and have children and call their family unit of one blood and then demand extra love, usually under some prescribed religious belief. A foundation for racism, i reckon.

thinking soft, she was a witty gentle trickster

It gives me a great calm silent mind when i feel how much Sierra loved me and knowing how much she knew i loved her. That is a simple pleasure that many feel to different degrees in this beautiful human experience. As in most wonderful people, Sierra loved to be loved and loved to love.

I know many in these holiday times have many sad stories and difficult thoughts to rearrange, to let go of. I remember being the only white gringo-type-person in the heart-gut of Guatemala City on a christmas eve back in the seventies in a very down, outsider lonely bar. All the wealthier establishments were closed accept where the lonely, forsaken gathered on this street corner one room bare lightbulb windowless bar that opened its swinging gates to me. It is a long, adventurous and twisted story but at midnight everybody went silent and began to reminisce on all the hard times of the years past. Lost loved ones, injuries, heartaches, hardships, deaths, all the dark moments of great defeat and suffering. No one spoke, tears fell soft to the quiet dirt-listening floor, the silence was only harmonized by sniffles, loud tears and the odd glass beaten to the table of relief. 

hard times in latin streets

After most recovered, a gentler space emerged, the talk and quiet breath of laughter worked its light back across the worn-torn room and latin faces, young and old, poor and real. One of my most memorable christmas eves.
Poverty is often rich of the pure and delicate heart.

Writing words you will never see
editing pictures you never saw
killing dreams we never met
living around lies tangled up around us and yet
crying alone into fading memories
a busy numbness surrounding often
and you and me ending again
this time forever ending within
i see this thru vague scenes
that crumble into one another
drenched in pain and love
as they move along the trail
with a crippled weakness into the day
with words to you i will never say
i write to no one but the stream
an endless dream across this purple sky
the universe that comes in clear
a horizon that fades when the dream disappears

a coffee. a like, a whisper.

WeyWord Times / Writing and Images by Patrick Wey

My Work …. Images - sales

Sierra Kachina

many moments thru the nineties with sierra

There is a reason why all these images are of a young Sierra. This is much too complicated to go into here today and deserves a delicate pen. There is a documentary in the works.

Happier Most-Days to all my loved ones, unloved and weary ones. May this New Year shed some real pure tinkle dust upon our souls. Especially for those whom have lost someone incredibly dear to their heart. The hardest action one may ever know, feel, do….but that is life-love, let go.