I was once contained, heavy with water, soaking up rain and puddles, tide pools, brooks.  I melted snow on my back to drench my thirst.  I rolled as a trickle and absorbed like a sponge: full, billowing, taut but ever-parched. 

Before I spilled forth and began to gush, I was cut clean through by phantasmic beams, sun-soaked rays exposed my murky depths, painfully bright, warming my blood, creating light.  Inside I effervesced, percolated.  Beauty bubbled and wafted upwards like vapors -- apparitions and animus, there and then gone.  Surfacing, I hide among liquid to see the illusion. 

A figment pulled from the bottom and held up to the light is less than transparent.  It can fade in my webbed fingers. 

I sluice forward and swallow it whole.  I muse until it grows again. 

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

• now we're getting somewhere

• autumn cleaning: week one schmone.

• H-to-the-O-to-the-M-E school

• geek kon

you can also find me at:

soNOTcool :: flickr :: twitter :: daybook :: video

It is true that I am scattered.  I have spent seven years falling apart. 

I cannot gather in hand, nor thought, nor photo, nor words, the person that I once was.  And, certainly, not the disassembly that I now am.  The nature of 'mystery-disease A', is that it destroys and, thus, fragments connections. 

The class does not understand:
I. LOSE. DAYS.

And, now.  I lose something important, that only moments ago I remembered.  My memory is a deficit.  I blink.  Then, things go away.

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

i wanted to explain to you then
about breathing. 

how my belly is warm with coffee
and my breath is slow, 
heavy;
how, while drawing in,
i do see these petaled-stars,
grailed moments, 
twined-holds;
how exhales travel
in earthquake waves
along the fault-line pattern 
where these two plates meet.

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

the moment is coming. 

tearing everything in half
is necessary.  things will spill
onto the floor.  marbles
shall fall and scatter, rolling 
against toes, under furniture,
milling out the door. 

the pots and pans are going to clang. 
we'll see papers shuffle, the filled
years built -- collapse
in a mundane roar. 

i tried super glue, nail and hammers,
cement screws.  i have sandpapered, 
shimmed and painted
until nothing original
is still recognizable anymore.

 

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

It's not that I stumbled, fell, and scraped my knee.  Nor, was I simply bludgeoned upside the head, knocking my body to the ground in a swift and sudden thud.  (That was my first guess.) 

Have you ever seen leaves separate from the branch of a tree, begin to drop, then lift up, very slightly, with the movement of air, before scattering apart to the frozen ground? 

 

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

i inflict pain. 

unintentionally,
but in a tensioned way. 

the train rails are vibrating,
and common sense should
tell us
"step into the dappled shade".
the ties and gravel are jumping. 

i inflict pain. 

grappled this,
but minking back again. 

the thin, tall shelf is tipping,
and when observed peripherally
the rush
of books is not so strange.
the tightly-bound papers are falling. 

i inflict pain. 

mingled in the fog,
but brightly lit with shame. 

the water tower is in my view,  
and its height my sight remarks
upon 
throughout the vicious days. 
the structure is deceiving. 

i inflict pain. 

 

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

(Photo above:  Kirsten [knitsteel at Xanga] and X.)

After reading your input and mulling it over (regarding my recent announcement), I have decided to make one addition to that initial statement, which is a weekly update that will list the topics covered at my other blog during the previous week.  That way, you can still keep up on things a bit and click on only what interests you.  I hope that pleases everyone. 

If you're indifferent about it, I'm quite okay with that too. 

Below, week 38: 

• going to the salon and i'll be less hairy; going to the salon of love
• the themes of our lives
• when x is always a variable
• at the driftless festival

While still slimy from crawling out of the river at birth,
I was branded. 
It seared my flesh and I am owned. 
Shackled and positioned like Atlas,   
Here I hold the heavy world.

© JODI ANDERSON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

(I apologize for updating the timestamp.  It was an accident.)

For years, I have been torn between two blogging styles ... everyday life stuff and photos/poetry.  I have tried to make them work together and, to some extent, I have succeeded.  After all, I generally include at least one photo when I blog.  The poetry, however, is a different story.  I feel weird including it alongside the mundane bits of my life and the dribble, like it doesn't belong.  (It doesn't, even if it IS intertwined, an actual part of my life.)   

So, I'm going to adjust the forthcoming content here a bit ... It will only include large size photos and poetry, similar to what I have done in the distant past.  (I will also post the EXACT SAME CONTENT at my other photo and poetry blog, Daybook.  (THIS is the feed for that site, if you'd like to add it to your RSS reader.)  I will be adding photo project updates, as well as poetry, to www.jodianderson.com.  Soon. 

As for the mundane stuff?  I was posting it simutaneously here and at my other soNOTcool blog, but now the everday stuff will ONLY be there.  I would REALLY like it if you followed me there, if you enjoy reading about my life or whatever; It would mean a lot to me.  (If you wish to subscribe with your RSS reader, THIS is the feed.  You can also sign up for an email subscription at the site.)

(On a related note, over the next few days (weeks?), I will be posting 20 of my favorite, previously-written poems at Daybook.  After that, I will focus on new work only.)

(Addendum:  I will continue to visit everyone's blogs, and I hope to post regularly.  I'll probably update my pulse as well.)