Voyages of a footfall in late November
in the woods west of Kansas City. Boot tread
the color of faded apple dust, scenting
like a coon hound the wizened mushroom
stumps of a wild summer. I’m not quite sure
where I am, until I reach the pond —
then my black gloved hands gently nurse
a calm hello to the bark of the dogwoods
that line the scummy lagoon like sentries.
In the erotic decay of a late afternoon
I search for the lillies. The yellow ones
grow here, all the way until first frost.
Stars and stripes & a purple ponytail
jiggling up and down on the winding
road fur-lined in Douglas Firs and
pocket-bullys straining on chains.
Available in paperback and e-book, Articulated Soul is a collection of 50 poems in five categories (Kansas, Austria, Indonesia, New Zealand, and Hawaii). These poems catalogue the many fragrant emotions of living abroad on one’s own, the sites and smells, the insecurities. Supplementing the angst are 25 original collages, expanding the metaphor of influence and creativity.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors and publishers of various publications in which some of the material in this book first appeared: Anak Sastra, Jerry Jazz Musician, JMWW, Literary Yard, River City Poetry, Scarlet Leaf Review, Vita Brevis.
Please see “The Book” menu tab for more details, including contact information and pricing.
Starting April 23rd, I will cycle solo across the USA and thus transition to posting a mix of creative nonfiction and poetry. Please keep an eye out!
Peace and blessings,
Josie
Yesterday I had it in mind for an evening of theatre.
I imagined rocking up in my fancy shoes (of the three pairs of shoes I have, one pair is fancy), my hair freshly washed and voluminous–to keep all my secrets and spare change—and politely inquire after one ticket please, adult–obviously.
I imagined swirling a glass of red wine at intermission, sipping gently, letting the dryness roll over my tongue. Swallow, feel my toes lift just a hair.
I imagined myself amidst a sea of theatre-goers; stunning women wearing long dresses and high heels, groomed men with sparkling smiles. A host of intellectuals, individuals who chuckle at things like subtle English puns.
Armed with a select amount of Kiwi dollars in my pocket and the evening off, I scanned through the listings of evening theatre performances.
The world fills steadily with travel blogs, and my blood pressure—I find—rises alongside.
I don’t invest time in browsing through “Top 10 Kiwi Destinations” or “Best Ways to Make Friends in Hostels” or “250 Ways That Travel Changes You”; partly because, being a snob, I don’t tend to like the things that the social people like.
Partly because I often disagree with the principles of these posts:
Almost every morning I snuggle into cross-legged position with a cup of coffee and write for a while. Clear the cache. Explode a bit. Stream of conscious all the mindless rumblings of my soul until I can begin the day as blank a slate as possible. It’s a form of meditation; I actively practice non-judgment and non-attachment to my thoughts and ideas.
I’ve detailed my morning writing routine here, if you’re interested. Perhaps my favorite effect of doing this (sans the immediate cleansing sensation) is that I can time travel to certain days and reconnect with myself. Reconnect with who I was on Wednesday, December 13th, 2017. Tuesday, June 14th, 2016. See my own progression. Both as a writer and a thinker.
The school day ended and I whipped myself back home, taking a quick shower and shoving a pair of wool socks, and extra sweater, my trusty hammock, a sleeping bag, an avocado and a beer in my backpack. I snagged a peanut butter and honey sandwich for the road and bid adieu to the comforts of standard living for a night.
My drive to Milford Lake was sunny and quiet and layered with U2 and Iron & Wine, and I dangled my arm out the window and swam it up and down like a dolphin in the warm Friday afternoon. After 40 minutes, I pulled into the long drive and gave my $5 park entrance fee to the woman with clacky purple nails.
“Today’s the first day we’re open,” she drawled, handing me the pass and a park map. “You’re the only one here. You’ve got your pick of the campsites.”
Brilliant, I smiled at her, not wanting to disrupt this silence pulsing inside of me.
Today I am going on an adventure. An endeavor of sorts.
It is the last day of teaching both my senior and sophomore English units, the last day before Spring break, the last day before I am free to go sweat, sing, and not speak to anyone for seven days.
I will pack a backpack. Pack an avocado. A hammock. Franz Kafta’s The Trial. $10 in cash. Shimmy my way to Milford Lake for a night.
When my brother and I were pre-k (and even into grade school), my mother would take us on Friday Adventures. We would go to butterfly gardens, Flint Hills museums, city zoos, waterparks. Something new. Every Friday.
I love adventures. All kinds of adventures.
In honor of today being a Friday–and a day intended for adventure–I would like to take you through my favorite types of adventures. The raw and wholesome goodness of a well-placed adventure.
Peace and Blessings,
Josie
I’m moving to Jakarta, Indonesia on April 6th for a four-week teaching internship through my university. I have a 60-day visa and a one-way ticket.
Now you and I have exactly the same amount of information.
I haven’t been told yet where I will live. I haven’t been told what school I will teaching at. I don’t know what grade, subject, area I will be teaching in. I’ve googled the weather and the language, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to wear or expect.
Thus far I’ve been fine with this. Emailing for information, getting nothing back. When the anxiety would bubble up, I would shove it back down shrieking:
“NO NO NO crazy-cat, we can think about ONE goal at a time.”
That goal being to run 100 miles.
Well, that’s over now. Checked off. Now my mind is free to ponder the absurdities that are the decisions I make.
Like moving to another country without much of a plan.
I went to Bluestem Bistro this morning, purchased the Black Hole refillable coffee mug–like a good minimum-wage college kiddo–and nestled down in the sun to write my little heart out.
Okay, so right now I feel anxious, I wrote, because I feel like I don’t have what I need to do this. To move to Indonesia. To just start doing whatever. I don’t feel like I have the social skills, the right gear, the experience or the technique.
I reread that, felt that beacon of “YES true you feel this”, and then got a massive lick of insight:
This was exactly how I felt the night before driving down to Arkansas for the 100-miler. Actually, this was how I felt for most of the training.
I didn’t feel like I had the social skills.
Who am I, this 21-year-old dreamer from flat Kansas, running alongside lemon-pepper seasoned ultra runners? They’ve known each other for years, run with each other for years, suffered alongside each other for years.
I run 100% of the time alone in my little bubble of dreamer-early-morning-solitude. Talking while running seems like a lot of effort.
I didn’t feel like I had the right gear.
Currently I’ve got $40.11 in my bank account. It took me a few months to save up for the race entry fee alone, let alone the gear to do it. My vest–ajonjie–was $30 on Amazon (and I SUPER recommend it, it’s brilliant and pocket-full). I love my Altras because they’ve got a wide-toe box for my caveman feet and they’re cheaper than other trail shoes.
I wear the same tights for every run, oscillate between two long-sleeved running shirts, and sport a black Eddie Bauer jacket I got at a second-hand store. It’s like my superhero outfit now.
The nicest thing I own–my Garmin Fenix watch–I got for Christmas.
Most ultra-runners have actual jobs. They have non-handmedown gear. They have training 50-milers leading up to the race.
I didn’t feel like I had the experience.
A 50k is the farthest I’ve gone. Ultra-running is not like gymnastics; you get better with experience and age. The average ultra-runner peaks at like, 50. The suggested 100-miler plans I had googled began at a minimum of 26 weeks. That is, after having raced a 50k, 50-miler, and 100k of course.
Well, I only had 22-weeks. So I stopped googling and ran my heart out, 04:30 almost every morning. That didn’t make the doubt go away.
I didn’t feel like I had the technique.
I blew out two pairs of Altras during the 22 weeks, and all on one side. I run weird on the outside of my foot, as shown below. This sometimes causes heel pain and other sorts of shenanigans.
Altras on right: after 15 weeks.
What would happen to my feet after I ran three-and-a-half-times farther than I’ve ever practiced?
Yeah lots of doubt.
But then.
I just ran 100 miles anyways.
And it worked out.
When I eventually started running, I didn’t start to run 100 miles. I started to run 4 miles, then 4.5, then 4, then 4.5 Again, never the whole stretch. Just one peanut butter sandwich at a time.
I went to play a game with myself:
How many times can I start running again when I just want to lay down and cry?
I started the race, my own little race, without fear or anxiety. Which made sense: my amygdala wasn’t sensing anything unexpected. And the amygdala is what releases the freakout.
I’ve run 4 miles loads of times. There wasn’t anything unknown or unexpected in that which might release the fear.
Moving to Indonesia and figuring out how to get a job and live there potentially for ages and try to fit in with the culture and learn the language and be superwoman triggers my amygdala.
Duh.
Never done any of that before.
But I have packed up my belongings, said good-bye to my parents and friends, and left for an extended period of time when I moved to Austria.
I have gotten on a plane bound for a country of people who speak a different language. Hallo, mein Deutsch ist nicht sehr gut.
I have taught hours upon hours of English to students who don’t really want to be there. Shout-out to the front row.
I have travelled on my own, met other amazing crazy psycho travelers in hostels, learned a language (kind of), adapted, adapted, adapted.
And as I reflect upon the 100 one week later: I didn’t actually die. The social skills, right gear, experience, technique . . . it turns out that’s not what it takes.
In one month I will get on the plane like I got on the start line. Never going the whole distance, just a bit at a time.
Adapt.
Adapt.
Adapt.
“It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is most adaptable to change.”
–Charles Darwin.
Let’s do this.
Peace and blessings,
Josie
The epidemic first reared its head in late April of this year, and has already reached a suspected case count of over 350,000 as of July 17th
In 2017, several states have experienced acute outbreaks already, namely Michigan, Kentucky, Utah, Colorado, and California.
Each state varies in regards to outbreak onset and population affected, but one similarity has emerged among these states where those driving Cadillac SUVs and clocking more than 80-hour work-weeks (80+ers) have been the largely affected population.
Luckily, the confirmed cases have not recently traveled outside of the country. So far, there has been no known connection or contact between the cases, except for the cluster found in Revere, which has the highest prevalence of cases amongst the overworked.
To which epidemic do we refer?
The lack of singing in cars.
On my way to and from the high school at which I student teach–a jaunty 30-minute commute both ways–I get the extreme pleasure of stopping at six stoplights and observing perpendicular traffic.
I spent my twelve minutes today peering into the drivers’ side windows at the faces of these individuals.
Not a single one of those lonely suckers was singing. Not a single one. Instead they were tight-lipped and angry. I could see the little frowns knitting the brows even from where I was.
Those who weren’t angry were focused. Extremely focused. As if the only thing that constituted a successful life was the ability to cross this intersection perfectly.
Those who weren’t angry or focused looked bored. As if the burden of driving a car was too obvious to bother caring about.
Those who weren’t angry or focused or bored still weren’t singing.
I thought to myself, nestled as I was in my chanting to Rainbow Kitten Surprise: why isn’t there at least one singing person in the hoard of cars around me?
It made me a little sad, to be honest. I wonder if this has to do with the seriousness that we’ve attributed to our days. That we’ve got to focus, we’ve got to settle down now, we’ve got to concentrate. So there’s no room for singing.
So I sang a bit louder. And I hope you, too, will sing a bit louder next time. Let’s put an end to this epidemic.
Peace and blessings,
Josie
Josie Rozell 