writing

writing

unamused

Posted on by littleREDelf

the muse is a strangled messenger tonite
hands clenched, cloth-bound
thoughts escaping from tendrils of hair
like so many red-ribboned kite strings
up there searching out safe clouds yet
snarled in the black fingers of trees,
tethered to snake-skinned telephone lines
and no one electric is talking on the wire.

words backsliding, kicking and biting
doubled-up, dropped, uncoiled nonsense
a tired, escaped lover leaves
a cold kiss like the pelt of sleet
a callous, sandpaper caress.

the endless white noise of fictional rain storms
and his name so close to water, pours
through my broken, cupped hands.
but the words won’t come with tapping
nor gathering –
no puddle collects in sand.

into hopeful shallows, a shining line is cast
while empty hooks come back, silver glinting
eyes and teeth smiling still, the dead promise
of sleep.

the muse he used to keep me up at nite
incessant chatter until i heaved a sigh
and agreed to write.

but the muse is a strangled messenger
the scribbling not a song, just a rhythm of
the t cross line little e open eye
half me still i m tied up in the two-looped
l and the double-hump of m
waving goodbye dropping two consonants
g (ee)
(wh) y
below the line.

two cat tails switching in time
to music i cannot hear through my
own wild whispers
and deafening cries.

~ Andrea E. Janda

books, health, nature, photography, writing

Curioser Still . . .

Posted on by littleREDelf

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“Maybe there really are girls the size of pinkies
with hair the color of the darkest red oleander blossoms
and skin like the greenish-white underbellies of calla lilies….”

from I Was a Teenage Fairy by Francesca Lia Block

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i have spent a lot of time in diminutive states this Summer. i have been smallish and pale and worried and heartbroken and dragged through frightening dreams.

i have been “burning branches of synaptic fire, surf(ed) the serotonin swells, while the dark heart is dawning, and cuts the wound that nothing quells” as one of my favorite songs goes . . .

i have begun things and ended them and reconsidered them and rebuilt them after tearing them down hair and skin and nail and bone. i took some teeth from them too because they scratched at the blades of my back, looking for the places where the wings protrude.

my delicate green luna caterpillars caught some strange withering illness and died before they slept in their own blankets. still – i have several coccoons from the others. strange, tattered, dark scraps of curled leaf and fur and silk. not much for photographing. not until they hatch in May.

i am coming around again. i have recovered something and have begun writing and taking pictures again.

but i’ve been down the rabbit hole and into the pool of tears, you see.

and i have also, been taking advice from caterpillars, as the story goes . . .

“Who are YOU?” said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, “I–I hardly know, sir, just at present– at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

“What do you mean by that? ” said the Caterpillar sternly.“Explain yourself!”

“I can’t explain MYSELF, I’m afraid, sir,” said Alice, “because I’m not myself, you see.”

“I don’t see,” said the Caterpillar.

“I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,” Alice replied very politely, “for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.”

“It isn’t,” said the Caterpillar.

“Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,” said Alice; “but when you have to turn into a chrysalis–you will some day, you know–and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?”

“Not a bit,” said the Caterpillar.

“Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,” said Alice; “all I know is, it would feel very queer to ME.”

“What size do you want to be?” it asked.

“Oh, I’m not particular as to size,” Alice hastily replied; “only one doesn’t like changing so often, you know.”

“I don’t know,” said the Caterpillar.

Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.

“Are you content now?” said the Caterpillar.

“Well, I should like to be a little larger, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Alice: “three inches is such a wretched height to be.”

“It is a very good height indeed!” said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).

“But I’m not used to it!” pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And she thought of herself, `I wish the creatures wouldn’t be so easily offended!’

“You’ll get used to it in time,” said the Caterpillar; and it put the hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.

writing

eyesight

Posted on by littleREDelf

eyesight

Colorless, the cat finds the arc of pointed feet
dancing a frozen ballet towards the wall
climbs towards the soft moon curve
of my belly and curls against me for sleep
all of this in utter darkness.

Open mouths inch along the green leaf
eager, hungry, greedy, until there is twig
and sloughed skin.
Silk trails left behind as proof
of crawling towards
metamorphosis.

The blind carve out a new darkness
a stick angling in front of them
rapping lightly, then beating, prodding
at the invisible barriers of their world.

Fighting and fucking look the same
sound the same without vision.
sometimes there is pleasure
mostly there is change
always there is release.
fire contained, fatigue
often follows.

I look now for this eyesight
which is not mine
slip from my skin
scale the leaf
to the edge of the forest
mouth wide
en pointe
stick in hand
to defend
and to define
the bounds.

~ Andrea E. Janda

writing

Stillness

Posted on by littleREDelf

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” asked Alice.
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where,” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.
“–so long as I get SOMEWHERE,” Alice added as an explanation.
“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: ::: :::

there is a stillness in contemplation
of the next motion.
there is this silence, for pain for rapture
overlapping hush and wonder.

all of it all of it tumbling smooth
like stones in the water
strange circular sickness
sugar-drugged apathy
for sameness
and hurt
for
1.

and what delectable pain . . .
and all of it from a curious picture
and a linen kiss.

i am still inventing something
for the morning.

i am hoping to re-invent morning.

i am wrapping the last threads
off immeasurable dreams
around my wrists
so i float
to where
you
may
be.

when you feel a tug
it is a (t)ether
you should tie it tightly
about your waist
and pulsepoints will lead
where they may.

and i will come nearer
to your ground.

and i pray you will wake up.
and the last silvered tail
of whisper will ask:
are we there
yet?

~ Andrea E. Janda

philosophy, psychology, writing

Through the Looking Glass

Posted on by littleREDelf

If you look at me. If you see me only from here, from the outside, from your distance, from the color of my hair, from the pale of my skin. If you think me tough, tender, untouchable, unruly – you assign me unnecessary stature. Red does fade, porcelain does occasionally erupt with acne, and when the world gets tiresome, grace unwittingly gets solid drunk on wine until she loses footing, says nasty things to inanimate objects, and embarrasses herself. all fine young animals have plenty of trappings: Foxes’ pelt are tangled in the morning under the brush and briar of unmanageable dreams and wounds take much licking and hiding so they heal. Small red things are both prized and persecuted for their cunning. i move fast when it’s time, and my company is then, for travel. And i think above all, you should travel.

If you look at me. If you think i’ve got it all together. If you think that every goal you’ve never set and everything you’ve ever failed at is something i have achieved effortlessly, then you should know that goals are elusive and therefore, illusions. So many of my own remain unfulfilled and still a dim reflection of those heady, idealistic years between 16 and 18. i am also disappointed in what i haven’t accomplished by now. i am young and i am old. But i am also, ceasing to put so much pressure on myself. Time is the only enemy eating up my life, but meanwhile, i’m eating and happy and full of people. Now be a good bunny, and don’t dangle your own carrots. And certainly, don’t allow other people to tie your carrots to sticks for you.

If you look at me, if you think i am flayed wide open or maybe – you think i carry my cards too close. Ask yourself, who would you have me be to you? i vacillate between isolation and total immersion. i’m your flitting butterfly; i’m your cocooning moth. Sometimes, i can only manage to shower, pull a row of tiger teeth through wet hair, plus a swatch of deodorant and ruddy lipstick.. Sometimes what i cannot push myself to do, or love or need for, i do for others. i am capable of talking a good friend into a new career, a big move, a new love, a lust for life, and then i realize that i stuff my life so full of intimate strangers that i feel like too little jelly scraped over far too much toast. Make sure you are the darkest, sweetest jam, but make sure there is enough to go around. A human takes some time to gel – wait a bit before you pop the top on yourself. For anyone. And if you prefer to be butter, don’t rush that either. Love without warming, sex without foreplay, openness without caution and coaxing is like spreading cold butter over that toast. This poor practice and impatience earns you nothing but crumbs, tears at the skin and leaves a hell of a mess.

If you look at me. If you watch me go between hoarding my emotions to spilling over the edges with expression, know that I mean nothing cruel by my twin natures. i see something and i have either complete disdain and fearful awe, or i simply shrug my shoulders and say . . . “i can do that,” and learn by myself, or locate someone who will teach me. i can recoil, i can throw myself into it. Spend some time doing both. Recoil, then spring. A snake has no need for a spine and can move over and through just about any place. With your mouth open that wide, you are also capable of swallowing anything, but remember you’ll be resting with that knot in your belly for awhile. i may be small, i may be thin, and sometimes i may be hiding, but make no mistake – i have teeth. Of course – i may only strike when threatened or i may simply choose to change colors so you no longer see me in broad daylight.

If you look at me. If you think I have everything I’ve ever wanted, if you think i have more than you or have seen more than most know that it is only because i have learned to project the image I carry inside. I truly believe that I lead a charmed life, blessed, if you like. There is only one thing i know i now possess, the only thing i can call mine, the thing that gets me by most exchanges in this life, a possession that is practiced more than i imagined – my ability to talk to people. any person. any way. in their language. and by this i mean, i communicate through writing, or conversation, or story. real or virtual. This allows me to collect more about human behavior and learn more about myself. When i see or perceive someone to be interesting, i impart my divine right to have them fall in love with me. Because – I love them and it is divine to love for so many reasons. And i do NOT mean love in the way you may think rockstarpromqueenbeautymagazine sexyillusionhusbandwife2.5kidsmortgage. i mean – it’s divine to share yourself with someone you admire, someone who strikes at some waxy part of you and moves something in you; and not to hold them away from you as untouchable, inaccessible or worse, to not punish them for being beautiful to you and to most. There is no one too good for our words, to downcast for our gaze, too brusque for our affection; there is no one who cannot allow themselves to be a muse. It is possible to love so very many and to experience that exchange of energy. a fixing of a broken ego/eros/ethos.

Save all of your love letters. Look at where you have loved, what you have become or what parts of you have come undone over love. Save everything you write. If you don’t write . . . start.

And here is my philosophy on true love, on ONE love, on soul mates. i do not believe there is just ONE person for another. Instead, there are more like seven. this is all due to placement, emotional readiness and timing. sometimes you are with #5 when #7 finally shows up and there was no need for #6. Occasionally you are with #6 and in the thick of it and you completely ignore or deny yourself #7 because you don’t want to risk it or hurt people. often you spend time with #4 then end up reverting to #1 who you really should’ve skipped, because, what a fucking waste of time. in the bad times, you are with #7 and don’t know it and then #3 shows up like a big curiosity/distraction and a last minute crash-course in emotional training because you accidentally skipped over a deeply interesting person who strips you down and remakes you into something better, or profoundly different somehow and then you have to spend a good deal of time trying to win back #7 with your newly acquired skills. Sometimes you are really lucky and #7 shows up in the 4th grade and you stay good friends for years, date a bit in between but inevitably, end up together. Sometimes you work really hard, #1 thru to #7 and then you lose #7 in cruel fate or death and cannot love again but remain full in knowing that you did. People write books about this. 7 is a lucky number. Are you him/her?

i do not say “look at me” to make you see me. i want you to see yourself. Perhaps, in me. i will flatter you rightly, i will adore you, so that you will believe it for yourself and see fit only to respond with the same divine love. i don’t mean god either. i mean to skip the presentation, gloss over the food and go straight to the ingredients and the appliances that make it possible. My tools for earning love are honest and hopeful: tell a person they are true, and beautiful, and worthy, and strong, and full of countless gifts. and they will show you what graces they indeed have. and they will think the same of you. They will return in kind and everyone feels wonderful and right with the world. You should love this way instead of miring yourself in goals, competition, fear, desperation, or in a timely settlement for something that only contents but does not inspire.

Edith Wharton said: “There are two ways of spreading light, to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.” We all take turns between flame and silver dish. i have been both. and I only knew afterwards . . . which one i was.

my suggestion to you — if you are looking at me
if you are looking at her
if you are looking at him
if you are looking at them
and don’t see anyone from there . . .
find a new light source,
or
look in the mirror.

writing

Bridging the Gap

Posted on by littleREDelf

A white and precious citing
you in a smile
and blue jeans.
Lighthearted truant,
returning from your venture.
i’d forgotten how i’d pray
standing proxy to my center
a guarded, guilded innkeeper,
holding out for a witness.
And still you created
this spacious torture,
ran your fullest length
to deny the symmetry
to outskirt the gentle fringe.
But could we
mix again,
reconverge,
bridge the gap,
and still this subtle hesitation
fearsome and uncertain.
We are secretly wedded
be it a languid ceremony
And though you’ve given me no ring
you left a hollow fingerprint
in my heart.

~ Andrea E. Janda

writing

Deserted

Posted on by littleREDelf

There are two bullet holes
and three closed fists
and a bird crashing into the highway
with stones tied to each wing.
And I don’t know who you are
and I can’t remember
who I was supposed to be for you
… mighty despot.
And the cries are heard
seething in from the desert.
You will remember me –
and I promise the recollection
to be a savory search,
reaching back over miles
and mice
and minutes spent in the rapture
of near-death.
Those reptiles lay ahead of you.
You are left to fulfill the expectations
of more masterful gods.
That good-night is golden …
the death of sentiment awaits your arrival.
Birds dashed against the pavement,
a dish fit only
for regal mouths
with an appetite for sand.

~ Andrea E. Janda

writing

Circling Hunger

Posted on by littleREDelf

Hawks are circling in Springtime skies
looking below, angling prey.
the boy in the magenta t-shirt passes by
it reads “Real Men Wear Pink.”
Gentle hunter for a modern age.

Something golden, small, successful
clutches the side of tall, bare tree
from its talons hangs a whip-thin rope
snake and hawk, one for the other
one sounds as it moves
one sounds as it calls.

The boy smiles at me.
i nod appreciatively.
i move.
he calls.

Turkey Vultures greedily amble
a black parade at the side of the road
wings spread like dark-toothed combs
the torn edges of overlapping parachutes
crowding in, crowding out the landing space
near their carrion comfort.

The screech owl wakes me,
it’s time to hunt, pretty, open your eyes . . .
we used to keep those same hours he and i
and just now, i am an indigo mouse
small, blue, running in moonlit fields
squealing with fright, but quick, clever.

He clutches my hand, i slither
but allow myself to be carried.
He tugs at my velvet ear, i twitch
but allow myself only to listen.

The hunt grows tiring, a body grows slack
wings fold in to rest awhile, and a jaundiced eye
watches the world grow old around it
but cannot bear to turn the eye inside.

Not yet.
Not now.

The shadow of wings play against the wall
a cloudless nite so opportune,
gathering strength, garnering sleep
he calls, I move.

~ Andrea E. Janda

writing

rutting in the Spring

Posted on by littleREDelf

rut 1
n.

1. A sunken track or groove made by the passage of vehicles.

2. A fixed, usually boring routine.

tr.v. rut·ted, rut·ting, ruts
To furrow.

rut 2
n.

1. An annually recurring condition or period of sexual excitement and reproductive activity in male deer.

2. A condition or period of mammalian sexual activity, such as estrus.

intr.v. rut·ted, rut·ting, ruts
To be in rut.

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don’t you find it interesting
how a cold winter
where escape tracks
are left in the snow
and the boring routine
of being trapped inside

can lead to the fervent Spring
where animals crave
to be tangled together,
mating in new
and interesting
shapes.

here is the same word
with an entirely
opposite meaning

and indeed . . .
the exhaustion
and death of one

does always lead
to the blossoming
of another.