cognitive fiction.

sometimes, but not always, i miss the days of my restless childhood. the days when all i yearned for was to break away, and be free. run away to a city. so big no one could ever find me and i wouldn't have to answer to anyone. thrillseeking. breaking out. making that name for myself, defining who is and what would become, miss jodi robin root, born may 26th, 1983 and raised in south western rural wisconsin.

the days of swinging on gnarled ropes in flea infested hay mows. cuddling half feral, fur matted, eye gunked kittens against their will. tip toeing the makeshift balance beam aisle between the rotating shit belt and mawing cows, subconsciously etching the sounds of swishing cowtails and R.E.M's 1991 hit "Losing My Religion" in my self, so that anytime I would remember my days of girlhood at the Richland Center family farm, the nasally vocals of Michael Stipe would linger on.

wearing breadbags over my shoes instead of boots in the wet winters. oversized glasses. many a puff paint t-shirt, sporting my squiggly 4-letter name. way too many troll dolls, eventually transitioning into way too many lip gloss kits. poorly plucked eyebrows. angst teen journals, shoved into broken shoe boxes, tearing at the creases, secretly jammed under my full bed. only available social activities consisting of strolls to the duckpond on the outskirt of village limits, soaring as high as my pumping chicken legs would allow on the rusty swingset at the town park, daydreaming of first kisses under the baseball diamond bleachers, walks to the bj petro for a mountain dew and icecream cookie sandwich, flavorful chocolate malts and deepfried cheese curds at irma's kitchen. getting the mail at the post office. throwing rocks off the dam in the pecatonica river. fantasizing about first kisses on the merry go round. wishing my glasses weren't so big. and finally, when they weren't, wishing i would grow into my body. hoping my mind would someday soon be appeased. find some sort of something for me in the rural quiet madness.

always writing, always waiting.

i'm no longer in small town wisconsin. nor do i think i ever will be again, at least for the longhaul. my mother has since moved residences, two times in the past ten years. my childhood companion callie has long since passed. my backyard tree fort was sawed to the ground before i reached 20. classmates remain, although ironically enough, their cold shouldered tendencies still manage to haunt my dreams, with dream jodi still vying for nothing more than simple inclusion and friendship. yet regardless of no dreams or aspirations lingering in my past hometown, the skeletons within my subconscious still yearn for my return.

it's been nearly 2 years since i have had a real visit home. there was a 36 hour stint over christmas 2010, in which i sluggishly and slack jawed caved in to a freaks and geeks and law and order svu television marathons on TNT with my stoned 60 year old mother, eating cheeses and slurping box wine all the while. but there was no exploring. no writing. nor has there been in my  now, really.

my life has taken off, found its launch pad. its center orbit. meaning, match, purpose.

the skeletons can finally sleep. yet it's still not enough. i no longer need to wait, but the hidden desire and drive to write, to pen it all down for the record, remains.

i wrote a blog the other night while a bit too tipsy for my own good, but never hit publish post. it was a tangent rant of sorts about the plus/minuses of new year's resolutions. i pretty much bashed it since i was too lazy to come up with one for myself in 2012. i figure, what's the point in annual goals? I already have to do that shit at my job, why force myself to commit to ideals for a mere 365 days for self betterment? can't i just do me and live my life how i want, guilt-free if i eat too many calories? i don't commit to tedious objectives, but rather make life long commitments instead. to friends, family, and my husband. i don't need Cosmopolitan telling me to do more ab crunches and what breakfast snacks are sexy. thanks, but no thanks.

i do think, however, that i should make it a point, (note how i'm not saying resolve or make a resolution, here, due to stubbornness alone), to try and write more this year. the desire to describe, and sew a tale of details with words is strong, yet i always seem to stop myself because i never have a solid story to tell. more of glimmers and glimpses into my perspective or ideas that haunt my thoughts. i read a story my husband wrote about a past love the other day. it was really, really good. i got jealous, even, of his ability to craft prose. i caught myself gazing at him while he fake slept in the late morning hours, daydreaming of how happy of a life it would be, if neither one of us had to worry about financial responsibilities, and could rent ourselves a small and simple apartment, big enough for the 2 of us (and our cats), but with separate spaces reserved for writing. 2 desks, and maybe even a typewriter for sport. if we didn't have to work, but instead, were disciplined enough to set time apart each day for our writings. meeting every couple of hours for a lemonade/iced tea break, to chat over ideas and discuss inspiration. collaborating, even, and blending our mutual passion for fiction and non-fiction alike.

that would be nice, is all. but the fact that i even have a husband, career, apartment, and 2 cats is enough for me. but i do think 2012 is my time to discard all baggage. emotional, physical, and ideals. let it all go, and move forward focusing on only my loves and passions. literature, included. penned by others, and possibly even me.

something tells me a trip to wisconsin is in the works. perhaps a trip down nostalgia lane will uproot my humble beginnings and will light that wick, that's been patiently waiting and waivering, inside my creative being for far too long.