Fab

RMPbentley

 

Fabulous Looks like This.   http://news.distractify.com/people/old-school-cool/?v=1

Now where can we buy a pair of glasses that give the rest of the world this grainy, delicious flavour?

We will cast all our friends and lovers in the light reserved for Friday mornings in downtown cafes.

Pick the right pair and we can walk through tunnels on quiet roads and look up- and beyond- the plodding steps we take.

Better,  let’s accessorize with sunglasses of the same. And with them perched on our noses, we will get the lead out of the old engine as we take Dad’s car for a spin and later we can recline on her hood and feed our affections to the night.

Cheers,

Ret

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Photo credit to 2012 Bentley at carpictures.com

Control

RMPNewtonDomesticNudeX1992underdesk

Her experiments, passions, plans, all go hard-on for about 24 months and then she steps back, takes stock and begins again.

She moves to a new town and sets up her shop. It’s a small place, low overhead, big ROI.

Lately, she notices more grey hair each time she settles in for the haul.  She sweeps it up under her fedora and tucks it behind her ears. When she puts on that fresh line of burgundy, and sets her jaw and turns to the side,  she’s still a girl and her heart and stubborn chin jut forth to prove her worth.

She admits she has always held attraction to men of age.  The walk. The life. The share of living, the stories that feed her mind.

Yes, sometimes she’s deliberately blind and hides behind the ask:  Other lovers? Mouths to feed? Games to play?  He’ll just tell her another lie and she’ll be left wondering more than his age.

It’s a beautiful thing how she transforms each time, a metamorphosis in all its awe and grandeur. She’s grown taller in her ability to stare straight down the barrel, her legs longer than at 17,  her shoulders diminutive at first glance, but strong when he enters through the back door.

She’s got a way about her. Don’t know what it is.  But it’s sultry and beautiful and free. And that’s all she needs to feel. She’s lived years, locked away behind his pain and his needs and his worries.  Duties fulfilled,  yes, she left.

Yes.

She’s been slow on the uptake but is gentle with herself.  They were both so.so.young.

Yes, she’d like the happily ever after.

She just needs a little bit of silence, a little bit of alone, a little bit of the after, before she can see the happy.

She spreads her arms wide, palms to the sun, her shoulder blades press to the center of her lithe and pale back. She rises on her toes, calves taut and hip to the side. The back of her hand, wrist bent, skims her own cheek, brings back the one, honest touch she lived and loved.

If she cannot feel a presence, she will create it.

And if elusive satisfaction is not present at all…because she has walked-again…then she is alone and free and has a store of touch and pride to pull from.

She reaches inside herself and pulls forth a new day.  It is beautiful.  And it is good.

And she is so alone. So stark-raving alone. She remains, claws at truth and remains in complete control.

#for Reticent Mental Property.

Bones

RMtypewriterwood

Carve out the uninterrupted time to let yourself go to that deep, almost spiritual place and live there long enough to let the words find you and earn release.

Open your mind, your memories. Pull in the scenes from your dreams.  Let the words and emotion come through you, travel with thought-speed to your fingertips, fall out of you onto the page before you censor your soul.

Smell the past. Touch the future with your breath, let the very air you expel give lift under the wings of fantasy.

Hear the procession of words drumming in your head, lining up to the sharp rap of your chosen voice, commanding order from how you put let the letters in order but bend all limiting laws at your leisure.

Yes, an exhausting and beautiful connection.

Take care of yourself and allow this space to feed you, to strengthen the hardness of your bones, to prove you are alive.

Feed your Mind.

Feed Mine.

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It’s okay to cry.  Babe,  just let it out. I’m here.    

#for Reticent Mental Property.

 

Camera Man

RMPmistman

Good morning Mist Man,

Don’t be alarmed when I tell you this but I had a very wonderful dream with you last evening.

 

Your chest had many freckles and your hair was somehow tinged red,  was longer and ran curly and wild.

 

You leaned into me and dipped down for a kiss that was the sweetest and most gentle of kisses, a mere brushing of lips at first and then more pressing and open, but in my mind, in my dream, even in my sleep it was more of a gift than an exploratory ardent inquiry between new lovers.

 

I thanked you, twice, and held you, circled my arms around your neck and touched my check to yours and then I woke.

It was very moving, very sensual, but yet professional and more of an exchange of sunshine and gratitude.

 

No worries, I don’t need to re-create it, but I believe, if I interpret it correctly, is just anticipation for creating with you on Saturday and a little positive reassurance I can draw upon to help me position myself in front of your lens in a way that meets the objectives of the shoot.

 

Kisses, more of those kind, not the other…- Moi

 

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The man of the mist coaxed honesty from within her,  exposed her demons to the dawn and declared her worthy.

 

#for ReticentMentalProperty   

Bring me back

RMPsmalltownsThere’s a storm raging and she brings darkness to these early morning hours. It’s a category F-3 but no one knows this yet.

Coffee cup in hand I see the rumble of the near thunder put a ripple across the top of my dark brew and reach to steady it in the rattling saucer cradling the base.  I take a sip to keep it below the lip and walk up the steps to the upper level.

This old house has sheltered her share in century. I know the paths of those who lived here before. I left the footprints on the back concrete step, might not need the pictures buried in the box under the kitchen window.  I imagine what I will never know about cousin Roxanne and the gentleman from May Lane.  I find such satisfying relief for my leaving this little town squarely set on the empty part of the state it landed upon.

Like a smear of a piece of fried egg dropped on a summer dress Knowlton South came to be when the hand of a far worse  storm of ’58 tore a hole in the levee and left the lower half underwater and access forever closed.

Cut off from the main street grocery, the bank, the feed mill and the catholic church with its brick rectory and that white haired priest with a housekeeper, and the Dillon Bank,  Knowlton South  grew a little unsteady in her focus, propping itself up with more taverns than industry on this side of the bridge but it also turned the storms debris and the sediment into wetlands and in the last thirty years created a nature preserve with stands of birch and poplar and pine and the marshes into vistas of beauty unheard of and sometimes unappreciated by the teenage crowd growing up fast and loud in Knowlton North until those times when young couples need a destination and find themselves driving across the bridge to park and touch and taste heaven.

Today,  in the greyness and shining air of the eye,  I am surrounded by willows bending, the long tendrils of her greens brushing the ground as she bends and sways in a macabre dance under the weight and winds of the pelting rain.

Work is suspended in this attic retreat as I check the weather on the tracker and listen for the siren sounds to know whether to take my coffee to the basement.   For now I am at the center of the pattering splash on my rooftop as the rhythms of the storm emerge.

There are periods of driving droplets, drowning out the tick of the clock that counts the aging minutes of my bones and then there are periods of stillness when I draw my eyes from my screen and search through the pane to see if she has passed, hoping she will remain and continue to swathe me in the silence that only comes from nature forcing an entire village inside to wait for it to pass.

Contained in walls merely made of two by fours and particle board and tar paper, no brick, no cement, just common pine, we are protected from the wetness and from the peering eyes of those who want to disturb the silence of my world. They would not call it disturb though this is precisely what it is.  They all know about the dementia. They all know mother’s booming voice and her sobbing hysterics and that raggy bathrobe. They know and they stop in with desserts and casseroles and Ms. Helt, with her mason jar full of sour milk she has been saving, quite necessary for chocolate cake starter.  They drop these gifts in trade, very generous exchanges, offered in gratitude and as barter to somehow keep my kind of disturbances behind sugary sweets and happy endings, a little dam built up around this old house to contain us, truthfully traded to spare them the same.

I am not distracted by the crackling of the timbers as the house faces the assault from all four corners. I imagine I have three years or thirty to seek shelter knowing this town brings back a little more silence than when I lived here as a child but it has learned to speak a new language each year when one of its young returns home, which is what we all long to do, full circle round trip ticket we hold on tightly to the leaving stub, lest it go missing,  at least for a little while or so we tell ourselves, until we get caught up in the summer parade or the simplicity of a walk through neighborhoods where we once ran, barefoot with popsicles formed in tupperware shapers , my two braids flying behind and mother shouting in the way expected, “Heed the five o’clock church bells and be back for supper. I don’t want to hear you screaming outside the bedroom window. I’ve got to sleep.”

Storms always bring the once-young back to Knowlton.  One way or another.

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Old houses and storms, show me the secret room behind the bookcase and let me explore the letters and the treasures with the dust just a distraction and the silence a welcome peace.

 

#for Reticent Mental Property.

 

Time Travelers

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YcerSbxEWo

 

RMPneverenoughtime

 

Don’t get me wrong.

It’s not all me.

It’s not all you.

It’s called life.

We live at full throttle and want more.  More speed.  More track.  More curves sometimes.

I’ve dragged you through my year of hell.  I admit this.

Your schedule has priorities and deadlines,  you add.

How can I criticize?

You love hard;  easily.

I want hard; seems easier.

Patiently, you try to show me how to slow myself,  stroking me with your constant touch. When standing in line or waiting at the bar,  your longest finger is forever wandering to the lowest vertebrae in my back.  I do not forget the gentle tap tap tapping there telling me your desire  is everywhere, always there,  whether I stand beside you or not.

You whisper kisses and leave trails of lyrical, lingering longings in handwritten notes tucked away to be discovered in my handbag, sometimes found waiting in the wind under the arm of the wiper blade.

Your digital scrawls travel to intersect, to deliciously interrupt my meetings, my formal world.

In transit to the airport, sometimes just out of the last conference call,  you text expressions of aching need for far more than the physical which find me when I wake in this time zone, when I hastily check my messages for proof you exist.

With thumb-skilled accuracy we touch the tiny keyboards of our connection, posting written conversations as though we are engaged in debates staged in the parlors of forgotten times.

You write and speak with me like no other man has. Your vocabulary descriptive and poetic, laced with angst and anticipation.

M y head dizzies with the loops of  love talk weaving through your words. You provide such divine use of my mind with the deciphering of your  blatant and heated innuendo.

You have set a new standard.  One I do not wish to test living without.

You tell me you learned long ago, secrets about tender care,  about sharing what needs to be heard, about frequent connection in expressions which must reach far beyond the day’s ins and outs.

You know all too well. You once let tender attentions go missing,  and have surrendered more than once to the  slow withering of the spirit from years of neglected touch. You’ve felt the distance created when wife and lover hide behind her busy.  You nod in knowing she too had been left to steep in emptiness at the loss of lust-making when husband and lover blatantly rushed his privilege.

Getaways and rendezvous- we simply attend to the darkest recesses of fantasy, try to defy age and time through resistance to the mundane and are grateful we stumbled upon each other when we did.

Soul mates? Probably not. Time travelers? We wish.  Playful feasting. Yes, we make it what it is.

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Today we offer reassurances of time, of trust and taking, all penciled in calendars that we’d rather booked hours of our lives rather than spanning the weeks and months we witness in the blink of the eye. 

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 #for Reticent Mental Property. Image credit to the web.  Inspiration credit to men who read, who write, who possess the mouth and hands to turn clay to art, breathe life into letters and string sentences of sentiment in person as well as across the digital divide.

 

 

Hear me

Latin american man and woman dancing

Music guides me this morning…

makes me feel like dancing hip to hip with someone across a highly polished floor under chandeliers, toward a very large bed with someone waiting on it, watching me, reaching out to us…

Hope your day is leading you in positive directions with the sunshine finding your shoulders and making you sway to the sounds of the world others fail to hear.

 

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There were times when she danced well with three. Such alive, alert, responsive movement. 

#for Reticent Mental Property with photo credit to the web and a subtle nod to M and R.