Get Me

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I get it.

I get this grin that won’t quit.

I get this little shrug in my shoulders that says, breathe deeply

of this

and hold it tightly

and smell it in his beard

and rest upon the solid shoulder he offers.

Kiss deeply his mouth

and the palms of his creative

hands.

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Soak in the fragile fierce beauty of all of the unknown, trust in the fit of his hips and the inexplicable connection. 

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

Henry James- 4/29/1875- Quote Day

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She feels in italics and thinks in CAPITALS. – Henry James

April 29, 1875: Henry James’ Transatlantic Sketches was published 140 years ago today. Nothing if not prolific, the writer also published a novel and a collection of short stories in the same year. (Goodreads.com)

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Today marks the beginning of the Year of ’46. She expresses herself with such tender raw strength. Fingertips flying, beating words into wings, this stretching, unfurling, unfolding, leaning in to take flight.  She’s still falling forward, shedding the night. She’s curious, she’s cautious, all daring, undaunted. She feels. She THINKS. And she Feeds her Own Mind. 

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Image of Young Henry Jame courtesy of the web.

Java

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It’s how you hold the cup,

drink her in,

it’s the tasting – it’s the lips,

the steamy, creamy pour over the tongue,

the heat,

the satisfied swallow and the asking for more.

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Java cheers. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. With a nod to my friend over at DistantShipSmoke and his inspirational pour.

Puzzling

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Pieces of me have never quite fit.

Some sides are all curved and blend with the sky but somehow, never the ground.

I’m growing, I’m thriving. But there is a part of my being, that blocks out the sun.

Don’t worry about my bright and my merry; when dusk falls, I find my release, in the secrets I keep.

The paths that we choose-  hell, the paths that are chosen- we’re not wandering so much as we’re waiting for the rest of life to catch up with us.

We’re not hurting so much as we’re soothing our souls with the truth of connection and touch.

So I’m a breaker of hearts and a mender of minds while I’m bandaging, binding, bleeding red with the men who need just a whisper of appreciation; just a soft voice to stave off the lonely;  just a kiss of pure kindness; just the bliss and the twinkling of laughter; just the beautiful collapse of two bodies, spent.

I’m a solid believer in tradition laced with rogue. I’ve got a lifetime of living, precariously balanced, finding my toes clinging to fence posts, teetering between safety and savage and sin. I’ve made all my own choices, have committed in full.

I’m consistent. I’m wavering. I’m playing the fool.

But you’re not all that you believe you are when I’m with you.  And you’re far less than you think you can be.

So you are leaning into me- all suckling and slurping at the teat of my spirit- while I die, just a little bit, deep inside every day.

Give me a minute; I’ll trade you a decade.

Pay up tomorrow; we’re all borrowed and hocked to the hilt.

Leverage my loving.  It’s yours for the asking. I’ve taken the gold band of time.

Don’t look at me in the haze of the sunset- my shoulders all bronzed by the staggering sweep of your sun as you teach me your version of love.

Don’t see me as anything other than sweet simple defiance.

I’m solid.

I’m broken.

I’m through.

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There’s not a time she recalls knowing she wasn’t this way. Get to know me, she says. Accept me, she says. This way, she says.  Please me, she says:  just as I currently am.  

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

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Until

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My sleep-filled eyes take in the constant that is dawn. Through a treeline, budding with green, with trunk and limb and twig still black with the cold of winter, I gratefully accept the interruption of day.

I wake to a sky drowning in hues of orange, a soothing contrast to the grey of the frost absorbing the edges of moonset, clamoring and clinging to the last shreds of night’s end.

The stunning daylight is tenacious; she stubbornly saves her reveal until the outstretched arms, under the new dome of blue secure the last light of the night.

Welcome my Nature God, and your generous dousing of cyan to color the day.

Bring me your sunrise oh glorious life. Take me to borrowed tomorrows timed by the reliable turn of the planet and season.

Open my eyes wide to the gifts of the living. Wash me in rainstorms, introduce fertile earth to the air.

Let me nurture within me, these moments of transition; free me from winter, feed me spring’s song.

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Give me crocus to worship, tender-hearted lovers to hold; a coupling seduction until I grow old. 

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#for Reticent Mental Property. Image courtesy of the web.

Money Keeps Talking Louder

A very political post.

(surprised?)
Get the big picture. And I don’t mean from your entertainment news channels or your angry talk radio. Pick up some reading resources you may not have thought you could make time to view….
Wisconsin knows this story, some choose to ignore the details or approve, openly, of the Koch plan and supporting organizations like Cato, and the insertion of big money interests into elections. Our Supreme Court apparently agrees. Few of the incomes in WI or across the US match the level of $ to “play with” as the Koch family. And no matter how optimistic you are, YOUR income will never match it – will NEVER even come CLOSE. Yet across WI, and soon across the nation, voters will support the survival mentality– and that mentality is, “If I’m not going to have a lot, no one else should either.” This makes me rather bitter…an entire country aspiring to the lowest common denominator and cheering for it. Think bigger than yourself, please. Think bigger than Wisconsin, please. And get ready for negative advertising, mudslinging and the manipulation of all your greatest fears.- Ret

Just Above Sunset

On Valentine’s Day, 2011, no one was thinking that Scott Walker had much of a chance to be our next president. That’s when the protests started – Walker, just elected for his first term as governor of Wisconsin, had surprised everyone. He wasn’t the bland moderate conservative they thought he was, and the surprise was his new Budget Repair Bill. That bill required a big jump in contributions by state and local government workers to their healthcare plans and their pensions – they’d take an eight percent hit in their take home pay – and they’d lose their collective bargaining rights too, except when they sought pay increases, but if they wanted one penny above the rate of inflation that would have to be approved by a voter referendum. Working conditions, work hours, any benefits – that bill made it illegal for them to bring up any of that. Cops…

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The Crane Wife – Book Club April 2015

Cover art for The Crane Wife by Patrick Ness

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PaintNite-Drink Creatively

The Crane Wife is a story rooted in Japanese folklore and explores the pull of greed and the transformation and growth experienced in ordinary life as extraordinary people cross our paths.

Author Patrick Ness explores the dangers of relationships- business and personal – which leave one contributor exposed and vulnerable to exploitation, to exhaustion, when an unequal partnership persists. 

The Crane Wife is Kumiko. She is one of those rare souls with a presence; she intimately knows, nurtures and inspires every person she meets.

Her complex feathered creations add to her husband George’s artistic paper cuttings and together their combined efforts stir interest, investment and great profit while simultaneously eroding a newly forged and tender marriage bond.

Each chapter introduces a story-tile which leads the reader through the ancient legend while simultaneously weaving Ness’ characters through his interpretation of self-sacrifice in a story filled with healthy and unhealthy relationships.

Explore more: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/apr/20/crane-wife-patrick-ness-review

One of the enduring gifts of Ness’ book is his introduction to the physical sound of emotion. Unable to shake the painful calling of the injured crane, the call of life choices which transcend our natural resistance to change, The Crane Wife impresses even the most critical of readers in our crowd. Certainly, the sounds of temptations and truth linger in my mind.

I really, really love you.

His words caress the nape of her neck, so softly whispered as he holds her. 

She is painfully aware of his tender attentions.  She inhales him, she tastes him,  in the sweet spill of his breath as his words pour softly, sensually, into her naked ear.

Willing to drop every bit of her defenses she lets him in, each time a little more deeply. She may be hurt ten-fold but she cannot resist this risk.

The keening escapes her lips as she accepts, then owns, her connection with him.

It is a sound unlike any other.  The spring wind captures and carries her cry from the grassy banks, bathed in sunlight and dewdrops to the grounded rocks of the brook, and back to the nurturing, nascent, earth.   

Washed in waters released from yesterday’s ice her lovesong is lifted- wet and fragrant- to the verdant blossoms of the old oaks on the shore. 

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The silence and smells of the dawn air are all broken; his traditional vows fall: obsolete. The grey seasons of his predictable tomorrows are now undeniably interrupted; and she responds with a sweet touch to his cheek.  

     

#for Reticent Mental Property.  Image courtesy of the web with note to attend to the incredible capture of the story tiles imagined by Ness in his descriptions of George’s paper cuttings and Kumiko’s contribution of feathered and complex additions to each piece.