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The Pleated Skirt  by Brandy Channing It was in San Fran, a destination chosen for its variety of vicarious distractions, romance was in the ebb stage of ebb & flow, and there was a sufficiency of distraction there, that my mind could be there, in actuality, in the present, in the moment, accounted for, and the cancer of rooted sadness, that wastrel feeling, was temporal boxed, in my traveling attic. On a cable car, of which the hills, insisted, when the lactic acid, persisted, be re~viewed as an actual conveyance methodology. A-man got on, sitting near enough, but not invasively too near, and began a study of me; perhaps an exercise in memorization for a sculpture or a painting, that would be shown, in a gallery quaint, nearby in Benicia, and destined to be displayed (dis~splayed?) near a picture window in a big old home overlooking the North Bay, as the She~Muse mused amusedly. Or it was just another inspection by “a man,” common enough that it was noticed and noted, but attended to with a practiced nonchalance, which is a French word, meaning nonchalance. Ah! descending near the Wharf, He~too, as he was now labeled, stored and forgettably tabled, He~too descended as well. A meandering into familiarity, of ancient memories of smells, of clam chowder, gulls and sea lions the inhabitants of Pier 39, all traced my face with a grimacing smile, for sometimes one lives in a state of duality. But a voice from behind, gently inquired if permission was grantable to recite a poem, yes, directed to me, yes, from He~too, who, awkwardly shifted his stance from side to side, as if performing a pantomime dance routine, while waiting for my pithy or pissy, but always well considered R.S.V.P., which is four french words(!), meaning, “sure, why not, try me”). Alas this Techi-he as he was subsequently re and de-nominated, recited a variant of roses are red etc,, but concluded with “your pleated skirt.” (Roses are red, violets are blue, when I observed your pleated skirt, my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT! let this woman ever escape your purview) Now this navy medium wooly weight (always chilled in SF) somewhat too short skirt, was a hand-me-down from my mother (mom!) who in a prior decade, dressed like everybody else, but with a panache, (yes, a French word meaning panache) that declaimed and declared, “I do it my way” and was in truth, a fav of mine when accented with dark tights and preppy but comfortable matching navy penny loafers (mais non! pas de béret ridicule). By now, you know, I know, how to deal with men, whose onslaughts are like the beaches of Normandy, littered with death & destruction from my hot herbal tea, heated by rapid fire of my machine gun fire, my bullets of verbosity from an old, original *** used by my grandfather. But this reference to my pleated skirt, flattering me when accompanied with a beautiful French blouse, sunglasses, and my heart and hair openly parted down the middle in a nod to Haight~Ashbury hippie history, was off kilter, or as Techi-he would later joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt), and taken prisoner, a POW, which under the rules of the Geneva Convention, would be guaranteed all the necessities of a good loving. We are California Commuters, me in LA, he in SF, an unlikely combination, he and me, of milieux, personality, yet not dissimilar: harmonized when he writes code snippets on diner napkins, and I, snippets of poems on diner napkins,, he clears my laptop’s cache, I clear his heart and vision, a blending of vive la différence! and we see each other often, as in as often as we can, we vacation in the South, of France, where he learns of Impressionism, and a different sea coastal ocean environment. I, learn from him, his remarkable human fondue, of intensity and concentration, which melts into gentility and a softness natural that steals my heart, accompanied by the ridiculous rhymes he passes me beneath the table, notes toujours, always perfect for that moment, like my pleated skirt (**which now resides in his closet, lest its magic work again, thus, kept safe by him, in a wardrobe, to which he has locked and keyed, and is worn upon request, my bequest, it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined, a wearable honoring our commencement, our commitment, our pleated, plaited hearts.**)
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Feb 19, 2024
Feb 19, 2024 at 6:26 AM UTC
brandychanning
The Pleated Skirt (a story about a poem) by Brandy Channing
The Pleated Skirt  by Brandy Channing It was in San Fran, a destination chosen for its variety of vicarious distractions, romance was in the ebb stage of ebb & flow, and there was a sufficiency of distraction there, that my mind could be there, in actuality, in the present, in the moment, accounted for, and the cancer of rooted sadness, that wastrel feeling, was temporal boxed, in my traveling attic. On a cable car, of which the hills, insisted, when the lactic acid, persisted, be re~viewed as an actual conveyance methodology. A-man got on, sitting near enough, but not invasively too near, and began a study of me; perhaps an exercise in memorization for a sculpture or a painting, that would be shown, in a gallery quaint, nearby in Benicia, and destined to be displayed (dis~splayed?) near a picture window in a big old home overlooking the North Bay, as the She~Muse mused amusedly. Or it was just another inspection by “a man,” common enough that it was noticed and noted, but attended to with a practiced nonchalance, which is a French word, meaning nonchalance. Ah! descending near the Wharf, He~too, as he was now labeled, stored and forgettably tabled, He~too descended as well. A meandering into familiarity, of ancient memories of smells, of clam chowder, gulls and sea lions the inhabitants of Pier 39, all traced my face with a grimacing smile, for sometimes one lives in a state of duality. But a voice from behind, gently inquired if permission was grantable to recite a poem, yes, directed to me, yes, from He~too, who, awkwardly shifted his stance from side to side, as if performing a pantomime dance routine, while waiting for my pithy or pissy, but always well considered R.S.V.P., which is four french words(!), meaning, “sure, why not, try me”). Alas this Techi-he as he was subsequently re and de-nominated, recited a variant of roses are red etc,, but concluded with “your pleated skirt.” (Roses are red, violets are blue, when I observed your pleated skirt, my heart pleaded with me, DO NOT! let this woman ever escape your purview) Now this navy medium wooly weight (always chilled in SF) somewhat too short skirt, was a hand-me-down from my mother (mom!) who in a prior decade, dressed like everybody else, but with a panache, (yes, a French word meaning panache) that declaimed and declared, “I do it my way” and was in truth, a fav of mine when accented with dark tights and preppy but comfortable matching navy penny loafers (mais non! pas de béret ridicule). By now, you know, I know, how to deal with men, whose onslaughts are like the beaches of Normandy, littered with death & destruction from my hot herbal tea, heated by rapid fire of my machine gun fire, my bullets of verbosity from an old, original *** used by my grandfather. But this reference to my pleated skirt, flattering me when accompanied with a beautiful French blouse, sunglasses, and my heart and hair openly parted down the middle in a nod to Haight~Ashbury hippie history, was off kilter, or as Techi-he would later joke that I was off-kilted (a pleated skirt), and taken prisoner, a POW, which under the rules of the Geneva Convention, would be guaranteed all the necessities of a good loving. We are California Commuters, me in LA, he in SF, an unlikely combination, he and me, of milieux, personality, yet not dissimilar: harmonized when he writes code snippets on diner napkins, and I, snippets of poems on diner napkins,, he clears my laptop’s cache, I clear his heart and vision, a blending of vive la différence! and we see each other often, as in as often as we can, we vacation in the South, of France, where he learns of Impressionism, and a different sea coastal ocean environment. I, learn from him, his remarkable human fondue, of intensity and concentration, which melts into gentility and a softness natural that steals my heart, accompanied by the ridiculous rhymes he passes me beneath the table, notes toujours, always perfect for that moment, like my pleated skirt (**which now resides in his closet, lest its magic work again, thus, kept safe by him, in a wardrobe, to which he has locked and keyed, and is worn upon request, my bequest, it, a whirling twirling dervish of a poem enshrined, a wearable honoring our commencement, our commitment, our pleated, plaited hearts.**)
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178
In her closet next to a shirt hangs a concertina pleated skirt she slips it on with grace and ease the tiny pleats are there to please like a million shimmering crystal shards all tightly pressed like a pack of cards as she moves they sway and dance upon her legs they tickle and prance the feeling makes her smile and shiver which makes the pleats start to quiver they skim and flatter her  hips and *** like the majestic rays of a rising sun such carnal delights found in a skirt as she hangs it back next to the shirt.
0
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
haydn-swan
The pleated skirt
In her closet next to a shirt hangs a concertina pleated skirt she slips it on with grace and ease the tiny pleats are there to please like a million shimmering crystal shards all tightly pressed like a pack of cards as she moves they sway and dance upon her legs they tickle and prance the feeling makes her smile and shiver which makes the pleats start to quiver they skim and flatter her  hips and *** like the majestic rays of a rising sun such carnal delights found in a skirt as she hangs it back next to the shirt.
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14