I'm listening to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gY3VrpyZnhs
and thinking about a damp, misted night in Sligo over 20 years ago, walking back to my rented room with Kieran, too young by a rounding error, by the tiniest margin of appropriate.
We stop on a bridge - to kiss, to relent, above the rush of the dark river. We condense, wipe the drops from our eyes.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
My cynical Valentine
The whole lurid, rose-tinted cellophane day grates on me; every last pink-lace inch makes me itch.
The ostentatious parade of those in love carrying banners of flowers, chocolates and distressingly sexualized teddy bears; the pasted-smile lament of those alone, who seethe inside, or violently retaliate in fits of self-righteous bitterness.
Over it all lies a (however frilled) patina of guilt, disappointment and amends: that we do not love, that we are not loved, we do not love right enough, or that we are too loved, on this one, particular card-infested day.
This is not meant to disparage those who enjoy the day on its merits (Flowers! Candy! Chocolates! Dinner! Sexy time!) - by all means love, and be loved, and find love.
But do so every day.
The ostentatious parade of those in love carrying banners of flowers, chocolates and distressingly sexualized teddy bears; the pasted-smile lament of those alone, who seethe inside, or violently retaliate in fits of self-righteous bitterness.
Over it all lies a (however frilled) patina of guilt, disappointment and amends: that we do not love, that we are not loved, we do not love right enough, or that we are too loved, on this one, particular card-infested day.
This is not meant to disparage those who enjoy the day on its merits (Flowers! Candy! Chocolates! Dinner! Sexy time!) - by all means love, and be loved, and find love.
But do so every day.