Ultimate

Have I ever told you about Ultimate Frisbee?
I probably should now, because the sport makes me so, so happy. In every way.

I was going to sign up for badminton, or volleyball, or basketball, but by the time I got to the registration office, everything was full. Every sports class I had ever dreamed of taking was full, leaving me to take the one class I had never dreamed of taking.

Ultimate, of course.

And I love it. I loved it from the first day, when I could hardly throw a frisbee, to the second day, when we all discovered that I can catch. Not to brag, but I can catch, my friends. I attribute this talent to many years of tossing footballs and softballs (no frisbees) around the front yard with my Dad. Our coach proclaimed me the wide receiver, and I went home happy.

The best part of Ultimate, however, is not the sport itself. It's the people. I'm one of four Americans on the team (the other three are some AIFS buddies of mine), and the rest are Austrians. Frisbee came during a time when I was really feeling down about being in Salzburg. I felt like I didn't have any friends, my roommate treated me like the devil's spawn (well, not everything has changed), and I was desperately, daily, gut-wrenchingly homesick. And then I'd go to Ultimate, and I would be on a team. And everyone would be helping everyone and making jokes and speaking a confused mix of German and English and I felt like I fit in without a hitch.

I was worried initially that since so many people on the team are really good players, they would grow impatient with my sorry incompetence and shun me forever. They did not do this. Everyone has been helpful and friendly. They even refrain from laughing when I fall on my butt, legs up in the air (which, let's be honest, happens at least two times every practice).

And sure, I'm still not the best player out there. Like I said, my catching is fairly good, but my throwing definitely needs some work. I'm still getting used to using my wrist instead of my entire arm, and I currently can only throw backhand. But I have glorious amounts of fun on the field.

Tonight it was my friend Maggie's (an AIFS kid) birthday. We had talked about it casually at the last practice, and I guess everyone remembered, because two different team members showed up with baked goods to share. Let me tell you that eating a piece of raspberry cream sponge cake and a piece of brownie, and then running two large laps around the field is not a fantastic idea. But it sure is delicious.

Anyway, we all sang to Maggie, and she blew out a candle, and then we did our drills and scrimmaged for an hour. And then we ate more cake.

And now I'm back in Internationales Kolleg (my dorm), sitting with Mac on my lap. I'm still in my Ultimate clothes. I should probably take a shower, but I don't really want to. I don't really want to wash this evening off yet.

In Which I Sleep Through a Royal Wedding

Yes, I watched.

Actually, if I'm going to be completely honest (and you know I'm going to be, or I wouldn't have said anything), I meant to watch William and Kate's wedding. I had my alarm set for 5; I was going to roll out of bed, grab my pillow and comforter, and head down a few floors to the TV Lounge (which contains an adequate-for-royal-wedding-viewing sized TV), where I would wait breathlessly for the ceremony to begin.

Here's what actually happened: I was up until 2:30 a.m. this morning studying for a German test I had this afternoon. Ergo, when my alarm went off at 5 (after only 2 and a half hours of sleep), I told myself "five more minutes, and then I'll go downstairs," rolled over, and fell back asleep. The next time I regained consciousness, it was 6:50. Luckily, I was able to make it out of bed that time and managed to catch the entire balcony scene. Kiss one AND kiss two. (This strikes me as a good sign; Diana and Charles only kissed once, and look where they ended up).

This brings me to my current position: I'm waiting for the taped wedding ceremony video to load on Mac. I'm a little disappointed that I missed seeing it live, but I'm sure my German grade will be better for it.

In other royal-related news, I had a long discussion at work today with a professor who seemed to think that Queen Elizabeth arranged for Diana's murder. The way she put it, Diana was dating someone who was not British, not Christian, and not aristocratic. She was an embarrassment to the royal family, and clearly, she had to go. My reaction? Polite, contained disbelief. Maybe it's true that the Queen did not like Diana. But I absolutely refuse to consider her a possible murderer! Maybe I'm too stubbornly stuck in my romantic ideals concerning monarchy, and maybe I put too much faith in the accuracy of the movie "The Queen," but I can't help it. Queen Elizabeth is above such nonsense. She is a sweet, compassionate woman who would never orchestrate something that could harm her grandsons in such a large way. The driver of Diana's car was drunk, and they were being pursued by the paparazzi. It was a tragic accident that will be remembered forever, but I am quickly becoming sick of all the conspiracy theories surrounding it. Why can't people ever just let the deceased be deceased? Why do they have to keep dragging them back for round 2 and 3 and 4 and etc.?

Well, anyway, I don't want to spoil this beautiful day with my morbid rantings. Here's hoping that Kate and William will have all the blessings wished upon them by both the living and the dead.

P.S. (Dress rave) It was absolutely gorgeous, wasn't it? I loved the lacy long-sleeved look. Very cathedral-appropriate, but not matronly or anything. (Funny story) I was just watching a video clip of Kate arriving at the Abbey, and as soon as she got out of the car, the video host started squealing nonstop about her dress. She literally shrieked quite a few times. I had to switch videos because my ear drums were starting to ache.

I'll Miss Things

Gosh, I love it here.

Have you gotten that impression yet?

Why would I ever want to leave?

Grammar and Language is being offered this fall. I want to take Grammar and Language.

A ballet version of Cinderella is coming this fall. I want to see Cinderella.

MCSA secretaries are being appointed this fall. I want to be a secretary.

Rocky Horror Picture Show is being shown (as per tradition) in Edson this fall. I want to see Rocky; this year will be my first year actually understanding what's going on.

I have friends that I'll miss.

I have family I'll miss.

I have professors I'll miss.

I have three jobs that I'll miss.

Sometimes (as you may have guessed), I don't know if I want to go away to Salzburg this fall. I know it's a great opportunity, and that I've wanted to travel my entire life, and that part of the reason I came to UMM in the first place was because they have such a good study abroad program, but still. I guess I'm a little scared. Not of Austria, but of leaving Minnesota. Is that crazy?

Julie seems to think so.

No Assembly Required

It's funny to think that almost exactly a year ago, I was lying on the couch at Grandma's, staring at a fake Christmas tree, and blogging about the Minivan Miracle in Marathon, Wisconsin (for the full story, see last year's post).

This Christmas, I'm quite displaced. For one thing, I'm in my own bed. At home. In Minnesota.
Two German Shepherd dogs lie on the kitchen floor. The younger one (who wasn't even alive last Christmas) is sleeping comically on her back with her paws up in the air. The older one sleeps more sedately, and she pricks her ears as I wander past to look at the tree.
Our tree is very real (evidenced by the constant dropping of pine needles, which drives Dad nuts), very tall, and surrounded by presents of various sizes (displaying various levels of wrapping expertise). As I stare at it, bare feet cold against the wood floor, I can't help but think that by this time tomorrow, Christmas will be ending. The magic of the season, which has been present ever since Thanksgiving, will be packed away with the bulbs and nut dishes and empty, sad stockings. The tree will remain for a week or so, but then it too will be cast aside, thrown up and over the deck rail to slowly rot in the snow. In the spring, what's left of the tree will fuel a bonfire down by the lake. By this time tomorrow, all of the presents will be unwrapped. They will be glorious, undoubtedly, but they will lose a little of their glimmer as soon as they are opened.

I've watched quite a few Christmas movies over this past week, and it seems that in every single one, the 'moral' is that Christmas is about more than presents. Christmas is a feeling, a state of mind, and even an action. Christmas, it seems, is good old generosity and kindness all wrapped up in red and green and gold. The 'moral' part of Christmas is truly the part that doesn't dim over time. Generosity doesn't run out of batteries. Kindness can't be cracked or broken. The very best part of Christmas is the lasting part.

So may your caskets remain unblown, may your stockings bulge with promise, and may you enjoy this blessed holiday surrounded by those you love most.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Imagine Again

Thirty years ago today John Lennon was shot and killed in New York City.
Earlier that day, Lennon had kindly stopped to sign an autograph for his murderer, who traveled all the way from Hawaii just to do the deed.
John Lennon was shot in the back by that man, who carried a copy of The Catcher in the Rye.

The other day, I came across a few quotes by Paul McCartney about John Lennon:
"I definitely did look up to John. We all looked up to John. He was older and he was very much the leader; he was the quickest wit and the smartest."

(when asked if he missed sitting knee to knee with John Lennon, writing songs) "Are you kidding? Of course I bloody miss it. I'm sitting in the room with John, him with me. Believe me, we're both pretty good editors. We were young turks. We were smartasses. And we did some amazing things. I would love him to be here now, saying, 'Don't bloody do that!' – or, more wonderfully, 'That's great!' So yeah, I really had the greatest writing partner."


And I decided to look for other places/ways John Lennon is remembered:

Here (Strawberry Fields, NYC)



Here (Imagine Peace Tower, Iceland)


Here


Here (A CD of my mom's; I grew up listening to it)


Here (The movie Nowhere Boy, about a young John Lennon)


Here (The Beatles)



And Here (John Lennon and his widow, Yoko Ono)


Finally, I just have to post the lyrics to that beautiful, beautiful song itself:

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky

Imagine all the people
Living for today...

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too

Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Cinderella

Right now I sort of feel like Cinderella, for the following reasons:
1. There's a ball going on, and I'm not going.
2. Because I have to do work.
3. And I'm sitting here watching the girls on my floor get dressed up.
4. And I wish I were going with them.


I'm unlike Cinderella for the following reasons:
1. I have no adorable rodent friends.
2. It's a not a prince's ball in the palace; it's a Yule Ball (that's right-Harry Potter style) in the Student Center.
3. There are no hideous step-relatives preventing me from going.
4. My 'work' consists of papers, and presentations, and general studying, not chores and laundry.

You know, Cinderella used to be my favorite story growing up. According to my parents, I used to beg them to read it to me. Unfortunately for them, it was quite a long read, for a picture book.

Nowadays, I'm not such a fan of old Cinderella. We still own the Disney version on VHS, and whenever I watch it I'm struck by what a weak character Cinderella is.

First of all, she's not very proactive. Instead of fighting to improve her own life, she relies on mice, and a dog, and a horse, and a fairy godmother to help her win her prince. She's constantly singing about the importance of dreams, but does she ever really take any risks to make her dreams come true? Nope. She goes to a ball and dances one dance with an incredibly shallow prince, who doesn't speak two words to her, and probably only likes her for her beauty.

Furthermore, what were her dreams in the first place? To fall in love? I mean, this girl has pretty much been locked up in a manor scrubbing floors her entire life. Doesn't she want to see a bit of the world? Get an education? Make some friends? Actually live a normal life for a bit? Apparently not.

To be completely fair to Cinderella, however, I decided to google her. See if she's really just all fluff. Here's what I found out:

The story of Cinderella is actually thought to have originated around the 1st Century B.C., when a Greek history named Strabo recorded this story about an Egyptian girl:
They tell the fabulous story that, when she was bathing, an eagle snatched one of her sandals from her maid and carried it to Memphis. While the king was administering justice in the open air, the eagle, when it arrived above his head, flung the sandal into his lap. The king, having been stirred both by the beautiful shape of the sandal and by the strangeness of the occurrence, sent men in all directions into the country in quest of the woman who wore the sandal. When she was found in the city of Naucratis, she was brought up to Memphis and became the wife of the king...[3][4]

Nothing else I found led me to believe Cinderella has any depth, although I do admire her longevity. I guess everyone likes a little blind romance.

And she does have some good qualities, I'll admit. What do they call her? "Ever gentle and kind." Certainly admirable, but not exactly my kind of heroine these days.

Things I'm Thankful For

Happy Thanksgiving. I recall last year (or was it the year before?) I didn't want to talk about Thanksgiving. Not because I don't love it, but because there didn't seem to be anything new to say about it. Same old food, family, gratitude, etc. Rinse and repeat.
The thing is, though, this year the repeat part is what I'm especially thankful for. I'm thankful that we have a tradition like Thanksgiving that is the same year after year.

Right now I'm laying on my back in my old comfy bed. My laptop is propped on my knees. My throat hurts like the dickens. So does my head. Of course I haven't had so much as a sniffle the whole semester at school, but the instant I was home I got sick. So it goes.
I'm thankful for Nyquil. Is it okay for one to be thankful for drugs?

Other things I'm thankful for (besides the obvious (but still important) friends family health food shelter etc):
1. Sweats
2. Books
3. Cousins that aren't so little anymore
4. Dogs
5. Paul McCartney
6. Optimism
7. Garfield comics
8. The color blue
9. Strangers who smile
10. Part time jobs
11. Snow

Goodnight everyone. I'll see you tomorrow for some mad Black Friday shopping. I'll be the red-eyed one toting the Kleenex box. Hopefully I'll be smiling.

The Poem Stuck in my Head

Whilst studying for a German test this fine evening, I had a poem stuck in my head.
Do you ever have that?
It's very similar to having a song stuck in your head, only even more annoying because you can't hum or whistle the refrain.
You can only say it.

Ironically enough, I first heard about this particular poem in a movie.
Also ironically, the movie was Must Love Dogs, which I didn't really like because I felt the plot was all over the place, and because I was actually getting annoyed with Diane Lane, lovely actor as she is.

Christopher Plummer was the one who recited the poem in the movie, though, so that makes everything all right. Captain Von Trapp can do no wrong in my book.

Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy:

"Brown Penny," by William Butler Yeats

I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

Just a Phase

I am very good at not finishing stories. Exceptionally good, in fact. Sometimes my lack of follow-through bothers me, but most of the time I see it as a natural part of writing; you lose interest in the things that aren't special, and you move on to other things that have the potential to mean a lot to you. I go through writing phases the same way I go through music phases and movie phases and "I'm going to match my toenail polish to my fingernail polish" phases.

So when (after a week or so) I stopped being excited about my Target story, I wasn't too upset. Don't get me wrong-I think parts of it are really good, and there's always a chance that I'll go back and finish it someday, but for now I have all my creative juices funneling towards another project.

The project? Write a love story. A happy, sappy love story that is original and fulfilling at the same time.
Why this particular mission? Well, the story I wrote for the firstlinefiction contest is quite sad. One of my friends read it over for me, and he said that to balance the gloom, I should try for a romance.
Okay. Easy. No problem.
Not so much.
I'm beginning to think that writing a love story is harder than writing any other type of story, because you have to dodge the cliches that have been thrown at you practically since birth, while at the same time maintaining enough cliche to make the story believeable. Tough stuff.
I've been thinking about it for a few weeks now, and I still haven't come up with a really good idea. Hopefully one hits before I go back to school, because at that point all short story writing (and most pleasure reading) will cease unavoidably. Depressing, isn't it?

Anyway, I thought that I'd give you a bit more of that Target story. Totally, it's about 3 pages long, and is written in the form of a bunch of different scenes that I was hoping to tie together somehow sometime.

I walkied as I left the break room: “This is Holly. I’m back from my fifteen and swinging through electronics.” Electronics was an important guest service area for Target. Whenever a team member began work for the day or returned from a break, they were supposed to walk through the department and ask any guest they saw if they needed help finding something. It kept our guest service ratings in the green, our GPS’s and TV’s selling, and our bodies circulating. Our red shirts radiated availability like monkeys in estrous.
As I hoofed it around the accessories displays towards the wall of flashing flat screens at the back of the store, I spotted Sarah Berg down a shoe aisle, madly grabbing at the piles of sandals strewn across the floor, and tossing them into their respective boxes.
The phone rang from the operator’s desk. Sarah jumped up and sprinted towards it, muttering as she flew past me, “I’m really fucking things up, Holly.” I clucked my tongue in pity, deciding not to lie and say that she was doing fine.
I had heard the conversation earlier over the walkie. Sarah, who was fitting room operator for the day, was going too slowly on her zone. She had been taking her time with the shoes, arranging them meticulously and forgetting that she still had yet to go through baby and men’s. Kristin had chewed her out as politely as one could be chewed out, but the fact that all team members could hear it over their walkies made Sarah’s face burn red as she ran.
Sarah and I had gone to high school together. We had spent an entire year sitting next to each other in two different English classes. Whenever a paper was handed back to us, Sarah would first check her own, and then not-so-subtly bob her head over to check my paper. If my grade was lower than hers, she would cluck her tongue softly, grin a self-satisfied smile, and promptly talk about something else as if she were Wilbur and ‘humble’ was strung into the web above her sty. If my grade was higher, however, her mouth would gape and her desk would be empty in a flash as she danced up to complain to Mr. Manske or Mrs. Nelson about her unfairly low grade. Hiding my graded paper didn’t help, either. Sarah would simply ask me straight out, her ostentatiously blue eyes innocently daring me not to share.
It had been a large shock, then, to walk into my first day of work to find Sarah waiting by the food court wearing red and khaki.
I continued on towards electronics, spotting out of the corner of my eye a pair of stray white flats peeking out from under an endcap. That’s a B+, Sarah.

Kyle was manning the boat, surrounded by cameras and guests looking at cameras and trying to get his attention as they clutched cameras. He didn’t look up as I passed. I had hoped that he would be one of the team members to train me in when I first started work, but no such luck. He had trained Sarah in hardlines; his lean form easily striding ahead of her petite blondeness as they toured the store.
He was quiet, I surmised. Once I had entered the break room to find him staring at the TV, which had frozen into multicolored squares. “This is some riveting television,” I had joked. Silence. Then I thought I heard him say, very softly and very sarcastically, “I can’t tear my eyes away.” Later I decided I had imagined it.
A guest flagged me down by the ipods. “Ma’am!” I always hated being called ma’am. A nineteen-year-old was nowhere near being a ma’am. Ma’ams were middle aged and wore ankle-length capris and short hair with highlights. I got a glimpse of myself in the reflective ipod case while the woman debated over which color nano she should get. My face was as childishly round as ever. My hair had frizzled into annoying ringlets on my forehead, which I tried to smooth down and tuck behind my ears, to no avail.
“The green is rather pretty.”
Kyle was reflected over my shoulder. He was talking to an older gentleman by the phones.
“But black won’t get dirty so easily.”
Kyle’s face didn’t hold the earnest look I caught so often on my own visage; he looked nonchalant as he listened to the man’s wheezy questions, although his eyes were bright.
“What do you think, ma’am?”
I started and looked back at the woman, aware that Kyle was watching us from the suddenly empty boat. “Red. Definitely red,” I flashed a toothy smile, “But I might be a bit biased.”
The woman laughed and decided on the green ipod. Kyle came over to unlock the case without speaking.

Story Time

I thought I'd post a story for a change of pace. Here's one a wrote a few days ago. I sat down and typed it up in about an hour and a half; it's based off a sudden idea I had. It's a little Nicholas Sparks-esque, but it was fun to write, because I think it's about something that everyone secretly dreams will happen to them.

There's no title, unfortunately. Let me know if you think of a good one.

Jack felt something shift on the bed next to him. Heart thumping, he groped in the darkness for his lamp.
“Don’t!” a soft voice came, “you’ll spoil it!”
Jack paused. “Spoil what?” He asked finally, wondering how his death by the axe man beside him could possibly be ruined by a bit of light.
“This,” the now definitely female voice answered, “Your wish.”
“My…what?” Jack lowered his outstretched arm slowly.
“Your birthday wish of course. You wished to hold your true love in your arms for a night. So here I am.”
Jack was baffled now. His wish had been earnest, although certainly not expected to come true. True loves did not suddenly appear in one’s arms because of wishes made over flaming candles. Furthermore, in his dream he had meant the holding to take place in the future, preferably when he was not in a dorm room and wearing his pajama pants with the hole in the knee. He didn’t say any of this to the girl, of course. He didn’t want to be rude to such a nice-sounding apparition.
“But how did you get here?” It seemed sensible to start with this question. Go back from the beginning, and work forward. That was how Jack liked to do things.
The girl laughed a little, and turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing him. It suddenly struck Jack that there was a girl in his bed. Next to him. His amazement only increased with her reply: “Oh, someone sent me. I’m not sure who, actually. I was sleeping in my bed, same as you, and suddenly I heard a voice giving me instructions and I appeared here. I’m as surprised as you are, you know.”
“What instructions?”
“They were very cryptic. We’re not to see each other in the light, We’re not to tell our names, or reveal anything that will help us to find each other. And we’re not to do anything besides hold each other.”
“And then what happened?”
“Things went black in my room. Blacker than they were already. It was if I had closed my eyes. Then everything went fuzzy for a second, and I found myself here.”
There was another short silence as Jack thought about what the girl was saying. It was magic, or God. Must be. He supposed that he should believe it was the latter who had sent her to him, but somehow this seemed too fairy-tale-like to be of His doing.
He finally spoke again: “Then you’re my…” Jack trailed off.
“True love, yes. And you’re mine,” the girl said sweetly and simply. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she laughed.
Jack laughed too, and reached out to shake her hand in the darkness. Her fingers were small and strong, and her palm pressed firmly against his own.
“What happens if we break one of the rules?” He wondered.
“I disappear,” the girl said solemnly, “and we never meet again.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jack promised. He could hardly get the words out. He was still holding her hand.
The girl squeezed his thumb gently. “What now?” She asked him.
“Well,” Jack hardly dared to say it. “About my wish.” He ended with a period, not knowing how to articulate what he wanted more than anything.
“About your wish.” Her period was more definite than his, and she scootched closer to him, so that all he had to do was shift his arms and she’d be inside them, right up against his chest.
He did, of course, and wrapped them around her back. She snuggled her face in his shirt and sighed quietly.
They lay that way for hours, not talking, or even moving. Jack was so happy and contented that he felt if he closed his eyes he would drift into a peaceful sleep. So he didn’t close his eyes, for once not wanting to lose a real moment to the beauty of his dreams. Not that he had ever encountered a moment this beautiful.
He couldn’t see her, not even the curve of her cheek or the glint of her hair. But he could feel her nose pressing against his heart, her hand still in his, her feet tangled in his own. He could feel her strength and her wisdom and her clarity. He could feel the preciousness of what he held, and when he thought of when he would have to let her go and slowly continue to live the rest of his life, he almost couldn’t bear the cruelty of it all. He would plod the path alone for a long time, he knew.
This wish felt like a halfway point; it was a moment given to him so that he could face a million moments unlike it with courage. He was sure that this wish wouldn’t have been granted had he been destined to meet the girl in his arms tomorrow, or even next year.
He traced her face, smiling as he felt her grin under his hand. “Trying to figure out what I look like?” She teased.
“No,” Jack returned mockingly, “I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” the girl said, suddenly sober, “I’ve been thinking of all the months and maybe years I’ll have to live without you.”
Jack pulled her closer. “At least we have this. Most people don’t, you know. They just have to live in mystery and hope that someone perfect for them is out there. We know for sure.”
“Do we?” the girl asked doubtfully. “What if this is a dream? What if we wake up and everything is the same?”
“Everything will be the same,” Jack replied. “We’re the ones who will have changed.”
Then they were quiet again, each thinking their own private thoughts, each holding on tighter to the other as they saw the morning creeping up under the window shades. Just as the light began to reach out onto the floor near the bed, the girl disappeared.
The room seemed to tilt sideways for a second, and then his arms were empty. Instinctively, Jack rolled over onto the spot where she had lain. The warmth from her body still lingered. So she had been real. Dreams do not leave body heat behind.
He was still for a minute, relishing the night. Then he got out of bed and began putting on his clothes in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the window and opened the shades, feeling himself flood with day and the promise of a girl who was looking out her own window into the same brightness.

-End-

I Love You More Than Rainbows

Was a line uttered at the Academy Awards this evening. The utterer had just won an Oscar, and was breathless at the microphone. First, he thanked a lot of people involved with the film, and then with a large sweep of the arm not clasping the heavy award, he looked out over the crowd and thanked his wife: "I love you more than rainbows."

He was escorted offstage after that by two ladies in evening gowns. I can't remember what his name was, or what category he won for, but I do remember the slightly cheesy, hasty sentence he threw out towards the audience for his wife.

Valentine's Day

I thought that it would be appropriate to post a love poem in honor of the occasion. John Keats wrote this for Franny Brawne.

Bright Star
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art —
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors —
No — yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever — or else swoon to death.