for those of you living in a cave, today was the superbowl and me and some of those lucky enough to share my dna watched the pointless game on my uncle's hd big-screen projector, admiring close-ups of drew brees's face and shoveling salty heart-attacks down our throats unrelentingly. i ate my weight in tortilla chips and various dips (which is an inordinate amount) and thought uneasily about lacrosse tryouts tomorrow.
last night, me and maddie watched bright star, an obscure chick flick chronicling a probably fictional love affair of john keats. it was dramatic in the extreme, but surprisingly enjoyable. though that may have stemmed from imaginings of how my life would be if i had a poet for a husband.
**enter misty dissolution of scene, replaced by unrealistic imaginings and moody string accompaniment**
he would express his deep and consuming adoration for me in fiery verse long and passionate, and would frequently recite his poems to me in a british accent as we held hands, often assembling masterpieces on the spot from nothing but thin air and my enchanting eyes. we would spend hours under blossoming trees or walking across frost-dusted fields, and i would speak my darting thoughts aloud as he jotted them upon a tear-stained piece of parchment in flowing script. we would read our favorite books to each other by the crackling fire during shrieking snowstorms, his voice as velvet and lilting as his now published and well-recieved poems. we would travel to romantic places, like switzerland, pensively penning next to glassy mountain lakes; grecian beaches, touching columns that knew zeus and athena and achilles; egyptian deserts, painting metaphors in the sand. we would completely shut ourselves off from society for months at a time, holed up in a tiny brick apartment eating only slant rhymes and looking out windows with curtains made from heartbeats and laughter. the problem is that it seems like most poets die hideously early, either from varied lung diseases or a mental collapse and suicide or extreme poverty or accidentally-self-inflicted-starvation from too much soaking in their emotions. besides, like he says in the movie, that would be more like being married to a poem than a poet. a poem is like the typical teenage boy: all talk. if more beautiful. no, i'd want a poet not just in words but a poet in deeds -- someone who would tell me he thought i was beautiful and then prove it.
i'll probably be waiting a long time.
animal -- miike snow
kettering -- the antlers
roll away your stone -- mumford & sons
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