Comin' up roses

Ah, Valentine's. I've never had a good relationship with it, and it remains a somewhat problematic festival for me. During my teenage years it was my best friend with the big boobs who used to get cards, not me. In those days they were always anonymous too, supposed to be from a secret admirer. I never had any, which actually didn't bother me tooooo much.

Now in this deep winter, when I look out on spiky icicles that hang like fangs from our eaves, I think maybe a little heart warmth, some fire of desire might be a good thing. But there's the rub. For me, Valentine's shouldn't be about expectations, but rather about romance. Which begs the question, what exactly is that? Hmm, I suspect it has an illusory quality, more seductive to our minds than our bodies, and more difficult to capture. The only place I really can grasp it is in the romantic composers like Chopin and Brahms. So maybe listening to them might be a good place for me to start, and I'll see if I can manage something more by Thursday.