Solocrow — One Crow Against the World

Apples, Chaucer, & Obligation

Posted on February 14th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Generic Blatherings.

Today is Valentine’s Day, as most are well aware. I started festivities early this year by paying homage to Aphrodite Androphonos by deciding to drink something red and tasty at the local bar at 1am this morning. (more…)

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La Fee Verte

Posted on February 13th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Generic Blatherings.

So tonight I had absinthe; I blame Hemingway and Van Gogh. It was a beautiful ritual, even if the drink itself was a bit, oh… bitter? Something along those lines, even though it made Chopin more brilliant than usual. I’ll carry on more about it later when it’s not nearing 5am.

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Recent reading revealed

Posted on February 12th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Generic Blatherings.

So I recently plowed through Samuel Butler’s The Way of All Flesh, which I found langorously enjoyable in the manner that only 19th century clause-heavy English prose can be enjoyable. If you’ve ever gone tubing down a river with a cooler full of beer floating along with you, it’s much like that; one simply cannot hurry, and is instead carried along by the current of meandering thoughts which eventually gets one to a destination. I suspect Mr. Butler would be mortified by this comparision involving sluggish rivers and beer, but thankfully, he’s dead.
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Foreign currency

Posted on February 10th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Dreams.

Okay, so I was out until the wee hours of the morning last night, which is not unusual for a Friday night. Or any night for that matter, as of late. After my standard consumption of innumerable beverages, I went through my preferred patterns of post-imbibing behavior — namely, I opened the fridge, grabbed something to eat, drank a glass of water, and shed the more confining bits of my attire on the way to collapse into bed…
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Portrait d’une Femme

Posted on February 9th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Dead Poets.

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
Great minds have sought you–lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind–with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale or two,
Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that’s quite your own.
Yet this is you.

Ezra Pound (1885-1972)

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