Alas — with the recent half-death/zombification of my previous laptop, exile to the Swamp of the Great Unwashed, and my (most improbable) overly-extended stint as a corporate lackey, Solocrow has suffered the slings and arrows of my outrageous (but not surprising) inattention.

First things first: The ninjas live. Do not despair. (Unless you just want to; I get that — really.)

Second: New laptop, new features, new possibilities. The bad news? Stupid file transfers, system tweaking, gut-shuffling, and general cyber re-nesting angst. These things take time to iron out, which due to the aforementioned lackey status, presents an obvious challenge: how’s this bird gonna avoid her famously favored pitfall of procrastination?

That being said, the inherent awesomeness of The-Sparkly-New (gagetry) might be enough to overcome the gravitational pull of my apathetic half-assery. You’ll just have to wait and see.

Maybe whipped cream would help.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud…” murmured the black ninja aloud to himself.

Pfft. I bet Wordsworth was an insufferable ass while on vacation, thought the black ninja.

Maybe I should put on some of that fruity-smelling sunscreen, thought the green ninja.

Natives, thought the black ninja.

Crow followed Ulysses till he turned
As a worm, which Crow ate.

Grappling with Hercules’ two puff-adders
He strangled in error Dejanira.

The gold melted out of Hercules’ ashes
Is an electrode in Crow’s brain.

Drinking Beowulf’s blood, and wrapped in his hide,
Crow communes with poltergeists out of old ponds.

His wings are the stiff back of his only book,
Himself the only page — of solid ink.

So he gazes into the quag of the past
Like a gypsy into the crystal of the future,

Like a leopard into a fat land.

~ Crowego, from Ted Hughes’ Crow

Crow thought of a palace –
Its lintel crashed on him, his bones were found.

Crow thought of a fast car –
It plucked his spine out, and left him empty and armless.

Crow thought of the wind’s freedom –
And his eyes evaporated, the wind whistled over the Turkish Saddle.

Crow thought of a wage –
And it choked him, it was cut unspoiled from his dead stomach.

Crow thought of the soft and warm that is long remembered –
It blindfolded him with silk, it gangplanked him into a volcano.

Crow thought of intelligence –
It turned the key against him and he tore at its fruitless bars.

Crow thought of nature’s stupor –
And an oak tree grew out of his ear.

A row of his black children sat in the top.
They flew off.

Crow
Never again moved.

~ Magical Dangers, from Ted Hughes’ Crow