amurderofcrows: (Don't Speak For Me, Identity, You Don't Know Me)


Another word for a group of crows

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Created on 2011-12-30 07:37:31 (#1330458), last updated 2016-01-04 (90 weeks ago)

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Birthdate:Apr 6
LeBret. Oh, if only you'd stop
Trying to be all the three musketeers and Don
Christ Quixote rolled up into one.
You'd make your way, you'd wing up to the top.

Cyrano. Up to the top. What would you have me do?
Seek out a powerful protection, pursue
A potent patron? Cling like a leeching vine
To a tree? Crawl my way up? Fawn, whine
For all that sticky candy called success?
No, thank you. Be a sycophant and dress
In sickly rhymes a prayer to a moneylender?
Play the buffon, desperate to engender
A smirk on a refrigerated jowl?
No, thank you. Slake my morning mouth wih foul
Lees and leavings, breakfast off a toad?
To advancement and wear the skin of my belly through?
Get grimy calluses on my kneecaps? Do
A daily dozen to soften up my spine?
No, thank you. Stroke the bristles of some swine
With one hand, feel his silk purse with the other?
Burn up te precious incense of mother-
wit to perfume some bad bastard's beard?
No, thank you. When all pride has disappeared,
Sail stagnant water, with madrigal for oars,
The canvas filled with the breath of ancient whores
Of unfructified duennas? Be the pope
Of some small literary circle and softsoap
Editors and reviewers? Shall I look
For a lifetime's reputation from one book
And then give up the agonizing art
As far to wearing? No, thanks. Shall I start
Finding true genius only in imbeciles
And acneous hairy oafs? No, thanks. Is it
Best I should think best to make a visit
Rather than make a poem? Relish the savour
Of stuffy salons? Seek condescension, favour,
Influence, introductions? No, no, no,
Thank you, no. No, thank you. But to go
Free of the filthy world, to sing, to be
Blessed with a voice vibrating birility,
Blessed with an eye equipped for looking at
Things as they really are, cocking my hat
Where I please, at a word, at a deed, at a yes or not,
Fighting or writing: this is my true life. So
I go along any road under my moon,
Careless of glory, indifferent to the boon
Or bane of fortune, without hope, without fear,
Writing only the words down that I hear
Here-- and saying, with a sort of modesty
'My heart, be satisfied with what you see
And smell and taste in your own garden -- weeds,
In wresting some small triumph for me--well,
I render nothing unto Caesar, sell
No moiety of my merit to the world.
I loathe the parasite liana, curled
About the oak trunk. I myself am a tree--
Not high, prehaps, not beautiful, but free
My flesh deciduous, but the enduring bone
Of my spirit tough, indifferent, and alone!

-- Cyrano de Bergac Act 2, by Edmund Rostand, as translated by Anthony Burgess.

A long time ago, I had a friend named Joe. Joe was a rough man, after rough years. But he had his insights.

One day, we sat in a cafe, and discussed people we knew, and what they were like. He turned his attention to me, and he said, "Mandy, people are like coffee. Coffee with a spritz of tabasco for kick. When you sip the coffee -- when you're out with the people -- you get the coffee. When you taste tabasco, you've hit what really makes them them, what makes them feel passionately. Mandy-- that's not how it is with you. You're straight tabasco. There's nothing you don't feel, all the time."

That's all you need to know about me.

Personal Mottos:
Illegitimi nos Carborundum Est
Don't let the bastards grind you down

Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.
Be patient and tough; some day this pain will be useful to you.

The WeatherPixie
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