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Record no. 29
Ezra Pound came up in a conversation again today.
"He really was handsome, wasn't he?"
It wasn't me saying that. For once I wasn't the one fawning over Pound.
"My Dear Pound." That's how T.S. Eliot would address Pound in his letters. Eliot didn't seem to like Ezra Pound very much, despite Pound's efforts to advance Eliot's career.
Tomorrow morning, the last Sunday of February, when I take the elevator downstairs and walk down the hallway, I'm worried I'll find a heap of dead cat carcasses blocking the exit. Part of me would like to climb into the heap and find my place among their furry warmth, even as their flesh turns to liquid and the heap collapses on itself. That would be nice, wouldn't it? But if I couldn't leave this building -- if I was snowed in by dead cats, would I ever see the faces of strangers on the sidewalk again? Would I ever encounter the god's each of them contains in themselves, children of this holy city?
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