By Walt Whitman
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me;
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the shadow’d wilds;
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.1335
I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.1340
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
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Tuesday was not particularly less sad than Monday, between the Robin Williams tributes (and awful details of his death) and Lauren Bacall dying, though quickly at 89 in full possession of her faculties was a pretty good way to go. I did have a nice time with Adam -- we went to the bike shop to get him a mini-pump and side mirror and he got me a green tea frappuccino at Starbucks, then I helped him film one of those ALS meme videos in which people dump buckets of ice water over their heads (he also did an extended PSA).
Adam had never seen Dead Poets Society, so we all had dinner together and watched that. It was less depressing than I had anticipated, maybe because it feels so dated in its attitudes about women; the coming-out story parallels with Neil seem obvious on a rewatch, and I like to think that we're making headway for kids growing up in that regard, too. I need to find a copy of Good Morning Vietnam that I can show the kids, since ours is on disintegrating VHS. Some photos from the Brandywine Zoo a couple of weekends ago:
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