The World Below The Brine
By Walt Whitman
The world below the brine;
Forests at the bottom of the sea the branches and leaves,
Sea-lettuce, vast lichens, strange flowers and seeds the thick tangle, the openings, and the pink turf,
Different colors, pale gray and green, purple, white, and gold the play of light through the water,
Dumb swimmers there among the rocks coral, gluten, grass, rushes and the aliment of the swimmers,
Sluggish existences grazing there, suspended, or slowly crawling close to the bottom,
The sperm-whale at the surface, blowing air and spray, or disporting with his flukes,
The leaden-eyed shark, the walrus, the turtle, the hairy sea-leopard, and the sting-ray;
Passions there wars, pursuits, tribes sight in those ocean-depths breathing that thick-breathing air, as so many do;
The change thence to the sight here, and to the subtle air breathed by beings like us, who walk this sphere;
The change onward from ours, to that of beings who walk other spheres.
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From the moment I woke up on Monday, my phone was dinging with storm and tornado watches, so although we mostly had pouring rain and a few bouts of thunder that sent Effie racing down the basement, I didn't go anywhere until the sun was out in the early evening. Instead of worked on scanning one more box of cards and letters that I found on the shelf under my desk and I finished my Our Flag Means Death charm bracelet with a whale, which is awesome if I do say so myself.
The weather was gorgeous for a walk when the rain finally stopped, and we had crusty bread so we put cheese and almond butter on it for dinner with tomato soup. Then we watched the rest of the third (and, unhappily, final) season of Dickinson, which was excellent, had a creative flash forward to Sylvia Plath at Smith and an ongoing look at white privilege, and really had fun with reminding us no one actually knows so much about Emily. Some views of the Mormon Temple on Saturday:
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