"my gab and my loitering"

i confess to doing more of that internal blogging lately... i've spent very little time here, in my corner, at my desk, with the laptop fired up and far too much time running in circles- and i confess to relying on "tweet"ish updates from my phone.  so i want to both to narrativize owen's swim lesson from tuesday and to offer a photoessay of why salad greens make tj's "diner style" macaroni and cheese a healthy dinner and write up why we love DK books (and which are our favorites) and feature our october arts & crafts (lots of glue and scissor work).

instead i'll repeat the process of bookmarking (and initiate that familiar clickclacking of the keys) as a mid-day marker to my working day (thanks to nana and a bucketfull of dinosaurs) as i return  to my mccullers chapter

(ok i have to interject real time owen here who keeps flinging open the door to check how my "working" is going and asking if i've found corthyasaurus yet or if i know the difference between a coral snake and a milk snake. . . who says: "don't tell me i have a surprise for you, remember the trader joe's bread mix we bought? the new one? well i'm not telling you it's a surprise and nana and i are making it for you but don't ask me until i'm finished and then it's a suprise for you."  which reminds me that as much as 4 year olds are a constant distraction they're a necessary one. . .)

dissertation and chapters (and dinosaurs oh my!)-- oh nevermind that. . .so that this is  not just another placeholder--here's a bit more walt whitman.  because he's the songbird that keeps returning to my window--and i think we always return to "song of myself" (even if only in pieces)

. . .

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.

I bequeath 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.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

. . .

(that last line haunts me every time. . .)