Song of myself

The weather has changed here. The summer storm hit the country and the temperature dropped from 35 degrees to 20 which is what I was looking for as last week it was too hot to do anything. Actually, I felt like shit and spent most of the time at home attempting -unsuccessfully- to get some work done. The upcoming week is going to be hectic so I am glad I had the time to relax. I felt a bit lonely though as my mum went on holiday, my partner had lots to do at work and all I could do was staying at home with the dog. I am not complaying as I love spending time with my baby, although I felt a bit isolated. The house is big for two people, let alone for one. Having said that, working at home is a bless when the heat is unbearable.

I now have a long to-do list the first of them being walking barefoot on wet grass as soon as they all be out. This is something that has to be perfumed in silence, better in a wood than in a garden but a wet garden is what I have.


CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.


I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.


My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this 
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their 
         parents the same, 
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.


Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.




Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded 
         with perfumes, 
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.


The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, 
         it is odorless, 
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and 
I am mad for it to be in contact with me
Walt Whitman