Song of myself to you from Walt and me.

For you my blessed brothers and sisters who saw my earlier blog today, I said there may be more to come and here I am to give it to you now. I want to go over the meadow with my camera, but that can wait, as I put giving this to you first.

So my pictures which I painted today and words first penned by Walt Whitman, but as he died and moved on, I have taken them up as mine, to share with you, my beloved brothers and sisters.

I exist as I am - that is enough;
If no other in the world be aware, I sit content;
And if each other and all be aware, I sit content.

Prodical, you have given me love! Therefore I to you give love!
O unspeakable, passionate love.

I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs,
And for the strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.

I heard what was said of the universe,
Heard it and heard it of several thousand years;
It is middling as well as far as it goes - but is that all?

Magnifying and applying come I.
Outbidding at the start of the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying draft of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix
engraved, 

With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledgid birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves.)

Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see, 
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his roll`d-up sleeves
driving the mallet and chisel,

Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or
a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,
Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me
than the gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr`d laths, their white
foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance - always substance increase always and sex;
Always a knit of identity - always distinction - always bread of life.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

I believe in you, my soul - the other I am must not abase itself to you; And you must not be abased to the other.

Has any one suppose it luck to be born? 
I hasten to inform him or her, it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather; The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

In all people I see myself - none more, and not one a barleycorn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.


And I know I am solid and sound;
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetual flow;
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

Until the next blog, my brothers and sisters know you are loved and I love sharing with you. Bless you, as you are so
so worth loving. Your brother, Peter.