Spider Songs

There is a spider living in my window. This doesn't bother me. What does bother me is how fat he's getting. My window is like a port city. Like New York City. Spiders, I've heard, grow to be very large in New York City. There was a time when a spider crawled up my arm and almost into my shirt sleeve. The park ranger picked him from me just prior. There was a snake too.

I'm reading Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" again. Not because I want to, but because I have to. This seems, to me, contrary to what "Leaves of Grass" is. Which also makes me wonder if literary studies, as a whole thing, is contrary to literature. But I'm mostly a big complainer.

I completed my "in-print" Frank Stanford book collection today having received my copy of his "Tales." I get this way occasionally. In 2007 I bought 11 Tom Waits albums to "complete" that collection. In 2004 is was Wes Anderson movies (Criterion only, mind you). I think it stems from baseball card collecting as a boy.

I have laundry in the wash that needs to be switched to the dryer. I have more Whitman to read. I have a dog that needs to poop.