“There’t nothing more to it, I just get through it.” ~ First Aid Kit, from “To a Poet”

New Discovery: First Aid Kit


And you said, “Don’t give me nothing
you don’t want to lose”
I said, “Darling, I’ll give you everything I got
if I want them to choose”

Then I got on a plane and flew
far away from you
Though unwillingly I left
and it was so, so hard to do

The streets here at home had rapidly filled up
with the whitest of snow
And they don’t make no excuse for themselves
and there’s no need, I know

Now I miss you more than I can take
and I will surely break
And every morning that I wake
god, it’s the same
There’s nothing more to it,
I just get through it
Oh, there’s nothing more to it
I just get through it

It always takes me by surprise
how dark it gets this time of the year
And how apparent it all becomes
that you’re not close, not even near

No matter how many times I tell myself
I have to be sincere
I have a hard time standing up
and facing those fears

But Frank put it best when he said
“You can’t plan on the heart”
Those words keep me on my feet
when I think I might just fall apart

Now I miss you more than I can take
and I will surely break
And every morning that I wake
god, it’s the same
There’s nothing more to it,
I just get through it
Oh, there’s nothing more to it
I just get through it
Oh, there’s nothing more to it
I just get through it

And so I ask where are you now
just when I needed you
I won’t ask again
Because I know there’s nothing we can do
Not now, darling, you know it’s true

Since my Hogwarts letter still hasn’t arrived . . .

Reblogged from Curious History:

Abandoned Cottages in the Woods Overtaken by Animals

In a series titled Once Upon a Home, photographer Kai Fagerström captured the new residents of abandoned cottages in the woods. After residents had passed away or relocated, a group of feral animals took over the spaces. In a story published for National Geographic, Fagerström captured the “wild squatters” in a handful of derelict dwellings near his family’s summer home in rural Suomusjärvi, Finland.

sources 1, 2

“Sometimes it seems that fate, in more than random measure, aims its arrows at what matters to people most.” ~ Mary Schmich, from the Chicago Tribune

Linda Ronstadt will never sing again. She has Parkinson’s. This is the end of an era. Sites are filled with videos and images of the singer. I chose one that I remember from my youth.

A guy who I dated casually was absolutely in love with Ronstadt; I sometimes thought that he may have dated me just for my long dark hair. Who knows. But we shared a deep admiration for a woman with an incredible gift.


From Mary Schmich’s article in the Chicago Tribune:

But Ronstadt’s situation seems to have struck an especially tender spot in the collective psyche and triggered a response that goes beyond lament for the fading of a star and an era.

The deeper reason that the news resonates so deeply is that her loss comes with an extra twist of the knife: She hasn’t just lost her singing voice. She has lost her essential expressive gift.

A singer can lose an arm and still sing, can lose a leg or an eye. But her voice?

Ronstadt isn’t the first person to be robbed of her primary expressive gift.

Beethoven, the great composer, went deaf. Monet, the great painter, developed cataracts. Paul Wittgenstein was a concert pianist whose right arm was amputated.

More recently and closer to home, the renowned chef Grant Achatz got tongue cancer, now in remission, though the treatments temporarily took away his ability to taste. In the bombing at the Boston Marathon, runners and dancers lost their legs.

Sometimes it seems that fate, in more than random measure, aims its arrows at what matters to people most.

A musician who can’t hear. An artist who can’t see. A chef who can’t taste. A singer who can’t sing.

Fate seems to strike with a cannily precise cruelty.

I floated that theory past a friend the other day. He pooh-poohed it.

“We just notice more in those cases.”

Could be. And in some cases, people overcome the loss of their primary mode of expression by figuring out new ways to express themselves.

It wouldn’t be surprising if Ronstadt does. Through her long career, she has also shown a gift for tenacity.

And even if she never sings again, which she says she never will, the songs she leaves behind will stay in the minds and hearts of millions of people who through the years have sung along with her.

My favorite Ronstadt song? So hard. I loved “Desperado,” “Blue Bayou,” and “You’re No Good,” but my all-time favorite is “Long, Long Time”


“summer’s blood was in it” ~ Seamus Heaney, from “Blackberry-Picking”

Update: Seamus Heaney died on August 30 in Dublin, Ireland (1939-2013)

Andrew Wyeth Blackberry Picker 1943 tempera on masonite
“Blackberry Picker” (1943, tempera on masonite)
by Andrew Wyeth


Two for Tuesday: Irish poets and blackberries . . .


Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

~ Seamus Heaney


Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry—eating in late September.

~ Galway Kinnell


Music by Ryan O’Shaughnessy, “No Name”

“We leave ourselves behind long before we go.” ~ Susan Elbe, from “Light Made from Nothing”

Shoreline by unknown
Shoreline (photographer unknown)
*I searched for the source of this beautiful image but was unable to find the photographer’s name; I am posting hoping someone might recognize.

Last full day of work on the bathroom before Corey’s ship leaves. So much to do still. New hole on my left pointer fingertip. Not enough time. Not enough words . . .

Blues kinds of day.

Music by John Lee Hooker, “It Serves You Right to Suffer”


I couldn’t find a copy of the following Susan Elbe poem that I could simply copy. Sorry about the quality.


Light Made from Nothing pt1

Light Made from Nothing pt2