Music's Like a Snuggie for Your Soul


Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Beautiful Night

Image source: some site about Edinburgh

In my whiny pirate post, i lamented how tired i was to be living a life in unpredictable, occasionally swirly, churning seas. But i was reminded tonight as i read some of the lyrics to a Josh Ritter song, that some days the life of a pirate can be fairly savory.

Beautiful Night

Up here in the crows nest I am swimming through the breeze 
One last memory from the sun as it is sinking by degrees 
And high above the albatrosses, on the wing is light 
And I will sing to her as she flies by 
On this beautiful night 

Ahead is the horizon, always changing, it stands fast 
Far behind me are the desert islands, shipwrecks Of the past 
And I have seen the cannons sounding in the early morning light 
But I have left my battles for the day 
On this beautiful night 

Below me, all the sailors, they're on this journey too 
And each of us must make our unknown way upon the blue 
So tonight we cast our worries, 
Float Jetsam on the tide 
And we'll watch them echo far away 
On this beautiful night 

Flat earth may end 
We may sail off the edge 
And not be seen again 
So I sing and hope my song will form 
A rope of golden chords 
So that I can rescue someone else 
Should they fall overboard 

Because some of us are pirates and some of us are damned 
But all of us, need all of us to ever find the land 
And though the passage of good hope may seem 
Like a needles eye 
We're floating on tranquility 
On this Beautiful night 

Up here in the crows nest 
I am swimming through the breeze 
One last memory from the sun 

-Josh Ritter

He's a phenomenal musician from right here in Moscow, Idaho. He has so many great songs, i could post one every day for months. Here are a couple for an introduction if you don't already know of him:

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Letter From My Brain to My Heart by Rachel McKibbens

This house is dirty, but comfortable.
Behind each crooked door
waits the angry weather of a forgiveless child.
I cannot help but admire this horrible
power of mine, how each small thing
can become a death: the lost house key. A spoiled egg.
A howling dog. There is no prayer or pill for this.
It is a ruthless botany; I might as well
be buried in the yard. I have no one to blame.
Not the mother who sang to an empty cradle.
Not the Dog of Spite who bit my hand,
just this long-legged sorrow
who trails my every joy like a dark perfume.
You have my permission not to love me;
I am a cathedral of deadbolts
and I’d rather burn myself down
than change the locks.
-Rachel McKibbens