video tuesday : Grace Potter and the Nocturnals

On a Fri­day after­noon in Feb­ru­ary, Grace Pot­ter and the Noc­tur­nals spent time out­side of San Diego record­ing stripped down ver­sions of songs from their new album. “Paris” is the sec­ond in a series of them.

New GPN Album Avail­able for pre-order here:

Vocals, Guitar:Grace Potter
Gui­tar: Ben­ny Yurco
Gui­tar: Scott Tournet
Knife: Cather­ine Popper
Ice Buck­et and Hair Dry­er: Matthew Burr

Direct­ed by: Mason Poole.
Loca­tion: Ran­cho Bernar­do, CA

happy birthday dear orchid

birthday orchid

My birth­day orchid seems very hap­py in it’s new home. It had bloomed twice in our old place in South Philadel­phia where I was hap­py to keep it alive. It was hard work for some reason.

Now in Old City it is thriving.

I don’t think it is just the light and the water. I real­ly think the ener­gy here is so dif­fer­ent. It seems to love Old City and the peo­ple that come and go in the gallery. It is joyful.

Post-it notes an amazing invention

Post it notes con­tin­ue to work their way into dif­fer­ent parts of our lives. Their not so stick­i­ness encour­ages us to use them in all kinds of unex­pect­ed ways. Their uni­for­mi­ty is anoth­er excel­lent attribute. Even the straight-lined chal­lenged can line post-its up in a grid. Now that we aren’t con­fined to the Post-it yel­low the pos­si­bil­i­ties are mul­ti­plied — by the num­ber of new col­ors added.

So, what have you done with Post-it notes lately?

Reprise: It’s too hot, too hot. Just too darn HOT.

It has become a sci­ence fic­tion dream to me. I can­not say I ever thought I would see and feel these tem­per­a­tures. These tem­per­a­tures are those of my vis­its to the desert and hik­ing the canyons of New Mex­i­co. I imag­ine the scrub bush­es and the dry runoff streams. I taste the red dust on my lips. Then I am jolt­ed back to real­i­ty. My sense of place is askew. Our plan­et is so con­fused. It’s 104°.

poem today : Native Trees, W. S. Merwin

Nei­ther my father nor my moth­er knew
the names of the trees
where I was born
what is that
I asked and my
father and moth­er did not
hear they did not look where I pointed
sur­faces of fur­ni­ture held
the atten­tion of their fingers
and across the room they could watch
walls they had forgotten
where there were no questions
no voic­es and no shade
Were there trees
where they were children
where I had not been
I asked
were there trees in those places
where my father and my moth­er were born
and in that time did

my father and my moth­er see them

and when they said yes it meant

they did not remember

What were they I asked what were they
but both my father and my mother
said they nev­er knewW. S. Mer­win, “Native Trees” from The Rain in the Trees (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1988). Copy­right © 1988 by W. S. Mer­win. Reprint­ed with the per­mis­sion of The Wylie Agency, Inc.

Source: The Rain in the Trees (Alfred A. Knopf, 1988)