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Archive for August 2014

“But I Like You” — chords & lyrics!

August 31st, 2014 — 12:38pm

Henry and I have transcribed my little Ernie and Bert song! (See previous post)

It was a lot of work, but we did it. I re-wrote the lyrics to be all from Bert’s point of view ’cause I’ll be playing it on my ukulele and singing it solo and I am much more of a Bert than an Ernie. Paperclips! Lentil soup! Yeah!

Click to download in .rtf format: But I Like You, chords and lyrics


Kudos to Henry for figuring out the Bb to Bbm business and the nifty Bb-Db-F-D7 sequence near the end.

You can play a Dm7 on “go and see the big hippopotamus” if you want — it sounds a bit better but it’s hard for me to reach on the uke.

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“But I Like You”

August 13th, 2014 — 11:12am

Babysitting my little niece and watching a lot of classic Sesame Street. Today we watched an episode from 1983 (I was 14 in 1983, so it was after I stopped watching) and I saw an Ernie and Bert song that I’d never heard before! It’s so sweet.

“But I Like You”

If I can figure out the chords I’ll try to learn this on the uke.

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Detachment and compassion

August 3rd, 2014 — 11:52am

I just read a book by Marian Keyes called “The Mystery of Mercy Close”. Funny, entertaining, good characters, satisfying ending. When I started reading, I didn’t know that the protagonist, Helen, suffered from depression and anxiety but I figured it out pretty fast. The author reveals it very slowly and I think the average reader might not pick up the clues quite so quickly, but to me it was obvious right away.

Helen’s thoughts felt eerily familiar.

At one point, late in the book after her condition has been revealed, she tells the reader about her therapist, Antonia, and it felt exactly, exactly, like the way I feel about my therapist, Jeff. Change the pronouns from “she” to “he” and it’s spot-on:

“She’d been nothing like I’d expected. She didn’t make me lie on a couch and ask me about my childhood, or my dreams. She didn’t bounce every question I asked her back at me by asking what I thought about it.

She was the one thing she wasn’t meant to be: she was my friend…. She was the one person I could be brutally honest with and she never judged me.

She’d say, “How are you, Helen?” and I’d answer, “I’ve been thinking of taking the bread knife and cutting out my stomach. If I could just cut out my guts, these feelings might go away.”

And she wouldn’t burst into tears. Or tell me I had to be strong. Or say that she’d be devastated if I died. Or ring one of my sisters and tell them I was a selfish, self-indulgent whinger.

I didn’t have to protect her from how horrific I felt. She’d seen it all before and she was unshakable….

She didn’t fix me. She didn’t provide reasons for why I wanted to die. But she pulled off the near-impossible job of offering me both detachment and compassion.

The detachment part — well, I was nothing to her, nobody. Twice a week I had an hour when I could slow down the terrible thoughts in my washing machine head and let my mouth say them and let my ears hear them and not have to worry about how it impacted on her.

But at the same time, I knew she cared about me … even though I was paying her … she was my true friend. She walked steadfastly alongside me through the rocky, smoke-black nightmare. She couldn’t keep me from tripping and stumbling, she couldn’t give me anything to stop the pain, but she encouraged me to keep going.

Not to put too fine a point on it, she’d kept me alive.”

I have actually said these words to people: “He kept me alive.”

Right now I’m in a better patch, which is good, although even better patches are scary because I never know when I’ll fall off the edge into a Bad Patch, but at least I know Jeff will be there if I do.

If you have depression (maybe you got here by googling “depression”), please find yourself an Antonia or a Jeff. Do whatever it takes. If your first therapist isn’t a good fit, keep looking until you find someone who feels right. And remember that no matter how bad you feel right now, you’ll feel better some day. You really will.

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