You are always on your way to a miracle

I am feeling so much better than yesterday. Holycrap, am I feeling better! I went in to the bookstore to visit Graham before I went home to work on the calendar. As I was leaving I saw a display of SARK's updated edition of The Creative Companion. It's been a long time since I've looked at a SARK book and was immediately reminded of why she is so great. Her big handwriting and colorful images create an immediate reference. I opened to a random page and immediately was presented with the words: You are always on your way to a miracle. As I thumbed through it, I felt this instant unbuckling of all the hard and serious thinking I'd been experiencing. I had grumbled in my journal only hours ago that I was missing the part of me that has a rich inner life, and here it was returning to me, like blood into a sleeping limb.

I looked at the price, and felt a little worry come over me. I am trying hard to save all my pennies for what is now being called THE MOVE (in all caps). Yet, I really needed this refresher. I thought well, maybe Graham would give me a discount, and I'll just figure out the rest. When I brought it to the register for Graham to ring me up, he said, "I'll buy this for you." You'd think that he'd found me a place to live and a job in New York, the way relief and gratitude poured over me like so much warm water. It felt like a little net. However small, it was a good reminder: THINGS WORK OUT. or as SARK says, You are always on your way to a miracle.

I read her introduction where she described her reason for making her best-selling poster "How To Be an Artist." She said it was an answer to someone who asked how she lived her life. I love that and I think that's what blogging is all about. I don't care what job you do or how much money you make, but I love knowing how you live your life. I also love finding out how I live my life and this is why I write.

Last night I drew a picture of Alice Walker's beautiful face and listened to a book on tape. I slept alone and woke up this morning to coffee and the journal. When I came in to work there were two e-mails from friends that live on the East Coast, and an e-mail from my stepmom Pam, offering some financial help. I felt such lightness, which is nothing short of a miracle.

I'd Love To

I wish I had something deep and meaningful to write, but I feel like someone has strung up my underwear over my ears. Some might say I feel uptight. I might call it FREAKED OUT.

Guess what folks, I am moving across the country in a month. To be exact: 4 weeks & two days. This is what I have to do in the next 4 weeks and 2 days: Complete and publish my new 2006 calendar--10 pages to go; go see Graham's parents for 3 days in Santa Barbara; say good bye to people I dearly love; pack 600 pounds of books (among other things); finalize a way to get all said things from California to Brooklyn; Fly to New York to find a place to live and then fly back; Did I mention FIND A PLACE TO LIVE?? (I think it deserves mentioning twice); Work 8 hours a day; continue to work on finalizing a tour; housesit for 5 days; cram in 4 seperate dinners; bake a cake for my dad for his birthday; have a goodbye party; sell my car, my bed, among other things; sleep; eat; breathe.

I am sure there are other things I am not remembering, but you get the gist. I am scared and I am overwhelmed. I am also not remembering any delights. When looking for a picture to post here, I came upon this scan of a trip to the photobooth with my dear friend Meg. Meg and I have known each other since high school and this is a selection of the many strips we did over a couple of days, during her visit to Santa Cruz last year. Seeing it today reminded me of humor and fun and being rediculous. Life feels way too serious to me right now. I know I am not the first to say this, but geez do we need the F-U-N. I need to crack up and stop inadvertantly impersonating Richard Nixon with my dour face and bad posture. I should add to my list of things to do: do something--an anything--that truly delights me. Eat frozen junior mints, drink coffee in bed, visit a photobooth...the smallest things are necessary. I need them to remind me that life is not just a have-to. It's also about I want-to, I need-to, I'd love-to.

Party Packed

How was your weekend? Mine was party packed. It was Graham's birthday on Sunday, but we celebrated with a small barbecue on Saturday, then I played a show at my friend Don P.'s party on Saturday night. Then it was Sunday and it really was Graham's birthday, so I spent the entire day throwing roses at his feet and confetti in his air.

Don P. and his wife Stacey really know how to throw a party. There was literally spreads of food in every room, a full bar out back, and live music (me)! Although the atmosphere was warm and friendly, it was one of the toughest gigs I ever played. First of all, the way the light was set up, was perfect for the outside revellers, but terrible for me because I couldn't see a single thing beyond my arms and guitar. I'd hear cheering at the end of the song, but beyond that it was like I was in a very well lit box. Also, during the songs all I could hear were the sounds of people who didn't give a hoot about the rockn' and heartfelt songs of a girl. They just wanted to hang out and TALK and drink margaritas. Then a string broke. I persevered for half the set, until--the unthinkable--ANOTHER string broke. This has never happened to me and it ended the show abruptly.

Graham came over and hugged me and said, "That must have been the toughest gig ever." It was tough, but it wasn't the worst show I ever had. The worst show was being hissed at in a all woman club in Provincetown because I sang about boys. The worst show was playing a lunchtime music series at what turned out to be a dental college in Maine. They kept the TVs blaring MTV, while the lethargic student body looked at me like I was a bug on a rock. OR the worst show might have been playing a Starbucks in Brookline, Massachusetts during a BLIZZARD. The 'greenroom', where I warmed up, was actually the basement, and I had to share it with the teenage employees who were getting stoned on whippets and smoking pot.

No, this show was a delight. Don P. introduced me and said the sweetest things. I met a great couple after the set, who told me "New York is going to LOVE you." Also, did I mention the food? Bite size cream puffs and bowls of chunky, fresh guacamole. No sir, not so bad at all.

When You're Tired, Lie Down

Yesterday I hit a wall. I haven't gotten a good night sleep in 3 weeks. Since my car and I broke up, I've been walking an hour to work and back. In the morning I roll out of bed, walk to work, spend 8 hours doing that work, then come home and work on a calendar that is due in 2 weeks, and practice guitar for an hour. Then I go to bed and it starts all over again. Throughout the day, I also worry over how I am going to move, say goodbye to people I love, and plan a tour I am doing in September. Then there's also the constant question of my life: What am I doing? How am I doing it? All this is to say that I am tired.

So at noon I turned off the computer, got a ride downtown and met Graham at a cafe. He took me out to lunch, eating delicious shrimp and pot stickers and sushi. Then I went over to his place and took a much needed nap. When I woke up, we went for a walk by the river, and then got caramel ice cream with oreo cookies and fudge swirls. Then we walked home, feeling lighter and buzzed with sugar.

A friend of mine gave me amazing advice, when I was telling her how scared I was getting about moving to New York and finding work, and a life, etc. She said, "Be extra kind to yourself during that time. Do every luxury you can afford." I realized yesterday that I didn't need to wait to be kind to myself. Kindness could start right at that moment. I could afford the luxury of just stopping.

Earlier, as I had laid down on Graham's bed for a nap, I called out to Graham, "I've discovered the secret to happiness!" Graham peeked in and said, "What's that?" I looked up at him and said, "When you're tired, lie down."

Smoke Screens

I've been thinking about ex-boyfriends lately. Well, actually, a particular one. The worst boyfriend I ever had. Maybe it's because I've been walking a lot lately and these things tend to come up on long stretches of road. Also, maybe it's because I am doing some serious autopsy work on when my songwriting block began, and it just so happens to coinside with this particular relationship.

People always ask me if Graham is a musician and my answer is often the inevitable: THANK THE SWEET STARS, NO! I've dated enough musicians to beat the fantasy of artistically inspired romance into the ground (So much so that it shows up in Australia, beyond recognition). Artists are prickly creatures. We grew up most often as outcasts, geeks, or social inepts. This gave us plenty of time to be alone, so that we could adequately develop our DEPTH. Sometimes it works when two people who are artist types get together, but most often we're too busy feeling seperate and different to know how to relate to another person also feeling seperate and different. My worst boyfriend was (and still is) a perfoming songwriter. He was the last explosive finale to a string of attempts at my fantasy of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes kind of cosmic poetry fulfilling relationships. I seemed to have been blind to the fact that Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes' marriage dissolved and ended with suicide--hers. How friggn' romantic is that? It should have been a WARNING, not a symbol.

O. was the gem that started off declaring that ours ws the true love finally found after so much time, and ended 10 months later with a "When I said I loved you, it was as a FRIEND. What did you think I meant?" This was after numerous cheatings and one final one, which began his relationship that still continues to this day (God love her for that).

It didn't help that he ended an 8 year relationship in order to persue me. It didn't help that we were in the same music scene. It didn't help that I didn't feel strong enough to not take the "other woman" role that powerful people in the scene were casting me as. He went out drinking with people I thought were my friends, didn't stop their bad mouthing of me, and then he would call me to pick him up late at night. And get this: I was GLAD to get him. Oh, the good ol' days!

I'm sure he thinks of me fondly.

Musicians are passive agressive creatures. We say we are fine, but then we write heart-wrenching songs about how much we are not fine. I spent the beginnings of my career built on break up songs. In the end, I think this relationship gave me too much material, so I was the one who broke under its weight.

All this is to say that I recently made the relaization that the block in songwriting is really a SYMPTOM and not really the PROBLEM. The big hurts often mask themeselves in the things we only THINK we need to worry about. Bad love, creative freakouts are the smoke screen for the things that matter most to us, the real FIRES that burn inside. That doesn't mean that O. doesn't still remain the worst boyfriend I ever EVER had. It just means that the parts of that relationship that still effect me today, are mine alone to look at, to dig through, to find what keeps me from--what else?--my heart's desire.

You Plan for Rain and Then Out Comes the Sun

Well, you plan for rain and you get the sun.

After all that pooh-bahing, anxiety, and having a moment of subconscious block, where I realized at the last minute I was planning on leaving for the airport about 45 minutes later than I should be, I ended up having a GREAT time with my family in Chicago.

I loved Josh's place in Evenston. On the first afternoon I was there, I got a rare treat of going on a long walk with Josh through the town and the Northwestern campus. No small talk to be found! It was like the universe was conspiring to give me exactly all the pieces that I craved with my family. I was the only family member to stay with Josh and his wife, Heather, which meant lots of late night talking over a delicious gin and tonic. And then more early morning talking over coffee. There wasn't any skirting the issue or verbal postcards from life. There were moments of real disclosure.

During the PhD graduation, I sat next to Josh's mom, Pam(my sorta stepmom), who surprised me by bawling through the ceremony. Apparently, I am not the ONLY emotional one after all! I then surprised myself by beaming with absolute, genuine pride, watching my stepbrother go through the final step of an amazing accomplishment. It took him eight years of hard work to get here, and as I watched his advisor Bill proudly hood him with the purple velvet strip of fabric, I was so grateful I could be there to witness it.

Other highlights of the trip included the best bbq I've ever had outside my folks' backyard; going on an amazing architectual tour of Chicago on a river boat, and seeing some of my favorite Georgia O'Keefe paintings, and one of my favorite Edward Hopper paintings.

At dinner on Saturday night, we sat with the four people Josh has become really close to--his colleage Sharon, and her husband Dan; His advisor Bill, and his wife Marcia. All were anthropoligists, and all regailed amazing, funny stories about being in other countries doing research. Amazing stories about emergency flights from villages in a helicopter and flights to Moscow from Siberia, and how an intense amount of vodka saved Josh from food poisoning. As he laughed, retelling yet another story of his life, all the people around him laughing and beaming, I realized that he has a good life. I also realized that this is the most I would want for anyone I loved.

When I left I said good bye to Pam and started crying. "Oh, don't do that!" She said and shooed at me before hugging me goodbye. I didn't feel so dumb or emberassed, because she was tearing up too, that ol' softy.

I flew home excited to see Graham, one of the many things that make me know that I have a good life too.

The Mixed Bag

I am flying to Chicago tomorrow morning to attend my stepbrother Josh's PhD graduation from Northwestern. I am feeling a bit nervous about it. I am excited to travel and to see Chicago. Then there's the family part. I love my mixed up, muddled up family. It's not your usual mother-father-kids family. It's divorced, adopted, hippie, mix and match family. When I say 'stepbrother' it doesn't actually mean the usual sense of stepbrother. I call him that because it's the easiest way to explain it. In any case, it's still family. I don't think I am alone when I say that no matter the equation, family is a mixed bag.

This is how it usually goes with this portion of my family: I am excited to see them, there is a rush of talk and activity and catching up. Then by the end of the first day there's that creeping sensation that there is something slightly wrong with me. My clothes seem kind of ratty, and I feel overweight. By the second evening I am doubting my whole life and wondering where the normal me has gone. Normally, I'm an adult who pays her own bills, and makes decisions for herself. On day 3, I am a bag lady who talks to herself and is convinced God is in the pigeons.

Or at least that's how it feels.

Here's the thing, I'm one of those people who can do smalltalk for only so long. After 3 days of it, I am literally feeling crazy. I've tried many times to connect--and sometimes there are real moments of it, but I've also come to realize that everyone has their style of connecting or not connecting. I'm known as the EMOTIONAL ONE in the family. Oh, don't look now--she's CRYING! Everyone kind of shoos at me with their hands or looks uncomfortably at the floor when I start emoting. That's my thing, so I also tend to feel this pressure of holding it all together. Mix that with the sense of inadequacy that comes with having a sibling that looks really damned good on paper. I've always been the arty family member. I may have made an album, but what's that to a teaching post at a university, research in Russia, and papers published? And now we are going to celebrate his PhD. Apples and oranges, right? HA!

Or at least that's how it feels.

So here are the tools in the survival kit: Brand new journal and polaroid camera to remind me of what I love about my life. The new David Sedaris book, so I can remember my sense of humor. Also, I know the drill. If I start feeling this way, I can just remind myself that's how it ALWAYS feels. Either that, or I can always find a pigeon and ask for some advice.

We're All So Proud of You

I went and saw David Sedaris read on Saturday afternoon. Like the rest of the world, I am a huge fan. He was reading at the bookstore that Graham works at, and so I managed to get in for free. There were over 300 people there to see him, and everyone piled in, laughing and excited, as if they were waiting for their ride on a rollercoaster. Sedaris came in and immediately started engaging with the crowd, signing books for the first row. I felt the surge and panic of people in the room. My friend Jen R., who was hosting the event, immediately went to the mic and asked everyone to stay in their seats, assuring them that Sedaris would be there until every single book was signed. It dissuaded folks for awhile, but people still stood up, anxious to be in contact with him. He then offered up, "If anyone wants to pay me five bucks, I'll sign their books right now!" Which set off a gaggle of ladies waving bills in the air calling: "I've got five!" and then "I've got twenty!"

He read his most recent piece in the Newyorker, titled "Turbulence." We howled. We choked. We guffawed. We were not disappointed. Afterwards he answered a wealth of questions including. "Did you ever find out who was wiping themselves on the towels?" referring to his piece entitled "True Detective." For those of you who read it, yes he did. For those who haven't read it, I shan't spoil it.

Before signing the books he explained how he loves to go on book tours, but thought this time he'd shake it up. In the earlier dates, he brought a trained monkey who stole the show. This time he thought he'd ask for money. His bank card wasn't working, and although he could easily get money elsewhere he thought he'd put it to us folks. He pointed to the basket by his signing station. This was meant to be funny and cute, but I have to admit I found it rather obnoxious. Here's a man who owns a home in both France and England; who's 5 books are all bestsellers; who sells out every venue he shows up at. Maybe it's the fact that I am struggling to buy superglue to keep my car running, but I thought it a little, just a teensy weensy bit self centered to ask people to cough up more money just for sport. I apparently was a minority. People thought it was a gas and gave him money just for being himself. A woman, who had spent $20 to get there, and had bought four of his books, asked me "Oh, do we have to pay him to sign our books?" When I explained to her that he was just asking for it, she said, "OH! I can do that!" She gave him a five dollar bill. At the end of the day, Graham told me he cashed out at over $150.

All this is to say that despite my distaste for this one particular gimmick, it didn't stop me from buying two books and waiting almost FOUR HOURS to have him sign them. When I finally got up face to face, I decided to ask HIM for a favor. I asked him if he could find me a job in New York. People laughed, but he was nonpulsed. He asked me what I did, and when I told him I was a musician, he asked how old I was. When I told him, he said seriously, "You're going to do great there." I almost wept. "REALLY?" I said. "Oh, yeah." he assured me, "Because you know what you're doing. You've played before, you know what you're getting into. Some people go too soon. They go when they're 22, but you're going at the perfect age." He explained that he was 33 when he went, and it was the right thing to do. He signed my book and I was on my way, dizzy with affection--or was it dehydration and hunger? Who knows, I'd been there for 5 and a half hours. When I stepped aside and opened the book, it read: "To Summer, we're all so proud of you, David Sedaris." I laughed out loud and went home to get ready for my show. It was pass the hat and I wasn't ashamed this time to ask for tips.

Wealth

I am absolutely exhausted and wrung out. Since Graham's arrival, I haven't done a single thing that helps the ol' balance of mental health, like sleep at regular hours, and write in my journal every morning. For a few days there I was thinking that I could live on love, and you know, I could. But it all starts creeping up on you. Today I had an absolute whine fest to my friend Jen about my bare bone necessities only finances and my yearning. This is what she wrote:

i know it sucks not to have money... - i've been there - but i think it's important also to recognize (and i'm sure you do, by the way - this is more me just expressing my artist-envy) ...to recognize the RICHNESS and value of your other life. the life that doesn't have anything to do with just-getting-by and trying-to-make-things-work -- the life whose structure was fabricated by a government and civilization that wants more, more, more. you have riches that endure - sounds cheesy when i say it this way, but honestly - i've said it before: making money in cubeworld is such an easy way out. and you are steadily progressing toward a life in which you are going to make money - have plenty - doing what you love to do, expressing whats in your heart. that is gold, my friend. and the work you're doing now & have been doing all your life -- all the painting, writing, reading, songwriting,e tc. -- is bringing you exactly where you need to be to live the life you've imagined and that I DREAM OF. you are so rich. i just want you to know that.

It almost made me cry. I'm so dang rich in friends too. I know that's the most friggn' cheesy thing I can say here, but give me a break--I exhausted, and besides, it was so beautiful and surprising to get a message like that. We need these believing mirrors, folks. If Jen had a wb site (hint, hint Jenny Sue!), you would know that she makes beautiful bags and occasionally paints, and has a mouth watering sense of style.

I'm lucky because two of my favorite painters are also two fo my friends:

My beautiful friend Kai, posted an entry today about making dolls that drove me crazy with desire!

Above is one of my favorite paintings by my dear friend Alida. I like it because it's called 'Sugar Addict.' I like it because it is a self-portrait. I like it because there are not enough paintings of Hostess Chocolate cupcakes.

A new set of eyes

If there are three things I could express to people who are wanting to be more creative, or are needing inspiration, it would be these 3 things:

1. Do the Artist's Way by Julia Cameron
2. Participate in National Novel Writing Month
3. Drive across America.

I've done the first item once all the way through; 3 other times, stopping short at various stages.

The second task, I've done twice--completing a novel both times. I am currently working on the 2nd draft of the 2nd novel.

The third task, I've done 4 times. Twice it has been some of the greatest experiences I'll ever have. Once was a blur of marathon driving, that meant nothing. The last time was like a long stranglehold that left me battered and physically wrecked. When people ask me why I am not driving this time I answer, "Believe me, I've seen the beauty that is America, and I don't need to experience it again."

The last time I moved from the East Coast to California, I had very little money and 7 years worth of stuff. My car of 10 years died the week before I left. I freaked out, wrote a note to the universe that said simply, I NEED A CAR--PLEASE HELP! and stuffed it in my wishjar. The next day I was told of a Saab for sale for $125.00. I had it checked out and bought it that same day. I sold 1/3 of my books, and put the rest in storage. I left my bookcases, my futon, and some other items with my ex-fiance. The rest was given away or stuffed into my new car. It was the end of June. My new car had snow tires, no air conditioning and no back view, because of the amount of things crammed into the backseat. I should have known what kind of trip this was going to be when, on the way out of Boston, I decided to have one last look at Sylvia Plath's childhood home, and wound up stuck in construction traffic for 3 hours in 90 degree heat.

First of all, I was driving by myself. I tend to be a nervous nelly, and every story of a girl dead in some motel room came with me as I headed out on the highway every day. This fear made me drive marathon 14 hour days. When I stopped in Kentucky to see my friends Eric & Betti, I promptly got insomnia. It was also the middle of summer and the car I was driving was BLACK for pete's sake. I got heatstroke outside of St. Louis, and had to do an emergency stop in Kingsville, Missouri (MISERY, I like to call it). I called my mom crying and throwing up and when she asked me where I was, I discovered I couldn't read. Finally, I was able to calm down enough to hear her tell me to get into a lukewarm shower to get my body temperature down. She then wisely forced me to go to her relatives' in Kansas City the next day, where I recuperated for 4 days. I bought tapes by David Sedaris, which helped the next 18 hours go by. I was getting heat stroke again, when I pulled into my mother's home in Sonoma, California in the second week of July.

I might have scared you off from driving across the country, but here's the thing--look at all the material I have! It was one of those markers in my life, for better or for worse, that I'll remember forever. It taught me so much about myself, and more about this country, and the cures for heatstroke than I ever thought I would need to know. I also didn't mention that there were moments of beautiful discovery: fireflies in Cincinnati, the purple light off of the Salt Lake in the evening, seeing the town where my grandmother grew up, and the hospital building where my mother was born. Road trips are the stuff of life changes and you never know what you're going to get. That's what journeys will undoubtedly create for you: a new set of eyes. I swear you'll never see anything the same again.

[PS Also, one of the most amazing things that happened on that trip and after was I lost a journal along the way. This has never happened to me and I felt very bereft and scared and vulnerable. There were many paintings and drawings I had done during my trip in it and I couldn't figure out what had happend to it. About a month after I returned, I got an e-mail from a man in Michigan, who was on a x-country trip with his family, when he spied the book on the ON RAMP outiside Denver, CO! My e-mail address was on the front page. He saw immediately that it was special and wanted to return it to me. It was one of those moments where I felt utterly grateful and amazed by all the magic in the world]

Is anybody out there?

I'm having one of those days where I am looking at the computer and thinking IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? Maybe it's because I am feeling particularly fried since I have had insomnia the last few nights. Or maybe it's because the brakes on my car decided to fail yesterday and I just don't have a dime to put into that lemon anymore. Or maybe it's because I have a sore throat and a show coming up on Saturday. My phone don't ring and there ain't any e-mail in my in box, except LEARN TO PLEASE HER and DIRTY WIVES.

It must be monday.

Quick! I've got to list some good things from this weekend and today before I drown in self pity:

1. Graham cracks me up every single night.
2. The sight of flowers in the garden.
3. A show coming up this Saturday.
4. I am going to see David Sedaris read on Saturday
5. Fantastic party thrown by my housemates, with open mic performances that blew my socks off. Seriously, you need to throw one of these parties. It was potluck--and the great thing about living in Santa Cruz are potlucks. New Age hippies may not get sarcasm, but they KNOW HOW TO COOK! Also, for those of you who take art very seriously (me included), it is so great to have people singing, reading, dancing in your own livingroom. Skip the middleman! Have entertainment in your own home.
6. I went to the Pride parade here yesterday (my first) and had such a blast. I loved the drag queens and the colorful amazing people that showed up. My friend Todd was a jellyfish--it RULED.
7. I read Julia Cameron's new book, and discovered what I already knew: You may go looking for an answer in someone else, but ultimately you have to do the work.

Hope you all are having a better monday. If not, get thee to your lists!

Keeping the Channels Open

It's Friday and lately I've been getting more spam than ever. Some with the worst subject lines EVER. They get through my meager spam blocker by adding letters to the spelling of certain verbs or even getting creative, Avril Lavine style, by adding numbers, as in "Sk8ter Boi." My favorite subject line for a spam I received was "FREE COCAINE!" I laughed out loud when I got it. I thought of the poor sap who saw that in their inbox and said, "You mean it??" Aw, yeah!

When I checked in with my e-mail this morning, the usual momentous amounts of mail were waiting for me. I went through and marked them all as spam, and then found one shining true e-mail waiting for me. ONE SINGLE GLOWING E-MAIL in a sea of pharmacy offers, and viagra excitement, and Summer, Increase your penis size. It was from one of those friends that I think is hilarious, and I think actually thinks I am kind of funny, but we have never made a go of it beyond that. One of those friends, who you might have built forts with, or started a well respected indie band with if the circumstances had prevailed. He moved to Oregon, and might have read my blog (hi Filofax!), and sent me this very very beautiful quote that has been often writ in internet blogs of creatives. It's that quote by Martha Graham that talks about your life force, and just letting it come, not questioning it. I've read it many times and every time something else gets me. This time the last lines hit me: It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.

Dang it! ANOTHER thing that tells me: Let go, you damn fool! You're holding on white knuckle tight, and there's nothing to do about it! If you let go, you will find you are ALREADY doing your job!

And so here we are, wading through the usual spam, the CRAP, the shit that fills the inboxes of our minds. If there is one message that can come through, one GLOWING GOLD, TRUTH that can make it through, I think we are still winning.

Tell me something I don't know

Today is Marilyn Monroe's birthday. She would have been 79. Everybody has an idea about her--the very image of her creates clouds of ideas and/or opinions in most people's minds. That's what it is to be an icon. The face relates more than the person.

Here are some things you might not know:

She owned a set of yellow pots and pans.
She read On the Road by Jack Kerouac and Ulysses by James Joyce.
When a club owner in New York wouldn't let Ella Fitzgerald perform in his club, because she was black, Marilyn made a deal with him that she would come every single night she performed there. He took her up on it, and Ella was able to break the racial line.

I wonder about all the quiet things that are in us all. Things that you can't tell just by looking at someone. The things that will not get noticed, but somehow make us more human.

I'm inspired by this entry today.

and this very brave lady.

Also, Lucinda Williams. She was blocked for SIX YEARS. She made one of my favorite albums of all time.

Also, by the fact that Graham is coming in from New York tonight. This is it. We are no longer a long distance relationship. Halle-frickn'-luja!