Hi my name is Summer. I am a chick and I blog.

First of all, I want to give the internet a GIANT HUG. I was in a freak out mode yesterday (not the first, and seriously, not the last) and some peeps out there generously gave me words of wisdom and shared some of their tales of moving frustration/disaster. I don't think I am the greatest creative blogger type, because I LOVE hearing so much about the mess. So much of the time the public side of ourselves is so pressured to be a perfect like a poetic paragraph. I love it when we can share the mess, the disaster, the great green gobs of our lives. We do the best we can, and sometimes the fit hits the shan anyway. So thank you to you all for your support and stories. I'm not alone, and niether or you--that's what blogging is all about, right?

Speaking of which...

I am liking some of the debate about blogging being a chick thing. Thank you to Stephanie who reminded me of Jeff Pitcher's great blog, Above the Orange Trees. I went through a phase of reading him A LOT. I think Jeff might be the blogging world's first hearthrob. He is a gifted musician, writer, adventurer, and activist. He also married THE GREAT Keri Smith, which means he has brains.

And let's not forget Danny Gregory! Or DJ Blurb!

Here's the thing about my friend, Pete: Of all my friends, he is someone who would write A GREAT blog. He is funny as hell, and passionate about indie music. Everytime I see him he has a verbal essay about the latest genius music he's been into. That doesn't even cover all the millions of song projects he is working on. The world deserves HIS genius. I told him so, and that's how we got to the "blogging is a chick thing." I know there is a blog with Pete written all over it. I googled "indie rock boy blog" and got some blogs I think might seriously inspire him.

And in the end, does it really matter at all? If it's a dominantly female thing, then it just means that the people who are a large part of this medium, this movement, happen to be female voices. It doesn't lessen the impact or the meaning we all derive from it. It doesn't make the words that you spill any less important, or needed, or impacting.

Feeling a little Uptight

For those of you who haven't moved across the country:

1. It's FRIGGN' EXPENSIVE.
2. It's also SCARY AS HELL.
3. Expect periods of time when your heart feels like a big sack of RAIN. The tears come easily, for things you can't quite name, and for others, you don't want to.
4. Even if you have the sweetest, smartest, most handsome boyfriend on the planet, who cooks you eggs and bacon, and buys you coffee, you still are prone to moments of frustration that HE DOESN'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH ANY OF THIS CRAP.

I'm 6 days away from moving, and now the financial part of THE MOVE is kicking in. My car hasn't sold. I saw that my guitar looked a little sick in the neck, and so I was brave and took it to the guitar doctor this morning, who promptly told me there was nothing to be done for less than $700. It's my dad's Martin that he has owned since 1964. He has written all of his songs on it, been married twice, had 3 children during its ownership. It has paint splatters on it from some of his paintings. He gave it to me when my old guitar ate it last year. I don't care how much it is worth monitarily, it is PRICELESS to me. Yet, where the heck am I going to come up with SEVEN HUNDRED SMACKERS?

Then there's the shipping company. It's gone up almost $200, and I don't know about you, but I feel a little scared by giving my credit card number to individuals I don't know, and won't see. I have a vague image of goblins shrieking with the info, and cackling into the night.

Well, in times like these I must seek out a pleasure. Mary Poppins was right about that spoon full of sugar theory, because all I can see right now are spoon after spoon of the worst medicine there is.

Must. Think. Good. Thoughts. Always. On. Your. Way. To. A. Miracle. Right? Please say a prayer for me. I think I need it.

Here's a Topic.: Blogging is a Chick Thing. Discuss...

So right in the middle of one of my good bye gatherings on Friday night, my friend Pete made the following statement: Blogging is a chick thing. As in, guys don't blog or read blogs. It kind of startled me. Is this true?? I quickly scanned my own evidence. The blogs I read are all by women. There's a reason for this--I am a woman and have always had a predominate interest in the process of women's lives. I know of some blogs by men--two. I don't regularly read them, because I'm too obsessed with the question of the female experience in today's world (otheriwse known as my life).

There are men blogging out there, right? Also, if Dooce is any indication, men are reading blogs. She has broken all records of the amount of people who read blogs, and a lot of them are guys. I know, because she used to get a BAJILLION comments a day (before she took down the comments), and many of them were from guys. Still, I don't have many men friends who read blogs.

I pose it to you, the few who read my blog: So what do you think? Is it true? Is it just a chick thing?

I protested to Pete, because I hate broad sweeping comments about gender preferences, but I seriously had to pause and think. He said, "You're going to write about this in your next blog entry aren't you?"

"You damn right I will!" I said. He grinned in utter victory--but who's reading this right now, to see if I did indeed pose the question? I'll bet it's YOU, PETE! Sucka!

A place to land and people to call

I am back from a whirlwind trip of educational home hunting in NYC. The weather was like a dog's mouth--hot and breathy. Graham and I arrived Sunday morning in NYC, bleary eyed from a delayed red eye, during a torential rainstorm, thanks to the outskirts of the hurricanes. Heat & humidity we'd planned on, but not raging rain, thunder, & lightening. Regardless, we made it to my friend Nate's apartment, and gratefully passed out for about 4 hours. Later, we emerged, feeling like chocolate bars left out in the heat--a little too soft to do anything with.

The next day we spent the day going back & forth from the cool library of the City University, calling and checking e-mails, to hot apartments in Brooklyn. We saw one apartment we liked, and another we didn't. Both seemed a little remote. We learned right away the difference between Williamsburg and EAST Williamsburg. One is as cute (or as annoying)as Drew Barrymore, with a personality to match. Another is remote with crumbling buildings and overhanging subway lines. We saw my dream apartment, but it was in the middle of nowhere, and a long walk through a sketchy neighborhood to get there. Dang it!

With our time quickly draining, we decided to take the apatment we thought was okay. It's a little further out than I wanted to be, but it's 15 minutes away from the Drew Barrymore neighborhood, and 25 minutes from Union Square. In NY terms, this is pretty good. Also, it's a spacious two bedroom, which means we will have an office/studio! I am THRILLED about this. A real work space! Yahoooey!

After we signed the lease, I was feeling anxious and scared, and we were walking in Union Square, when I heard my name being called. I turned around and it was an old friend of mine, I hadn't seen in TEN YEARS! I couldn't believe it! It was so great to see him, and to find out about another friend of mine that I had let slip through the years. He looked great. We quickly traded life stories and phone numbers. It's really strange to see someone after ten years and they know a bunch of stuff about you thanks to your web site! I took it for the sign that it was, that it's OKAY!

So now I am back here in California, scared to bits. I got a lot of packing ahead of me. At least I got a place to land and some people to call when I get into town. If that ain't seeds to a life, I don't know what is.

Nor here nor there

Transitional periods are very odd, very powerful times. I forgot about that part of moving to another place. They are a little bit magical, a little bit unnerving. All your relationships get hyper real--like they are in technocolor. It's like a shift in your universe allows for things to happen that wouldn't normally happen. First, you get things done that you've been putting off forver--like cleaning your closets and returning items (I have a going away party planned in just over a week, and I will bring with me a sack of things to give back to people that I've been borrowing for a couple of years--books, CDs, sweaters, etc.).

Then, there are the people around you who suddenly share things with you, that never would have normally. Upon hearing that I was moving to New York and planning a subsequent tour, a very hard nosed guy I work with, who I thought hated my guts, shared with me that he'd been wanting to figure out where he was going in his life. He wanted to go on a "vision quest" in the desert to explore what he was meant to do. I wish him well.

Three long lost friends have contacted me, and people who I consider far flung friends have started to knock on my door. Others have begun disappearing entirely. I could get hurt or mixed up or really excited, but there's too much other crap I am trying to juggle. I have never lived so much in the present as I am right now. If I think too far ahead in the future, I'll hyperventalate. I leave on Saturday for a house hunting trip in New York, but I feel like I am in complete denial. Me on a airplane in 48 hours? Like, I am so sure.

It's weird. I have 3.5 days left of my job. That's 3.5 days left of insurance, income, and most importantly, seeing my boss and friend, Julie daily. This is the kind of thing I just can't take in yet. If I did I would start crying my eyes out. Instead, I eat blueberries and yoghurt, cross items off my list, go to the next item on my list. Maybe I should add to it, "breathe," but how many times can you cross that off?

Closer They Are to Fine

Yesterday I had the great pleasure of seeing my friends Girlyman open for the Indigo Girls. I've known Nate since our Boston open mic days, and it was good to catch up and see my friends sing their hearts out. I had a moment while watching them on stage with the Indigo Girls sing and play on "Closer to Fine" where I felt so HAPPY for them. Tammy and Doris started their once vibrant duo act, Garden Verge, in college, inspired by the Indigo Girls. Now they were on stage with those two women they listened to in their dorm rooms, singing what has got to be the most sung song on the planet. Anyone who has ever had a dream of singing on stage--even for a moment--has belted this song alone, in the car, or in a room full of friends late at night with a guitar. Here they were peforming it with the artists who, years ago, made sensitive, powerful women's voices cool again. It was pretty sweet.

Later Nate and I went for a walk and talked about creativity and histories and all the stuff that life is made of. We talked of an ex of mine, who we both knew way back when, who is rumored to be writing a book of his expereriences in a music scene. I laughingly told him how when I heard this rumor, I thought, I better not be f***ing in that book! He doesn't deserve to write about me! Then Nate said, "Yeah, but then what if you're NOT in it? You'd probably feel just as pissed--like where the f*** am I??" I laughed hysterically at the ego-centric truth of it! That was absolutely TRUE! Ha!

We talked about how everyone has gone on to their seperate paths. One person we knew is selling songs to big recording artists. The ex above is writing. Nate joined on with Tammy and Doris to form Girlyman, and are now doing really really well. Me, I am making calendars, and moving to New York, and planning a tour (just to see what sticks). I remember when we were all so hell bent on one particular path, and that was it. It's been hitting me lately how life just isn't so direct as we all think it is. It's a zig-zag, connect-the-dots sort of life. When it is all said and done, what picture will emerge, I wonder?

I got to meet the Indigo Girls themselves, who were sweet, funny women. Emily was wearing a Pretenders t-shirt and we bonded on how frickn' awesome Chrissie Hynde is. I think I have a crush on Amy, who is gorgeous in person, and who rocks a mandolin to its splintered bones. Moments later, we sang happy birthday to Turtle, the merch gal, and ate incredible mocha cake. It was the best rendition of "Happy Birthday" I've ever heard, complete with harmonies by voices I remember hearing years ago on a boom box in my college dorm. This was years before I picked up a guitar, and ever sang in public. I never thought I could sing, but when a certain song came on--you know the one--I belted it, just for the fun of filling my lungs with a good song.

Mentors

Yesterday I got very inspired by drinking a big cup of coffee and listening to a Fresh Air interview with one of my heroes, Tom Waits. All these ideas were spinning around in my head. I like a lot of artists--of all mediums--but only a few of them get my heart & mind turning cartwheels. Tom Waits is one of them. He is one of the best songwriters--writers--we'll ever have the pleasure of experiencing in this weary world. I loved hearing what he liked about songs: "I've always loved beautiful melodies that told me terrible things." I was so inspired, I decided to go with it, and write all the things down that were coming to me.

All this got me thinking of artistic mentors. Natalie Goldberg believes that the writers that we love most, that we pour over, are also our mentors. SARK calls them Creative Companions. They are the artists that nudge us along, that light a little fire under our sleeping hearts. I have gone through phases of carrying specific artists with me. The real deep ones come with us as we walk out the door.

It made me think about what specifically certain "mentors" have given me. I thought about Sylvia Plath, who has travelled with me since I was 17. She taught me that life is to be described, and everything is utterly useful. Every experience is a picture to be written down and felt. She also taught me that you are your own history to be culled and explored. You are your own mythology. Despite her suicide, and therefor her reputation of depressive poetry, her very real zest for life is just as commanding, if not more, in her journals. They have urged me on for 15 years.

I could name others: Lynda Barry, Bruce Springsteen, Liz Phair, Herge, Harper Lee...each one has given me a little creative money to make my way in the world with. Each one continues, at different times, to give me answers or a new way out.

These are some of the things I wrote down after the Tom Waits interview:

drink coffee & write about it-- eat ham& eggs & orange juice. Look out on the streets and watch storm clouds. Smoke cigarettes. Or just pretend. With red lipstick. You are your own best character. Be a character in a sideways hat.

It might not makes any sense to you, but it sure showed me something. Think of your mentors, your creative companions. Think about why they matter so much to you, and then you'll see how they have often been with you, their hats hanging on a hook by your door.

Evidence

How was your weekend? Mine was a delight. I went to Santa Barbara to visit with Graham's folks and to see his home town. I love getting autobiographical tours of people's hometowns. It's really a secret passion for me. Once I went to Long Island with my friend Kathryn (hi KGK!) and I loved seeing her neighborhood and getting pizza from her family's favorite pizza place.

Often, people kind of groan when I ask for a tour, but invariably they get into it. I think it's kind of like going to visit your family--it's a mixed bag to go back to places you grew up. You leave your hometown for a reason, right? What I love to see are the personal landmarks that tell people's stories. Once on these tours, the people who are leading often get excited themselves. I think it's because we so often doubt that we have lived any life at all, and once we discover we have, we can't get enough.

Graham drove me all over Goleta and into Santa Barbara. He showed me the route he walked to elementary school, and his high school, and his junior high. He also showed me where he would go fishing with his dad, and where his favorite job was. We also went on a long walk down a bike path, and pointed out various spots for particular childhood experiences. He showed me the underpass where bats roost, and you can hear them peeping within the concrete. Note to self: bats smell like chickens, but sound CREEPY AS HELL. He showed me the old location of a gas station he used to work at, where he helped the crazy looking actor Christopher Lloyd. I loved every second of it.

Back a his childhood home, or as I like to call it, The Graham D. Parsons Honorable Library, I was assisted by the head curator, his mother, and got to view all his baby pictures and childhood photos. It drove Graham a little nuts, but I couldn't get enough. I loved knowing where he had come from, and what he looked like. I loved knowing that he had a bowl cut just like me and everyone I know at one point in his life. I loved that his favorite toy as a baby was a big plastic apple that chimed with bells. It ruled.

Secretly, I think he kind of got into it. He said later, "I didn't realize, I was such a BOY." I tell you, this stuff matters. The things we don't notice about ourselves are really important. It's the evidence that we have lived.

For those of you who are cringing in sympathy for Graham, don't worry, when the time is right, I'll let him look at the all the pictures of me as a flower child on a commune, wearing only what God gave me. I'll watch his face crack up at all the soccer photos, and prom pictures I've been storing up. They're from the 80's, and although I never had big hair, the dresses were big enough. Let me tell you, so are the stories.

Just Say 'Okay.'

These last couple of days have been a bit softer around the edges and you'd be surprised at the very real miracles that have occured since letting go a bit.

Last night was Thursday with Jenny Sue. Late in the visit we sat crying over our favorite movie scenes and sharing a hot fudge sundea. Jen shared her favorite moment of the movie Eternal Sunsine of the Spotless Mind. At the end, the two characters discover that they have a history, and are faced with their own continuing limitations. It seems impossible--how could it work between them? She lists all the things that they both do: She gets bored in relationships, he blames. His answer to her and to the problems she poses: "Okay." Okay to the limits, the apparent impossabilities. Okay to all of it, despite the stumbling blocks. Okay, anyway. There is never a perfect answer, but we say okay anyway, because the crap doesn't go away, but we have choices. So say okay, inspite of everything you see in your way. Say okay, because you simply want to.

Have a great long weekend.