Have you Googled yourself lately?

A couple of weeks ago I walked into a crowded room and heard one woman loudly say to another woman, “Omigawd, you don’t Google yourself? I TOTALLY Google myself!” I had to laugh, because yes, I,too TOTALLY Google myself! It’s one of those things I didn’t think you could be openly admit, kinda like lip syncing 80's songs into the mirror, pretending you are in a movie. I mean people DO that, right? Yet, you wouldn’t want anyone CATCHING you doing it (not like I do this).

Apparently, it’s open season: You can freely Google yourself!

Since I have a name “Summer” that is commonly used word, it sometimes gets a bit overwhelming. After the initial obvious things, like my web site and blog, I get stuff like this: “...Summer, Pierre’s legs were killing him...” And another, “...summer, Pierre’s chocolates...” Somewhere there’s a whole story on how Pierre spent his summer, but I don’t have time to see HIS story! I wanna know if I am OUT THERE.

Once I found out that a 19 year old girl in Australia had a personal website, mostly devoted to the band, Hanson. In her “I like Music” section, she had cited as her favorite music, “Hanson, Bob Dylan, Fiona Apple, and Summer Pierre.” And this is when I only had a TAPE out. I was THRILLED.

Today I decided to go past page 3 and go out into the FAR REACHES of my Google Search. I went ALL THE WAY, people. To page 16! What I discovered was very surprising. There’s stuff out there from 1998! Not only did I find out what some fellow performers thought of me back in 2000, Ina May Wool called me a “polished and entertaining singer.” (Thanks Ina–you’re not so bad yourself!), but I found out the REAL opinion of my CD from one of my co-workers from my last job. She told me that it was great and she was really enjoying it. In her blog, however, she recommends it on the glowing report that: It’s not that great, but if you like indie singer songwriters, check it out!

Oh, the salesmanship! Oh, well that was on page 15, deep in the recesses of a Google search. I don’t think Billboard is checking her opinions out, so I should be safe.

Also there is an artist– I think an illustrator–who’s name is either Pierre Summer, or the title of their art is “Summer Pierre.” I couldn’t quite tell, it was mostly in Japanese.

I still can’t get over the “It’s not so great...” opinion. Okay, I didn’t TWIST her arm–she ASKED ME for my CD. So THERE! Okay, I’ll let it go–-but beware of where you go in Googling yourself. Next time, I think I’ll just be happy to read about Pierre and his summer, where he had chocolates and his legs ached.

Be a Little In Love with Your Life

Why is it that every time I commit to one creative project, another one wants to start blooming? The minute I’ve committed myself to writing everyday, now I just want to draw and do more art. The same thing happened when I was elbow deep in completing the Great Gals Calendar for 2006. I was entrenched in doing it, and all I wanted to do was write. I am wondering if I should just fully commit to something knowing that I am committing to something else wanting to wiggle through the soil. Maybe THAT’S how my muse works! Oh, well, the minute I’ve figured her out, I am sure she will become elusive again.

That being said, I have rediscovered Camilla Engman’s blog, which is simple and mostly just pictures and other inspired links. I actually fantasize about having the life she depicts in her blog–days spent doing art and sending and receiving art to ; walking her adorable dog; and eating delicious food. That’s not so hard to achieve, right?

I’m also recently obsessed with the illustrator Peter Arkle, who lives in the East Village. I want to stand outside his apartment like a superfan and throw Pentel markers at him. His work looks deceptively simple, but it is rich with his life and observations. Isn’t that what great art is– rich observations? I think as an artist you have to be a little in love with your life–even if you’re miserable. Anne Sexton was in love with her misery, and made great poems from it. Chagall was in love with the romance of his life, and painted such great pictures of his wife, of the view from their window, of their friends, and interests.

Lately, I’ve wanted to draw pictures of coffee cups, and make postcards of things that I think about. I’ve also wanted to make my OWN poster of How to Be an Artist. It would go something like this:

Make Mixed Tapes. Take Lots of Road Trips Across the Country. Fall in Love. A Lot. Watch the Sunrise. Believe in Ghosts. Rediscover Mystery. Read Widely. Bake Pies. Keep a Journal. Have Ideas About Yourself then Lose Them. Write Letters. Pretend You Are In a Movie.

and yes, Be A Little In Love With Your Life.

What would your poster look like?

The Great Gals Calendar 2006 will be available next month for purchasing. I am hoping to figure out by then how to get images up here so you can see for yourself what I’ve worked so hard on. 12 portraits & bios and birthdays every single day of the year. VERY exciting.

Anywhere USA

I came home last night on the verge of being grumpy. It was an interesting state to be in, to watch myself hover on the brink of being in a bad mood, but not quite be in a bad mood. The subway has been intense this week—very packed, very smelly, and very slow. I’m not sure quite what has created the change, but there’s more people this week, and it’s not as fun to ride in. Last night I had a guy give up his seat for me—or so I thought—until I sat down in a sticky smudge. I didn’t know what to do: leap up in disgust or sit there in a “I meant to do that” pose, and stay in it. I did the half-way thing. I sat at the lip of the seat, where the smudge was not so evident, and pretended not to notice people eyeing me. I came home to Graham, who greeted me with a huge smile and made me two quesadillas. It saved me from grumble city.

I think what also is contributing to my bad mood is that I’ve been having that feeling that I could be anywhere in the world, being closed up in an office environment. It’s been good to go back to work, to feel like a citizen, with a regular life, but I’m realizing that offices look and feel the same no matter where they are located. Once inside the building, people come in, with the same cups of Starbucks they would in Cincinnati, or Santa Cruz for that matter. Last night it dawned on me that I’ve been missing New York. I’ve been missing the New York I started out knowing. I missed walking and going into neighborhoods just for the heck of it. I missed the wildness of that exploration and the easiness of discovering an infamous town. The only thing I’d really been able to see and experience the last ten days was the long subway commute, the rush down the 1, 2, 3 path and the different people that crowd into the small spaces.

I also feel dirty a lot. I feel like showers don’t matter. I’m a clean letter going into a grimy envelope. The sticky bum aside, I feel covered by schmutz.

So today at the brilliant suggestion of Graham, we met for lunch on the upper west side. It’s helped A LOT. Today, it is gorgeous in Manhattan, in the 70’s, with pure blue skies, and puffs of clouds dotting the horizon. It’s one of those days where you look up at the buildings and the sky looks close enough to touch. We ate pizza on Amsterdam Ave., and then walked the neighborhood, admiring the gorgeous buildings and their ornate stonework of ivy and dragon heads. Ah, yes! It felt good to remember the world. I’ll be sure to also look out for sticky seats on my way home.

Inspiration Addict

I’ve been trying my hand at prose again. I wrote a first draft of a novel awhile ago, and have decided–through the inspiration of meeting so many great women writers of late–to finish a solid second draft. Well, it took a lot of reading about writing, inspiration reading, research about writers and their stories before I realized that I needed to just sit down and friggn’ write. Oh, the horror!

Hi my name is Summer. I am an inspiration addict.

There are worse things to be addicted to, true, but I realized it was a way to distract myself, to stop me from DOING THE WORK, I so longed to do. I already know all the tools: 3 pages of extreme of consciousness writing first thing in the morning (Julia Cameron), 1000 words a day or two hours of revision (Carolyn See), write really crappy first drafts (Anne Lamott), trust first thoughts (Natalie Goldberg), Go for a long walk (Brenda Ueland), etc, etc. I know it ALL by heart.

It not only means sitting down and writing–the very IDEA of it makes you excited, right?-- it also means sitting down and writing INSPITE OF all the noise in my head that says: you know what you need? You need a big cup of coffee; Your name is going to look GREAT on the New York Times Best Seller List; Wait, before you begin, maybe you need to read more inspiration; Boy, you’re really awful, this is really awful, do you even KNOW what you’re doing? Maybe you ought to check in with Natalie Goldberg before you continue, etc. I’m tired. Etc.

I wrote down a list of things I want to do before the age of 40, and writing a novel was one of them. I know most of you have these large longings like I do, to be creative, but secretly, we want to do something creatively GREAT. What I’ve been faced with the last week is that there is a little true voice in my head that points to the-novel-written-by-me, like an oasis in the distance. The voice says: you see that over there? It’s the place you always dreamed of going, and you can absolutely go there, but here’s the trick: you have to walk there by yourself and never waiver.

Then I get up, and it’s like both feet are asleep from sitting in a bad position, and it’s hard to walk. It’s like I’ve got two water balloons filled with wet cement for feet. It takes effort and concentration. It’s frustrating and scary mainly because I used to know how to walk very well. I’m not breaking any new ground by saying, the trick is to do it anyway. Dang!

So, what I’ve decided to do is two things:

1. Show up and write 1000 words a day no matter what. I am willing to be bad and be a beginner, to walk with the sloppy feet for awhile.

2. Put away the inspiration books. They are beautiful and wonderful books, but I am ready to start trusting that I have healed enough to try again on my own.

As Annie Dillard says, “How we spend our days, is how we spend our lives.” I didn’t even have to look it up, I memorized that long ago. I want to spend my days writing and drawing and playing music. So what’s stopping you? I swear there is nothing between you and your desk, but air (Summer Pierre).

A Night of Poetry, Power, and Protest, But I Am Too Busy Worrying About Popularity Contests

This post should be about how Friday’s event was inspired. It was inspired, filled with gorgeous poetry and impassioned readings and good vibes. Alas, I am not going to “rise above” certain pettiness, and you’ll have to forgive me if I gripe a little.

When the event began, Sharon Olds stood up and everyone gave her a standing ovation. There was a row of seventeen poets behind her, sitting upright and proud, like an army or a mafia family. It was like their presence was saying, “Yo! Sharon! We got your back!” They were there to speak of convictions and to do it through images and metaphors. They were there to represent! Then Olds made a surprising introduction. She said that there was a last minute addition to this evening’s program. Just the night before she was on the phone with Mary Louise Parker, and she asked her, “Oh, is there a poem you would like to read?” And yes, of course, she would read a poem. So, proudly Sharon Olds gave the stage over to her friend, the actress Mary Louise Parker, who came up on stage and read Jorie Graham’s poem, “Nebraska.”

Okay, you’re going to have to forgive this petty, envious girl in me, when I say, WHAT THE HECK?? Why do movie stars get to be friends with everybody cool? Why do they get special treatment? Why does Mary Louise Parker–a beautiful woman, I might add, and apparently very serious about her craft–get to A) be friends–talk on the phone friends(!)–with my favorite living poet, and B) get to step in front of all these poets, who were called to arms for this event, and read somebody else’s poem?

I think my celebrity excitement evaporated at that moment. I will admit I was totally jealous that she is IN with Sharon Olds, but I also don’t like that just because she is a movie actress, we’re all supposed to make like the Great Sea and part for her.

Yesterday, my friend Michael, who waits tables at a slightly trendy restaurant, said that if a celebrity shows up, they will remove people from tables to give it them. Even if the regular joe had reserved the table for his birthday, they will give he and his guests a free drink and tell them to shoo. More IMPORTANT customers are afoot, buddy! WHO CARES if its YOUR birthday, are you on the cover of People Magazine? I didn’t think so--SCRAM.

I just don’t like it. What makes them so exceptional? Sure, it’s fun to recognize them, but it bothers me that just because they are more visible than anyone, their presence in a room takes over and eclipses the importance of anyone else who is there. They may be gifted–and some of them are–but I maintain that they are artists of one medium, while the world is filled with artists who’s work is equally of importance and are probably getting kicked off of tables or relegated second in line to read because–GASP!–a celebrity is here!

Oh, well. This issue means nothing in the face of war or poverty or social injustice or death–all subjects that were rendered and discussed and sung on Friday night by eighteen poets of wonderful gifts. Also, Ms. Parker did a beautiful job reading the long and thick poem. As she stood up, she announced, “I am not a poet, but a poetry whore.” We laughed, an audience of Regular Joes, recognizing the truth in that statement about ourselves, that we too, were poetry whores, ready for some action.

Olds Country

It's friday! It's friday! It's friday! I feel like this last five days has been a month. I've had migraines for two days straight--yippeee---and as a result the sleeplessness has kicked in. Which came first, the sleeplessness or the migraines? Since one feeds the other, who knows?

ANYWAY, I am looking forward to the weekend, starting with this evening. Graham and I are going to see a night of writers, brought to CUNY by one of my favorite writers, Sharon Olds. It's called An RSVP to Laura Bush. Recently, Sharon Olds was asked to join a literature event, hosted by first lady Laura Bush. Her powerful response was recently published in The Nation (link via Kai).I gather she has brought together other writers, like Mary Karr and Katha Pollit, in response to this invitation. It's been a ten year dream to see Sharon Olds read, and I am really excited to be in the same room with this amazing poet, among so many others tonight.

In anticipation, I've been re-reading her work. She has the uncanny affect of making everything around you seem like poetry. I rode the subway this morning reading her, only to look up and see titles of poems everywhere. Among them, "The Woman Who Sits on her Hair," and "The Man with the Stained Pants."

Poems may be the best subway riding material--short and to the quick. The end of poems seemed always to be punctuated by the stops. I found myself welling up in tears just as we reached Times Square and 72nd street respectively.

As it is, I am happy to wake up tomorrow and get a break from such discoveries. I am looking forward to the slow waking up and the savoring of morning time in my own bed.

Have a great weekend.

Two Novels and a Guitar

I meant to say some things about the reading series, of which I partook in on Monday night. I raced to get to the Lower East Side from the Upper West Side and got lost (have I mentioned I am directionally challenged?) and was late. Graham was outside Mo Pitkins with my guitar. I gotta say, I know that I have boasted about how I am SO HAPPY that G. is not a musician, but the man looks GOOD with a ratty guitar case on Avenue A. I just gotta say it.

Because I do SO WELL with getting lost and being late, I ran upstairs to Leigh, who had offered the gig, and proceeded to act like a complete spaz. In one single breath I apologized a million times for being late and offered to not play if it was too late, because it was their first reading series, and man, was I sorry I was late, etc. late. etc. She looked at me as if she was going to say, "Do I know you?" but instead said, "It's okay! Go talk to the sound man."

It went fine. The best part for me, was to be in a room in New York, where people walked in a room and not only knew my name, but gave me a hug. Most of the women who came I had just met at the Old Girl's Club, and it felt so good to see them again. Felicia has pretty much killed all stereotypes I might have had that New Yorkers are harsh and stand-offish. She makes me feel like I have known her since we were thirteen, and used to bum cigarettes or tampax from her behind the girls' gym. She's incredibly warm and funny and generous. She said to Graham, "Oh, I've read so much about you!"

The readings were inspiring. Natasha Radojcic and Lisa Selin Davis were excellent. I listened to Lisa read from her new book and it made me realize that I really didn't know how to write and I better get to work. For my part, I felt a little like a thumb among a crowd of fingers. When I stepped up with my guitar, it felt like the audience was humming in their heads: One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just isn't the same... Yet, people said it was good and I even sold a CD. I had fun too. It WAS great to be playing one song, and to be among these great women who write and publish and are funny and smart and beautiful. I feel like I pulled a card of Chance and it said 'You have just met all the really cool people in New York, advance TWENTY SPACES!'

Graham and I left with a possible dinner plan with two new friends, fifteen bucks richer, and all the amazement that this town can provide.

R-e-s-p-e-c-t. Find out What it Means To Me

Welcome to day three of the newly employed me. I wish I could tell you about my job, because there is lots to tell, but I'm not willing to get fired on the off chance one of my many employers and associates reads such things. We're in a new world where after school talk is done more and more in public. So some things will have to be left, as they say, sacred.

I will tell you this: I am rediscovering that I am a morning person. I love getting up early. Don't get me wrong, it's HARD to get up when it is still dark out, but once I am up, I love it. I make coffee and watch the light come up and then I write. I did this a lot when Graham was still 3000 miles away, but let it go, because well, my boyfriend was back in my loving arms and then there's moving and life changes and who can be bothered to get up at 5 or 6 when all that is going on?

I have an hour commute, which I thought would drive me crazy, but so far it isn't a drag. I'm reading Grace Paley's short stories, and I am finding that they are PERFECT for the train rides. They are not that long, so interruptions aren't distracting, and they are set in New York, which sews me to both Paley's world, and my own. The other thing that I am realizing is that the subway can be a sort of theater for whatever wants to occur.

On my first morning, a couple boarded the L train and gave a very loud, bilingual, poetic and heartfelt plea for everyone on the train to come to Jesus Christ. Everyone around them was silent for a few stops. Towards the end of there sermon, people started shouting "Amen!" Then a young man started yelling at them that he didn't want to hear it and that it was illegal. The woman who had been prothelitizing called out to him, "I bless you, sir!" Which didn't go over well with young man, who started yelling louder. Then a man started yelling at him to "RESPECT, man! Why can't you just have respect!" So the young man started yelling back at him, "It's illegal!" The man yelled back at him, "What's the matter with you, man? Respect! You won't respect this Puerto Rican?" Then the Jamaican woman next to me started rolling in a loud voice: "RESPECT! RESPECT FOR WOMEN!"

It was quite a spectacle. Graham told me I should have just started yelling: "RECYLCLE! WE MUST ALL RECYCLE!" just to throw in some other form of indignation.

Maybe on the way home I'll see the acrobats I sometimes see, who do flips inside the moving train and who dedicate their performances each time to their landlord. Or maybe I'll just stick my nose in my book, and be transported by Grace's words.

Last Minute, Ten Minute Gig

Hey there folks! For those of you in New York, I will be playing a ten minute slot at this new, but sure to go down in legend reading series MONDAY NIGHT.

“The Reader’s Room,” co-hosted by Emilie Stewart and Leigh Newman, is every
Monday night at 7:00 pm at the brand new performance space on the second floor of the just-opened Mo Pitkin’s House of Satisfaction, 34 Avenue A, between 2nd & 3rd Streets.

This is the DEBUT EVENT, and it stars two excellent writers, Natasha Radojcic and Lisa Selin Davis, reading from their novels. I go on in between the two. There is NO COVER!

Please come if you can.

A New Beginning, Blogger Style

Well, I had this whole great blog entry, but it got erased and I don't know how to retrieve it! DANG!

Well, this IS certainly a new beginning. Geez, talk about the metephor for starting OVER. Thanks ALOT BLOGGER! It was a good post filled with QUOTES! and WISDOM! and more tales about FALLING ON MY FACE. But alas, it wasn't meant to be.

I will tell you this: Life is pretty good these days. I am loving New York and I am feeling like the last few days have been filled with ideas, new people, and a feeling of a new beginning. On Monday I start a day job that will last for 3 weeks. It has had a curious effect of inspiring the heck out of me. Money, security and a schedule has done wonders for my sense of creativity and time. I suddenly feel like a real citizen of New York! I will commute! I will get up before 8:00 am! I will be meeting new people WITHOUT Graham's help!

And then there is the tour. The aftermath feels like this: I approached a fear, went through the flames of sickening doubt and despair, and then peppered it with fun and friends. The result is that I want to tour again, and try even more. I feel this big weight lifted. I'm on the other side of the dreaded doubt. Unleash the parade! Throw confetti in the air! Let the chorus SING!

As Francine Prose says:

"You aim for what you want and if you don't get it, you don't get it, but if you don't aim, you don't get anything."

Amen to that. Amen

Home Again

I'm back in New York. I slept in my own bed last night, my belly full with Klong's pad thai, and my man by my side. It felt so good.

It was a hellish trip back--the red T line breaking down at Harvard Square due to some "police activity" at Charles MGH. They had us wait and then they told us to go upstairs to the waiting shuttle bus that would have us on our way. No bus in sight, the 100 or so people swarmed any bust they saw. Then we were directed to the side of Harvard Yard and about 25 people got on a bus, while the rest of us stood and cooked in the heat. More swarming of random busses ensued. Drivers frantically waving their arms and declaring: THIS ISN'T A SHUTTLE! Then an official came out and called: The subway's running again! So we all ran back underground like a pack of ants, dodging a storm. Only, WE were the storm. Then back onto a very crowded train, only to wait again until they "Got the OK." At this point, my arms were about to be pulled out of their sockets from my bag and HEAVY guitar case. I was dripping with sweat. I already had missed my bus. But when you're on a train, you ride until the end, so I let it go and just let it take me to South Station, late or not.

I took the next bus and fell asleep immediately. The ride was uneventful. Then I got into the city and I felt SO HAPPY to be back. I felt like I was home, which was a relief. Tonight I have plans to meet new people, and tomorrow I am having breakfast with my friend Pete. Life picks up, where I left off. Plans will be made, but not today. I am just so glad to be home.

The Little Tour That Could

Okay, how sad is this--it's almost 1:30am--I just drove back from Northampton and I am on my blog! I'll admit it, I wanted to see if anybody commented--especially Erica (!), who it was so GRAND to see last night.

Well, folks. I did it. The little tour that could is over. Tomorrow I get on a bus bound back to New York. I'm not sure how I feel about it all yet. Tonight was another odd mixture of feeling like I must be the most talentless hack and feeling like does it matter if I am a talentless hack. I talked to Graham on the way home tonight, and he said, "The important thing is, you did it." Which is true. I dared myself. Now what? We'll see.

Today was hot, but glorious. I drove early to Northampton and went on my Artist Date, by going to the Rare Book Room at Smith College, and looked at Sylvia Plath's original drafts and her heavily underlined dictionary. It was HEAVEN. I love seeing ink and handwriting and crossing out by someone who was an original and who remains a mentor for me.

Then I rushed off to University of Massachusetts, Amherst and spent a delightful half hour playing songs and being interviewed on WMUA (Hi Lee!). I was late. I got lost (of course). Then I found it. Why are college radio stations always in the basement? Is it because there is no light needed? Is it because the arty and the indie folks like not knowing what time of day it REALLY is? I don't know, but I can tell you this: I like doing radio. I like doing radio so much, that after leaving the campus, I was trying to figure out if I could go on a radio-only tour. It's very cosy and kind of a secret world, radio. The people behind th emicrophones are often nice and have soft voices. Then people call, and you feel like you are in a secret telephone to the whole world.

After the radio fun, I went back to Smith and just walked around the campus. Here's a secret: I have a secret fantasy of going to Smith. It's so old and has this GORGEOUS campus. Plus, it's all highly intellegent girls. I walked everywhere and found only young women talking to eachother and laughing, hugging books to their chests. I wondered what brought them to Smith. It seems like such a secret society. Not only did Sylvia Plath go to Smith, but so did Julia Child. Sure, it made sense in their day, but what drives young women today to seek out an all women school (besides the obvious answer)?

Well, it's WAY PAST my bedtime. More tomorrow, I am sure. Thanks for all your support, dear readers. Thanks for travelling with me this last week, as I chuffed along the hill, chanting I think I can I think I can I think I can...

Peanutbutter and Bread Fund

Let the horns sound out! I HAD A GREAT TIME LAST NIGHT!

Yes, it's true. I played the Milkyway in Jamaica Plain and there were people there to see me, and the open mic host actually introduced herself to me and asked if there was anything I needed. My friend Kathryn asked, "Did she read your blog?" Doesn't EVERYBODY? Ha!

It was a night beginning with nervewracking experience. Nathan was late coming home, so I opted to drive his car, with Coppelia to JP, and meet him there. Well, it had been 3 years since I'd driven in Boston and if you don't have a specific idea of how to get to a place--especially Jamaica Plain--it can get dangerously confusing. Coppelia, who has never driven in Boston, helped with directions and well, let's just say we went EVERYWHERE, BUT JAMAICA PLAIN. I was reminded at why people hate to drive in this city. Every road is haphazardly thrown together, like a Frankenstein of roads and highways, with no clear markings. We ended up at the Milkyway literally an hour later. In the meantime, we had been to Roxbury and the South End and then through Roxbury again, and by Fenway Park, and the Art museum. Nathan called us from the club wondering where the heck we were. Once on Huntington Ave., Coppelia lead the way with confidence, and we made our way.

I walked into a warm room, with old friends waiting at the tables and at the bar. They all greeted me with excitement and affection. Note to the world: THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU NEED AFTER DRIVING AROUND IN CONFUSED CIRCLES FOR AN HOUR. I got a chance to see my friend Erica (hi Erica!) that I hadn't seen in 9 years, which was so great. Kathryn had arranged a bunch of people from my old workplace, Partners In Health, to come.

Even though I forgot my EQ box, which totally aggravated the sound guy (don't ever aggravate the sound guy), I played my half hour set and it felt good. Afterwards an open mic participant came over to me and said, "You don't even make any mistakes!" I said, rather rockstar-ish, "Oh, I make mistakes! I am just so glad YOU don't see them!"

People signed my mailing list and I even sold CDs to people I knew and, get this, COMPLETE STRANGERS. Even Nancy, the host, bought one. She told me to add the money to my "Peanutbutter and bread fund." Boy, she doesn't know how true that is! Did I mention that I think she may be the best open mic host in the world?

As chance would have it, Nathan and Coppelia can't come to Northampton tonight, so I get to drive his car. I am sorry that they can't come, but am SO EXCITED to drive to Northampton. This means a road trip with me at the helm, listening to music and watching the skyline. It's my last date of this little tour. More adventure, hopefully more friends tonight, and more nickels in my pocket for a feast of peanutbutter and bread!

Little Girl Lost

It's suddenly got hot again and it feels gross and yucky. I had insomnia last night due to Stripey Cat howling at my hosts' bedroom door all night and visions of the scary bunny, Frank, from Donny Darko. Everyone I know has seen the movie Donny Darko and seem to like it for the most part. I seem to be the last person in my general peer group who have not seen it. So, since Nathan and Coppelia own it, I sprawled out on the futon and watched it. I liked it, but I am perplexed by the ending. To those who haven't seen it, don't worry, I couldn't give away the ending if I tried--to explain it would enttail a vague understanding, which I lack. Even so, let me go on the record about two things: one, okay, OKAY, I GIVE IN: Jake Gyllenhal is hot; two, Okay, OKAY, I GIVE IN: Drew Barrymore ain't good.

I don't know why, but I have this compulsion to like Drew Barrymore or defend her. Maybe it's her enthusiasm or her efforvescent humor. I also think that she is beautiful. Maybe it's the underdog in me, that likes the underdog in her. I mean, when I was a junior in highschool, she was on the cover of People Magazine, under the headline: Little Girl Lost. She lived a lifetime in her first 20 years than most of us would ever want to. Now, she's a Hollywood star, with her own production company. Yet, here's the thing: SHE IS NOT GOOD. I want her to be good, but she isn't and Donny Darko made me face it: I just don't believe her.

ANYWAY, in a few moments I'm off to play the Milkyway in Jamaica Plain--a club I have adored for years. They have a bar, GREAT Pizza, and BOWLING. How cool is that? Plus, all the cool punk bands I love have played there: Sleater-Kinney, Le Tigre, etc. Even though I am only an open mic feature, I still like the feeling that I will be playing a show where these very cool women have played. Also, I will see old friends.

I hope I will play myself into exhaustion, so that I sleep soundly, with no more visions of giant, scary bunnies, named Frank

Just Like Heaven

Good morning. I was just sitting here on this quiet Sunday morning, when I heard music coming from the neighbors' house. I tuned into it and realized it was Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road." Not a bad way to start a Sunday at all. No, sir.

I am wondering if anyone else on Blogger is missing icons for formatting your post. For the last few days I haven't had any ability to link or use bold or Italics. Any thoughts outs there? There are MANY links I've wanted to connect to and yet, alas, no buttons.

I think I had my best gig on the tour last night. My dear friend Eddy Dyer threw a shindig on a farm outside Lowell, Massachusetts. Eddy can never just put together a show, it has to be AN EVENT. There was potluck food, puppets from Bread and Puppet theater, tons of music, a guy who breathed fire, and...me. Very exciting. For being an outdoor event, people actually listened and clapped. I played my songs and watched horses at the top of the hill trot in their corral, and smelled the green green grass. Afterwards I ate DELICIOUS vegetarian potluck. The only thing lacking was s'mores at the end of the night around the bonfire.

Eddy is a gifted musician. I met him back in the years of open mics and have always been blown away by his incredibly positive attitude, his political passions, and his musical abilities. He has the face of a Cambell's Soup kid, and the dignified enthusiasm of someone who is there to support, and nevermind the other crap that trips us all up. He is a left handed guy, who can play a right handed guitar UPSIDE DOWN, no problem. He also does the BEST version of The Cure's "Just Like Heaven" on the mandolin. He did me the honor of playing it for me around the campfire last night, and the crowd sang every single lyric with such glee, it almost brought tears to my eyes. I thought, is this the song that we will be singing out in our 50's, 60's, and 70's? All of us kids from the eighties, who put it on mixed tapes, or heard it in the bedrooms of our best friends', or who wore black overcoats, will we be on our death beds and still cry out the opening lines:

'Show me show me show me how you do that trick, the one that makes me laughs,' she said, and threw her arms around my head. 'Show me how you do it, and I promise you, I promise you, I'll run away with you...I'll run away with you...'

God bless Robert Smith, God bless Eddy Dyer. You have given me a night to remember.

The Quality, NOT the Quantity

Well, it's another day in the life of a recovering musician/creative. I went to Connecticut last night in the back seat of my friend Nathan's car, listening to the haunting songs of Sufjan Stevens, and watching the lush landscape roll by. It's been a long time since I was a passenger of a car, watching the sky turn pink, and the haunting trees of New England buzz by.

I played Jitters Coffee house in Southington, CT last night. We were late because of traffic and distance and arrived breathless to an empty house. Eventually a man came in and sat down (Hi Norm!) and listened for the duration of my set. As Nathan said at the end of the night, "It's not the quantity of the audience, it's the QUALITY." Norm, and eventually Ray, and Kerri, who worked behind the bar, were an excellent audience. They listened and they talked to me and they even bought CDs! Yes, they consisted of the HIGHEST quality. My appreciation is endless.

Even so, I got really sad on the way home. After Nathan and Coppelia went to bed, I stayed up and called SARK's inspiration line. She was the only one I could call at 1:30am and leave a very uninspired message. I wrote in my journal all my complaints, my fears, and my worries. I feel old. I feel washed up. I am wondering if I have it in me to really *start* over--to drive 2.5 hours to play to three people. I wrote down all the things that I am grateful for: Graham, feeling comfortable playing, the courage to try, the pink sky on the way to CT...

All my doubt mixed with the tyranny of comparing myself to others, or worse, to my younger self. Graham reminded me of Anne Lamott's words about writing, which can be transferred to any endeavor: Start where you are, do it badly, do it afraid, something always happens. I think my philosopher man is becoming a creative guru--reciting all the stuff I talk about right back at me. Why should I be surprised? He's a smart cookie, and what's more, he has the best heart I know of.

So, today I go to Lowell to see my old friend Eddy Dyer and to play some music at a farm. I will continue to start where I am, do it poorly, do it afraid and aim for the QUALITY, not the quantity.

Some Suggestions

Greetings from Medford, Massachusetts! I'm staying at the headquarters of That Promising Seadog Media--the folks that put out my CD. It's a prickly business coming back to your old haunts where it all began and ultimately ended. What I'm learning is that there are still people in this area that love me and that is a HUGE relief. Also, that there are place that I have outgrown and that is a little painful.

And then in the midst of all this, I play songs!

I took the bus to Providence, RI on Wednesday and played at a bar/cafe/restaurant. This is very risky business, but here's something I'd like to suggest to the smaller venues: When you have booked a show, and a person comes in with a guitar, looking lost and a little like they are trying to figure out where to eat their lunch, they are most likely the musician. PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE THEM. They could really use a "Hi there." or a "Can I help you?" I am extremely GRATEFUL for shows and for being booked almost anywhere, BUT it drives me crazy how 99% of the time the staff ignores me, or even sometimes seems to AVOID greeting and offering guidance and/or assistance. It would help tremendously to ease the already awkward feelings and that sense that I am a hobo begging for crumbs. The venues that do greet you, I just want to hug and kiss. The relief of knowing immediately that you are in the right place can be a transformative experience! This is NO SMALL POTATOES!

I walked into the bar/cafe/restaurant and wanted to laugh at myself. Every single time I don't play for awhile and I psyche myself up for playing again, I get these HUGE ideas and I pressure myself to be exceptional, and funny and interesting. Then I walk into these small venues and realize the real level I am at--that most of the places I play at are very casual and nothing close to Carnegie Hall. I mean the New York Times is not going to send a reporter to see the likes of me play there. So I sighed a huge relaxing sigh and knew that everything was going to be alright.

Here's something I'd like to suggest to younger performers who are first in a three person set: First, you are great and it IS exciting that you are playing out. Second, I am SO GLAD that your friends came to see you. Third, if you can just imagine for a moment what it was like for you to get up on stage and how it mattered to you to be heard, and then apply that to the next person playing. The girl who played before me had a beautiful voice and a love for Joni Mitchell (which, I've got to give it up for the love of Joni Mitchell, she RULZ), but she proceeded to sit with her friends not far from the stage and talk loudly through my ENTIRE SET. Actually, one of her friends, a gentleman in his 40's-50's talked so loudly (nay, SHOUTED) that I broke all my polite rules and said from the stage: "Maybe I should play a little quieter. I am noticing that people are needing to SHOUT to hear themselves." Well, my point was made--but not to him. He was talking too loudly to even notice me, a mere speck of a folk singer, standing 100 feet away, talking into a microphone.

I would like to thank the one couple who listened intently from the corner. They were straining to hear me over the shouting, but they stayed for the entire set, and whoever you are, my hands, my hands, my hands to you.

On the way home, Nathan informed me that my Portland, Maine show was cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.

So glamorous! So EXCITING being a musician!

Tonight I play in Connecticut. Tomorrow I play in Lowell, Massachusetts. The next day I will eat pancakes with old friends. The day after that I hope I see some familiar faces at a show in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. The day after that I am on the radio in Amherst, and then I play a show in Northampton. Then I get to go home a day early--which, I don't really mind, because Graham is home and I miss him dearly.

For all of you doubting your abilities or asking yourself "Am I KIDDING myself??" keep swimming anyway. I'll be swimming right along side you.

The Whole of Starting Over

Guess what folks? I LEAVE ON TOUR TOMORROW. All weekend, I’ve been getting ready. When I say ‘getting ready’ I mean I have been playing my fingers off, as if I am cramming for a test. My dad’s guitar arrived last Thursday, and I panicked at how soft my fingers had become, and how winded I feel. There are many reasons that have been filtering in my head why I cannot do this tour, and why I should just give up and go back to bed for the rest of my life. The last few days have been a good test for me in staying in the moment. I set out a practice routine of a half hour at a time, three times a day. I did this for three days. Yesterday I played for an hour straight and I will do it again today. In the meantime, I’ve also completed 2 songs that I have been sitting in the “Not good enough to finish” pile. I am playing 2 hours on Friday and I better get some more material. It’s amazing what can happen under pressure.

This is the reality: This is the first tour I have had in years. I never thought I would ever tour again. I never thought that I would ever write a song again, and I am not sure entirely how this has all happened, but it has. I am telling you this because we all think we are screwed on some level. The desire to be cool urges me to comment in a cavalier way that ‘oh, yes, I am going tour,’ as if it is the most natural thing in the world, as if I am a cool person, who is a musician, and isn’t that cool, and aren’t I just this amazing thing? The truth is, it’s a miracle that I am doing this. For years I have berated myself for falling off the horse, falling off the path of ‘a career.’ My path hasn’t looked like any of the other musicians that have ‘made it.’ I think there is an unspoken rule in the music world (that I have traveled in) to never show weakness, or show doubt in any messy way. The last few years I have been caught up in shame over my nose dive, but I know that it has been utterly necessary to my life.

I realized this weekend, while playing the guitar, that I have been avoiding the pain of starting over. I’ve been trying really hard to pick up where I left off (whatever that means), but that isn’t the reality. When you’re new to something, you have the faith of the unexperienced. There hasn’t been enough roughing up to get you to doubt. When you get up from a great fall, you carry the impact of that fall, and yet somehow, you must walk again. In ignoring the pain, I have also been ignoring the real joy I get from playing. Somewhere, there is that little glow that says ‘I love this.’ Graham told me once that when I get up on stage, something happens, the room notices. I feel that too. I feel a switch flicked on, a lightbulb inside is illuminated. These are the things that I must remember as I embark on something that carries with it a load of past experience—both good and bad.

I read somewhere a quote that says something along the lines of, if you’re expectations aren’t met, that’s because you haven’t broadened the scope of your vision. Indeed, there were many things that I hadn’t bargained on, and what my recent experience has taught me is that my scope doesn’t even come close to what life may unfold before me.

I’ve decided to dedicate my little tour, and every performance in it, to the spirit of yearning, to the spirit of hope in our experiences. We can’t kick ass all the time, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t learn something along the way—even if it’s years later. I’ll be writing from the road, and even posting some pictures. Come and see me if you can.

PS I saw Tommy Lee getting into a cab on 3rd Ave.! More celebs to come!

Your Life's Work

"We blossom just the trees blossom, but we cooperate so much less."
-Julia Cameron

Once again, I am rising back to the upside of mood and attitude. I’m reading Julia Cameron again. I like her immediate reminders that art is not just about what you show of yourself—it’s what you MAKE of yourself. Your life’s work is, ultimately, your life.

I did the Artist’s Way years ago and it did wonders—it changed the way I looked at the world. I got it as a last ditch effort for the increasing panic I was feeling over my songwriter’s block. It didn’t lift the songwriter’s block, (I think I was still too attached to things I am still learning to let go) but it got me to draw again and to write fiction again.

The one part of the weekly program I never could get my head around was The Artist Date. For those of you who don’t know, the Artist Date is a weekly excursion you do on your own to something that delights or inspires you. I always ran out of ideas or thought I didn’t have any beyond renting an old movie. I think actually there are lots of things that I know I could do, but resistance gives me convenient amnesia.

Last night, after a second interview with the temp agency, I decided to try a different route home. I no sooner turned a corner and found myself purely by accident next to the Algonquin Hotel. I love this place tremendously. I went there last year initially because of the famous history of Dorothy Parker and the round table. Once inside, however, I immediately fell in love with the gorgeous lobby. It’s the oldest hotel in New York, with dark columns and gold murals, and a selection of couches and comfortable chairs. It’s pricey, so I can’t go there very often, but when I do, I’m in Heaven.

I’d always wanted to go there alone, and here I was mere feet from it. I always tell myself I can’t afford to do things. It’s an old habit that has kept me from major debts, but I think it’s also kept me from doing things I actually could do, but have been afraid to say yes too. Lately, I’ve been practicing reality financing and that means checking in to see if I’m just afraid for fear sake or am I really without. I checked the balance of my account and decided I could afford to spend $20 to do something I always wanted to do. Once inside, I immediately was ecstatic with inspiration. It was so peaceful there, and beautiful. I was seated near the old chiming clock. I ordered a salad and an ice tea from the kind waiter who called me “Madam.” Then I set to drawing the room in my journal.

Not only did Dorothy Parker, James Thurber, Harpo Marx, among others, lunch with their friends at the Algonquin, but the play My Fair Lady was written on the third floor, and Anne Sexton made changes and rewrites to her play Mercy Street there. Sitting in my highback chair, looking up at the gold murals of mountains and birds, I felt that muses lived there. I don’t remember the last time I felt so alive creatively. I wrote and drew for THREE HOURS. People came and went. I saw a woman drinking a beer and reading on the other side of the room and felt a sort of kinship with her. I felt a kinship with EVERYONE.

When I left, I was a little in love with my life. I think that’s what Artist Dates teach you—to say yes to the things that light you up, so that you can see you don’t need an entirely different life in order to live your dreams now. There are things right now, you can do that you’ve always wanted to do. Something small, that says I LOVE THIS! Eat cotton candy, ride a rollercoaster, go to a button shop, buy a pair of red shoes. I realized last night that I am living in a city that has MILLIONS of things I’ve always wanted to experience. If I can’t find anything to do—the problem is ME. Isn’t that always the way, though? The things that stop me aren’t location, money, age or anything. It’s just me. Always me. It felt good to help myself out a little.