I Think I Like It Here, But I am Not Sure Yet

The view on your way out of New York City. The Mighty Hudson.

Every once in awhile, I'll be rushing along on my way to work, or on my way home and it will hit me: I am rushing in NEW YORK CITY! Last night, I decided to walk the 20 plus blocks to Union Square from where I work. It was freezing out, but I needed the exercise, and what's more, I needed to feel myself move. I found myself pushing forward across Park Avenue and the realization that all this seemed so normal and even ROUTINE fell upon me. Whoever knew that I would think it was just another day in the life, when I was walking down the cold streets of Manhattan?? I reminded myself to look up. At night the city feels more alive than even lunch hour in midtown. It literally LIGHTS UP, but the feeling of it lights up too. I once told this to Felicia, and she said, without missing a beat, "Oh, this is not a town to be loved during the day." And it's true--I like it during the day, but it feels MAGICAL at night. All the history, the mojo, the quiet FIRE this place has, comes to light.

I remember the New York I used to visit. It's unrecognizable to me now. Even the subway stops that I used to travel to meet Graham last year are vanished, like a whole other place I used to go to. I now know how to get around, how the city is laid out, whereas before it was just a colorful mystery, with landmarks I would recognize from time to time. In some ways, I miss that New York. I felt like I was in a movie every time I visited. I loved that first morning I would wake up and look out a window and think: I AM IN NEW YORK! I'd feel cool eating a hotdog and walking down the street! Around every corner was a poem waiting to be written, or a ghost waiting to be discovered! It was FABULOUS! It was THRILLING! Nothing tasted better! Then 5 days later, I'd run back home, broke and exhausted. I used to claim that I'd become a shut in if I ever moved here.

Ha ha! Never be so sure!

I think I like living here, although it is still too early to tell. I'm in that strange in between place--the awkward phase--of moving somewhere. I know my way around, and I am doing fine, but I don't quite have A LIFE yet. People I know back in California ask me, breathlessly, eyes wide: SO, how is NEW YORK??? I think they expect this EXCITING, INCREDIBLE EXPERIENCE--like the New York that any of us visits, except only 24/7. But in truth, it's just another place to live. All the regular rules apply: you need to have a home, work, a place to buy groceries, and above all, friends. Without friends, the city is an empty-ish place. It's still a somewhat lonely existence. I miss my friends and don't talk to them nearly enough. I miss having hangouts and routines. Graham and I used to spend every Wednesday with a group of friends for dinner and a movie. I used to see my best friend every Thursday night. In this busy busy life, I now see that is totally rare and lucky. But it's also part of starting over, of trying something completely new.

Luckily, we have met some great people, and I know that with time, we will meet more, and make new friends. When a new friend asked me if we wanted join her and some friends for dinner last weekend, it took every ounce of strength to answer her without gasping: WILL PEOPLE BE THERE? YES PLEASE!

And this is the truth of starting over. It's very exciting and exhilarating, but it can also be boring and lonely--no matter where you are. So tonight, I am going out to dinner with an old friend and I'll walk along the cold night streets of a new one.

Lily Anna Faith Pierre

I know, I am totally going NUTS with the blog entries today. I think it may be an ALL TIME RECORD--THREE IN ONE DAY! But I could not would not SHOULD NOT go today without announcing that it is my little sister's THIRD BIRTHDAY. Yay for Lily! Lily did her mama a favor coming into the world rather quickly--in less than 2 hours! When I first met her, she was a little bean burrito rapped in a blanket adorned with butterflies. I held her and promtly told her it that I was sorry it had to come to this, but I was going to have to eat her. It wasn't personal, it's just that I can't resist a bean burrito with cheaks that overflowing! Thankfully, she talked me out of it, and we've been good pals ever since.

What to say about Lily other than when she walks around in a diaper, pink fearie wings, a crown and pink slippers, you could swear that world peace was imminant. Even the BIGGEST BADDEST warlords would look at her dancing around, and their hearts would MELT. I love to watch her play with her stuffed dogs. I like that she loves to call Finding Nemo, "Momo." She has a great laugh and her skin is like BUTTAH.

She left me a message the other day and she kept saying, "Hi." Over and over again. "Hi." while my little brother yelled in the background, "Tell her a joke, Lily!" Then she said, "I wuv you." I had to wait 30 years to get a sister and YOU ARE WORTH THE WAIT. Lily, I wuv you too.

Happy Birthday!

Welcome to the Internet, Jake Pierre!

I am happy to announce that my DAD has joined the blogging world. This is VERY EXCITING, because now the world can know how GIFTED and INTERESTING he is! He not only paints, but is a musician. I am hoping that he will share it all with the world at large!

Go say hi: Jake Pierre.

Five Fingers, One Hand

Last Thursday was the last class of "So You want to be an Artist?" and it was GREAT. I am glad I brought the guitar. I sold CDs! AND people might be coming to my show THIS FRIDAY (hint, hint!). It was THRILLING to see a real New York Studio, reeking of oil and turpentine. The smell is instantly inspiring to me, making me think of the first summer I painted in oils. It was a revelation! I wanted to dive head first in a bucket of scarlet lake oil paint!



Mike Filan, the teacher, has had this studio for a while. It's an investment he's glad that he sacrifices for. It's within walking distance of both his job at SVA and his apartment. He can spend 45 minutes before work and then come back & spend 45 minutes on his way home. He encouraged us to not give in to the "I'm tired" feeling that comes over us. He offered the rebuttal, a simple mantra, to help us get to work at the end of the workday when we are tired and don't feel like going into the studio or to the desk: Fuck I am too tired! I am doing this FOR ME! It's worked on me more than a few times.

We were asked to bring in some of our own work. It was great to see some other people's stuff. Everywhere people are doing art and it feels somewhat like a secret society, like the Masons. You never know what people do outside the office. It might be watching the latest episode of Survivor, OR it might be creating paper doll designs, like one person in my class, or Polaroid transfers, like another.

I was glad I brought my guitar, but like always, the surprise, unplanned for things are the most inspiring and motivating. After showing my calendar and my playing a song, Mike saw my paint stained, bulging journal peeking out of my bag and asked if they could see something from that. I hadn't even thought of showing anything out of my journal, by when I shyly did, I got a great response! When Mike said that I should show its contents in my meeting with the chair of the illustration department, I was shocked. I literally asked, "You mean, I can show him THIS?" I never counted anything I did in my journals as real or important. It rocked my world.

It made me realize AGAIN how many rules I set for myself: this is important, this isn't. It limits me. I gave myself a new mantra: No limits, it's ALL an experiment. As a result, I painted all weekend. I seem to be moving away from collage and into more direct drawing and painting. I worked on six pieces and I was so full of ideas, I couldn't sleep last night. I feel a HUGE BREAKTHROUGH.

Mike also said that the music and the art that I am creating all seems very connected. I shocked myself by saying, "I know." It was a secret belief that I have been feeling. To have it acknowledged was to shed a flashlight on what I've suspected all along--that I don't have to choose, that all the mediums I do are like fingers sprouting from the palm of ONE HAND. There is a relief when you stop trying to figure out things and you let them exist as they are. It leaves so much room for more to happen and to come in. I feel like I have removed a bunch of barriers and am dazzled, watching the flood that that has come in.

Going to Work

I got up this morning, among horrible news on NPR, utterly exhausted and grumbled over whether or not to take my guitar with me to work. I have class tonight and we are supposed to bring some of our art with us to share. My teacher asked if I would share my music, even though I came to the class in hopes of getting ideas for a career in visual art. Did I really want to lug my guitar in its original 50 lb. case all the way uptown, just to play a song for 6 people?

I’m unbelievably tired because where I work has been keeping me late and through lunch hours to finish a particular project. I missed Felicia’s reading last night, because I got out so late. This is really bad for me. Although I am extremely grateful for a paycheck, let’s just say MY GIFTS LAY ELSEWHERE than an office setting. So coupled by the 1.5 roundtrip commute and the 8+ hours that I have been putting in, I’m feeling a bit, shall we say, FRAGILE and GRUMPY. Some might even say UNFULFILLED and SHAVED TO THE NERVE.

Last night I started to try to think of alternate terms for my day-job. “Work” doesn’t seem to cut it. Neither does “my job,” because literally speaking, I don’t believe my job in this world is to get well acquainted with office equipment and to say things like “TGIF” and “FYI.” I like to believe that my job in this world is to be a beacon of hope, to be the patron saint of people who walk around feeling SCREWED. I like to believe my job in this world is to live out what means the most to me. If that means singing about road trips and lonely children, or drawing a picture of crazy wall-eyed French philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre—that seems to me pretty darn apropriate. As it happens, I couldn’t come up with any alternate terms for the place that I go all day, five times a week, in exchange for money.

In the end I decided to take the guitar and guess what? Something amazing happened. I was on the subway, with this feeling of recognition coming over me. “Oh, YEAH! THIS is who I am!” I wasn’t just the slob in the ponytail in glasses reading the latest in a string of books. I was the REAL me again. I walked through Grand Central, swinging my black case and felt that sense of purpose return. The place I was going, was just a means to an end, but my tools: my heart, my eyes, my mind, and yes, my guitar were ready for business—the real business of going out into the world, ready for work.

The Reality

Well, the weekend could have been a lot better. Actually, Saturday was great. G & took the train up the Hudson River to have dinner with my friends Glenn & Sharon, who have two cute kids, Maya & Ethan. After dinner, in an attempt to calm the sugar pulsing through Maya's veins, Glenn asked if I would play some songs. As I was in mid swing of my second number, Maya pulled up her potty training potty just to my left and proceeded to listen intently while she did her business. I guess she didn't want to miss a lick of my crooning ways. Glenn asked later if that sort of business ever happened at a show, and I assured him that it was an ALL TIME FIRST.

The rest of the weekend was spent surviving a 2-day migraine. It was the first migraine I've had in a while without migraine meds & it totally kicked my ass. I went out for breakfast yesterday, but had to go home & lie down. Then, to cap the whole experience, I ended up calling the police on my neighbors upstairs, who are abusing their kid.

I've made little comments here and there about what Graham and I live with in terms of neighbors. The clearest picture I can give you is that when we sit in our living room, we live below a family of at least 5, with hardwood floors. We hear EVERYTHING. They yell at each other constantly. There is a 4 year old that screams hysterically off and on all day. When I say that he screams hysterically, I don't mean a temper tantrum or even just crying hard. It is a wailing, inconsolable, & shrill cry lasting anywhere from 10-30 minutes, several times a day. When we first heard it, we listened for physical abuse, which didn't seem to be occurring. We also heard him stop suddenly and say things clearly and with the usual four-year-old bratty voice. What we've observed is that this kid can go from 0-60 in a matter of seconds. He can be wailing in one second and then just fine in another. By sheer serendipity, I was listening to NPR, and they played a tape recording of a child who is emotionally disturbed, screaming and crying and it sounded just like the little boy who lives above us.

They've had the cops called on them before--twice. Each time, after the cops left, the mother opened the door and yelled out into the hallway that whoever was calling the cops on them had better watch out, because she was going to kill them. Considering what I hear upstairs--how she speaks to her husband, father, mother, and child, and how they speak to her, I took her word.

After another full weekend of hearing them fight with each other and Graham hearing other exchanges that weren't necessarily fighting, but could be considered emotional abuse, he said to me, "If they are hitting him or not, what is the difference?" I heard the kid screaming his head off, but then adding the words, "Get away from me!" and what do you do? You can't be afraid anymore--you do what you can. Of course, by the time the cops came about 10 minutes later, the kid had stopped screaming. When they opened the front door to the cops, the kid said cheerfully, "Hello!"

We live in an urban and very poor neighborhood. All kinds of life are found there. A lot of what I've experienced is people living unhappily. It can be intense. Last night was no exception. I was afraid of what would happen, but then, nothing did. The cops left and it was more quiet upstairs then I'd ever heard it. Today, I am calling Child Protective Services and filing a report. Even if they are not hitting him, as Graham says, at this point what is the difference? They need help. I hope they get it.

To These Small Pleasures

There is so much to celebrate today. I felt it as I was on the near-empty train coming into work, reading Raymond Carver's poems. I could see it on the rain doused street of Vanderbilt Avenue, on my way to work, the strange warm air felt like spring. I was wearing my red shoes and no socks. I didn't need an umbrella, the rain already gone.

Then I came into work and found the announcement that my friends Alia and Sarah have welcomed their first born, a beautiful girl named Sofi! She was born on Valentine's Day in Auckland, New Zealand--not a bad way to begin life. First of all, it is summertime there and then you are born on a day of love. I am wishing the three of them many days of warmth and love.

Then the good will continued with a surprise gift of Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run 30th Anniversary Edition. So I sit in an office high above midtwon manhattan and hear "Have a little faith, there is magic in the night..." and my heart is pulled outside, beyond all standing circumstances and into the belief in the unknown.

I have a feeling about things lately--like I'm okay, I don't have to outrun anything. I am on a boat, with no need to hurry or push the river. This doesn't mean my heart doesn't yearn, it just means I am afloat, and that is enough. Spring is here in February--which is either a gift or a curse, depending on how you look at it. In a few days we're scheduled for snow showers again--but why dread those days, when it is 60 degrees and the air is soft and there is new life in the world RIGHT NOW?.

"We are new arrivals/to these small pleasures./.../Today, my heart, like the front door,/ stands open for the first time in months."
-Raymond Carver

As Further Proof that Amazing Things Happen when You Get Off Your Butt

Okay, I set a goal on Monday that I wanted to have 3 more gigs in the next little bit and by yesterday I had THREE MORE GIGS! AMAZING!

I have to tell you that when you call the booking lady at CB's, and a nice man says that she's not available, but then when he says your name as he writes down the message, you hear a voice in the background that says, "OH wait! I want to talk to her!" That feels pretty spiffy.

Mark your calendars, blackberries, outlooks, or scraps of paper (that's what I use), buy your plane tickets, and refill your subway cards:

Friday, March 3rd at 8pm
Pianos
158 Ludlow (at Stanton)
New York, NY

Wednesday, March 8 at 9pm
CB's 313 Gallery
313 Bowery
New York, NY

Tuesday, March 21, 10pm
Sidewalk Cafe
94 Avenue A at Sixth Street
New York, NY

Today, I have such a crush on this town, I tell you...

I Want to Touch the Light, the Heat I See in...Lloyd's Eyes

Okay, normally, I don't link to entire articles, but this one had me both in stitiches and in cringing acknowledgement, that yes, I am (like so many) still have Lloyd Dobler in my heart.

Who else is out there? Who else sat in a dark movie theater in 1988 and fell head over heals for a movie character who holds up a boom box to serenade the love of his life or who shakes when he is happy?

I remember about 8 years ago getting my first chain letters on e-mail with the title, "You know you are a child of the 80's when..." listing off a number of facts, like you played with Strawberry Shortcake dolls and you know all the words to the theme song for Family Ties. Down, near the bottom of the list was: "You believe you have a personal relationship with John Cusack." My honest and first reaction was: BUT I DO!

Of course, as this article so wonderfully points out, I am not in love with John Cusack, but his character in Say Anything, Lloyd Dobler. So I'm here to out myself: I'm a 33 year old woman still in love with a movie guy. I've been looking for Lloyd Dobler my entire dating life. No wonder I was SO SCREWED for SO LONG. Movie love is nothing but fool's gold, my friends. It shimmers in the light, but it don't pay for didly.

So emberassing to find out AGAIN that you are part of a HUGE population of equally delusional women, all swooning when "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel comes on the radio. Can I help it?? It's A GREAT SONG and one of the BEST scenes in one of my FAVORITE movies.

What Matters Is Saying Yes

I've been listening to an interview with the prolific writer, Joyce Carol Oates. I am AMAZED at the amount of books she publishes. Sometimes there are two a year. I've only read one of her books, Blonde, about Norma Jean Baker (a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe), which I loved. I've had a few discussions with people who say with more than the usual disdain that she shouldn't publish so much--not everything she writes is SO GREAT. The people that have said this to me, have seemed angry at her, disgusted, and even enjoyed knocking down a "great" writer. In each conversation, the complainer will cite a short story that they read recently that was just "awful."

My impression has been that Oates has an ambitious mind that doesn't question her ideas, she just lets the idea flow. I am inspired by her unending breath of words and stories. When I think of these handful of conversations I've had, I think about how the tone in these people's voices hint at a sort of outrage. How DARE she write whatever she wants and publish it at whim. One person said, "She should just write ONE good thing and otherwise just shut the hell up." Another said, "I just HATE IT that just because she is 'Joyce Carol Oates' she can publish crap." The same tone was heard in another conversation I had with someone of Neil Young: "Neil Young should have been harnassed years ago. Someone should have cut him off and not let him do just whatever he wants." Do I need to tell you that all of these comments were made by artists?

I am amazed at how STINGEY we can be and how THREATENED. We think we have high ideals, but really we are tyrants, believing there is not enough room for everyone's work. Mostly, what I hear in all those acidic comments is fear. I have probably said things that are just as bad, when I have believed that there was a "class system," that I desperately wanted to not only belong to, but be on the higher rung. Eventually, all that bitterness and fear caught up with me, and I was a blocked artist for three years. If I have one gift from that period, it is to believe that creating art is best done from joy and from a sense of abundance--not from a place that is cut throat and critical. I said this yesterday, it is a miracle that ANYONE creates ANYTHING. If the worst thing that Joyce Carol Oates does is not listen to all that crap, and keep DOING HER WORK, I think the world will survive.

Dave Eggers said: "Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a fuckload of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes."

There is so much to yet be built in this world, and you, reading this, and me writing this, need to get to work. So say, yes, and get busy.

Out On the Weekend

As everyone on the planet I am sure knows, it snowed in New York City this weekend. I am sure people in the midwest are rolling their eyes at our "sky is falling!" shrieks. We just got two feet, people and oh! How exciting! I am one of those people who LOVES the snow, at least for the first few months. When I was living in Vermont and it was april and a blizzard was pounding us, I wasn't so thrilled. Yesterday, I was absolutely thrilled. I think snow is just what New York needs to be humbled, and make the hardest citizen slow down and take in the wonder. Graham and I did the smartest/dumbest thing yesterday, by going to Central Park, when the blizzard was still going. We wanted to be a part of it all--see the wonder that is snow in a big city and the park in all its majesty. It was a smart thing to do, because it was indeed an awe-inspiring sight to see the whole city shut down. Park Avenue was dead and the people who crossed the street in the distance looked like dulled shadows. The dumb part was that we were totally unprepared for the unbelievable gusts of winds and the relentless snow in our eyes. I had lost my last hat and my gloves and Graham had lost his hat. We put on our sweatshirt hoods and scarves and then laughed at ourselves as we stood against a crashing gust of wind. That doesn't even cover the footwear we adorned--Graham was in sneakers! I took what pictures I could, but it was wet and freezing and my hands were about to fall off.

In other news on the weekend, we went and saw the Neil Young film, Heart of Gold, which was moving and very emotional for me. When I listen to Neil Young, I see the tapestry of my childhood. The lonely boys out on the weekend, Neil sings about, are my father and my step father and all my uncles. He lives in a redwooded community in California, where I spent many childhood evenings and weekends. A lot of the old hippie friends moved there. I went to school with a girl who babysat for Neil's kids. He's been my greatest musical inspiration as of late. When I watched him, I could see how old he had become, and how he carried his music with him through the years. It was beautiful and moving to hear the sweetness and passion in songs that are older than me.

All this was with me last night, when I went to play at Pianos. People actually came--you blessed souls! I brought my infamous Ja-Ja cookies--a richer chocolate chip cookie, with orange zest (very rock n' roll)--and people ate them up. Every show I do, I seem to touch at least one person. I used to not take that in, and feel if I did, it was stupid or dumb or even conceited to appreciate it. Now, I am uplifted by it. It's a miracle to create anything in this world. It's a privelage to be able to share it and it's a gift if someone holds it in their heart. I hold THAT gift in my heart.

I didn't get home until 2:00am. When I was on the subway home, among the late night crowds, I saw a handful of other musicians on their way home from gigs. It really tickled me. We all sat, slouched in our seats, with our guitars, basses, horns leaning against our knees. I really felt a part of something.

An Opportunity YOU Don't Want to Miss!

In a fit of absolute optimism, I have accepted a last minute gig at Pianos THIS Sunday night at the early hour of 11:00pm! Snow storms and impending monday mornings be damned!

If by chance you are looking to get in on the ground floor of this *AMAZING* opportunity that is seeing me play, look no further! Just think: when you are sitting there, watching the grammys or the academy awards some years ahead (perhaps from the audience), and you see me holding up a GLEAMING, GOLD STATUETTE, next to the likes of Benecio Del Toro (fresh from rehab) and Mariah Carey (fresh from her stylist), YOU can say: I was the ONLY ONE who saw her late, one sunday night at a club in the West Village! And you know what that would mean? It would mean that you were at last totally OLD SCHOOL. It would mean that you were HARD CORE. It would mean that you could say with all ligitimacy that you liked my stuff, before I SOLD OUT! It would mean that I would be saying your name on National TV, citing you as the ONE who was there for me in the DARKEST HOUR! Only YOU and I (and maybe Graham), would know that the darkest hour was 11pm on a sunday night in the chilly month of February!

To make it more enticing, I will bring some cookies. They'll be good too.

Oh, yeah, and so will the songs!

Sunday, February 12, 11:00pm
Summer Pierre (a.k.a your late night evening crooner)
playing at Pianos
158 Ludlow (at Stanton)
New York, NY
5$ at the door

Christmas in February Totally Rules

Oh, joy! Yesterday, after suffering another EXHAUSTING commute into work, inwhich it was so crowded the entire 45 minutes that I was shoved, pushed, stepped on, growled at, jabbed, and sneezed on, I asked permission to come in a half hour later to work--and was GRANTED SAID PERMISSION. This works in my favor in so many ways--now I can do more work in the morning AND read peacefully, sitting down on the subway. It also means that I had time to go pick up a mysterious package that lay in wait at the post office. When I finally got it, it was a long delayed Christmas package from my step brother & his lovely wife. It's a funny thing to get Christmas crackers in February and toy snowmen too! ANYWAY, I was OVERJOYED at the two gifts that lay in wait--The Joy of Cooking (which I've been wanting for years), AND (MORE EXCITING TO ME BY FAR), the new Elements of Style, illustrated by my favorite living illustrator, Maira Kalman. I almost yipped my way to the subway!

I've gone to visit it many times in bookstores since it appeared in its glowing red book cover in November. I swooned and drooled over the masterful art, which seems to just get better and better. The price was a bit prohibitive for me these last few months, and now I have it in my HOT BIG HANDS! SO EXCITING.

I highly recommend late Christmas presents. They totally rule, if you ask me. If you want to score with someone, get something they'll really like and then wait 6 weeks to give it to them. It feels like a bonus package! A surprise package! A dream package! A-Keeping-the-Party-Going package!

I have to tell you also that the red little book, looked GREAT in my hands, as I ran underneath the glowing green ceiling of Grand Central. For just a second, I felt like one of Maira Kalman's guache paintings. A good way to start the day.

My Dad's He(art)

As a navy brat, my father grew up moving every year. For someone who felt more comfortable with animals than meeting a classroom filled with new faces, this was really a diffucult way to live. Part of how he coped was to delve deeply into his imagination, which created a natural desire to draw & create things. His art has always been his heart and as far back as I can remember my dad was always, Jake, THE ARTIST.

I have seen him go through many phases. As a kid, I watched him paint Native American scenes, horses, and desert landscapes on flat, circular baskets. He also painted birds on driftwood. His ability to easily render just about anything has always been amazing to me. When there were birthday parties I attended, we never had much money, so he would make things. Two friends of mine, horse-crazy like the rest of us, got a matted illustration of them with a horse. Another girl got a handpainted handmirror, with her name on it. Whatever the stage of his life, he's always been working and inventing. His homes have always been crammed with junk he's found--crushed trumpets and Mexican rugs hung on the walls, along with his paintings and various inventions. Now that he lives in the suburbs with a young family, he religates his "dumpster diving" asthetic to his two work spaces in the garage, and at his office at work.

His most recent art works are created with an apoxy, I think, for patching up walls and other home repair matters (that elude me). It comes in a powder and then you add water. Once wet, he works at it, shaping it and carving it into shapes as it dries rather quickly. When it is dry, he paints over the surfaces with acrylic paint in various layers, so that the carved markings are clearer and more vivid.
It's a mysterious world that he creates. Every time I look at them, I notice more things. They are the things that dreams and memory seem to create--visual poems. Over Christmas, various relatives asked how my dad was doing, and a few of them asked, "Does he still do art?" I think this is the most rediculous question you could ever ask about my dad. Does a bird still fly? Does the Empire State Building still stand? I answered that yes, he still does art and he may be doing the best work of his life (so far).

He was my first teacher. The earliest lesson I remember at age 4, leaning over a sheet of white paper and a pan of watercolors. He taught me to wet the paper first and the dot it with color to form clouds. I remember using black paint to create gray rain clouds and loving the feeling that the wet paper created a mood for me. I still learn from him every time I see his work.

Tofu in the Bathtub

I LOVE all the responses to the blog entry about my name--and all of us hippie kids uniting! Awhile back my friend Judy (who is a brilliant & funny writer), said she wanted to start a zine called Moonbeam My Ass, about growing up hippie. It incited a rousing discussion on what topics it might include. Ideas that were tossed around included how CAROB IS NOT CHOCOLATE (not even CLOSE) and how natural food stores have changed SIGNIFIGANTLY since the 1980's. I would add to the latter that although they still sell things like kefir (that mysterious yogurt drink), they no longer smell like a jar of multi vitamins! I would like to also include tales of buying tofu out of some neighbors' bathtub! OR how the backdrop of my existence dripped with batique and tie-dye clothing! So groovy! So fine!

As a side note: My mother once said, "I was never a hippie." My immediate response was, "Mom, we lived in a teepee and hey, WHAT IS MY NAME?"

George

I grew up in many different households and none of them were religious. I went to church twice in my childhood, and they were with relatives. The closest I ever got to discussions of faith, was my mother telling me about her Guardian Angel, named George. George, according to her, had gotten her out of more scrapes than she could count. I didn’t take too much stock in George, as the name seemed too 1940’s movie starring Jimmy Stewart soaked. Also, my mother has been someone who has lived her life on the edge (so to speak) and has sustained tragedies and nights in the darkest places. Her “near scrapes” would seem like amputations to some. I wondered at George’s track record, and what exactly he had saved her from.

So this is the part when I tell you that over New Years this year, my mother lost her house and about 90% of her belongings to the floods in Sonoma County in Northern California.

I haven’t talked about this for a number of reasons. One mainly is that you could say my mother and I have a diffucult, at best, relationship. Up until the flood, she and I hadn’t been in touch in almost six months. But when you read a headline and see that the worst of the damage was at the intersection where your mom lives, difficulties and six months aside, you call and see if she is okay. Since then, we’ve talked about 5 times a week, while she deals with the aftermath of what is nothing short of devastating circumstances. She was out of town when it happened and when she got home, her house was under four feet of water. After it was drained, she found the remains of her home scattered all around her property.

She fortunately took care of herself and has both homeowner’s insurance and flood insurance, which will eventually cover the cost of reconstructing her home. Until then, she is dealing with the clean-up and living in a trailer on her mud soaked property, without running water.

As in all occasions of crisis, a lot of miracles have occurred. A friend that owns a restaurant in town has fed her on several occasions. Friends have offered showers. And then there is Sal. I am not entirely clear where Sal came from or how she knows him, but he has been the true lifesaver. He comes with coffee every day and stays with her until night, working on all that is entailed of salvaging a home destroyed by water. She never has to doubt whether or not he will be there and just hearing his voice every day as he arrives, calling “Good morning!” sustains her. She says, when she hits a wall and can’t think of an answer, Sal will look at her and say, with palms open to a shrug, “What can we do?” It makes her laugh and able to continue on.

Last night, we were on the phone and she was talking about the amazing things that have occurred in the wake of this situation. She talked about Sal, and all that he provided for her. Then it hit me:“You know who sent him? George did.” She started to cry. Thinking I was mocking her, she protested, “No, he DID send him!”

“I know!” I said. “I’m not kidding!”

I realized that was what George did all these years. He was just with her. He was with her in the aftermath of all her natural disasters. Just the idea of him has helped her through the years. When I hung up the phone, I knew that he was with her in that moment, in her small temporary trailer, with her two dogs, saying, “It’s okay, Bee. Sal’s coming tomorrow, and there will be coffee, and me too.”

Thanks, George.

I've Been TAGGED!

I just got tagged by the so ruling Keri. Here goes:

4 jobs I’ve had:
nanny
waitress
art store clerk
admin assistant

4 movies I could watch over and over:
Hannah & Her Sisters
Amelie
It’s a Wonderful Life
Another Woman

4 places I’ve lived:
Montpelier, VT
Somerville, MA
Palo Alto, CA
Brooklyn, NY

4 TV shows:
I don’t own a TV, but when I sneak a peek on someone else’s, I have to admit I love Project Runway and Oprah.

4 places I’ve vacationed:
Idaho
Costa Rica
Europe
I don't have a fourth--dang! I need to go on more vacations!

4 of my favorite dishes:
Thanksgiving meal: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green peas.
Crab Cakes benedict with avocado
Angel hair with homemade pesto
Chocolate birthday cake with mintchip ice cream

4 sites I visit daily:
wish jar journal
superhero
she’s a piece of work
kai smart
(and many more)

4 places I’d rather be:
Hawaii
Paris
East Africa
Anywhere with my friend Jen.

and now I tag:

Kai
Katherine
Felicia
Erica

Happy to Have You Back Anytime

Happy 6 Months to me moving to New York! WHAT A GREAT NIGHT!

Here's the reality of what happens before a show for me (especially if it's been awhile): I go to get ready and suddenly the hypochondria starts kicking in. Why do I feel weak? Am I coming down with something? My stomach feels funny. I fell on the subway steps rushing to catch a train a couple of days ago, and my injured leg starts hurting more. Then I go to the club and it's awkward and nobody introduces themselves, and no matter how much I know this dynamic, it always feels weird. I do a brief soundcheck, and then I sit and act busy for a half hour until people start to trickle in.

Even though I felt "off" last night, I got up and did my show, battling a sudden bout of ADD, and a Howard Cosel in my head reporting every move I made, like some Basketball game. I sang my 9 songs and I made people laugh and I had a good time doing it. I dedicated "High Hopes" to Huckleberry Pie, my friend Katherine's pooch who turned one last night. It was to a room of people I either knew or they knew somebody I knew. Graham pointed out that I didn't know any one of them before moving to New York. 11 people in 6 months? That's pretty darned good! And that doesn't count the people who were going to come, but either weren't able to, or just didn't show.

The response was fantastic and warm and a relief for us all. So many people admitted being nerovous. I like her--what if I don't like her music? I assured them I knew EXACTLY how that felt--having been to MANY shows from invitations of friends or friends of friends. It's potentially VERY AWKWARD, but sometimes you go and are so pleasantly surprised, you're relieved that you don't have to be polite.

The cherry on top was that CB's LOVED ME. You know you've done well when a staff person goes out of their way to not only make it a point to tell you that they liked the show, but they want a CD. Steve, the doorman, was VERY KIND and encouraging and then he told me that the booking woman wanted to book me again. I turned to her at the bar, and she gave me a very serious talking to. She wanted to stress to me, THAT I AM GOOD and that she is hoping that I GET DISCOVERED and best of all, she said, "We would be happy to have you back ANYTIME." This is a woman who hears and listens to I am sure 100's of artists and she wanted me to call her and KEEP calling her untils she responds. YIPPEEEE! It's been a long time since I've had such validation from an outside source. FANTASTIC!

Afterwards, a bunch of us piled out into the cold, and got food. This is my favorite moment to doing a show--the feast after the event. You get to talk and eat and the food never tastes as good as it does after you've played to a bunch of people for 45 minutes.

Today I am so tired--but a GOOD TIRED. I've done something that matters to me and I want to do it more and more and more. Off to set some goals and meet them!

PS Also, I forgot to mention that Steve saw that I did the illustrations on my CD and said I should also get my ART SHOWN THERE!! You take one step and the universe adds two...