Pleasure Island

Just in case you were wondering: Canada is still rocking my party (as Felicia would say). We just got back from a three hour hike in the woods, soaking in the silence and the beautiful greenery. We walked by a lake adorned with lily pads and dragon flies, and then continued on through fields of wild glowers. We've seen bald eagles and swallows and deer and bunnies and snakes--OH MY! I forgot, being a city girl and all, how much I love nature, how much it can be so nourishing and quiet and needed. I don't remember the last time I stood among trees with no sound of humans murmuring in the distance. As we were walking, Pam suddenly said, "Stop. Listen!" And Graham, Pam, and I stood listening to nothing but the branches above us creeking like old bones. It reminded me to take a deep breath and just BREATHE.

I think I spend half my life grieving over the places I have just left, and the other half grieving the places I will be leaving. Before we left, and through the first day, I worried over our kitties still at home. I was anxious to know that our housesitter was there and caring for them. It was hard to completely relax. Now that I am two days in, knowing that the cats are with good company, I feel free to fall deep into this place and I am already sad about the day we will leave here. I just want to TAKE IT ALL IN, and NEVER LET IT GO. Sometimes pleasure is so pleasurable, I forget that I will have pleasure again, eslewhere. I am having SO MUCH PLEASURE right now, today, and I don't want to miss a thing. Of course, worrying about pleasure going away sure is a DRAG and then the pleausre is hampered. Egads! Geez, just stop and feel the pleasure already! OKAY! I WILL!

I'm off to do some much needed drawing and writing out by Pam's graden I think--something to sew me fully to the pleasure of this place and the time I am having RIGHT NOW. Tomorrow we go to Victoria to see an old friend of mine and to explore, and later we might go down to the shore to pick up shells and smell the sea. The pleasure is all mine.

We are in Canada!

First impressions of Canada: OH. MY. GOODNESS. IT. IS. SO. BEAUTIFUL. We flew into Vancouver over purple mountain magesties, covered in snow that looked like delicious, sweet Cool Whip. It has no ozone layer so, the sun is unfiltered and so it is BRIGHT and the air is CLEAN and sweet and so so pure. Coming from hazy crazy New York, made me want to lick at the air as if it were a GIANT INVISIBLE ICE CREAM CONE.

I don't have a lot of time to write because I am too busy eating my weight in delicious food (which includes fresh honeycomb, avocados, my favorite barbecue, strawberries from the garden, and artichokes), breathing ocean air, and covering myself in fifty layers of sunscreen as to not burn my skin right off--but I did want to drop a line to the countless DOZENS who still care (hello, Dad!) We are in the wilds of Vancouver Island, and we can't believe it. More to the point: We are on vacation, and we can't believe it!

Probably my new favorite picture--Pam and Graham on the ferry to Nanaimo. We are having a good time.

It's so good to be here, experiencing the familiarness of family, with the added adventure of being somewhere niether of us has been. When the customs official asked me what I did, and I told him that I was a musician, he said, "I'd buy your CD with a name like that." I said outloud, "Canada totally RULES!"

People, it totally does.

Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy

One of the great things about a blog is that you get to publicly honor people in your life with a BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. Some might call this PUBLICLY HUMILIATE, to which I say, SAME DIF’. No one deserves a tribute more than my housemate/best friend/apple of my eye/spring in my step/hunka hunka burnin’ love/boyfriend, MR. GRAHAM PARSONS. First of all, he lives with me, which means he gets to PUT UP with lots and lots of scraps of paper, everyday JOYS and DESPAIRS, a resistance to grocery shopping, and doing laundry, and everyday questions like, “Do you still like me?” and “Do you think I am pretty?” It takes a SAINT to put up with all that—-luckily, Graham is part saint, part mere mortal, so it comes out even in the wash.

27 years ago today, he was brought out into the world, kicking and screaming in his own big way, the last of 3 kids. Little did his attractive, conservative parents know that they were spawning a child that would outgrow everyone in his family in height, adorn tattoos (one of which reads RESISTANCE), have a penchant for punk rock, liberal politics, and getting the heck out of Southern California. I can tell you this is probably NOT what Jenny and John had in mind.

The first time I saw him, behind the counter of the bookstore, he seemed quiet and BAD ASS. Oh yeah and HOT. Little did I know, that he also is a TOTAL GOOF and HILARIOUS. He also is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met in my life, a good talker, and listener, who has an amazing capacity for empathy. He’d rather talk to one or two people at someone’s house, than attend a raging party. Once I asked if he wanted to go out and he pushed up his glasses and said, “I think I am going home to go read.” I thought, THANK GOD somebody else stays in and READS!

He is friend to the children and animals!

For fun he reads political books, drenched in warfare and International relations. He’s not one for fiction or literary endeavors, but he can appreciate it. He once admitted to me that sometimes he gets jealous of other guys when it comes to me. When asked who he got jealous of, he didn't name a single male person I actually KNEW. Instead, he named Philip Gourevitch, the author of We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will be Killed With Our Families, a book on the Rwanda genocides. It was a book that Graham introduced to me, and one, which admittedly, I liked very much, but NOT ONCE did I ever pontificate on how HOT or DREAMY the author was. if you asked me, I think Philip Gourevitch is more along the lines Graham's kind of pin up--a political journalist who writes beautiful prose on the world's horrors. OH, you had Graham at HELLO!

They say you learn a lot from when you SHACK UP with somebody. I can say this last year has been QUITE INFORMATIVE for both of us. One of my favorite moments of the last year was when we were watching the divorce tearjerker, Kramer vs. Kramer. I was BAWLING my eyes out. I looked over at Graham, and discovered that he, too, was SOBBING. We looked at each other and CRACKED UP. “What a couple of girls!” I declared, and we held each other and just LAUGHED hysterically.

I've also learned he can be surprisingly strict with rules and regulations. When his sister Coreen, and niece Lauren were visiting, he was PANIC STRICKEN every time Lauren took her shoes off in public. Even though her feet never touched an inch of sidewalk, she could not be barefoot, while traveling the dark streets of New York City. Not on his watch, baby.

This is how cool he is: You'd never know that he was totally ANNOYED at me taking this picture, comparing him to a very large potato! The man has GRACE!

I never thought in a million years thgat I would have a boyfriend that I couldn't wait to both make out with AND talk all night with. I, for one, am very very happy that you were born, my dear Graham cracker. You have made me believe in miracles.

I love you so--Happy Birthday.

The Song About My Face

A couple of days ago, I was in my favorite bookstore, The Gotham Bookmart, where I have been browsing (a.k.a loitering) off an on for the past few weeks. The Gotham Bookmart seems to me this strange Bermuda Triangle for all things tastefully literary, but also seems the antithises of what you've come to expect in a indipendant bookstore in New York City. They still have the usual collection of clerks that are bad ass looking or just plain fixtures of the place, like other indie bookstores, but the difference is EVERYONE IS NICE AS ALL GET OUT. I was shocked the first time I came in and the good looking tattoo sleeved man at the cash register, looked up, and without an inkling of guile or sarcasm, said with a big smile, "Hi there! How's it going?" I almost looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to somebody else, but I was the only schlep in the general vicinity of his gaze, so I smiled and said hello and went on my merry way.

On the second floor, where the bulk of their literary collection is housed, is a BIG ASS orange cat, with a head the size of a softball, and a guy, reading in the corner named, E. Until recently, I thought E. just lived there. He was ALWAYS there, lurking in the corner, giving everyone the same dazed, slightly cross-eyed look. "You need help with something?"

E. is one of those people who talks to you like he has all the time in the world--or more acuraltely, like YOU have all the time in the world. He is SLOW and METHODICAL and pauses to consider things, before he continues to mention something more. I've seen him yelled at by his boss, in a way that made me more emberassed for his boss than for him. I've seen him mocked by co-workers in ways that would make my blood boil, but he seems utterly unphased by it. When his boss came into yell at him he was in the middle of helping me find something. When his boss was done belittling him and treating him (a man probably in his 40's) like a child, E. considered his lashing as if it was just a gust of wind, blinked a few times, and then turned to help me find the book, without any further consideration.

Since I've come in there quite a few times, we've traded little bits about each other. He knows I am a musician and a songwriter, who likes poetry, first editions, and literary histories of women. I know that he lives in Chelsea, takes photographs, and writes non-fiction. Last time I was in there he said, "I was thinking about you last night and I was thinking, you have such a nice face, you should write a song about your face." I almost turned to SALT right there. It SCARED the HELL out of me. My face--the nice face--turned BEET RED. I laughed outloud.

I din't know what to say, so I started to talking REALLY FAST and telling him RATHER QUICKLY, how when I played my show in Worcester, a guy in the audience, who had literally SIX LARGE empty cups of coffee in front of him, and no teeth, stopped me at the end of my set and said, "Summer. Summer, you got to know WHAT YOU'RE DOIN' TO ME." I assured him, I didn't know what I was doing to him. He said, "Your voice is so pure. And your eyes---YOUR EYES..." He paused and clutched his chest, "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and you must have the DEEPEST SOUL." I told him I'd tell that to my mother, which is where I got my eyes. He laughed and said, "Yes, but does she have THE SOUL? I DOUBT IT." I told E. that I pointed to the coffee cups in front of this man and said, "Rick, that's just the coffee talkn'." For the first time, I saw E. laugh. It wasn't an outloud laugh, it was a half smile, while he ran some thoughts over in his head. I saw his small eyes clicking back and forth behind his glasses. And then I made a run for the memoir section, darting the akward silence that I am sure only I felt.

Practically everyday people say things to me like, "You should write a song about (insert subject here)." Never in my life has anyone suggested that I should write about something that THEY had observed about me. I always say, "YOU write that song." But frankly, I couldn't stand a song about my face. It would make just want to hide it from the world, and never show it in this town again.

Evidence of Momentary Release

Graham and I are off to Canada next week. I am in the mad throws of getting everything finished here at the job, making arrangements with our apartment sitter who is flying from California to experience the wilds of New York, and getting ready to give away the kittens. The kittens are driving ther mama, their Graham, and their Summer QUITE NUTS. Sometimes when two are attacking Sleater-Kitty's tail, she has such a PISSED OFF look on her face, it's as if she has forgotten they are her OWN BABIES, and she can't believe that WE LET THEM IN.

This morning, as I was getting ready to leave, I heard such plaintive meows coming from under the bed, that I rushed to see what was the matter. Somehow Ginger Otis had disocvered a hole in the lining ofthe mattress box, climbed in between the padding and the lining, and found herself UTTERLY LOST. When Graham tried to get her out, she tried to FIGHT HIM.

Then there is the pee. Potty training any one individual is quite a challenge, but try potty training FIVE puffy, wiley, scatterbrains and what you experience might well be named CHAOS. We have found EVIDENCE OF MOMENTARY RELEASE in the darndest places! The heat has since kicked in, and well, I don't know about you, but I kinda HATE living in a petting zoo. There arent any goats around for miles, but sometimes, when the wind is right, well, the scent just makes your nose ITCH.

So the kittens are leaving us--all but one. It will be sad, but I have to tell you, there's something so delicious about thinking about having our home manageable again. I know it's sick, but I just can't wait to VACCUUM and have it STAY vaccuumed for more than anfternoon. Oh the good time sto come! Oh the sweet scent of NOTHING on the carpet!

Courteously Wasn't There

Janae wrote me to tell me the following conversation that my little brother Luke had with his grandma Virginia:

Virginia: (asking him about things he learned in Kindergarden): Did you learn to play with the other children courteously?

Luke: Courteously wasn't there, but Austin and Jotham were.

Slowly Slowly Slowly

Do you ever feel inspired by someone’s example, as opposed to their work? I just printed out a beautiful picture of Miranda July to put on my journal. I’m not crazy about her movie, but I love how creative she is and all her various projects. I feel the need to have what she represents nearby. Mainly, as someone who actually finishes what she starts. She does so many projects, and I realized last night that what inspires me most about her is that she does it ALL. She does projects and then she finishes them! EGADS! Sometimes I think that’s what separates me from “them”—those darn successful artists. They actually FINISH things. I am great at starting, and then procrastinating. Sometimes it’s like wrestling a giant centipede to the ground to settle myself down to FINISH. Lots of kicking and squirming. There is so much I want to do, and I get so IMPATIENT for things to be done, so I can get started on the NEXT thing, but then my unfinished projects hinder me starting on those next things.

Like everything else, it takes a lot of teeny tiny steps to finish things. Sometimes we do them unconsciously, effortlessly, and then when it’s time to finish, it can be painfully hard to do all those steps to COMPLETION.

There is so much I want to do: record and put out another CD, go on tour in October, start a guerilla art revolution in midtown Manhattan, make a new calendar, have an art show, finish my novel. All these things ARE HUGE and I can get lost in the BIG IDEA of them, as opposed to the small efforts that I can make daily.

Someone asked me recently, “What about consciously taking time off?” Meaning, I have a day job AND a night job, do I ever give myself permission to have a break? It was a TOTALLY NEW CONCEPT. Oh my goodness! I’ve been doing it this way for years, you mean I CAN have time that isn’t completely devoted to my “real life” as an artist?

I realized that procrastinating isn’t real time off. There is A LOT of work involved in procrastination. I don’t know about you, but I find guilt EXHAUSTING. I find stalling exhausting. Slowly, slowly, slowly I am finding that conscious time off is perhaps JUST AS IMPORTANT as putting in studio time.

Of course, it’s hard to turn off the artist in you, because that’s the filter in which you view the world. Yet, maybe with small moves, little goals, a real working week, where you have nights off, slowly slowly slowly you can live a life of accomplishment.

Hot Mama's Day

Yesterday might have been Father's day, but today is MY MAMA'S BIRTHDAY. YEEHAW! How can you salute someone who has lived more lives than anyone else you will ever have the privilege of knowing? As the song goes, it isn't easy, but I'll try.

All my life my mother has been an incredible source of intrigue for me. As a kid, I could pour over her childhood photos for hours. Her life seemed so VAST and FASCINATING. And who am I kidding? I STILL find it vast and fascinating! Take the picture above, for example. I have NO IDEA when this picture was taken. Was it while she was in Pennsylvania or was in Berkeley, California? Was it in Alaska or was it in Washington, D.C.? Which ERA of her life does it depict? Was it when she was dating a FAMOUS old Broadway crone, having dinner with the likes of Lawrence Olivier, or was it when she was student at University of Pennsylvania? WHO KNOWS? Six months later, she might have been somewhere else entirely, hacking her hair off and bleaching it orange with Ajax! Such is the nature of her life.

When I was six years old, my mother started going on tour, as a rigger for rock bands, building the epic stages and sets, and breaking them down at each show. The first tour that I remember her going on was for Eddie Money. I can remember sitting in the living room watching some variety show with Eddie Money rocking out, and my caregiver saying, "You're mom's there somewhere." and me STRAINING to try to see OFF STAGE, where she might be standing beyond the pink floodlights.

Since then, she has toured with some of the GREATS of rock n' roll: the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, JOURNEY, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, and Mariah Carey, just to name a few (there are TOO MANY to name). She has traveled the world, working a physically demanding, male dominated industry, kicking ass and working her tail off. She was the first woman to be inducted into her working union. Basically, she is one STRONG INDIVIDUAL who has always BURNED HER OWN TRAIL.

One of my favorite things to tease my mom about is that despite her TOUGH BROAD exterior, she is a TOTAL SAP. I will never forget her taking my brother and I to see Song of the South, and her BAWLING her eyes out when the little boy is delirious in bed, calling out, "Uncle Remus, Uncle Remus, I found my happy place. I found my happy place!" She also has an ANNOYING, but ACCURATE way of shifting my brother and I from misery to AGGRIVATION, by reciting the same HORRIBLE joke: "Two pieces of string walk into a bar. The bartender says, 'We don't serve string.' and kicks them out. The two pieces of string tie themselves together and walk back in. The bartender says, 'Aren't you two the pieces of string that I just kicked out?' And they reply, 'I'm a frayed knot." ARRRRGHHHH! Just writing it down makes me SQUIRM.

As some of you know, she lost most of her home and belongings to floods in Sonoma over New Year's. Her goal was to get back into her house by her birthday. I haven't talked to her yet, but my hope is that when I call, she will be basking in her newly assembled home, having a cold glass of lemonade. Knowing her, she probably won't be though--there's TOO MUCH TO DO and TOO MANY BATTLES STILL TO BE WON and MOUNTAINS TO CLIMB. What can you expect from someone who has toured the world and back again? A quiet afternoon on the couch? HARDLY.

Happy Birthday, Mom! Keep burning your trails!

Happy Father's Day!

Me and my rambln' dad, Fourth of July, circa 1981--also know as the last time my belly saw the light if day.

Tickled and Awed

Okay, this has not been the greatest week. Hence the downer blog entries. Sorry about that, folks--but when the shizzle is going down,you stand with an umbrella and keep the cameras rolling. First rule of reportage. AND we are all in the soup together, right? RIGHT??

In all this down and outness, I neglected to mention some good things. Even when you are having PERSONAL PROBLEMS, New York still gives you PLENTY of opportunities to be WOWED and EXALTED by its magic. On Tuesday night they shut down Fifth Avenue--The Museum Mile--and opened the museums to the public FOR FREE. I went with Graham and my co-worker, Michelle, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see two shows in particular: British fashion and the Susan Sontag influenced photography exhibit. Graham remembered that the roof of the museum was open, and said we should make an effort to go there. OH MY GOODNESS, I am SO GLAD we did!

There have been many times in New York, where I will come upon a place and be so TICKLED and AWED by something, that I feel myself become like a six year old kid. My mouth hangs wide open, and I can't stop saying: WOOOOOOOOWWWWWW! Over and over again. Being on the roof of the Met, was one such moment. The view is nothing short of spectacular. You are high above Central Park, seeing the thick green trees, and then the amazing skyline of Manhattan. As it happened, it was a particularly beautiful evening, with a rich pattern of silky clouds. The light was a wonderful mixture of gold, blue, and white. Oh yeah, and there was some art up there too, but WHO CARED, when you can see rooftop gardens across the street and a sunset that takes your breath away.

I had Michelle take my picture, because I'm realizing that I have pictures of everybody else enjoying my favorite moments, but none of me. I want more pictures of me in my happiest New York moments, so that I can look and say: I WAS THERE! REMEMBER THAT?

This morning I was feeling down, so I got off the subway early and walked with graham to another subway stop farther dpwn the way. It;s going to be a hot one today, and so the morning was beautiful with sun soaking the sidewalks and cafes. We walked through one o fmy new favorite parts of New York, near by Gramarcy Park, and discovered yet ANOTHER landmark, the Poetry Society of America. Today, I am going to keep these discoveries in my heart, like a piece of faith that reminds me, no matter how hard life can be at times, you can still turn a corner and be surprised and delighted.

The Artist in the Office

This week is in danger of sucking me dry. In an attempt to keep my soul in tact, I started to make lists yesterday at lunch time of ideas, guerilla projects, things to MAKE MY MARK in New York. lately, I am fascinated by this idea of looking at work culture head on. I want to make a 'zine called "The Artist in the Office." You know who you are and you've been living it for years. You're the writer, who has sustained a dream life of characters, observations, and notes, sneaking in the occasional chapter, while you work on reports; You're the painter or illustrator who doodles constantly on stickies, and imagines your own work being duplicated as you make thousands of copies at the copying machine; you're the musician who hoofs your gigs to your co-workers, sneaks e-mailings to your mailing list, and makes fliers when the boss ain't looking.

I wonder just how many of us are out there. Seriously. Who out there is an artist in their daily life, living a double life, working essentially two jobs? I wonder at the daily frustration we all try to ward off. I wonder at how we try to creep in our REAL lives, into our days spent doing what we think we MUST do. I think we do it passive aggressively, by sneaking in computer time, copier time, office supply time. Do you ever consider consciously all the time and supplies you DO use toward your artful life, during your day job? How do you TRULY spend your days?

There are reasons we are here in the office. Maybe we can't imagine another way. Maybe it is only temporary. Maybe it's just a means to an end. What is it that you REALLY DO?

The office is the American symbol for JOB. There are people who work in an office, who love their jobs. There are people in an office who don't think about it much. There are people, who are raging in their seats everyday because they want another way, but don't know how.

I have felt an urge lately to put up fliers or chalk messages on the sidewalk, in midtown New York, that say things like, "Call in Sick" or "You don't have to go" or "This moment is more important than you think" or "Go towards the kindness." I dream of having a life that is spent doing what I want to do 100% of the time--none of it would be spent in an office. Yet, this is where I am. I have to begin HERE, if I am to begin anything.

Recently I met a writer who just published a book on creativity. I asked him if he was able to write full-time and he sort of sagged in posture, and said wearily, "Oh, no. Not yet anyway." And we both acknowledge wary smiles. Later, I couldn't get his response out of my mind--or my response to him. I feel there is this duality we live as artists with day jobs. We don't want our day jobs, but I do believe there is something in us that just LAYS OUR LIVES DOWN, that just says, "OH, WELL." I don't want to say OH WELL anymore. It made me think of him in his cubicle, and me at my desk, and the countless others out there who feel tired, who feel like they coast through that part of their lives in order to get to the "real" parts.

Having a day job doesn't make any of us less of an artist than anyone who is doing it full-time. Making art, makes us artists. What can you do consciously TODAY, where you sit, staring at this screen, that says THIS IS TRULY ME? Wake UP and begin where you are.

Early In the Week, and I'm in Trouble

Allright, I hate to be a downer, but this week totally blows. I know what you're saying, BUT IT'S ONLY TUESDAY. MORNING. To which I say, EXACTLY.

I've had migraines almost everyday for about a 10 days straight--in varying degrees. Yesterday I had a reprieve, but by the afternoon, due to stress, I had another one galloping into the pasture of my head and now here it sits. No meds to help, and all the work in the world to do. Not only that, but work is scary with things unknown and my sudden uncanny ability to screw up left and right with my boss. It's been a LONG TIME since I've felt so inadequate. I feel like saying to her, "You know, I don't know what to tell you, but obviously there's something that I am reacting to, that is making me seem dim, clumsy, and utterly useless. I swear to you that I am normally quite capable."

Then there's a rather terrible personal situation happening and I don't want to get into the particulars, but it is making me miserable, prone to anxiety attacks and occasional weeping. Again, it is a long time since I've felt so inept. I feel like saying to the other person involved, "You know, I don't know what to tell you, but obviously there's something in this situation that is making me seem dim, clumsy, and utterly useless. I swear to you that normally I appear to have a heart and a brain."

To quote Anne Lamott: Once again, I am the world's largest toddler.

I've been seeking advice, prayers, and ice cream. Graham took me out to dinner last night because I came home totally wrecked. God bless boyfriends that take you out to dinner. They are the unsung heroes. Also, sometimes having someone be an audience to your impromptu comedic monologues about how awful your day is, totally makes a difference. Yesterday, I spun a doozy of a one woman show to my friend and co-worker, Mindy. Thank God she laughs and interjects her own humor, otherwise Graham might have had to take me to the LOONY BIN, instead of an outdoor restaurant for barbecued ribs and tossed salad.

And the world goes on. I played guitar this morning and that helped. Feeling the sun on my back helps. Remembering that even the best people can sometimes be a**holes helps. I am looking forward to another day, where heads don't hurt, tasks get accomplished, and I am not walking around feeling like the back end of an otherwise decent person.

The One Thing that Dupes Ducktape

Somewhere in Connecticut
I so heart Boston and the greater Massachusetts area. Fantastic show, fantastic radio experience. I loved it. Even in the rain and cold. I kept thinking it was September or October. People heard me on the radio early in the morning and made a LONG DRIVE to Worcester to hear me play. I got money and A DRAWING in the tip jar. I loved seeing the whole experience. I And I kept right on loving it until the Fung Wah bus home, broke down due to a ducktaped window coming lose.

Ducktape is a miraculous substance--it can hold INCREDIBLE things together. I learmed this early on, when my brother Blake went through a tape phase. His motto was, "Tape can fix anything!" Bike parts, legs of a broken chair, severed action figures' heads. I have learned, however, that ducktape cannot hold together an enormous slab of plexiglass at 65 miles per hour for three to four hours straight. The glass and wind win in the battle of good vs. evil. So we sat on the lawn in front of a McDonald's in anywhere, Connecticut and waited for direction, watching the next layer of ducktape get applied to the window edge. We went back on the freeway, crawling along, so as not to disturb the ducktape, and to meet another bus that was meeting us from New York. Over FIVE HOURS LATER, we crawled into Chinatown. I thought I was going to strangle somebody, which is not a godd place to be when you're trying to make your way through the sunday evening crowds of Chinatown to the subway.

I've never been so happy to reach a kitten infested apartment in my life.

The Imaginary Friend We Believe In

Yesterday when I came into work, I was feeling tired and little winded from the previous night's performance. I felt it had gone adequately, which is another way of saying, I was trying to convince myself that I don't UTTERLY SUCK. It wasn't a bad performance, it was just one of those performances that I had felt just a wee bit critical of myself. Meaning, it didn't go PERFECTLY. Then I ran into a co-worker of mine, who had been to the show, and he stood there and gave me what can only be qualified as a RAVE REVIEW. Then I remembered the rule I had recently established for myself: No matter what my experience of the show is, it doesn't mirror anyone else's. The audience ALWAYS has a different experience than I do. I had forgotten this simple fact, and thank God I had someone to remind me of it!

Lynda Barry calls our critical side, "The imaginary friend we believe in." Why in the heck do we believe in the BAD imaginary friend, instead of the GOOD imaginary friend who you played with as a kid, that helped make up stories or create spaghetti out of play dough and a garlic press? Seriously, what gives? I don't know about any one else, but i seem to have this imaginary Howard Cosel guy in my head as I play a show that reports on everything I do: Oh, now she's strumming her guitar, ope! She almost missed that chord change. Will she, ladies and gentlemen, REMEMBER THE NEXT LINE OF THE SONG? She's stepping up to the mic...oh...it's going to be a close one folks...

What a DRAG!

That's why I think quiet meditation helps so much--it's just a practice in witnessing thought, detaching yourself from it, and letting it pass through like a cloud. Being present is a tough thing to do when you perform, and it's easy to get caught up in expectations or judgement. I try really hard to just let go and live in the song, not in the audience. Sometimes I forget, like I did on Wednesday, and I was left with the critical hangover--the one that happens LONG AFTER the performance has ended and has bloomed into a terrific story. My feelings in this case are totally based in a non reality. Thank God I had someone to cross my path and remind me: The show you watched is NOT the same as the one you ACTUALLY PERFORMED.

Come listen and see me practice LIVING IN THE MOMENT this weekend. I'll be so happy to see you:

**Radio Appearance!**
Saturday, June 10, 2006
8:15am--8:45am (EDT)
WERS 88.9 FM
Boston, MA
tune in or listen to it on-line!

Saturday, June 10, 2006
The Java Hut
9:30pm-11:30pm
1073 Main St
Worcester, MA

Valuable Lessons

I was thinking today on the way to work, that if I had any advice for a beginning performer, it would be MAKE SURE YOU HAVE A LIFE first. A community of musicians is absolutely essential, YES, but it is also very important to make sure you have a foundation outside the music world. It gets REALLY NUTS if you don't.

I feel very grateful for the opportunities I found in the scene I started out in. Some of the musicians I met there are still my friends, and still people who inspire me. It was an exceptionally vibrant place to start out. There were places to play and a lot of good music being created. However, it was also a place filled with competitiveness, raging insecurities, and people (me included) who were there to fill a void somehow. People who had power wielded it for good or ill. In the end, the very things about it that inspired me, dragged me down, and I didn't have anything to go on. When I left, I felt chewed up and spit out.

I'll never forget coming back almost two years later to play the club that had a lot of personal weight to me, not to mention "industry" weight. Since the last time I'd played there, I'd been blackballed for personal reasons, I'd quit music for awhile, and I'd basically had what you'd call a breakdown. It took a tremendous amount of guts for me to get up there and play, and I was shaky and scared. It went fine and I was just about to feel proud of myself, when I got off the stage, and was approached by one of the soundbooth guys, both whom I had known for years. The first words out of his mouth were: "Yeah, we were listening to you and M. said, 'Oh, is that a NEW song? Maybe it'll be ANOTHER ten years before she comes out with another album.'" It was meant to be funny, but it sent me REELING. The old machines started to kick in and I started to go to the BAD PLACE in my head, the one that said SEE? YOU'RE TERRIBLE AND THEY KNOW IT AND YOU DESERVE THIS AND WHAT IS THE POINT? But I had one thing in my pocket then that I didn't have before: Graham. I repeated this to Graham, about ready to pack in my guitar, and have a good cry, and his response was to be IRATE. "WHAT? I'm going to KILL that GUY. Who the hell does he think HE IS?"
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, THE CORRECT RESPONSE IN THIS SITUATION.

When I told another friend about it later, his immediate response was, "Sounds like someone who never has written a song in their lives."

These are the responses I didn't have before. When all your friends are in the same small pond, they are all breathing the same air--sometimes inspirational and sometimes toxic. They aren't always able to mirror back to you REALITY, because they are so far down into their own worries and insecurities. After I talked to Graham and my friend, it was like a HUGE LIGHTBULB popping above my head. Those two guys at the club, whom I realized I had given so much power, live and breathe that atmosphere and often stir it up with their opinions, which are fueled by their OWN crap. In truth, they really DON'T KNOW DIDDLY of what it is to be an artist. It was the first in many moments that helped me start to recover and to truly take back my artistry.

I have a show tonight that I am excited about. Actually, I have a couple of shows in the next few days that I am excited about. This weekend I am heading to Massachusetts, my old stomping grounds, to do a radio show and then to follow it up with a two hour set in a coffeehouse I haven't been to in ages. Going to Boston is always a mixed bag for me. I lived there for seven years, and began my humble career as a musician there. It's a loaded place for me, because when I left, I felt like I was running from the hounds of hell. What I've learned since is that I was really running from myself and all the mistakes I felt I couldn't outlive. It's not as icky as it used to be. I am actually excited about going this time--not just to play, but to see friends, do business, and go to my favorite cafe. Things are better, because I am better. I've learned some valuable lessons in the last year alone. One of them is truly that I love my life and from that place A LOT of good can happen.

It's All Greek to Me

I’m in a new temp job in the same company, in the same devision, but it’s so surprisingly different, I feel like I am at a whole different company. I am DUMB again. Such is the life of a temp. Geez louise, apparently five months at the same job can make you FORGET what its like out there—in another job—where your skills can get you only so far. What you really need is ACQUIRED KNOWLEDGE. That’s the key to office work. No offense to all the office people out there (and you know who you are and I am one of you), but it really doesn’t take a genius to know how to copy and fax and answer e-mail, it does however take time and a sort of SAVVY to pick up the little nuances that assemble an office job. You can train all you like, but in truth it just takes TIME to know the procedures, the relationships, the flags, and the LIITLE MILLION THINGS that make up a job.

I actually got anxious about it last night. I lay there in the dark and didn’t want to go to sleep because it meant coming into a new position with new bosses and new expectations and I felt as prepared and sharp as piece of bellybutton lint. Graham said, “I assure you, you can do the job. You’re not dumb.” Oh, but I feel dumb. I sit in the throne of the person, who normally sits here, and stare into the gears of the machine she usually operates, and it’s all GREEK to me. There’s NEW responsibilities and a back story that I’m not privy to--yet. My new bosses greet me like a foreign exchange student, who only knows a few words of English. We do a lot of smiling a nodding as a way to communicate. They say things and then lilt their voices in the end, as if it were a question. As in, “These things need to be copied and stapled…?” And I smile and say, “Okay…?” And then we realized that we have officially COMMUNICATED something successfully. Relief pours over our faces and it is back to our corners.

Like lots of creatures, I like routine. Part of the discomfort I am feeling is the daunting task of change. I know it’s another example that I need to get out of this temporary employee business. It’s a racket. The grown up in me knows it, and so does the little kid in me. The little kid hates being new in any environment. The kid in me hates looking for a place to eat lunch. She wants usual seats, friends, people who greet her, having the answers to her own questions. The grown up in me wants health insurance, respect, a place to go where everyone knows her name. Actually, the grown up in me doesn’t want to file or copy or sit in front of excel spreadsheets at all. The grown up in me wants to play like the kid inside me and make a good living from it—-but that’s a whole different ballgame. Today, I’ll just settle for some itsy bitsy knowledge—something to go on, that says ALL IS NOT IN VAIN. You are capable and you know what you’re doing…?

It Doesn't Get Better Than This, In New York, or Anywhere

Andres

Yesterday was the last day of my 5 month temp assignment. It was a flurry of paper and lists and running around trying to clean the desk, get ready for the usual person to come back after being away for five months. The day before, Mindy had spilled the beans that they had a thank you evening planned for me. When I asked if Graham could come, she said, "He is already coming." Apparently, he is a GOOD KEEPER OF SECRETS! I had NO IDEA! Turns out, that was just the tip of the iceberg of surprises.

It ended up being one of those magical New York nights, where everything is beautiful and perfect. When I was lead into Central Park, and to my utter shock and DELIGHT to the doors of the Boathouse Restaurant, I literally almost started crying. For those of you who don't know, the Boathouse is a FANCY SCHMANCY restaurant that overlooks the pond in Central Park. It is a beautiful and magestic place of iconic status. I have said to Graham if anything REALLY BIG happens--like either of us gets a book published, or we get married, or the world is about to end, we had to splurge and eat there. It turns out, all I needed to do was be a good employee for some of the sweetest co-workers on the planet, because we waltzed right in and sat with the open deck looking upon the green pond, turtles swimming, weeping willows weeping, and all! Do you ever get that feeling upon seeing something utterly beautiful or special, and it almost DOESN'T SEEM REAL? That is what it was like for me to sit down and look out upon the water and the trees and the buildings beyond the park. Everyone at the table looked wonderful. It was a humid, thick evening, with a thunderstorm in the forcast, but we were all so happy to be in this beautiful place. We ordered drinks and an ice cold cosmoplitan never tasted so delicious. We toasted. We all ordered different fish dishes, with sides of polenta and mozzeral fries and steamed spinach. I ate and laughed just kept saying to myself :take this in take this in. I said to my friend Andres, who has lived in new york his entire life, "It doesn't get much better than this in New York, or anywhere." He looked around and said, "It's true. We need reminders of that." He meant living in New York, how it can get so crazy and sometimes get you down. I agree, but I think it's also true no matter where you are. You need to look out upon the water, take in the beauty of where you actually are.

Then the storm came in. They slid the glass windows shut, and suddenly we were an audience to the most spectacular electrical storm, shooting bolts above the now dark buildings. The rain came down in a shout pockmarking the pond's surface and we were awed at it all. We ordered another round of drinks. I raised my glass and thanked them all for this happy surprise--which wasn't just the dinner and the location and the occasion, but who these people were to me. I have been in New York ten months, and I feel lucky to know Andres, Mindy, Erika, and Michele. Then, as if it wasn't enough, they gave me gifts and Mindy had gone to the Magnolia Bakery and gotten cupcakes. How good could this NIGHT BE?? Gift certificate to my favorite bookstore, wonderful card, Bruce Springseen, and the best cupcakes on the planet!

Afterwards, we all split up to head home. Michele, Graham, and I walked out of Central Park, under our umbrellas, the rain pouring down, and the path illuminated by flashes of lightening. The park was utterly empty and quiet. I'll never get tired of it.

Friends, this is one of the best nights that I've had in my little ol'life. A total surprise and delight. Thank you for making me feel so loved and appreciated. You are the real happy surprise.

Objects are Smaller Than They Appear

Ladies and gentleman, I give you, Ginger Otis (Just to make it hurt a little more).

Show on Wednesday!

If you come to ANY New York show LET THIS BE THE ONE.

I have new songs! I have a new attitude! I have tales to tell and I aim to please!

Summer Pierre
singing her songs and making the ladies *sigh*
Wednesday, June 7, 2006
8:30pm-9:00pm
Sidewalk Cafe
On Avenue A (at 6th Street)
New York, NY
No admission price, but there is a two drink minimum, and a hat to put change into!

I love playing music for people. It makes me very happy, so won't you come and share the love?