Tonight in Brooklyn!

For those of you who are in the area and don't ALREADY KNOW, I am taking a break from my break from performing (does that make any sense?) and PLAYING A SHOW at the excellent Vox Pop in Brooklyn.

Please come:

TONIGHT! Saturday, March 31, 2007 @ 9pm!
Summer Pierre performs all her exciting songs AND MORE
Vox Pop
1022 Cortelyou Rd
Brooklyn, NY 11218
718-940-2084

Pretty on the Inside AND Outside

For the last few nights I've been coming home and saying to Graham, "In case you haven't heard this before, I LOVE Oliver Sacks!" It's true, I totally do.

I had heard about him from my folks, Pam and Gary, for years. They have all his books. Then when I was staying at their house, recovering from surgery, I picked up An Anthropologist on Mars, and was immediately SMITTEN. So I read The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat, soon following and SWOONED ever more.

For some reason, I tucked him away as I writer I would return to and savor later. For years I thought about it, but then the idea of science writing just didn't seem that interesting. OH, I am SO DUMB. I decided to read Seeing Voices recently (after all choices fell through) and ONCE AGAIN was totally enriched by his unbelievable style of mixing history, reportage, medical facts, with an honest literary bent. He's unlike anyone else I read, which makes him like a breath of fresh air in a room I didn't know had the windows closed.

Not only that, but I LOVE how Chip Kidd has designed his books. Look how YUMMY this cover is:


I have a real love of the art of book covers (I know I am not alone here). I sometimes go to the library just to find vintage book cover art that I like. Sometimes I DO judge a book by its cover. Chip Kidd is well, THE KIDD. He's an absolute artist in his field and I can often spot the books that have been designed by him. I love the series he did for Oliver Sacks and want to buy them to read AND gaze at.

I feel like I've had a few books lately that have UTTERLY knocked my socks off, which helps me to realize that I am not all that DULLED to life after all. The books I've been reading have just been good, but not great. Oliver Sacks has reminded me that there is a world out there that is deeply interesting. All you have to do is follow your curiosity. I'm glad I did.

Bridentity Crisis

This weekend my mother said to me, "I hope you don't become a BRIDEZILLA on me." When I asked her what that looked like she told me of the CAUTIONARY TALE of her best friend, Fern, becoming a Bridezilla. My mom was setting up the tables and chairs at Fern's wedding and Fern came in and said, "Bee! Don't be moving those tables and chairs with your bad back!" Then (are you READY?) she left the room. I was waiting for some sort of CAT FIGHT or TEARS at least, but it turns out all you have to be to be a NIGHTMARE IN A VEIL is to say "Don't do that."

I am SCREWED, people.

I am having, what Ariel coined, a Bridentity Crisis except it's the exact opposite of what she termed it be. I don't have a problem with people only considering me as a bride, and not an individual. I feel like I am getting messages of "We're so EXCITED for you, but don't you DARE get excited about it too! It's just NOT THAT COOL."

Why am I ashamed to say that I can't wait to to look pretty, to eat good cake, and then spend my life with a guy that kicks so much ass it should be illegal? Why am I ashamed for having opinions about our wedding at all?

Part of this is that Graham is not excited about a wedding. For good reason too--it requires money or favors or both. It also requires logistical planning, something he LOATHES with every fiber of his being. He also hates being the center of attention. Something (cough) that I don't have as much of a problem with. So, it's been a dance to even discuss the planning at all.

Another part of it is that for some of my family it's hard celebrating other people. Don't be too happy! It will just make you seem SHALLOW and a FREAK.

Then there's just plain old me. I worry that my excitement of having a wedding and wanting to get married makes me less independent and individualistic. Yet, it's true, I LIKE planning a big old party where I'll get to see people I love, and dance to Al Green and Tom Waits, and (yes) wear a pretty dress, and eat the best chocolate cake in the whole world. I worry that even wanting to get married is not hip. I may not be taking his name, but I do want to wear Graham's ring. Is that SO WRONG?

I just wish I felt more COMFORTABLE in the role. I want to run with it, freely, not like I've been doing, with my head ducked, so no one can see the secret white lace trailing from my head. I want to let my freaky bride flag fly. I want to get married and I want to have fun doing it. After all, it's a FRIGGN' LEAP OF FAITH, and we should have PARTIES for ALL our leaps of faith! They are brave acts! So why do I still feel guilty?

The Night Tree

Weaving the Threads Together to Make Something Beautiful

The table looms in the weaving room came in different sizes. If in doubt of what to do, you could always whip one of those out in a day or two. My mom has a framed small weaving I made in 3rd grade. It's about two inches wide and three inches tall. I thought I'd "go fancy" and include a PLASTIC BEAD in one of the threads. I have no idea what happened to any of the countless weavings I made on all those afternoons.

I have so many memories in that weaving room. I was lucky that I went to a school that had a weaving room, along with a clay room, wood shop, art room, and science room that we were REQUIRED to go to in the afternoons. I went to all of them. I made lots of clay figures with spaghetti hair made of clay pressed through a garlic press. I also made what I called "a stuffed animal carrier" in wood shop, which was probably one of the most useless things ever made. It was a giant box made out of plywood, with a handle, and a small door. It weighed about FORTY POUNDS empty and was so cumbersome, I never touched it after I brought it home.

In the science room, there were pickled creatures in jars, and metal dust you could collect with magnets. Once I came upon a box that said, "Open Me" and I opened it to find another, smaller box with the same message. So I opened that one and it had a message of "Almost there..." and so I opened it and there was a small box with a last message on it. When I opened the last box it had a dead, ruby breasted hummingbird. The dead bird scared me so much, that I dropped the box and ran out of the classroom and DIDN'T STOP until I got back to the classroom. I never told anyone why I was back early. It haunted me for years.

I am still drawing these fliers. I am still amazed by what comes up. They are such a good practice for memory, writing, and for drawing. I never in a million years thought about drawing those small table looms, but when I did, something in me WOKE UP.

The Treasure

While we were at Disneyland, Janae had promised the kids that they could each get “a treasure” before we left. For Lily, this meant a sparkly princess hat, which she touched affectionately every time we passed a kiosk, where they hung at a perfect height for a for year old to grab and pull. Luke wanted what he called “A big Woody.” I can’t tell you the number of times I heard “I want a big Woody” over a course of 36 hours. Woody, in case you don’t know, is the Tom Hanks voiced cowboy in the Toy Story movies. He is Luke’s favorite character and apparently has wanted an eighteen inch doll of Woody for awhile.

Janae, who doesn’t stoop as LOW as I do, didn’t bite any of my nudgings and winkings as to HOW FUNNY it sounded when Luke repeated the words “Big Woody,” as in “Mom, when can I get a big Woody?” All she said to me was, “Believe me, it’s been WELL COVERED.”

So I was all alone in being tickled to death, when Luke got to get the Woody doll, and he went around the store holding the box and saying affectionately, “I got a big Woody!” As he stood, waiting to purchase it, he gazed down at Woody’s face and gave him a quick kiss. Then, as if to recover his six year old MACHO self he said, “Hey Woody! You kissed ME!”

I thought, oh, what a complicated world we live in.

Disneyland

Where to even begin?

Disneyland is a TRIP and a HALF. It’s a bit like New York—crowded, great architecture, and expensive as hell. On the other hand, it’s also much WHITER (or should I say PINKER) than New York City, and the people there are unbelievably nice and helpful, and they keep the place clean.

In case you forgot for even a second that you were in an ENCHANTING place, they pumped chiming orchestrated music everywhere you went. I wouldn’t have minded this, but I lost my cell phone the first night we were there, and I was HAUNTED by what I thought was my cell phone ringing from the dead. I kept lurching to get it, and then catching myself.

Also, since I’d been there, they had taken the mouse ears to a WHOLE NEW LEVEL. They now had such exciting themes as Captain Jack Sparrow mouse ears, with an earring in the ear, and brown ropes of dreadlocks hanging from the rim of the cap. There were pink princess sparkly cone ears for all those princesses out there (I was traveling with one of them). I stood in line at Star Tours and saw a six-foot man, with lobstered skin and red hair, with a Rastafarian pair of mouse ears. This particular pair was colored red, yellow, and green, and had fake dreadlocks hanging from the cap. He kept shaking the dreads at his friends as if to say, “Don’t I look CRAZY?” I felt like saying, yes, you do look crazy, and don’t let me get started on how many rules of esthetic decency you are breaking. Alas, it was just ANOTHER example of how I needed to check my UPTIGHT artistic sensibilities at the gate. Disneyland wasn’t just a vacation for some, it was a WAY OF LIFE.

But I am being just a smart aleck. I was taken in MANY TIMES by the joy that this place can facilitate. I was shocked by how moved I was by seeing Lily hug people in costumes. Upon hearing that she was going to Disneyland, Lily had said, “Oh, Minnie will be so HAPPY to see me!” I almost started bawling when Lily curled her little body up against Minnie, with such shy delight. It was so sweet and so full of love.

Also, I thought I had lived until I rode Star Tours with my six-year-old brother Luke, who gave a thumbs up when the pilot robot came on screen and then proceeded to hoot and holler at ever dip and dive of the ship. He gave the usher a high five as we passed him on our second run. It was more fun than I had in ages.

Other highlights include riding It’s a Small World ride, and getting to experience the GORGEOUS designs of illustrator Mary Blair in a whole new way. Since researching her and really loving her work, the design of this ride was breathtaking. It was like being INSIDE a giant Mary Blair illustration.

We waited in line for a private audience with Mickey mouse, which ended up delighting Janae I think more than the kids. She loved Mickey! She couldn’t get enough of him! Afterwards she just kept saying “Wow! That was SOMETHING!”

I STILL think Pirates of the Caribbean is the BEST RIDE—even with the additions and changes made by the film. When we passed the scene where the prisoners are trying to tempt the dog with the keys in his mouth, a kid behind me, who’s voice hadn’t changed yet, chirped: “Hey! I remember that from the movie!” When I saw the Johnny Depp with eyeliner robot, I wondered how many years it would take for a kid to stumble along the movie and say, “Hey, I remember that guy from the ride at Disneyland!” If Disney has anything to say about it, probably not in my lifetime.

In Case You Were Wondering, We Had a Good Time

Already Homesick

This morning I got up excited and made coffee for me and Graham, and packed my last minute things, and got ready for work, all the while thinking: I am going to Los Angeles tonight! Gah!

I love to travel, but I get separation gloom about two days before I leave. I hate the part of saying good bye to Graham. I'm an independent, strong, feminist and yet I still get sad when I say goodbye to my partner and our cats for three days. When I get back I'll have two days with him, and then HE will be gone for four days. The sucker is going to HAWAII (dang it!), to talk about the philosophical ideas of international relations (yep, you read that right). I thought for about three fantastical seconds that I might go with him, until I found out that it cost more than two tickets to Europe to fly to Honolulu from New York. Then I had to politely decline (bitterly, I might add).

In any case, I was sad this morning, looking at my cats and Graham--the lump in my throat growing ever larger. I get a terrible sense of sharp, sad nostalgia about the places I am leaving. As I walked out to the subway, I looked out at the trash on the street, and the Dunkn' Donuts/Baskin Robbins/Togo's on our corner with such FONDNESS.

As I reached the subway, gaining momentum at the sound of the trains, I realized that me missing Graham is probably not such a bad thing. I have been in relationships where I had no problem leaving whatsoever, in fact if they had dropped me off 24 hours before my flight that would have been just fine with me. ANYTHING to GET AWAY. I've also been in relationships where the boyfriend would have preferred to drop me off at the airport 24 hours before I left, but my grip on his shirt sleeve just WOULDN'T GIVE. ANYTHING TO GET AWAY.

Last night Graham said, "I don't think you should go." and I said, "Me neither. You probably shouldn't go to Hawaii either." And then he said, "You'll have a good time." and patted my leg. Thanks for the well wishes, buddy.

I'll be away for about a week. See you when I return!

And Now a Word from Our Sponsor

I know this is all over the internet, thanks to the activism of Keri, but after reading the article she posted on advertising in blogs, I am kind of creeped out and can't stop thinking about it.

It is one thing to have blatant ads all over your site--something I don't necessarily like when I am reading blogs--but at least it's pretty clear what you are up to. Everytime somebody clicks on your site, you get some change. I have friends who do this. I, myself, don't do it because I hate advertising and commercials in every day life, why would I want it to be here? It's visually exhausting, it doesn't help anybody, and it's already so pervasive, I want SOMETHING that doesn't come with a commercial to it.

If you've read the article, you've come to understand, how much DEEPER it has become than just banner ads. People are writing personal blog entries and doing product placement, as if it's just a normal part of their entry. It's sneaky and frankly, it gives me the creeps. It's made me suspect of the blogs I read, and it has made me worry about how my blog (on its minute scale compared to so many others), and how it is read. I just did a post on Disneyland--is this to be considered as an ad for Disneyland? I sure as heck hope not. Or what about my glowing post on my new Japanese Bento lunchbox?

The reality is that yes, product is a natural part of our lives. We buy product at the grocery store, we use them at home, we ingest product, and we travel within products to product destinations. If I mention a product, I do so narcissistically and haphazardly. The product is a mere prop of another daily entry about me--nothing more nothing less. I have assumed until now that the blogs I read for daily inspiration also do that. Apparently, not in all cases.

Granted, blogs are a very particular portrait of people. The personal nature of them, may lead readers to believe, with ads or not, that they know someone. This is, of course, not true. You know ONE SIDE of them--one that is crafted by the author. What they show you is their business. Yet I feel duped. I feel that the "honesty" I derive inspiration from on certain blogs isn't entirely real. And maybe that's my business. And maybe I should take my business elsewhere.

The Little Fascist

my desk

This weekend was glorious in both weather and activity. The temperature shot up literally FIFTY degrees, and it felt like, well, SPRINGTIME. I sat in Bryant Park and wrote in my journal, while big men smoked fat cigars and women in purple coats walked by. Then Graham and I went and saw a fantastic, but scary as hell movie, that was so surprisingly satisfying I STILL can't stop thinking about it. Yesterday I went for a sunny walk in the village with my friend Nate, and we drank delicious coffee, and sat on the curb of a playground and had one of those conversations where you talk about the meaning of art and leading a creative life, with the sun on our faces.

Good days. Except for one pesky part of each day: the part of the day where I write. I feel like lately I have a little fascist that sits at my desk. I call him Doktar Perfektion. He sits there and says very calmly, "Vhat is dees? Vhat do you think you are doink? Where is dees goink?" Then when he blows out the match he just lit his cigarette with he says, "I am not amused."

Of course, the little fascist is me. Does it make it any easier? HELL NO. At the end of my 1000 words, I feel beat up and tired.

On Saturday a small miracle occured. I was getting ready to write, to grit my teeth and CREATE, when Graham said from the bedroom, "Are you listening to the radio? I think you might want to hear this." I came in, and it was a piece on the soon to be published journals of the writer Tennessee Williams. Nearly every section that they read seemed to begin with something akin to "The jig is up, it's OVER. Finally the world will know that I am a fraud." At TWENTY-FIVE he thought it was over. He also thought it was over at 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, etc. etc. This is a man who wrote over 60 plays, 8 collections of short stories, and three novels. Some of his plays will be performed for centuries to come--they changed the landscape of both theater and American literature. Yet, the man still sat at a table and wrote pages of pages of why he was TOTALLY SCREWED.

I don't know why I believe the voices of failure, doom, disaster, and doubt swirling my head are the only UNIQUE thing about me. No matter how many examples I have (Tennessee Williams is one of SO MANY) of artists who had moments of real doubt, I think I am the only person who it's true about--it really IS over for me. I don't know why such amnesia is so ENTICING and EASY, but it is.

When I sat down to write, I opened up a book I had with Williams' picture in it, and propped it on my desk. I wrote with a picture of his smiling face, dipping to smell a rose. If only for a day, I'll take a rose smelling playwright over a smoking fascist any day. Let me tell you, it helped.

Summer Pierre, you have survived two nights of no heat, a cat's illness, and countless moments of existential crisis, now what are you going to do?

I am going to Disneyland!

It's hard to believe that next week at this time I will be in the (hopefully) warm climate of Anaheim, California, running around with my little brother and sister and their mom, Janae, at the HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH. That's right people, I am going to Disneyland.

This is something that Janae mentioned doing when Luke was just a few evolutionary steps away from being a grub, and Lily wasn't even a twinkle in the eye yet. My dad had said something in response like NO WAY IN HECK WILL YOU CATCH ME THERE, and I had said, TAKE ME! TAKE ME! Here we are six years and an additional child later, and we have our airplane tickets booked, our motel reservations in place, and our three day passes in hand.

The "cool person" in me would roll my eyes at the thought of partaking in a place synonymous with blatant commercialism, but I learned long ago that it is impossible to maintain that cool persona around my little brother and sister. Nothing says, TAKE ME TAKE ME like the thought of doing something so FREE and SPAZZY like a weekend with them at the ultimate playground. Plus, I get to be reunited with such rides like the Jungle Boat and Pirate of the Caribbean.

The last time I was there was 17 years ago, and I was milking the last strands of whatever "childhood" remained, with my grandmother. At 17, I knew I was already too old, but I wanted to go anyway--kind of like when you are 13 and you go trick-or-treating (not like I know what that's like or anything). You know it's your last possible chance to say, "Hey grandma, will you take me to Disneyland?" and still get away with it. I wanted to go and experience a ride that nobody seems to have any memory of, but I loved, called The Incredible Shrinking Machine. It was one of the original rides, so it still had the 60's feel to it. You sat in a blue car and a voice narrated the process of you being shot by a ray that would cause you to "shrink". Suddenly, snowflakes got larger, and molecules started appearing. My favorite part was when you saw a GIANT BLUE EYE looking down at you from what was supposed to be the lens of a microscope. It was COOL and FREAKY. Unfortunately, like my own innocence, it had been RIPPED OUT and replaced with a much more UPDATED invention.

I remember I waited an hour and a half for the submarine, just so I could pretend for a moment that mermaids were real (something I often fantasized about). I also waited an hour to go on the then-new Star Tours ride. While I waited in line, a blond kid from Missouri struck up a conversation with me, and took my picture with his Kodak Disc Camera. Somewhere in Missouri, a grainy picture of me in a captain's hat and a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt exists.

As of right now Luke and Lily have NO IDEA that not only will they be going to Disneyland, but I will be joining them. Janae is going to wait until the last minute to tell them so she only hears "When are we going?" for at least 24-48 hours. Sometimes I feel like crank calling her and saying those exact words over and over again.

I can't wait.

Hump Day

This last weekend was so glorious in both company and temperature. My friend Vitali was in town, on his way home to the Hague from singing in an opera at the San Jose Opera. I got to meet the woman who is saving my offbeat bride ass, the beautiful and entertaining Ariel Meadow Stallings. Friday was one of those perfect days, where you wake up to dark and storming rain, and then the afternoon clears to glorious spring-like weather. It lasted throughout the weekend and then yesterday it went KERPLUNK, diving deep down into 10 BELOW ZERO. This hurts as it is, but it really hurts when the heat in your bedroom breaks down during the night. I woke up yesterday morning in a frigid ball, up against Graham's back for warmth.

Last night in preparation of going to bed, Graham and I added four extra layers of blankets and I wore sweats, pajama bottoms, two pairs of socks, two long sleeve shirts, and a hooded sweatshirt. When we got into bes, the SHEER WEIGHT of the blankets made it hard to breathe. Graham said, "I feel like we are camping." In Brooklyn, I think this is as close as it gets to camping.

I still didn't sleep that well for the second night in a row. This morning, I woke up feeling a bit grumpy and slightly under the weather. Usually I love snow, but the sight of it this morning made me want to jab Frosty the Snowman's eyes out. I am ready for some FRICKN' SPRING, people!

Not only that, our cat Kingsley has had a teary eye off an on for awhile. Yesterday he began to resemble the Native American man looking out on the heaps of litter in that 1970's TV commercial, so we realized it's time to take him to the doctors. The thought of that cat having an experience akin to an alien abduction makes me want to well up myself. So does the impending vet bill.

Sometimes when you are in a really bad mood, you sometimes help it along by doing dumb, mistaken things like forgetting your book when you head out to the subway, or maybe you add SKIM MILK by total accident to the GOOD COFFEE you decide to splurge on to help you out, thus RUINING IT. Regular skim milk users will not understand this, but half and half users will understand the SILENT SCREAM that errupts at the sight of your coffee turning a muddy clouded color. I know in these moments that the world is not necessarily against me, but I am apparently against myself, and that totally blows, because wherever I go, there I am.

I was going to go see Ariel read this evening--and if you are in Brooklyn, you should go, she is a very good reader--but I feel too much like a danger to myself to be trusted out in the frigid air, in a part of Brooklyn that takes me OVER AN HOUR to get to. The way my day is going, can you imagine the mathematical possabilities of a two hour round trip endeavor within Brooklyn on a frigid night, returning to an icebox apartment? It's SUICIDE, I tell you! SUICIDE!

March is the wednesday of seasons--it's just a hump to get over until the glorious spring. I'll gather up my blankets and look at the daffodils on my kitchen table and feel the warmth from that. For now, it will have to do.

I Highly Recommend Doing This

Take some chalk and write on your walls~ It comes right off and it has the possability of giving you a NEW PERSPECTIVE on your home! On Sunday, I was at home alone, preparing dinner for a small dinner gathering, when I looked at the walls and thought, I wonder what it would be like to chalk on my walls? I tested it to makes sure that it would come right off--when you live with someone you kind of have to consider it their home too, and if Graham didn't like it, it needed to come off. Once I realized that it took VERY LITTLE to wipe the wall clean (a damp rag will more than suffice), I went NUTS! It made me feel SPARKLY in that way when you feel when you realize there are REALLY NO LIMITS.

By the time Graham and guests arrived home, there were secret messages lying in wait in EVERY ROOM.

Price of chalk: $1.00. Discovering your home is a living canvas: priceless.

Santa Cruz Sized World

Last night a woman in my office followed me out to the subway and said, "Oh, great! We can ride together!" It's not that I dislike this woman, but I like to leave the office sprinting, and to immerse myself in reading when I am on my way home. Also, I get unnerved at the shifting dynamic of being OUTSIDE the office with a co-worker. It's suddenly clear that you are friendly strangers and it's filled with stilted small talk, which makes me anxious and antsy. Also, she speaks a little LOUDLY.

So, we are on the platform and she is asking me FOR ALL THE WORLD TO HEAR, where I am from in California. I tell her, originally from the Bay Area. It turns out she has cousins in the Bay Area, but she can't think of the town, so she is dropping geographical clues, to I can name it. I have no idea where she is talking about, but suddenly, a man turns around and asks, "Is it Santa Cruz?"

"No, that's too south." says my co-worker, and he says, "I'm from California too." I am about to ask him if he's from Santa Cruz, because we are in New York, population A BAJILLION, and I moved here from Santa Cruz, population DINKY. Just as I am asking, a young woman behind me says, "I'm from Santa Cruz!" I can't BELIEVE IT. Did she move here from Santa Cruz? Yep. She moved from Santa Cruz at the same time as I DID. We all laugh at our little California, Santa Cruz triangle. I say, "Only Californians would talk so exuberantly about where they are from to STRANGERS in the subway!" It made me SO HAPPY.

Then I got home and there was a postcard waiting from me. From JOAN DIDION. That's right, people. JOAN *EFFING* DIDION. I look at it thinking, is this what I think it is? The handwriting is like rockstar handwriting--slanted and hard to read. It's one of those pre-stamped note cards. I turn it over and there, in the return address section is an address stamp. It's oval shaped, with "John Greggory Dunne" on the top arch and "Joan Didion" on the bottom, and their HOME ADDRESS in the middle.

I wrote her a few weeks ago to an address I hoped would work. Apparently, it worked. She wrote me back. I will treasure it forever. I will also keep writing.

I went inside, feeling suddenly like the world went from New York to Santa Cruz, and I knew everybody and everybody knew me.