23 September 2021 in Heather, Music, Performance, Writing

I have hopes of finding a small group of artists who would enjoy meeting regularly to kick-start each other into developing or completing ideas that have maybe been in hibernation these past few years. This will be a place to bring works in progress, to show bits of them, and to work through iterations and verify what resonates. It’s meant to be an informal workshop, but one where we work with a sense of commitment and serious play. There is a method to providing feedback that is designed to help artists come to their own realizations. I’ll be the facilitator in that aspect. There’s more to say, more info to share, and more questions to be answered … today is
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Monster’s Coffin

6 March 2020 in Heather, Writing

When I was half as high as the door between the kitchen and the garage, I caught a fever for the world between the real and the imaginary. Each side of the threshold was familiar: On one side, in the kitchen, everything was clean and tidy, matching and spotless, useful and practical. ’Twas the pride of an A+ homemaker. On the other side was the original garage, poorly lit from one small eastern-facing window, everything shadow and suspect, grime and dirt, mysterious and unknown. I hovered on the threshold, comforted by the orderly precision of my mother’s kitchen but attracted to the objects in the garage that could be whatever I told them to be. The woodpile, the deep freeze,
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Spell for Reclamation

10 September 2019 in Heather

Get in the car and bring him back from the bottom of the world. Knit a sweater, but not while driving. When you arrive, that’s the time for knitting– Real-time knitting, around and around his protesting form. Close the door before he attempts to head out for a hike. But, oh. You hold the yarn; you’ll know where to find him. On the trail where together you once saw rabbits, On the trail where together you witnessed the fog strangle the sunset, And you agreed, “Don’t tell anyone.” Keep knitting the collar, high, higher, up to his chin, over his mouth. Now he’ll never tell. Finish the knit and fold him neatly into the passenger seat. Then get in the
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The Pinecone

16 August 2019 in Heather, Writing

I. Grief knocks the pinecones from my limbs. I can’t pick them up, which makes me wonder if grief is really to blame, or did I deliberately let them loose to lose you, to claim good riddance and then bemoan: I can’t pick them up. More than four seasons pass. I was always a late bloomer. Yet, here they all are again. Fifteen, sixteen, so many months to remind me of you. I twist like a child in elementary school, attempting to whittle my waist. “Helicopters!” shouts the long ago gym teacher. My swaying does not dislodge you. It takes grief, sweeping through like a storm, to knock the pinecones from my limbs. II. I leapt. I left. And you
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Love Stories

10 August 2019 in Heather, Music, Theater

Let me tell you a story. A love story. It’s about sharing. Making room. (Move over.) It’s general admission. You don’t get to claim your seat. There’s never enough room. Yes, it’s a love story. You. Me. Your ego. My id. There was never going to be enough room. (Give a girl a seat!) I told you: This is a love story. It’s about sharing. ~Text for performance; Premiere August 2019 at The MilkBar in Richmond, CA.

On Love

10 April 2019 in Heather, Writing

Sometime one summer when I was almost or maybe ten, I found a bird under one of the lilacs behind the house. I watched it gasp a few last breaths and knew it would die. I kept watching. My little brother swooped in, hollering, and scooped the bird into the bowl of his hands. It’s what I had wanted to do but wouldn’t allow myself. My brother and I examined the bird, from the flutter of the smallest feathers around its neck, soft as love, to its round eye, hardening like spilled ink. I stared into it, and the eye seemed to expand. I observed the point of its beak and was tempted to see if it might pierce my
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