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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9 November 2019 in Writing

We’re kissing, but only because I initiated it. And is—is he cringing? Beneath the hardening wax stamp of our lips, he confesses, “I don’t like kissing. It’s the only reason I hadn’t … sooner.” We’re frozen in eternal slow motion, and he also tells me he prefers double time. “Double speed?” I ask, without yielding any flesh. “Isn’t that unintelligible?” He reassures me that listening presto to others dissecting the lives of others dissecting the lives of others is an insurance policy against dementia in forty years. “Anything to forge new pathways in the neural network.” I focus on the kiss at hand, but wonder at what point did we slip from the two of us, exchanging cells, to others
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17 October 2019 in Writing

She and I are friends, but we meet to share all the things we dislike about ourselves. We sit at the edge of the field watching the tall grass sway back and forth. “A thing I dislike,” I say. “How I bend to the wind, like this grass.” She agrees, “Not knowing what I want and letting the breeze crush me, exposing the brown soil at the seam. Yes.” We watch the grasses yield to the wind. The ones closest to us are turning to straw, but on the other side of the deep blue scar between fields, the reeds stand triumphant and green and the willows moan low and gray. “A thing I dislike,” I say. “How people call
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Ma Valise

15 October 2019 in Writing

At the end of their relationship, she packed a small blue suitcase, scolded her cat for biting the handle, and left Los Angeles for the convent. In the crook of her arm, she carried his brain in a jar. Ball jar. Rubber ring seal. The pickled eternal he always wanted to be. Together they took up residence in a small room on the second floor above the cheese cave. Every day smelled like a new age of cheese. She place the jar on the corner of the desk where it could sunbathe from three to four each afternoon. After the sun passed, she pressed her ear against the glass, curious if he was still thinking. She swore she heard him
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Empty Things

1 September 2019 in Writing

She fills her house with empty things. Old birdcages found at Saturday yard sales. A wrought-wire townhome for someday finches, an expansive manse for two former lovebirds (they could not quench their thirst, though separate glasses had been provided). And a souvenir from Vietnam, in whose crisscrossed bamboo shoots, she riddles herself to sleep. She fills her house with empty things. Vintage perfume bottles arranged on a tray on her dresser. Frosted bodies in pink and blue, curvaceous “squeeze me” atomizers whose misshapen forms hardened long ago (she denies any likeness to her heart). And straight away, she dabs herself with one of the cut and polished stoppers smugly gossiping about how to withstand aging. She fills her house with
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