tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34041982011-07-07T23:33:40.768-05:00I watch myself watching the world...heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comBlogger861100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-11454798371204794842009-01-29T01:09:00.002-06:002009-12-30T11:27:02.260-06:00

New blog here: http://littleconversations.com/

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-86539063051179441662007-05-18T11:54:00.002-05:002009-09-19T09:49:53.826-05:00

Somehow my blog became searchable by my name, and even comes up right at the top of a Google search. So in an attempt to keep my personal online persona separate from my professional persona, I have moved to a new blog site.--

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1089138367559024322004-07-06T13:01:00.000-05:002004-07-06T13:26:07.560-05:00

redirect2 Yes, I've been hiding out. But I guess I can stop being paranoid now. I've moved. Come visit me at my new digs: http://blackandsun.com.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1084548482577195822004-05-14T09:59:00.002-05:002004-05-19T15:01:51.396-05:00

redirect I've moved. I decided it was time for some new digs, a new name, a new color scheme. And most of all a new identity. For quite some time I've complained about people reading my blog -- which may seem odd, given that I'm glibbly publishing it to the world. But it's not the world that I object to reading it, it's those that know me in a different context...namely a professional context.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1080422588271923572004-03-27T15:22:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:25:41.420-06:00

ten million miles Ambivalent spring descended upon us today. Not in that blue-sky-tulips-pushing-up-euphoria-in-the-air kind of way, but with a shrug and a shuffle, and a resigned tepid warmth. And in Harvard Square, the layers were shed, our pasty New England flesh revealed, begging for some UV rays. The benches filled up, parents and toddlers and dogs and students and street urchins and

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1080320928537121352004-03-26T11:08:00.000-06:002004-03-26T11:35:16.216-06:00

belt test I’ve got a belt test tonight. I shouldn't get nervous for these anymore, but I still do. This will put me one belt test away from black belt, as Dennis pointed out last night. He thinks it'll be pretty cool to be able to say "my girlfriend has a black belt." Funny thing is, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. You set goals based on some sort of idealized notion of a

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1079742832287933692004-03-19T18:32:00.000-06:002004-03-19T18:36:17.436-06:00

mid life angst It's been ages since I've written. I have nothing to say. Where once were words, a gray smudge. A worn-down eraser stub. Blue lint. A nickel and two dimes. A wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. Driving home from work: green-black trees stretched austere against the faded cerulean sky, slipping white into snow-covered earth. The landscape of my mind: high contrast.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1076717961068665172004-02-13T18:19:00.000-06:002004-02-13T18:21:11.420-06:00

truth "She finally wanted to be herself and she could be herself only in being insincere." -- Milan Kundera, Life Is Elsewhere

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1075409499188210652004-01-29T14:51:00.000-06:002004-01-29T16:05:26.903-06:00

time to say goodbye Yesterday my mother put Nikki to sleep. She was 19 years old. When I first carried her home in my coat pocket, she was a tiny ball of fur and I was eleven. She was my cat and she knew it. I was her human. After I left home, whenever I came back to visit she slept in my suitcase. “Heather, Nikki went to sleep today,” said my mother to my voicemail. “She's in peace now. She

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1074876046130577482004-01-23T10:40:00.000-06:002004-01-23T10:46:20.780-06:00

thirty Today is my birthday. I’m thirty years old. I’m not sure what I think of this new decade. I was kind of liking the late twenties. Twenty-eight in particular had a comforting feel to it. Twenty-eight wasn’t that great of a year though; I’m expecting thirty will be better. Mr. Haggarty says: Listen up, Snow. You are thirty years old. You are no longer your parents’ daughter. You are

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1074231404726404962004-01-15T23:28:00.000-06:002004-01-16T15:31:34.280-06:00

leaving, being left Anneli is going back to Sweden. To medical school. To home, and family. And pickled fish and lingenberries and straight-laced Lutherans. Tonight we had our last beers at Christopher's, she and Mr. Hwang and Andy and I. The others said goodbye at the dojang. "It's always better to be the one to leave than the one left," I said, to make her feel better. She's pink around the

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1069358076614016402003-11-20T13:54:00.000-06:002003-11-20T16:25:03.373-06:00

a new chapter Dennis is moving back to Boston... [You see that Den? Live and in print; it's a done deal now] So this year spring will bring about a new era. And it's about time. I'm done with this particular holding pattern. My twenties: a decade of waiting, of circling, of spinning my wheels... An era of uncertainty, spent looking hesitantly back over my shoulder, still cloaked in green

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1069177557265417452003-11-18T11:45:00.000-06:002003-11-18T11:46:20.826-06:00

Children Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1068607540985854212003-11-11T21:25:00.000-06:002003-11-12T21:58:47.520-06:00

breathe It's 5:15. What have I done all day? I've got half a dozen windows open; I start looking for a file, get distracted, forget what I'm looking for, check my email, go back to finishing the email I started, remember what file I was looking for… shit, I've got to get out of here or I won't have time to go home before taekwondo…what was I doing again? I finish writing the email, send it

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1068574800342904912003-11-11T12:20:00.000-06:002003-11-11T12:19:57.806-06:00

Remember this. "Remember this. The dog will die; Maytree and I will at best grow old. It will all unroll from now. I am twenty-three and Maytree thirty; before the sea he fools with the living dog and squints. It will never again be like this. I see from our bedroom window Maytree in the yard holding sun everywhere. Just now a flaw of wind the size of a thumb drags a glissando across the sea.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1067204926066488782003-10-26T15:46:00.000-06:002003-11-12T09:56:08.840-06:00

sunday morning Sometimes I feel like I am just a receptacle for the world around me. A sponge, I absorb the mana of others. At a party, I synchronize myself to the rhythms of the room; moving from person to person, silently wondering who are you? what is it like to be you? I awaken the next morning feeling sickened. Too many hearts beating in my chest. Too many passions swimming through my soul

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1066922511698894352003-10-23T10:21:00.000-05:002003-10-23T10:22:29.790-05:00

October 23rd… …first snow of the season. And it’s not even Halloween yet. The trees just turned red. Wasn’t I still picking raspberries and peaches only a few weeks ago?

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1065722084848821842003-10-09T12:54:00.000-05:002003-10-14T05:13:10.293-05:00

sage advice from some irish bloke Sheep, sheep dog or lone wolf, it's your choice not to become mutton curry...

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1065187724104852042003-10-03T08:28:00.000-05:002003-10-14T05:09:48.606-05:00

the personality police Changes at work -- collaborative environments, the mandate to be a "team player," blah blah blah -- I'm finally beginning to understand Dilbert cartoons... It's not that I'm incapbable of playing nicely with the other children, but I'm not overly fond of participating in the insidious Corporate Groupthink. That and now I've gotten my feathers all ruffled by the

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1063735336476515822003-09-16T13:01:00.000-05:002003-09-18T06:54:38.576-05:00

soup with rice Last night, sitting in the kitchen of my taekwondo teacher – once my mentor, now my friend, but still known to me by the slightly awkward formality of Mr. Hwang – I slowly ate my soup. As Mr. Hwang stood at the sink washing the dishes, I stared off into space, wandering down a long road of memories and observations. “What are you thinking about?” Mr. Hwang asked, when he

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1062108619446759612003-08-28T17:10:00.000-05:002003-09-16T10:29:46.560-05:00

corporate slut Things got broken. But it wasn't my doing. Tuesday morning they laid off my manager. Which seemed kind of odd protocol, given that nobody had laid me off, and my manager was the only one who even knew what I did. As Anthony carried boxes to his car, Joe looked at me and I looked at Joe and we both kind of said "now what?" and I was wondering, but now who's going to fire me?

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1061583084305352272003-08-22T15:11:00.000-05:002004-03-27T13:26:25.013-06:00

ennui Sometimes I just want to break things. Not things as in the clutter around me, but more like the clutter inside me. Sometimes I just get so sick of the boredom, the inertia, the futility…all that I want in life, all that I love…I just want to sweep it all off the table in a single furious swipe and hear it smash to the ground. I want to feel the pain of loss, the latent appreciation for

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1060560855509168702003-08-10T19:14:00.000-05:002004-03-27T13:27:48.560-06:00

become the breeze I'm lying stretched out on my bed, head at the foot, gazing out the window. It turned into such a beautiful day, but I don't really know what to do with myself. Just ate lunch, nothing I feel like doing. Don't want to read my book. No errands that need running. Nowhere I feel like walking to. So I just doze. I doze and I wake and I doze and wake… Cat stretched out on my

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1060476866183327492003-08-09T19:54:00.000-05:002004-03-27T13:29:12.170-06:00

won't you take this love from me On the pulling end of a long-distance relationship, evenings and weekends run long. I am teaching myself not to fear the empty spaces, the time on my hands, the evening breeze, the longing not to be alone. I fill my weekend days busy, busy running errands. Refuge found in the din of a crowded café. A good book, a long walk… but still the nights loom on the

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1060359513580186192003-08-08T11:18:00.001-05:002004-03-27T13:29:58.640-06:00

kindness Listening to Brian Ferry on the way to work this morning brought me back to a Roxy Music CD a friend gave me years back. I was 16 at the time, and had never heard of Roxy Music – in fact had never heard of anyone really if they didn’t make the top 40 play list of the local pop station. Gary was maybe a little bent on broadening my teenage, Southern Louisianan horizons – with the Roxy

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1057869406227319032003-07-10T15:36:00.000-05:002004-03-27T13:31:02.293-06:00

lunch with geese Now that summer has finally taken hold of Boston, I’ve begun escaping the corporate confines in the afternoons to eat lunch by the river. Sometimes I’m joined by a family of Canada geese. When I first spotted them, the goslings weren’t babies, but what could only be described as gawky teenagers – nearly as tall as their elders, but with spiky white fluff where the adults have

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-1056306956677978272003-06-22T13:35:00.000-05:002004-03-27T13:31:53.140-06:00

edinburgh I’m lying in bed, listening to the Penguin Café Orchestra as I begin to doze. The minimalist, rhythmic plunking of the chords pulls me through memories and associations, landing me back in a place in time when I used to listen to the Penguin Café Orchestra almost incessantly. Half dozing now, I’m sitting with myself in my room in Edinburgh. I look around the room and see the giant

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-945811842003-05-19T09:14:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:30:22.076-06:00

still here Lately I awaken groggily from afternoon naps to the realization that I am not dead. This happened for the first time a few weeks ago. I rummaged through fragments of dreams for context, but couldn’t find any. So I dismissed it as just one of those peculiar skips of consciousness that sometimes occur in the space between asleep and awake. Then it happened again. Twice, three times

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-943020792003-05-13T21:10:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:34:21.093-06:00

an evening in may I sat outside tonight in my pajamas and sweatshirt – it’s chilly for May still, but at least the leaves are back on the trees for the breeze to softly rustle through again – and sadness came back to me like an old friend. You get tired of pushing it back after a while. And you get tired of searching around in your head for a reason, always a reason, for why am I sad.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-938653102003-05-06T09:56:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:35:17.530-06:00

aftermath So the ominous lay-off week has passed, taking with it the loud static of anxiety. Also taking with it half of our small team. Leaving in its wake a pallor of demoralization and confusion. I’m still here, much to my surprise. And so is my manager, much to his surprise. Gone are all the interns, two developers, a webmaster, a manager, and our VP. It’s really quiet around here now.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-935371402003-04-30T10:51:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:38:48.373-06:00

bloodletting I'd like to write something reflective and insightful about waiting to find out whether I am going to be layed-off this afternoon. I can't seem to come up with anything though. Maybe because I'm distracted by the fact that my hands are shaking. Nathan just got called into our manager's office. For the past couple weeks we watched as it started coming down the pipes. The company

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-927320172003-04-16T14:27:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:39:29.746-06:00

being a car I saw a bumper sticker last night that made me laugh out loud -- I think it was the element of the unexpected -- a random streak of humor on an otherwise humorless Ford stationwagon (the sort with the other bumper sticker that reads "God Bless America"). In fact, the owner of the stationwagon may not even have intended it to be funny...but it was... If going to church makes you a

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-926175322003-04-14T19:49:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:42:06.403-06:00

spring Well, it's been a hell of a long winter. But I think Spring is finally here. The first gin & tonic weekend of the year...

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-921029372003-04-06T14:53:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:42:30.903-06:00

Shut Up And Listen Last night I saw They Might Be Giants at the Avalon. "You??" said my roommate incredulously when I mentioned it to him. Yes, it's true – you only think I'm a serious-all-the-time bore who spends her life sitting in cafés muttering to herself. In fact, little do you know that I have a secret "cool" streak. A real dark horse am I. Maybe not. Wandering around Lansdowne

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-920018752003-04-04T14:17:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:43:30.996-06:00

headache This morning my cat managed to convince me I was late for work at 3:30 a.m. How she succeeded in doing this is something of a mystery, but I did actually get up and stumble grumpily into the bathroom before looking at the clock and going back to bed. The wily Tosca spent the remainder of the night in the hallway. Despite the fact that I had just been gifted with three whole hours of

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-919335622003-04-03T14:10:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:43:55.966-06:00

spin Like the hear no- see no- speak no- evil monkey, I have my hands over my eyes, ears and mouth. Everyone has an opinion about Iraq. Everyone except me. I don't know what to say or do or think about this whole war thing. I don't support it. I wonder whether I would be less opposed had it been Gore or Nadar or just about anyone else that was making this difficult decision rather than our

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-918870302003-04-02T21:24:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:44:23.716-06:00

dream Last night I dreamed that I was going to die next week. Not as in, "you’re very sick and have one week to live" – but more like, slotted in amongst the various meetings and appointments and errands I have to do next week was my death. I was okay with this. After all, we all have to die sometime, and it just happened that next week was going to be my time. It wasn’t a tragic dream.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-917926882003-04-01T14:49:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:44:49.200-06:00

To Live is to Fly We all got holes to fill Them holes are all that's real Some fall on you like a storm Sometimes you dig your own But choice is yours to make And time is yours to take Some dive into the sea Some toil upon the stone To live is to fly Low and high, So shake the dust off of your wings And the sleep out of your eyes -- Townes Van Zandt

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-910608072003-03-20T08:57:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:46:17.590-06:00

i'd like to apologize on the behalf of my country... All I can think this morning is, god, we are such assholes. I am not proud to be an American. I am not proud of my country. And I am not apologetic for being unpatriotic. My allegiance is to humanity, not to the nation in which I happened to be born. Not to bullies. Nor to the president we did not elect. And I can't help wishing that

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-909976272003-03-19T10:20:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:46:54.090-06:00

trying to hide that ache for something more Last night, driving home, crawling along Rt. 2 trying to just get off the damn highway… A million thoughts going through my head and yet I can’t help feeling somehow just completely blank. How can that be? A mere three weeks into my new job and already grumbling silently in my head – something to the effect of not being challenged enough, not fast

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-901721862003-03-05T06:38:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:47:34.310-06:00

whatever I embrace, becomes... "...we must, all of us, turn toward whatever it is that we do want, in our lives, in our loves, on the planet, and whatever we don't want, just have sense enough to leave alone..." --Alice Walker, Temple of My Familiar

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-886842032003-02-06T21:17:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:47:57.200-06:00

noise For a week I've stopped listening to the news. I couldn't stand it any more. What more do I really need to hear about Iraq? But the silence is killing me. Like trying to give up coffee. In the morning I've been listening to Bach instead. As I am now. I don't even bother looking for a new CD, I just hit the play button, with the same reflex I normally flick on the radio. Noise

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-886200402003-02-05T19:00:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:48:22.030-06:00

sun & shadow My father says that my blog has become very dark of late. Hmmm. Maybe it has. I'm not feeling dark now though. My mother used to say the same thing about my poetry when I was a teenager -- she didn't like to read it, she said it was all just so morbid. People sometimes tell me that I am very negative, and overly hard on myself. I hear this so much I gather it must be true

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-883780232003-02-01T09:09:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:50:07.340-06:00

"Once long ago when I lived in a daylight world, the world being too much with me, I would have gone to grass. Face downward and very close to the green stems, I became one with ants and aphids and sow bugs, no longer a colossus. And in a ferocious jungle of the grass I found the distraction that meant peace." --John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-881362452003-01-27T21:52:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:50:31.280-06:00

Boston to LA, and back again And now it’s early Monday morning, heading back to Boston. The weekend is gone. The week is gone. The last sleepless night is gone. My body aches, tortured by my restlessness. The wheels of the car roll me forward. Forward towards…towards…? I sit in the passenger seat as my beloved maneuvers the car – the car with me in it – forward towards the airport.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-880158552003-01-25T14:01:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:50:54.860-06:00

the kindness of strangers Looking over my shoulder to see what I’m reading, the gray-bearded man beside me asks how I’m liking The Winter of Our Discontent. This isn’t my first time reading it, I tell him. I read it in the 7th grade, but for some reason it recently came back to me as a book I should perhaps read again. "What about Tolstoy?" he asks, somewhat randomly; "Nietzsche?"

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-872233062003-01-10T10:27:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:53:28.076-06:00

winds of change The New Year brings with it winds of change. Not always, but this year it does in force. I feel them blowing at me from all directions – blowing me forward, backward, pushing me in no clear direction, indicating only that I must move from the spot I’ve been standing in. It’s been two years now since I moved to Boston from New Zealand, sealing off one era and beginning another.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-845837142002-11-15T11:14:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:53:54.686-06:00

cacophony Today the silence is so loud I can barely think. It crashes and echoes in my head, booming with furious empty noise. Circling around and around into infinity like a screensaver behind my eyes, hypnotizing, maddening. It hangs over me, a heavy white cloak, ominous with nothing. Thick and sticky with humidity, pressing on my chest, constricting my breathing, sufffocating. Won't

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-842426362002-11-08T12:58:00.000-06:002004-03-27T15:54:56.856-06:00

patches for a quilt For the first time I heard my mother admit that the Jewish beliefs she has fiercely pushed down for years and years are now fighting to come back up. She misses the traditions, she says. As do I, I tell her. And also for the first time I learned the progression of those beliefs and traditions. My mother explained that my grandmother had been raised in an Orthodox Jewish

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-835785952002-10-26T22:50:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:55:49.030-06:00

serenity in freedom God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And the wisdom to know the difference… And the wisdom to know the difference. And in times of seemingly infinite choices, please instill in me the confidence to choose my path, the conviction to do so with integrity, and the gumption to not be paralyzed by my freedom.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-833127132002-10-21T15:03:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:56:16.843-06:00

the persistence of memory For a long time now I’ve noted, though never really understood, the peculiar tendency of unhappy times, in retrospect, to take on the bittersweet cast of wistful nostalgia. Like the soft sighs of shadows as they grow long across violet walls in the winter dusk. Or early mornings in the drafty quiet of a cold and still-sleeping house, sitting shivering on the heat

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-832373462002-10-19T22:58:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:58:13.623-06:00

To be human is to… In his diary, Edward Hoagland writes: "To be human is to care for things that don’t care for you." Specifically, he is writing about a garter snake that he nurtured to rid his house of mice. But the context is not important. I’m looking into myself to try to understand what such a statement really means, and whether it could possibly be true. It seems, upon reflection,

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-822790782002-09-29T14:33:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:59:03.246-06:00

chair slats, and the spaces between It’s a beautiful early fall Sunday morning, just a hint of chilly – a good day for digging up my favorite flannel shirt – and as per my new weekend ritual, I’m back at 1369 (at a table today, rather than my usual stool in the window), reading Harper’s. I’ve finished most of the essays in this month’s magazine and was considering picking up a copy of The New

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-821538592002-09-26T12:33:00.000-05:002004-03-27T15:59:41.996-06:00

sitting in the ashes of youth, of grief, of growth... I spent three years living in New Zealand, from the age of 23 to 26. I learned a lot from that period, but most of it I learned retrospectively, after returning "home" to the US. What I was most conscious of while I was there was the uncomfortable feeling of transience I so often felt. There were times that I would surface, only to wonder

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-819210832002-09-21T13:47:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:01:49.106-06:00

the betrayal of Miss Laperouse Sitting beside me in the window at 1369 are a pair of young elementary school teachers, talking a stream of chatter about school, homeroom, their “kids,” and the other teachers. I try to tune them out, try to make myself more interested in getting through last month’s Harper’s than in their not-particularly-interesting schoolteacher gossip. But even banal as

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-811456982002-09-04T11:44:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:02:15.200-06:00

Labor Day weekend in LA I didn’t expect to like LA. Mostly because it is not in the Northeast. And it doesn’t snow in winter. And because it is a city which features billboard ads for divorce lawyers and liposuction on bus stop benches. But it’s a funny thing about expectations, isn’t it? Not that I loved LA. LA is not a city capable of inspiring love. It does not charm or seduce or haunt

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-807060922002-08-25T19:27:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:03:52.356-06:00

blue-gray yarn Each day is a struggle for clarity. I order a double espresso, stare out the window, and try to sharpen my mind against the encroaching fog. When sharp, my mind works brilliantly – quick and effortlessly it tears through thoughts and ideas, everything falls neatly into place, I am in control of my life. I love my mind. In such moments. But then… Then sometimes it turns on me.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-807009512002-08-25T16:37:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:04:43.640-06:00

reflections on a Zen Buddhist quote I picked up somewhere... "Freedom is that the elbow bends but one way." I do not like to make demands of others. In an ideal world this would mean that others, in turn, would not make demands of me. But this is not an ideal world, and others do make demands of me; sometimes, ironically, even demanding that I should be making more demands of them. Being the

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-797833162002-08-03T16:00:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:05:32.860-06:00

saturday morning It’s Saturday morning. The trouble with Saturdays is that my whole week – no, really my whole life – is all about thinking; come Saturday I don’t want to think anymore, I want to just do. I need to do things in order to quiet my brain and let it rest. But I never seem to have enough things to do. Before I can begin to worry myself over how I’m going to fill the day, I lead

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-790651212002-07-17T09:42:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:08:13.123-06:00

forgiveness I have never been one to ask forgiveness. It seems a futile exercise, once the damage has already been done. I have learned merely to say “I am sorry.” But these words are meek, too often said simply to satisfy expectation, and they do nothing to purge or heal. And so I simply hold it in. I look on at the one that I have hurt or wronged, I know that it was not my intention, I

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-789073812002-07-13T12:29:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:08:38.640-06:00

affliction of the soul I forgot to turn off my alarm last night. So I am awakened bright and early this Saturday morning to the usual noises of the news. George Bush is an idiot. So what else is new… I feel like hell. Bad night last night – don’t want to talk about it – I don’t even know how. I fell asleep in my clothes; somewhere between then and now I had the good sense to take them off

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-785195212002-07-03T14:26:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:09:06.013-06:00

untitled I am floating, my world an abyss. I stare long into my monitor, and it stares back into me. So goes my life, it seems. Has it always been this way, or is my perception just particularly skewed and bitter today? Friends, lovers, work, career – I try to cling to these things as if they were solid figments of truth, spikes of substance to lash myself to in this airy universe of mine.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-782723442002-06-27T10:48:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:09:32.000-06:00

what “goodbye” is about Last night when I came home I found 4 “missed calls” and a message from my mother on my phone. She had been staying with my grandmother ("mothersitting") last week while my grandfather was away visiting his own granddaughter and great-grandson (second marriage). And my mother felt compelled to share with me all the details of all the many ways my grandmother is rapidly

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-782670822002-06-27T08:18:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:10:11.763-06:00

goodbye Things change. People change, places change, times change. Thoughts, feelings, attitudes change. Each moment is forever lost, irreplaceable, as it glides into the next. We know this. And yet we live looking backwards, scurrying to pick up the remains of moments lost, in hopes that we can make them real again. Alzheimer’s plays a dirty trick on our sense of continuity. Not just on

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-782233302002-06-26T09:32:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:11:10.653-06:00

One lens amongst many... In response to a question put out by Marek J, regarding what defines us as “men” and “women” and the roles we play in the modern world (as part of a larger discussion initiated by Frank Paynter on the roles men might play in supporting feminist leadings) -- my thoughts… What makes men "men" and women "women"? Well, there is one school of thought that would say: our

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-781863562002-06-25T13:07:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:12:10.670-06:00

Wisdom for the Day On condescension: "Don'....con..sen..ME...man! Kick your ass..." --"Floyd" aka Brad Pitt

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-779877722002-06-20T12:53:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:11:42.826-06:00

our human stories I'm continually discovering all sorts of sublime angles into what makes the blog concept such a unique and fascinating communications medium. In fact, I have half a mind to write another thesis on Blogging! (but that would of course kill the "sublime" aspect and just earn me yet another degree that I do not need). Anyway, what I'm thinking about specifically right now is the

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-778459902002-06-17T09:36:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:13:09.403-06:00

This is a piece I posted on Blog Sisters for Linda, for whom blogspot has recently become a "psychology of survival" of sorts... Psychology of Survival I have struggled a bit with depression myself, going back to the time I was a teenager. I don't think my depression was anywhere near as extreme as many have to deal with (but it's always so hard to compare -- being as it's so intangible, and

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-776395972002-06-11T23:12:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:14:07.653-06:00

Crappy day. Crappy, crappy, crappy day. Went to work sucking on my heart where it sat lodged in my throat, dragging a bag of cracked and empty words. Tired from a night of sleepless sleep. Heavy air, sagging with humidity, waiting, like me, for the rain to come and wash it all away. Got to work and stared at the screen. Late morning “pep talk” from my boss left me muttering “Fuck. Fuck fuck

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-775689132002-06-10T11:07:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:14:55.280-06:00

Ventriloquism & Hemingway Heroes Over the weekend Chris Locke (aka Rageboy) wrote to me that his sister refers to the tendency of women (most notably in business) to act like men as "ventriloquism," a concept found in Folklore studies. A quick search turned up a paper on this subject by Galit Hasan-Rokem of The Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Hasan-Rokem discusses what she describes as "the

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-774703072002-06-07T13:15:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:15:29.186-06:00

queen bees hovering over glass ceilings In response to my last post, which I also posted on the Blog Sisters page, I was directed to a very interesting article about Queen Bees in the workplace. As with everything, nothing is one, and no one explanation explains all, but I found this article offered some interesting depth on one of many possible angles.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-774167962002-06-06T08:17:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:15:57.856-06:00

we are our own glass ceilings I am coordinating a conference attended by MIT faculty and financial industry executives. Of 11 faculty and 14 senior executives, only one attendee is a woman. I am appalled that there is only one woman. And I am intrigued by her. In an industry so blatantly ceilinged in glass, who is she and how did she come to break through? At lunch, I make a point to seat

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-773332662002-06-04T10:32:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:16:52.890-06:00

the mystique of writing I've been thinking about what it means to write – to be a writer – I've been thinking about what writing is really about – that perhaps it’s not just about the pleasure of word play, or the satisfaction of grabbing abstract thoughts and pulling them into words, the sculpting of articulation, the lovely, smooth flow of eloquence, the threading and weaving of wisps of

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-773302102002-06-04T08:55:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:17:34.623-06:00

what we give up Saturday afternoon I went to a Habitat Home Dedication out in Roxbury. A great day for a home dedication – starting out warm and sunny, and then, just for the sake of contrast, or to let us know what we could have had instead, the clouds blew in and sprinkled on us, but only briefly, and then the sunshine returned and everything sparkled. And such happy new homeowners. It

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-772666612002-06-02T19:44:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:18:02.686-06:00

What an absolutely, unbelievably perfect weekend! Perfect for coffee in the hammock and nothing better to do. Perfect for an outdoor lunch on Newbury Street. Iced jasmine tea & a little sun on the back. Perfect for an early evening walk into Harvard Square to meet friends for a movie. Perfect for sleeping in, sleeping through the early morning showers, waking up to birds and breeze and

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-771506142002-05-30T13:51:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:18:22.780-06:00

That damn horse The last time I went horseback riding, I was told that horses can actually see the focus of your eyes, so regardless of which way you tug the reigns, they will want to head in the direction you are looking. So it is with everything? Don't know why I was thinking about horses today, of all things, but I was ruminating a bit on how one goes about gaining momentum towards

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-755277942002-04-17T20:25:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:18:48.606-06:00

Night sounds in Somerville I'm sitting out on my back porch in the dark, drinking a beer and listening to the night sounds of a residential neighborhood. A car whizzes past on the street behind my house; bottles clinking as somebody takes their recycling to the curb; a door opens and shuts; a dog barks and another joins in; a door opens and shuts again; the sound of a distant TV; my roommate's

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-752815272002-04-11T06:01:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:19:10.530-06:00

The Lovers Rod McKuen Up from the pastures of boredom out of the sea of discontent they come in packs like hungry hounds the seekers of the dark enchantment. They haunt the boulevards and bars they pray to wishing wells and stars they ride the hurricane of hope not looking back but on they go. Toward the distance and deceiving and all the while they keep believing that they are special and

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-751641382002-04-08T09:46:00.000-05:002004-03-27T16:19:34.750-06:00

time to go Reading Halley’s reflections on witnessing a parent’s gradual passing out of this world made me think some about the passing of my grandparents, about being ready to go… In old age my paternal grandparents, Wally and Ginny, had a symbiotic relationship that was almost poetic in its perfection: together they formed a whole, sharing one healthy body and one healthy mind between them.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-113782322002-04-02T09:31:00.000-06:002002-04-02T15:01:07.000-06:00

five a.m. I was up at five this morning for my second day of rowing practice. Being awake so early these past two days has been a revelation for me. The pace of the whole day changes. The silence of the still-sleeping house – the creak of the floor, the hum of the refrigerator – suggests a conspiracy between just you and the morning, as the mood is laid for the day to come. This morning in

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-112569142002-03-29T14:19:00.000-06:002004-03-27T16:20:10.233-06:00

It’s too nice a day to be indoors... Went for a walk along the Charles. Sail boats are out. Joggers are out. People with dogs and babies are out.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-112192782002-03-28T12:59:00.000-06:002004-03-27T16:20:34.280-06:00

God and an orange Yesterday morning on the way to work I was listening to a writer from New Hampshire talk about her family’s Passover Seder. She talked about the ways in which the tradition has changed in her family, like adding an orange to the Seder table in support of female Rabbis, as well as the ways in which the role of religion has changed, such as her brother wanting to become a

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-111449702002-03-26T13:39:00.000-06:002004-03-27T16:20:58.513-06:00

Zero-sum morality We like to believe that right and wrong is a zero-sum game. The good and the deserving will be rewarded. Those who break the law will be appropriately punished. Of course anyone over the age of eight knows this is not really how the world works. Nonetheless we seem to be hardwired to believe that justice can and should exist in the world, and that reason will prevail.

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-111069382002-03-25T13:22:00.000-06:002004-03-27T16:21:24.733-06:00

Suffocating in a vast goo of meaningless stimulation... Saturday afternoon found me back in bed with my roommate’s unread Harper’s. “The Numbing of the American Mind” was the article that snagged me. Thomas de Zengotita is writing about our inability as a culture to feel anything genuine, to experience anything that is truly real, truly first-hand. He refers to Nietzsche’s use of the word “

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-110100042002-03-22T09:50:00.000-06:002004-03-27T16:21:50.466-06:00

Queen Bees and Wannabes A couple days ago I got an interesting article from a friend detailing new research into the way women deal with stress. Apparently the “fight or flight” response theory we hear so much about is the result of five decades of stress research conducted almost entirely on men. Research now finds that women have a somewhat different hormonal reaction which induces us to

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3404198.post-109786092002-03-21T13:34:00.000-06:002004-03-27T16:22:19.390-06:00

I watch myself watching the world... I watch myself watching the world – riding on the subway, looking out of windows – and it occurs to me that photography is an analogy for life. My mother was a photographer – she still is, more or less – the way I am a writer, I suppose – whether or not she actively pursues her art, it structures the way she sees the world. And her place in it. That place

heatherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02587635466725999412noreply@blogger.com