Once when I was heartbroken the person who was causing it put the flat of her palm in the middle of my chest and told me to pretend it was a glass Mason jar, and to push my heart inside of that jar, and to seal it and the whole time, through my crying, I remember thinking how cold the lip of that glass jar felt, how pushable my heart felt and how thankful I was that someone was telling me what to do. I found my heart feeling pushable today and thought about that memory on my walk through San Francisco on the first day of the year. I'm still not sure what really happened when I pushed my heart outside of myself. Where is the jar, the heart, the heart in the jar? What did that really mean? Were those good directions? I'm unsure, but have used this imagery, of pushing my heart into jar after jar, countless times anyway having not figured out an alternative yet. It was a pretty gray first day 2009, and I celebrated by working on a pretty gray drawing. Walking around this morning, this afternoon, and this evening, it seemed like the whole neighborhood was in the same sort of mood-- hesitant, hungover and whispery.