| Relieving the stress of teaching middle schoolers by putting my thoughts on paper | Nashville |
Amber rays of late afternoon sun fall through the slats of the blinds, casting patterns of light and shadow across the bed and floor. Outside, I can hear the muffled sounds of the city: endless traffic passing beneath me, the soft cooing of pigeons, the occasional swelling of metal grating against metal as the overground train passes a few blocks away. Far below, Ronald, the man who runs the gyro truck on the corner, is yelling at the new boy who works for him. A dog barks. It is May; the first days of summer are clinging tightly to the city, holding it in a chokehold of heat and humidity.
The Little Black Book
There is no pleasant version of this story and even if I could make it pleasant, I wouldn’t because art isn’t pleasant. If my life has to be a story, the least I can do is turn my life into art.