You can blame all this on my grade school English teacher. If it wasn't for that creative writing exercise, I would have never started down this path.
"Write about emotions," she instructed. "Select an emotion and write about it. You can write about how it makes you feel, what you do when feeling it, anything you want."
I wrote a dark humorish piece called "Jealousy". We had to read our stories out loud in front of the entire class. Scary as hell, you can imagine.
There are Pale Ales on the table. The lighting is dim. A chilly draft brings in much-needed fresh air. The other patrons provide gentle murmurs for ambiance.
"What really gets me," Ken says as he grips his beer tightly, "is that she can say one thing, and then do something else."
"We all have a purpose here. It's up to us to discover what it is."
I leaned back to catch more of the conversation. The somber cafe music gave their subject a serious tone, like they were discussing the fate of the world.
"There are a lot of people in the world," said a younger voice. "How can they all have a purpose?"
I don't remember her name anymore, but she changed my life.
What was it? Mrs. Fiegleman? Mrs. Filgelman? There's a hazy memory of the sounds, but I can't remember the letters. I'll just call her Mrs. F.
She was my second-grade teacher. And she changed my life by sitting me next to Kevin.
Weekly random rambles, musings & writings of Mike Lee in San Francisco, CA