You can never tell me, that what we do doesn't matter.
That the very notion of: "Those that cannot do anything else...do this."
And what is this... this thing we do? Standing in front of a room full of young people with wild eyes staring at the wide world with absolute mistrust and forlorn. What a daunting task!
Pouring out hearts. Pushing for clarity... for meaning...for tolerance... for understanding.
Sometimes the best teaching is about prevention, about caution... in this one time in life before it's too late.
And the world swallows you whole.
Watching the Ferguson Riots... ruminating on abuses of power, crackdowns, military presence to preserve peace.
Maybe I'm a fool, an absolute fool...but I still believe in art, that stories can heal, help make sense, that sometimes the clearest most logical thing to do...is sit down in a quiet place... and read.
I know the world burns around us... that people have zero patience, that rage simmers just beneath the surface in a continually bubbling modern cauldron.
That's why...sometimes, just having kids read a little Shirley Jackson... might make a difference.
*Shirley Jackson's My Dear Alphonse was first printed in The New Yorker magazine in 1943.