High School Teachers Who Want To Get

My Mind, I Know, I Can Prove, Hovers On Hummingbird Wings. It Hovers And It Churns. And When It's Operating At Full Thrust, The Churning Does Not Stop. The Machines Do Not Rest, The Systems Rarely Cool. And While I Can Forget Anything Of Any Importance--this Is Why People Tell Me Secrets--my Mind Has An Uncanny Knack For Organization When It Comes To Pain. Nothing Tormenting Is Ever Lost, Never Even Diminished In Color Or Intensity Or Quality Of Sound.

But There Was Something Psychological Happening There That Was Just A Little Bit Different. And The Other Thing Was, There Was No Stigma. Kids Weren't Going Into The 'center-for-kids-that-need-more-help' Or Something Like That. It Was 826 Valencia.

Now I'm In Nonfiction. To Me Any Given Story Has Its Appropriate Form. There Might Be Some Story I Get Involved With That's Begging To Be A Graphic Novel, So That Will Have To Be That Way. There's Always That Matching Of The Content And The Form, And That Means Everything To Me. I Spend Years Thinking About What That Match Is Going To Be Before I Can Really Make It Work.

I Think Newspapers Shouldn't Try To Compete Directly With The Web, And Should Do What They Can Do Better, Which May Be Long-form Journalism And Using Photos And Art, And Making Connections With Large-form Graphics And Really Enhancing The Tactile Experience Of Paper.

Suffering Is Only Suffering If It’s Done In Silence, In Solitude. Pain Experienced In Public, In View Of Loving Millions, Was No Longer Pain. It Was Communion.