Press: MyPath Newsletter
Through support from Vocational Rehabilitation Services, I’ve been working with an independent living coach for the past few months. I was recently […]
Through support from Vocational Rehabilitation Services, I’ve been working with an independent living coach for the past few months. I was recently […]
If you’ve ever had a cold or seasonal allergies, you’ve probably experienced a similar uncontrollable slow-drip feeling. An oozing, if you will. Well, now imagine you can’t sniff or blow your nose. You just have to let it… do it’s thing. All day, and all night… for a week.
I was just a girl in pain, lying on the bathroom floor, dreaming of peace.
Reunited after ten years, Arts High classmates Mariah and Kaitlyn discuss social anxiety, art, and authenticity.
(Transcript coming soon)
The following Monday, I had a clump of neon green polyester fiber and a dead glow stick in my pocket, and the rejuvenated feeling that magical things were absolutely possible.
Could a soul mate, I wondered, be the answer to religion and friendship, safety and joy? Fiction, the remaining magic of our time, made it seem so possible.
Imagine, if you will, a well-worn journal. Scuffed leather binding, smudged with soot and mud. “My name is Ezra,” the journal begins, “and I am fire.”
What wasn’t fine was when one of them said, “I think we should discuss what is art and what is craft. . . . They didn’t outright say that the idea of “craft” was inferior, but I felt the implications deeply.
“If ever I’d had a crush on a teacher, it was definitely Mr. Randall. He came to my high school graduation party, and when my dad offered him a beer and he drank it, it completely blew my mind, even though I knew he’d been part of a hair band in the ’80s.”
My dad used to joke, in the way that dads do, that I was “severely artistic”–the joke there being that word “artistic” sounds a bit like “autistic”. Little did we know… I was actually both.