On Thursday mornings, no matter how tired I think I am, I just bound out of bed, do ablutions, and make my green tea, knowing that I have to get to storytelling class on time, or else. And, I do. Today was so enchanting because we had five stories told in class - one sage and wise, by a funny guy, adapted from a Chinese myth about a farmer and his horses; another astounding saga by a serious and well-respected local Master Storyteller who works professionally in anger management, adapted from the history of an Angolan princess in the late 1500s; another by a Berkeley hippie who stayed, about a man who arrived at her front door carrying an oversized zucchini; one by a North Beach denizen of the late 1960s, arrested in S.F., and fought for, over a minor city infraction, by a famous radical lawyer; and another by a serious woman of age, about how she got her driver's permit at 16 while learning how to drive Daddy's old Buick on the Santa Monica coast.
It just doesn't get much better than this. I blurted out to all who would listen, "I never have to go to the movies anymore, now that I have you guys!" Then, I went and wrote my next 10 pages.
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