For the most part.
Uh…okay, I’d like to be a teacher of creative writing…
I’m afraid not.
Wha…? Why? It’s my passion.
That may be so, but you’ll need a degree to properly teach the stifling rules you’d like to abandon.
My God! I’ve got to learn what I’d like the world to unlearn?
I’m afraid so. It’s the only way to wrestle enlightenment to the ground.
To the grou… You make an encounter with the muse seem like date rape!
No, think of it as ‘commando passion,’ like unbridled lust with no hope of redemption.
Wait…aren’t you supposed to be advising me? I mean…
Like stroking your dreams, for instance? Assessing the chances of fate and skill rising up in your blood-drop by drop-and sitting beside you till you’re transformed…or perish?
The man who sat in this chair once told me an odd story. Care to hear it?
Come on…think of it as therapy.
‘The toughest job I ever held,’ he told me, ‘was manning the phones at a suicide prevention hotline…trying to convince people…actually sway them by sleight of hand and power of will…to choose life. To realize how wondrous everything was if you’d just drag your sad ass out of depression…it was dark and humorous and frightening because I was playing Russian roulette at the other end of the line-with their lives and mine…I’ve been afraid to breathe ever since…’
Care for a mint?
Huh? I mean, no…I mean…what did that just mean?
Haven’t the faintest. The therapist said he doesn’t remember much, so I assume he’s as normal as either of us…more or less. Then again, maybe he discovered the pitfall of being a therapist, counselor, minister, teacher…people fall in love with how you make them feel… Wouldn’t you agree?
Uh…wait. Have I stumbled into the wrong room?
No, not at all. You’re an idealist and this is hell.
Have a nice day…