He's bouncy. Bounces on tables, desks, chairs. Nothing stands in the way. Says profound things with little surface meaning. What does that mean, you ask. Coy glance, never an answer. He moves on, seldom teaching, always storytelling or coaxing people to speak. To voice ideas. Just when you think you have him all figured out BAM he's top of a table doing an impression of golem BAM he's sulking because the class won't speak up BAM he's singing Enrique Iglesias because he fixed the projector. Master of the arts. Teacher, storyteller, actor, writer, poet, playwright, artist. Don't know if he's any good, but he truly does it all. Mad but means well. Confusing but dependable. Chaotic good.
On your 16th birthday you can drive. On your 18th, you can vape. Both are important milstones, but what about 17? Save being a dancing queen, little happens when you turn 17. I celebrated my 17th with a small bonfire in my back garden, out by a creek, surrounded by friends and s'mores and hammocks. There was one moment when we were all huddled around the fire. It was dark by then, the only light coming from the flickering dying embers. There were no phones out, no photos being taken, everyone was simply invested in the moment. Then a guitar was pulled out, and a sing-along ensued. Soft songs, easy melodies, hushed voices. We were all in sync, in harmony. I've never felt more connected to a group of people and I doubt I ever will. I will forever remember that moment, and would return to it in a heartbeat.