I am making friend with anger these days. Part of it is political. I read somewhere that the populace has never been more angry, according to some poll. I am so angry that that the very idea of polling for it makes me shudder with rage.
The fact is, political anger is just the Rorschach for something much deeper and older. It seems I have a very long diatribe in me that goes way back. That’s what has been inhibiting my literary ambitions. Keeping it under wraps so as not to hurt others has kept lots of things below the surface, it seems.
Releasing it would mean letting a lifetime of rage boil out like lava all over the place. Or so I have thought. But what if that’s where the power and the urgency lie? To write in denial of it would be a deception, mostly of myself but also of everyone else.
A member and therapist remarked in a discussion last year that even if the Buddhist ideal of extinguishing the ego is right, there must first be an ego to extinguish. In a sense, a Freudian sense at least, my enormous superego that is determined to do right is that size because of my enormous id which is determined to have its way. That leaves a very small space in between for an ego.
I gotta get me an ago, and the first step is putting a stopper in the mouth of Mr. Nice Guy. What has poured onto my pages of late has been rather shocking. Not for public view, I assure you. And there are those other people out there. That’s real.
But oddly enough instead of depressing me it has been exhilirating. Maybe it will get out of hand, but this demon of rage I have feared so often may turn out to be a great friend and ally. I’ll keep you posted.