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Tag: energy

Anger is an Energy

Just being angry isn’t enough. In fact, anger alone is the absolute worst way to approach any situation. I get it: there are myriad things popping up almost constantly in this world that can make you upset, disturbed, disgruntled, out of sorts, and irritated to the point of distraction. And as John Lydon so eloquently put it, “anger is an energy.” But just seeing red is no better than only viewing the world as black or white. It may get you through the battle, but it won’t help you win the war. it’s not a long-term or really sustainable solution. Because anger is horribly hard on your system. Ignorance and even bliss can numb you deeply enough you don’t recognize the self-preservation signals your body and mind are genetically programmed to give you. But anger, like uncontrolled diabetes, eats away at your psyche, at your body, until before you know it, you’re old, tired, and feeble with frustration at not being able to get over it. Whatever it is.

If you’re going to fight, flee, or freeze, anger convinces you that leaving or shutting down is the least favorable option. When you’re angry, your muscles tense up, your heart rate and pressure build, and your normally ADHD scanning mechanisms narrow to a razor-fine focus. You’re ready to dive into the fray. At the same time, anger doesn’t give you appropriate weapons for every battle. In some situations, it really is true that when you only have a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. But it isn’t. And you know it. You may get loud and puff yourself up to be as intimidating as possible, but the fact is, as you learn when seriously playing heavy metal music, that volume is not an ultimately effective substitute for power, even if your knobs go up to eleven.

But we can’t help getting angry, right? And so much of the vitriol we find ourselves brimming with is really just disgust at ourselves. When we meet the enemy, and it is us, we are merciless. We beat ourselves up for letting ourselves into the corner we’re backed into, we harangue ourselves for believing in the bullshit yet again, we harangue ourselves for ignoring the warning signs and red flags indicating we’re once again on the eve of destruction. Worst of all, we get upset about getting upset. After all, the mystical traditions all tell you to let it go. Let go, let God. Attach yourself to the process and not the results. It’s not about you. Just breathe. Breathe in Jesus, breathe out Satan. Forget about the wrongs done to you and focus on the wrongs you’ve done to others. All great advice, when you’re not blown up like a pufferfish and imagining yourself wielding a cast iron skillet in a dance with someone’s convenient skull. OK, maybe you don’t get that extreme. I don’t, really; at least outwardly. But you get the idea. Not particularly helpful.

Your nature and nurture both play a role in this. In my own case, throughout my childhood I never witnessed any two people de-escalating conflict. Regardless of whether the pot was watched, it came to an inevitable boil and nobody reached to turn off the stove. My exposure to playground politics, sports, and family dynamics all served to instill in me both a great amount of fear and trepidation and a generous helping of passive-aggressive response mechanisms – sarcasm, dark humor, sullen sulking, isolation, and inappropriate laughter. The bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble in my external circumstances were nothing compared to the cauldron of dangerous chemicals brewing inside me. Worst of all, when you work yourself into that state, you become very susceptible to persuasion. Just witness a bull fight. The angrier and more frustrated the bull becomes, the easier it is for the picador to sneak up with the spear. The more inevitable the matador’s rapier becomes a permanent fixture behind the shoulder blades. When you’re angry, you can be led. You can be misled. And it doesn’t really matter which direction that leadership takes you. If all you know is escalation, all roads lead uphill. Unfortunately, gaining altitude in that way doesn’t necessarily give you any kind of perspective or wider view.

There are so many advantages to moving beyond anger. But so few concrete examples of what that looks like to the untrained (or angry) eye. We talk about peace, love, understanding, and compassion, but these are feelings we’re not all that ready to handle. Because they involve surrender – something that anger sees as the anathema. The last thing an angry person wants to do is compromise, cooperate, or coexist. Before we can communicate as equals, we need to get back to the full spectrum of colors and ease out of the red zone.

Who is demonstrating those skills in the wider world? Even the noblest among us seem to rely on an undercurrent of pointed humor to navigate a sea seemingly chock-full of flaming, cavorting assholes with no redeeming features. When they leave the room we mumble under our breath, roll our eyes, and say, “There but for the grace of god, go I.” That’s not an interdependent world view. It’s not even anywhere near the middle ground.

We try to “channel” that negative energy into positive works, right? But without solid, tangible experience with how that happy place feels to live in, we don’t really even know when we get there. Ultimately, we’re still hog-tied to the results, useless babbling that the ends justify the means. And we stay mean. Not in our words, or outward deeds, or even physical expressions – although Paul Ekman would probably disagree.

That anger, if we let it stew on the burner long enough, becomes a roux of hatred. And if you start with a burnt roux, it doesn’t matter how much water you add or how much butter you fold in after the fact, the gumbo you come up with is going to taste bitter. That’s the danger. We need to not control our anger, or deny it, or bury it. We need to find ways to use it for fuel, not as an ingredient in the stew.

So how does that work? You can’t say you’re not going to get angry, not going to let feelings of hate well up in you like acid reflux. That will happen. It’s as inevitable, as they used to say on the radio show The Shadow, as a guilty conscience. What you can and must do is examine some underlying conditions. Something doesn’t “make” you angry. You choose to “be” angry. To let anger at some situation external to yourself (usually) become the way you choose to define yourself. Usually when that happens, like those who do not suffer fools gladly, we are greatly troubled by the presence of reflective surfaces in our environment. Because anger is not pleasant to look at it, any more than it is to feel. And hate? Besides being the only way to surrender control of your being to something you consider an object (the focus of your hate), it is the only way to absolutely destroy anything beautiful in yourself and the world.

A hateful seed grows only thorns. An angry bulb sprouts into a poison flower.

Anger is an energy, all right. But it’s not an efficient, healthy, or economically viable fuel source. You can run your car on it for a little while, but sooner than later the reckoning comes due.

As Douglas Hofstader put it, it’s a record that contains the frequencies to destroy the record player.

10 APR 2025

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Birth and Death

I have nothing to say, and I am saying it. That is poetry. – 13 Words, John Cage

Where does it begin? What is “it”? What is a “beginning”? If you’re going to plumb the depths of the universe and try to come up with a way to explain each and every thing from sea to shining sea, you really have start with a definition of terms. Right?

If you subscribe to the idea of cause and effect, every cause is an effect, and every effect is a cause. Like the old mythological riddle goes, “it’s turtles, all the way down.” There is no beginning and no end – just an endless collection of here and now’s that meet as two ends of a myriad of sticks. And you can’t pick up one end of a stick without also picking up the other end. Every birth has bury it in.

So if you’re going to write something like an autobiography, where does it actually start? With your conception or your live birth? Or does it start with the energy that fuels you, that fueled your parents and their parents, that is simply passed on from generation to generation in one form or another without pause or ceasing? How could you become what you became at birth without whatever your parents were at that time or any previous time in their existence? They didn’t get to where you became a thing just by flipping on a switch, any more than you got to be 50 or 60 years old by blinking your eyes at age 5 and wishing you were a grown-up.

Can you explain the fact that you’re not the same person you were in elementary school using some exact science, or is there invariably (and perhaps unfortunately) no small degree of magic involved? How much mumbo-jumbo is actually required to explain the universe, after all – and doesn’t that inclusion automatically defeat the purpose of rational explanation?

31 MAR 2025

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Come Out, Come Out: terzanelle

Come out, come out! It’s only rain;
the world has not dissolved as yet.
The clouds will loose the sun again.

It sometimes seems hard to forget
that darkness does not rule all things;
the world has not dissolved as yet.

And after all, rain showers bring
new growth, and wash away the grime
so darkness does not rule all things.

To waste away seems such a crime;
use these slow hours to energize.
New growth will wash away the grime.

Do not despair the stormy skies!
Come out! come out! it’s only rain.
Use these slow hours to energize;
the clouds will loose the sun again.

06 JUN 2017

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Don’t Kill the Siren: sapphics

Now whose voice is singing out words of warning,
as the low light, glittering, slowly fading,
starts to flicker tenuously, letting darkness
silently swallow

other points now wavering on the shoreline?
When those bridges crumble for their reasons,
will they turn the oceanside’s brightness inward,
quietly shifting

all their burning energy from their borders,
glowing in the after hurt, slowly dying,
letting outside travelers lose their bearings,
careening wildly

on the rocks that litter the lightless beaches?
Are new voices learning the ancient lyrics?
What will guide the innocent ships to harbor
without that howling?

18 MAY 2017

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Round Again: chanso

And so around again:
the how, the where, the when;
could be and might have been;
the raven or the wren.

The sword versus the pen:
in battles now and then
it’s hard to tell who wins;
the line is blurred, and blends.

What’s up around the bend?
Who knows? To see us then
is merely to pretend,
to forecast of the end.

The currency we spend
for lies and hope depends
on credit from our friends
and how we limit them.

We dare not to offend
what might hide in the glen
awaiting living men
who march to war again.

How fast the truth descends!
Around our necks it wends
and gyres, while we extend
our courtesies. Amen.

Off round and round again;
we start, we end, we spin.

3 FEB 2017

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I Don’t Do Slam

Now when I say I don’t do slam
it doesn’t mean
that I don’t dig
the meth-euphoric drenal high
that comes when words escape at Mach
and you roll like the Candy Man with those
sweet treats to clear the sleeping ears
of all those deadbeat debutantes
who crowd like mike like it was manna
say they’re gonna, makes you wanna
holler damn the poet man
street preacher speaking tongues in rhyme
but that ain’t slam, sam.

When I say I don’t do slam
it doesn’t mean that I can’t jellyroll
mainline strings of silken soothings
talk loud without saying nothing
run below the feedback radar
at the edge
of sound distortion
keep it real compared to something
shut down shambles mumble rumbling.

When I say I don’t do slam
it ain’t because I’m old and gray
and rhymes don’t flow don’t grow
testosterone and angst OD
some chosen chump to channel
all the crap you couldn’t stand to shout
I’m not the one to rock your pulpit
spin your world yourself
my axis
doesn’t equate power with volume
strokes its own ego quite nicely
whispers sermons to a choir
that knows just why
I don’t do slam.

16 MAY 2005

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A Path of Wildness

I chose to walk a path of wildness;
though these modern city streets are paved
and seem to revel in a blindness
that believes the urban sprawl has saved
us from what nature could remind us:

somewhere beneath all this black and gray,
behind the masks that progress may wear
as it fumbles through lines of a play
it has not written, and does not care
to find meaning in what those words say,

there is an rough edge to our control.
Beyond that border the feral earth,
that patient presses diamonds from coal,
in each single instant gives birth
to the strange chaos that feeds our souls.

Where the sidewalk ends and turns to vine
is never clearly marked on a chart;
and your map is not the same as mine,
even if we would pretend to start
from the same place at an exact time.

What’s more, both paths may appear the same
(if anyone still took time to look)
and like gods often bearing false names
to confuse those who insist on books,
will merge at times; they are not to blame.

Instead, it is our pride that deceives;
we do not seek to balance, but rule,
and as a despot king we believe
our road divine, and others for fools
unfit to share the glory we perceive.

But it is there; the wildness can’t be tamed,
nor trimmed and manicured for too long
before it tires of such polite games
and flexes its muscles, lean and strong,
to escape the gilded picture frame.

I would go after, where it now stalks
amidst the dark, thickened underbrush;
sometimes just at dawn I hear it walk
right under my open window. Hush!
Can you hear it too? It likes my block.

18 FEB 2005

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