My Steaming Tirade

Two days of sacred sword work and my usual exercises has me in an internal fury, in rage. I'm steaming mad at dirt.

Rage is a funny emotion because it's very focused. We talk about anger so often at arm's length. But there are dimensions to anger that you forget till they rise up fresh. I need to get some plastic tips for my swords because my wallpaper is turning out very ugly.

But it's good to be alive. And there's no big reason for concern, since this is just part of it. I know it could get to be too much, but I will work through in time.

At this point, there's enough channeled invective to melt lead. I'm kickin', struttin', talkin' trash everywhere I go. My dog is very sensitive to the sound of words and phrases, so I have to keep reassuring her she's "a good girl," and it's nothing against her. So I'm making nice to keep the dog happy. But when she's out of the room all bets are off.

Left to myself, I'm seething. Countless imprecations flow forth. I'm being specific and naming names. I've got it bad and that ain't good. I'm willing to lay it on the line. Every ounce of power I can muster is at the ready. There's a bubbling, sputtering mess of something that has everything below my chest in a state of agitation. Mentally, I'm at the wheel. I can see afar with crystal clarity. I'm ready to stomp.

Maybe by the time I'm ready to act some of it will have died off. But right now there's no loss of energy. It's Gog and Magog, baby. Wrestling versus Rasslin'.

You know it's wrestling if you do your job and go out for drinks. You know it's rasslin' if you drink and leak.

You know it's wrestling if you're unencumbered by grudges. You know it's rasslin' if you're unencumbered by arms.

In wrestling you win on points. In rasslin' if you're alive.

And to think I'm usually so mellow, so easy going. Stand back!