Anger and Contempt

Introductory note:

The following is a work in progress and a work of fiction. Most words are mine; a few phrases and ideas are borrowed. Everything about me and from me is a work in progress and mostly fictional and contradictory. I am a walking contrast. I am also a walking lexicon. I walk a lot. I walk from here to eternity and back, in search of peace and a certain feeling long gone.

I am afflicted with an overactive imagination, not an overactive sex drive, otherwise I would have availed myself of all the opportunities I had, and enjoyed myself much more. Raw sex, unaccompanied by love, is repugnant to me. I was born to suffer. I don't know what pleasure means.

One reader intimated, in fact complained, to me that there are so many "I"s in what I write. He missed the point completely. My words are not a celebration of narcissism, but rather a resistance to self- destruction, and a search for relevance and meaning. I am a mirror. People see themselves in me. So, be careful before denouncing me. You may unwittingly denounce yourself because we can only see what we can undestand and relate to, while glossing over the inconsistency and the puzzle, failing to realize the soul of a man lies in his inconsistency, in his being a puzzle to others. That was probably why Mark Twain (or whoever that was) remarked that consistency was a hallmark of a scoundrel. There is nothing contradictory and conflicting about being a scoundrel. He is here to hurt and exploit others. Case is closed.The same thing with cowards and assholes. They specialize in sneak attacks and sidebar comments. They are despicable and not fit to live. If I had a chance, I would exterminate them all, from coast to coast, starting with California where I know a most loathsome asshole of all.

I started many fires, but could not put out the conflagrations. I am a firestarter in some ways. I revel in controversies and confrontations. A person I confront most often and most viciously is myself. I think I both love and hate myself, otherwise how else I could explain the penchant for ascetism and the attraction to suffering.

Anyway, here I go, one more time:

To say my thoughts out loud and, worse still, to commit them in paper and broadcast them far and wide in the Internet, is an illness that I've got and no endless visits to my psychiatrist or twelve-step meetings at the local AA seem able to cure me of this affliction.

Yesterday's late afternoon, at dusk, when the Sun got tired of seeing my face and wanted to say goodbye, I saw the sky piled high with thick orange, red, and purple clouds, like the immediate aftermath of a chemical fire. Sitting at the edge of a man-made lake, in the shade of a willow tree, I saw across the expanse of water, trees of some familiarity, and as much as a genius that I am, I could not recall their name, bending in the brisk winds. The winds picked up strongly, buffeting a large Confederate flag in front of an antebellum mansion from my right. Just about twenty yards in front of me, a mallard with its brood of ducklings in its tow, swam towards shore to settle for the night.

Yet in this seemingly serene pastoral setting, my enemies didn't leave me alone. My oldest enemy is anger. It was born in times long past, grew strong and sturdy over the years, with gratuitous insults from phonies and cowards and animals which had no business to evince contempt or fling wild accusations and calumnies to my face. So my anger has bloomed and blossomed and ballooned in my chest and sent a rush of bile into my throat. I felt bitter. All flushed and flustered, I got up, and walked back to my car, all the while scheming and plotting an inarticulate, wild venture of a worst kind.
(to be continued)