Write Angry

"Write from an angry place," says the decrepit, geriatric fuck of a mentor that lives in my brain. I’m not schizophrenic, but I probably should’ve been. Should be? Something. This’d all make so much more sense that way.

The bastard wears a sweater vest, has tufts of hair protruding from his ears and from his nostrils. His bifocals lean forward over the bridge of his nose. I imagine he has halitosis. I’m not schizophrenic. He’s more like an angel on the shoulder that claims no religious affiliation. More like a spokesman for a part of my psyche I’ve been too passive to fully access on my own. He says, “Write from an angry place,” and I’m confused because I was under the impression that’s what I’d been doing. For all intents and purposes, I can’t really recall ever not being angry. I guess maybe it’s manifested itself in different ways; risky behavior, dysthymic purgatory, etc. But all in all, it’s only ever been anger turned inward. All this time, I was under the impression I’d been purging that anger by casting storm clouds over the heads of melodramatic fictional people. Yeah, it reads sad, but it’s the same thing, right? Wrong. According to him at least: The Geriatric. “Write from an angry place.” That implies I’ve still got words left to spew, and all of the others have been way too damn placid.

So here it is, you old bastard. You non-existent fuck. This is writing angry. This is me saying outside of a goddamn metaphor or simile, that I’ve had it with the girls and their transfigurations; lies and promises and good intentions. I’ve had it with beauty. Opposite the girls, I’ve had it with the boys who chase them; their sickening libidos and their infatuations with the girls that seems to always dwindle, over time, into lack of interest. I’ve had it with interest. I’ve had it with sex, the concept of sex, making eyes, and making out. Sorry Jack, but I’ve had it with preliminary talk about souls and all of the other shit it took you so long to realize was just balderdash. I’ve had it with expression, and that feeling like you’ve not said all there is you need to say, even though the valleys through the words on the pages and the rivers of ink on the canvas look a lot like the knots on your insides. You’d like to think it’s all out, but it’s not. I’m sick of talking talking talking, and keying keying keying words onto a page to make it all make sense. “You should know by now, it’s not gonna make sense. No matter how many ribbons you pound out into words, no matter how many ribbons you replace, it’s never gonna make sense.” That’s not him talking, the old fuck. That’s me.

Write angry? How’s this?

Old man, I feel like Thurston Moore’s agonizing screeches in Sonic Youth’s “Mildred Pierce.” I feel like nails on a chalkboard, layered over a catchy riff. And as much as that hurts, it feels pretty damn good all the same. I feel like auditory gelatin sinking into the quiet nodes between noise, perverting their silence with my discord. Here it is, loud and clear, screaming in print, my clanging cymbals. Old man, I feel as old as you.

The anger he’s so keen on me expressing, there’ve been times I thought I’d figured it out. Thought I’d figured out where it was rooted, and tactile things I could attain to mitigate it. Truth is, I don’t know what I want. Truth is, I don’t know shit. Maybe I want to play house with a woman twice my age. Maybe I want her and I to have a kid, and maybe I want us to name that kid after a Buddhist concept we half understand. Maybe I want us to name that kid after a Buddhist concept because my parents never considered naming me after a Buddhist concept.

Do you think people have kids out of selfishness? Reproduce for a vicarious shot at something that didn’t work out too well for them? All the time you hear it; “I want to give little [whoever the hell] better than I had.” Well is that the only motivation? Is it maybe people just want to ‘care’ for something? If so, well there are plenty of goldfish waiting around in fish tanks filled with shit. Waiting around for that shot at love and multicolored flakes. I’m no parent, I guess I wouldn’t know. Little [Buddhist Concept] is just a speculation; not a living, breathing human being that’s inevitably going to find disappointment in life and someday discover that they’re going to die. No, no, no. As much as I want my little [Buddhist Concept] to have a mother and father who love each other, a pony, and a space shuttle; [Buddhist Concept] is far too important to me to let down in any way, to expose to the perpetual misgivings. So I set aside The Geriatric, and I speak to [Buddhist Concept] in the place where babies live before they’re born, and I tell the truth. [Buddhist Concept], my dear, sweet child

—light of my life and reason for breathing—is staying speculation, because that’s the best gift I can give.

So, it’s anger you wanted? Well, how’s this? Maybe it reads sad, but I’m not so sure the line’s as definitive as you’ve tried to make it seem, old man. Maybe there is no line. Maybe you’re a liar and it’s all the same. Maybe you’re just as ignorant as I am, and you don’t know yourself.

No.

You’re just as ignorant as I am.

You’re just as angry as I am.

You’re just as sad as I am.

ADAM’S COLUMNS

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