Anger
I am trying to calm down. Again. I am forcing myself to think of the plants in my wife’s garden. I am trying to avoid confrontations. I am living in fear of nuance.It has been a very difficult few weeks, these days after the verdict and the L.A. riots. Last night, after watching some spin doctors do their stuff, I reached for my pen. I was going to write a letter to the op-ed page when I stopped and thought about it.It would be difficult to stuff my anger into an envelope, harder still, even dangerous, to send it through the US Postal System.I have an anger that could, as they say, lay waste to planets. I have an anger that could converse only with volcanos. It is surly and diffident and doesn’t care to talk about it.O haughty anger, O dark sunglassed angel repository, O unreasonable man, all that would spill onto the mail room floor would amount to an inarticulate sputter. That’s what I told myself, but now as I sit in the backyard, dark beer in my hand, a sun shining on flowers I would have called normal last month, I hear a voice.
