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adrienmundiI have issues with anger. I tend to think I have a bad temper, and thus keep a very tight lid on it at all times. Whether via just old fashioned repression or the jaded distance of cynicism and irony, I keep it down, away, out of sight.
Because anger scares me. Anger is a direct call to action, usually the kind of action that can't easily be taken back. It makes it very, very hard to exist on the periphery, to be able to slide away quietly, when you take direct action. (For some stupid reason, it seems that that is *the* place to be; almost on the outside, just out of the center of attention)
But I have a great, great deal to be justifiably angry about. Most immediately, it's taken just a few pages by Riki Anne Wilchins (Read My Lips: Sexual Subversion and the End of Gender) to remind me of that (a task made easier, no doubt, because she speaks to me in the languages I process and filter everything through; academic theory talk with a clear valance for applicability and implementation).
I am afraid of my anger. I'm afraid of taking on more than I can handle, and being left high and dry when the righteous rage burns out, left open and exposed for the jackals of culture. I kid myself that I prefer, and am better suited to, a war of attrition and sniping because, again, that puts me on the periphery, out of range, not really a target, but what I really really want to do is take everything on head on, full speed ahead, breaking and burning and leaving a swath of much overdue demolition in my path.
Because anger scares me. Anger is a direct call to action, usually the kind of action that can't easily be taken back. It makes it very, very hard to exist on the periphery, to be able to slide away quietly, when you take direct action. (For some stupid reason, it seems that that is *the* place to be; almost on the outside, just out of the center of attention)
But I have a great, great deal to be justifiably angry about. Most immediately, it's taken just a few pages by Riki Anne Wilchins (Read My Lips: Sexual Subversion and the End of Gender) to remind me of that (a task made easier, no doubt, because she speaks to me in the languages I process and filter everything through; academic theory talk with a clear valance for applicability and implementation).
I am afraid of my anger. I'm afraid of taking on more than I can handle, and being left high and dry when the righteous rage burns out, left open and exposed for the jackals of culture. I kid myself that I prefer, and am better suited to, a war of attrition and sniping because, again, that puts me on the periphery, out of range, not really a target, but what I really really want to do is take everything on head on, full speed ahead, breaking and burning and leaving a swath of much overdue demolition in my path.
