And/Both

The deep emotion that comes with memories of my childhood can, at times, drop me to my knees. The strings of an orchestra seems to accompany them, slow, repeating with a crescendo of words or a strong hand slapped across my face and I, throughout my life, have been slow to realize that those cellos and violins and brass were always there and maybe, is what kept me alive as I sat in my room many nights crying and dreaming that I was in a movie. Anger is my well and it is a deep abyss that has guided my decisions more than I would have liked throughout my life. In order to silence the pulsing in my head, I have always just forged a path forward, often times mowing over loved ones and friends leaving their remains slightly charred from the scorched earth that singed their soft skin in my bloody wake and with a child’s smile and heart worn on my sleeve they would often forgive me because they felt that a good man was inside there. To show too much vulnerability feels like I’m bleeding out on the battlefield, like my heart is slowly dripping and though it feels warm and comforting, I can’t help but think that if the heart is a finite form, then I only have so many drips and I can’t afford to let them fall onto the ground splashed about like a Jackson Pollock painting. My heart is my life force and this drippy mess must be controlled and I always knew I had time.

But then I turned 50. A number wrapped in a cliche’ of a sports car and a 20 year old bombshell on my arm, wind in our hair on a sailboat set for the Alps where we will climb to the top and plant my flag and everyone will know that I was here and I was great. And then I walk by a window of a chic clothing store wondering how I’ll look in that sexy “I fuck like a rockstar” suit. The model wears that suit like he was born in it; it’s part of him with a face chiseled from a boulder found on Mount Olympus and his eyes sculpted from an icicle in Antartica and his lips ripped from all workouts from all the kisses of longing women as he looks into the horizon wondering how he can cure cancer. And then my reflection startles me and I jump just a little, thinking I’m in a funhouse or something is terribly wrong. I see my big fucking gut and my posture looks like I’ve been carrying this guy’s chariot around the world and my hairline is dissipating and I think I’ve still got a shot, right? Where did the time go?

I no longer have time to wait nor do I have the strength to carry on the way that I have. I have to let the anger go from the trauma of my childhood. I have to be able to listen to a podcast from Brene’ Brown and not feel like the world is collapsing around me. Fuck Brene’ Brown and her science of vulnerability. The only way I know to live and survive is through the anger if I don’t have that, what is left? What will fuel me? How will I protect my heart if I don’t surround my fear and sadness with a tower of spikes, me at the top with a flamethrower. Without anger, who am I? Can success live on a diet - an action without anger is like a Sausage McMuffin with no McMuffin? But if I share these stories, maybe my anger will be burned up by the earth’s atmosphere or the heat of the sun or maybe the words will drip from heart instead because words are infinite. Maybe they will leave this page and float into the air, dancing on a beat poem that turns into a cloud above my head; a light rainstorm of peace that washes over me camouflaging my tears. I have to realize that I was just a boy. I have to realize that people aren’t born angry. They aren’t born my enemy. They aren’t out to get me. I have to realize that we are not one thing. I have to realize that we are all And/Both and I am love in a volcano, but I am love first, not the volcano. I am the Breakfast Club. We all are.