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"We are not allowed to be angry because it is perceived as a gender credibility issue and/or a hysterically manageable emotion that is to be stuffed." I'm revisiting the method my Mother taught me when I was very young to turn something into a form of art. It involved several components of cultural tradition, cleaning, music and release. Right now just thinking about it, I'm smiling. I was fully allowed to discuss this relatively feared emotion but I also had to qualify it for validity before doing anything. "I AM ANGRY BECAUSE..." Of what? I have four other w's and one h that need to be filled in otherwise it isn't looking at all rational. Then I need to breathe and listen to an entirely different version from another perspective. She trained me early that I would not experience pleasantness in this process, but it was a trait or characteristic of fairness. "You must be willing to contain your emotion response to objectively listen to something that is entirely different from your own." And how do I miss hearing the voice of reason in front of me, guiding me --- like a female Spock. This is a good checklist to have engrained. She taught me that sometimes things are completely impassable and they will not have a resolution. I had to be willing to accept the unknown and deal with uncertainty. Our society's dominant psychology here has two sides --- win/lose or right/wrong. That is only how a segment of the globe functions. A book and its corresponding audio CD was sent to me a very long time ago in a book club mishap. While not superstitious, I like mistakes when they're not a source of frustration. This set was allowed to collect dust for nearly a decade. In good timing, it was an invaluable resource --- specifically honoring everything from confusion of others, my own confusion, anger as a tool of beauty and predominately opposite thinking. I've recommended it to professional writers. It's that good. To keep things in check, I know exactly why I had an angry flare this past couple of days. I am only a smaller tiny part of a larger geographical symptom of decades involving a huge number of people in similar circumstances. There will be no apology from the law enforcement embroiled in their own political ladder climb over the destruction of my rape kit. It's not jealousy of retirement without disability. I don't have a jealous streak of wishing I was somebody else --- ever. It is the process requirements of being put through hell (which I believe is other people) to qualify somebody else's irrational expectation. Why yes! Thanks for the expensive PTSD and then about seventeen years of 'valhalla' where nobody would qualify it where I could use my own self with a functioning intellect to deal with the aftermath. Thanks for infantilizing me. PTSD is not a death sentence and for everything I have been through, my terribly warped sense of humor I really like. The LEO flippant FOIA request is just a tracking method to account for their time. It's not exactly personal, but yet it is traumatically personal just the same. It's irrational to expect men to be brave enough to admit error let alone do anything to rectify it. How do I know this? Well, look at all of the sunken war ships from Ancient Greece and Rome... still there a couple of thousands of years later. This is my own peace of mind that the damage cannot be stopped from the past, but the kids of the future simply do not have to suffer. I am never a coward and I can indeed impact small change. So I pull out my guidebook and I listen to the language of my emotions and I realize that this anger isn't destructive and it's okay to take it out and play with it in expression. It's not permanent. I'm not going to scream at anybody, break anything or do anything damaging. Instead of 'managing' as everybody would like things all neat and tidy -- I am just embracing the normal mess of it. Now that I am done experimenting with it being let loose... I have a schedule to keep. Thanks for reading. Have a good weekend.
Can I open up to you? The can of worms sat undisturbed on the top shelf in your bedroom But can I speak with you? Words left undone I’m overrun Gold thread left un-spun What is there left to do? The spindle lays down useless; how could we get stronger through this? I deserve to know what the goddamn truth is Or what truth may be today- But tomorrow it may change The heart is clay (washed away) As you present your sins in chains to be slain Finally I state: “Don’t insult my intelligence- for I have felt more deeply than you ever have in your moments of weakness.” To that, what would you say? Clarity is the direct result of pain If I could I would sit down forever and watch you on replay Going away, slowing the day, dreams starting to fray Like you would give a fuck I must have been a tiny sliver of your life that you flushed down the pipe and refused to think of. I should give up- but damn. I guess that’s ok, I could give every piece of you away if only (if only) I didn’t Love Now begins the final verse of giving up, But I will sit on this stool and pour my soul into these six strings Write a song about destiny- the flame’s smoke hit my lungs on repeat Never felt more misunderstood-no clue how to handle such huge things The burden on my back is weighing me down relentlessly Single notes always lack when I’m drowning in this symphony But who cares? No, really- who gives a shit at all When we’re eye to eye in silence- waiting for the draw The trigger on your finger looks like it’s about to give A moment from the end of a life that has not yet been lived Stretch me ‘till the silence ends or until my bones begin to break Is this the theft of mortality- or the final “Give & Take?”