A paroxysmal seizure of rage poured out of me last night in the middle of a phone meeting with a collaborator. Apparently I was re-enacting the penultimate scene from 'Scarface' for an audience of one. It was 2am, I was working on a few projects in my bedroom while getting a list of what 'can't be done' and what's 'not allowed' over the phone.
Suddenly I was looking at myself like an out-of-body experience. I could feel something beginning to curdle, then bubble, froth, and swell. Then this enraged midget Emperor burst out of my belly and started screeching and gesticulating: my little friend.
Who is this person? Napoleon at Waterloo? Hitler in the bunker? Mel Gibson at a traffic stop? Oh, that's me. You look ridiculous. I glanced around at my surroundings. Yes, I'm still here. I apologized, clarified, spoke on what I'm going to do different in this situation, made no demands on the other party. The call ended cordially as we concluded our night. Afterward I crept outside to find my roommates sleeping peacefully and the roof still on the building. The world continued its business, the dog shifted her sleeping posture, and the TV softly hummed and glowed incandescent.
I closed my bedroom door and turned off my computer. I sat down and meditated until 3am. I sat there looking at that previous moment like a crystalized piece of volcanic lava. These eruptions used to happen a few times a year, then it was once every year, and now it's once every few years. As an adult in my 30s these paroxysms happen as regular as the Winter Olympics, and they are just as unwanted.
But maybe that's the problem. My little friend feels left out in an attempt to artificially contrive a 'me' that is beyond irritation. Perhaps if he felt more a part of the process he wouldn't have to go 'full Tupac' into a situation.
The next morning I asked 'did anyone hear me last night?' They looked confused and said they were dead asleep. The dog walked up to me and licked my hand. I looked outside the apartment and the falling snow was beginning to pile up on the window.
Suddenly I was looking at myself like an out-of-body experience. I could feel something beginning to curdle, then bubble, froth, and swell. Then this enraged midget Emperor burst out of my belly and started screeching and gesticulating: my little friend.
Who is this person? Napoleon at Waterloo? Hitler in the bunker? Mel Gibson at a traffic stop? Oh, that's me. You look ridiculous. I glanced around at my surroundings. Yes, I'm still here. I apologized, clarified, spoke on what I'm going to do different in this situation, made no demands on the other party. The call ended cordially as we concluded our night. Afterward I crept outside to find my roommates sleeping peacefully and the roof still on the building. The world continued its business, the dog shifted her sleeping posture, and the TV softly hummed and glowed incandescent.
I closed my bedroom door and turned off my computer. I sat down and meditated until 3am. I sat there looking at that previous moment like a crystalized piece of volcanic lava. These eruptions used to happen a few times a year, then it was once every year, and now it's once every few years. As an adult in my 30s these paroxysms happen as regular as the Winter Olympics, and they are just as unwanted.
But maybe that's the problem. My little friend feels left out in an attempt to artificially contrive a 'me' that is beyond irritation. Perhaps if he felt more a part of the process he wouldn't have to go 'full Tupac' into a situation.
The next morning I asked 'did anyone hear me last night?' They looked confused and said they were dead asleep. The dog walked up to me and licked my hand. I looked outside the apartment and the falling snow was beginning to pile up on the window.
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