Wednesday, April 2, 2014

And Through My

And through my bones an iron rage
Paints my soul upon the page.

- David Grey, "Real Love"

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The impulse to try again, to try again and again, to restart, reboot, recover, redeem is rooted in a rage against the way things are, the way we allowed things to be, the way we have responded to the way things are in our lives. Writ large or small, our responses to the facts of our lives are the only things we control. When we reach a point of no longer giving a flying fuck about anything other than trying to unfuck what has us stuck, there are streaks of rage marbled into it.  It isn't a question of denying the rage. No, the question before you is how to use it.

If you stumble, if you have become lost, if there is a darkening sense that you could have shown better than you have, been willing to stand up straight and not be straightened, you can fall down the rabbit of hole of self-loathing that plagues all of this. You can turn against yourself because you are the closest thing at hand, because you realize you were responsible for every last word and deed, because you have convinced yourself the process of individuation, of learning how to be you, was somehow supposed to be complete from Day 1 and not something learned over time. We all do it, and it is all bullshit.

Let it go. Let it all go. All it does is give you a headache in the eye.

* * *

To unfuck your life, friend, you have to use what is at hand to get yourself moving again. If the rage I described is part of you right now, then use it to help yourself along. Unbridled rage is a waste of energy. It is dramatic and useless and only delays the day when you finally get down to the business at hand: unfucking what's been fucked.

There must be ways for you to route that rage, to send it along corridors of intention to drive you out of the muck you've been covered in. This is the art of it, the challenge of it, the burgeoning sense of being able to out stare your blindness. And it can be tough. There will be fallow times, empty swaths where it seems nothing is changing, where, for all your efforts, you are twinned to the realization that you're fucked and your efforts to unfuck it have yielded no fruit.

No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

This is the power that comes into your hands if you ply that rage on a daily basis, if you discipline that rage into works and actions and doings. You free yourself from outcomes, from proofs, from outward signs and symbols of your efforts. All that matters is the doing, the daily doing, the doing when there is no light, the doing when there is no acknowledgement, the doing because to not do it is to betray what you have learned to date and nothing and no one will cause you to give it up.

You're uncertain? No matter.
You don't know how? No matter.
You fear being misunderstood? You will be, so no matter.

What does matter, what does carry with it the key to your soul, is the willingness to show up and use what is at hand to build your life, to consciously choose all you can and to trust your unconscious to do its part as well. When you are willing to live in the moment, in process, engaged, then your rage is transformed into desire, the desire to know your name, to know what you can yet be, to do all you can yet do with the spit of time left to you.

Howl, motherfucker, but do.

* * *

I work. I do. I hit empty stretches. I rage. I show up. Music helps with all that. Find what helps you and give it space, room to grow. Tend it for it will one day save you.

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