The Warrior Bard's Treatise on Anger

Ah, another case of posting out of an imagined sense of “obligation.” I don’t like going for a week without giving my readers something new. So I sense some eyebrows are raised in expectation of amusement. Indeed, semantics can be fun.

But the point is largely to clarify some things. My friends sometimes think I need to “chillax” or “calm down,” which is at once dismissive and mistaken. As much as some people are convinced that I am “an angry person,” they don’t consider much else. What you need to understand is that I am actually quite stoic and in control, even—no, especially—when I am in full-blown rant mode.

I’ll repeat that. When I come off as being “out of control,” it is actually quite the opposite. Control is a very significant element to consider. I’ve had to remain impassive in the face of more outrageous iniquities than I can count. Yeah, I’m an angry person. Everyone is. Even you. You. Are. An. Angry. Person. You just might hide it or deny it or lie to yourself or pretend otherwise. You might claim to be a “Zen master” when really I know just as much about Zen as anyone I’ve ever met. Martial discipline is a grand thing, something that transforms you into a person of tremendous control. Again, stoicism is my bag. When I’m visibly, theatrically, or otherwise obviously angry, it’s a form of control. My execution is usually carefully calculated, even in the heat of the moment. I calculate how much anger needs to show in order to get the point across, because sometimes “making a scene” is the only way to get people to listen. There’s a reason I had a brooding, smoldering look through every one of those composition seminars at Truman. Because those people needed an explosion to raise awareness, but with Dr. Gooch in the room it would do more harm than good, so I decided that the proper level of visible anger was to be slightly gruff, annoyed, non-conversational, and generally reserved. I could have snapped at any one of them at any time, but I didn’t. And what kills me is that even during the meetings the other undergrads would banter about how dark I was. Um, you’re not helping. How about let’s all cut the shit and act like we at least someday want to be professionals in our field?

One time, in the “inner sanctum,” the composition lab within the greater music lab, Herr Vogler and I were working. And two or three others (female undergraduates who weren’t even composition majors, by the way) were in there bantering. I was annoyed because I was trying to concentrate, and you can’t very well edit audio files when people are having a boisterous good time two feet behind you. They thought I was all part of the fun. I wasn’t. I was there to work. If I were to have fun, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the music lab. It would be at Too Talls or, better yet, my own house.

I had two open notebooks of staff paper lying out, several sheets of other notes and instructions to myself, and I had a timetable to accomplish a certain amount of hard work. I swiveled my chair to kindly, courteously, and calmly tell them to please go in the other room because some of us really needed to get work done. This freshman girl, whom I never found endearing in the least, whipped out her usual sardonic “wit” (which just comes off as insulting and alienating to people like me who weren’t already her friends), saying something like, “Yeah, right, with your back to the computer?”

To which I immediately turned up the anger dial to “Obliterate,” raising my voice to retort loudly with, “I have by back to the computer because I had to turn around to tell you to fuck off! I have staff paper lying out, I have four fucking windows open, and I have my headphones on! What dose it look like I’m doing?! Everybody who’s not working, get out now!”

Because the “inner sanctum” was for composition students only, because it had only four workstations, with all the fixings, and it was not to be abused. Had Dr. Gooch been there, he would have thrown them out himself. I had a point. They tucked tail and left, and it was just Herr Vogler and me left to work in peace and quiet. I still think he was secretly grateful that I did what he would not.

Was I pissed off? You bet. Was I out of line? Eh. They weren’t even supposed to be in there in the first place, and when I get insulted to my face for something that’s the opposite of the truth when I’m trying to be nice, that’s when the gloves come off. I didn’t apologize for going Christian Bale on that girl. I never apologized because I wasn’t sorry. And I wasn’t sorry because I decided before the alleged “outburst” that it was going to be my last line of defense in that situation. I didn’t apologize because I didn’t regret it. I wasn’t sorry because it got the job done and I never liked that girl anyway. I prefer to be courteous at all times, but at what point do you just have to kick someone out who is disrupting everyone’s concentration in a room she’s not even allowed to be in in the first place? Okay, fine, judge me as the asshole.

That’s just one example of what I’m talking about here. Calculation. Control. It’s a little insulting, discouraging, and even hurtful sometimes when my friends characterize me as something like a “spitfire,” but I guess I can’t really blame them. I just want credit where credit is due. I propose a semantic compromise: I am very cool and collected; I just happen to be an asshole.

It’s all very ironic.

Or perhaps you think that the blog is a manifestation of anger that is out of control. Are you serious? How can you think that? Typing a blog post, complete with transitions, is not just something you blurt out in the car because you’re on edge. You have to first type it out, then check for misspellings, then click on “Preview,” and then finally hover your finger over the mouse button, the cursor on “Publish Post.” No. No, no, no, no, no, no. The blog is a dark place sometimes, to be sure, but there’s a difference between venting and not being in control. Every single blog post, even when emotionally driven, is a calculated risk.

That’s just the blog. In more personal situations, I want you to recognize that I don’t lose control, “slip up” and just unload into someone, attacking them personally and viciously, saying things that later I (claim to) regret, unlike some people. Some people lose control and later apologize for saying things they “didn’t really mean,” which is bullshit more often than not. I can’t remember the last time I had to track someone down and apologize because I screamed cutting attacks at their very character just because I was pissed off. That’s a lack of control. Control is self-restraint. Control is deciding beforehand what comes out of your mouth, not just letting slip the dogs of war and later seeing what they chewed up in their orgiastic frenzy after the fur and dust settles.

To paraphrase wisdom from the good Captain, “You are seen as the Asshole, but you are also the Bigger Man. But nobody will know that.”

Okay, fine. Yeah. I’m “angry.” What do you expect? Look at the last several years of my life. But I am in control of my emotions. And I take it as an insult when my close friends imply otherwise. It’s not quite unjustified, but I expect better from my friends than overly simplistic superficialities, because my friends are intelligent, astute, rational, reasonable, and insightful. So let’s not patently dismiss the warrior bard’s legitimate grievances because the boy cried “Fuck this wolf shit!” one too many times.

Give me some credit. I mean, even this lengthy blog post about how and when and why I’m completely irate is more analytical than bombastic.

I just thought it was time I stood up for myself. “Short-tempered” may be a reasonable (if misleading) accusation, but don’t let that be synonymous with “impatient.” As I told the Captain, I have nothing but patience; it’s tolerance that’s in short supply. There’s a huge difference. If you want to paint me as the asshole, that’s fine, but I’ll be damned if I don’t stand up for my own character virtues. Yeah, the blog (including this post) is a little on the brutal side, more than a bit confrontational. But don’t ever lecture me on patience, self-restraint, or self-control until you sit down and talk to me about it over coffee for a couple of hours. Because you’d be surprised what I really know about Enlightenment and Virtue.

Anger is not a symptom of unenlightening. In fact, anger is not a symptom of anything. Anger is too vague a term to really be that useful. Anger is a category, not a means of describing an entire personality.

And here are the types in that category:


Wrath

This is anger in its most controlled form. Wrath is often a matter of righteous retribution, a natural but lasting response to injustice (whether real or only perceived). Wrath can be a springboard to any other form of Anger and is not always righteous, though it is usually justifiable. God has Wrath. Khan had Wrath. And Wrath of Khan is the best of all the Star Trek movies. That movie is sweet.


Fury

Fury is extremely intense and boiling (if only temporary) and needs an outlet, be it meditation, playing Red Faction II, hiking, striking a makiwara board (which sort of counts as meditation, actually), or less savory forms of release, such as drinking, smoking, screaming into a pillow, or whatever. Fury is not responsive to any momentary stimuli but a state of Wrath reaching “critical mass.” Fury is dangerous.


Rage

Rage is Fury uncontrolled, the most dishonorable manifestation of Anger. Rage is when you truly lose control of yourself, get “caught up in the moment,” and cause damage. Rage is neither healthy nor justifiable in any situation. Rage is a symptom of unenlightening. Rage is when you succumb to your emotions and let them control you. I’ve never had rage. Never.


Hate

Hate is the most misunderstood of all Anger. Hate is the deepest and darkest of them all, the most frequent misnomer of the bunch because it is so often used exclusively to describe bigotry. Hate is not bigotry. Hate is far more personal, more individualized than something as petty and ignorant as a general disdain towards an ethinic group. Hate is the root of Vengeance. Hate is a force of destruction from within. Hate is cold, not hot like all of the other forms. Hate is a deep-seated Fury that can overwhelm but not override like Rage. Hate grows slowly over time, dwelling in your core, thus gradually taking over your entire being, becoming a part of your thinking, becoming your ulterior motive. Hate can easily be restrained, because clamping down on emotion causes a sort of “feedback loop,” roiling in on itself, ricocheting from your skull down through your legs and back up to your calm facial expression, strengthening itself so that you actually feel a tingling sensation in your skin, an almost soothing feeling. Hate is the seed of evil. Hate is when you look in the mirror one day and are perturbed by what you see. Hate is when you realize what every human being is capable of under the right circumstances, no matter how righteous and virtuous and noble in the beginning. If you’ve never felt Hate, you don’t ever want to. Because Harvey Dent proved that even the best of us can fall.


and just being plain old PISSED OFF

Being PISSED OFF is more a matter of demeanor. As such, it can constitute any combination of the aforementioned forms of Anger. Clive Owen is pissed off. Batman is pissed off. Ellen Ripley is pissed off. Lewis Black is pissed off. Being PISSED OFF is empowering but not necessarily constructive. Being PISSED OFF is when you have reached the limit of your tolerance but are still in total control. You are visibly angry, and usually with good reason, and you want everyone to know there’s a problem that needs a solution, and sometimes the only solution is your shotgun.



In conclusion

Of all of these forms of Anger, I am sometimes PISSED OFF. That is all. And that’s only a fairly recent development (more and more so since about November 2007), more a combination of Righteous Indignation and running out of Tolerance for people’s Bullshit and thus taking arms against a sea of troubles, and, opposing, standing up for myself (to paraphrase Shakespeare). So let’s go easy on the damning characterizations of the warrior bard, because I actually have a life-of-the-party sense of humor, a great deal of self-awareness and discipline, and, if anything, a natural inclination towards stoicism. Ah, but you don’t believe me. That’s fine. But when was the last time you actually spent time with me, and didn’t just read the blog and shake your head at how un-virtuous I am?

I’m not angry. I am not “driven by” anything. I guess I’ll accept it if you accuse me of having poor judgment, but that’s about as far as I’m willing to let you castigate. Okay, okay, okay, I’ve got it: I am very cool and collected; I just happen to be an asshole… with poor judgment. Fair enough. I wonder what character flaws you are willing to publicly self-analyze?