Wrath

April 6, 2008

Every three or four years, it seems–it had been longer this time–I’m overcome by a possession which must be called demonic. I don’t know where it comes from, unless it’s the long accumulation of frustrations, each one of which may be hurled behind unnoticed, but the mass of which have been trooping behind in the shadows all the while. There’s no sign when they take me over, just rising wrath and gathering fury which become, in time, sometimes for weeks on end, the center of my life. Wrath has always been my pet among the Seven Deadlies, perhaps because it can be passed off as rational. Certain things really are grievous affronts, and the effort to avenge them is blameless to the mind. These people really have sought actively to ruin my life, and the simple calculus of things allows me to react in kind. Even now it doesn’t sound irrational. It sounds dark, hellish and no longer to be considered. This is the first time I recognized the process enough to bring it to an end by prayer and will. In the past it has merely exhausted itself in time, while I grew more and more hateful, made my life more and more dangerous. The most memorable of these occasions was 1987, when I almost lost a career over such suffocating, uncharacteristic fury that I could not put down the weapons even after I recognized they were cutting me every time they cut my enemy. "But I am right!" I would cry to the sky. The fact was that this point, which seemed the whole issue to me, didn’t matter at all to the progress of events. I saw something in me yesterday, heard a tone in my own inner voice. I held my hand out and said "Stop!" This morning I dreamed the sweetest dreams, and believe it to be over. It is as laughable at the little points as it is perilous at the big: me screaming with fury if the capsules didn’t come out of their packet at the first try; fighting off rage if a student asks the question that was answered two seconds ago while he was staring off into space; instantly rabid if the wrong letter was hit on the keyboard; blind rage at receiving a rejection of work I don’t remember from a publication for which I have no respect. Tyrants and demagogues are always ludicrous and appalling in equal measure. There are times–rare times, praise God– when I am so near to that state I almost understand, can almost make a defense. "But you don’t understand, I am right!"

Here’s the highest hurdle. I am right. But It doesn’t matter. That, for some reason, is not part of the fabric God is weaving just now. A person like me finds that almost–but, thank God, not quite–unendurable. And here is the last test, for today: if the demon revealed himself and said, "You can have those things which were stolen from you, you can punish the people who hurt you and those you love. Just say the word," on this murky April morning I would answer, "No."

Detroit Repertory Theater is interested in Eulogy, but wonders if I would object to a multi-racial cast. I think it is an odd question even to ask. Maybe they assume I am very old.

My discourse on wrath, while I was thinking it out, explained a number of things about my father as well, especially now, when his powerlessness and confusion probably allow his demons–so very like my demons-- free rein.

Had a breakthrough during my voice lesson Friday. Paul had been telling me what he wanted, but I had been misinterpreting it, and making worse the habit he wanted to correct. The light finally came on, and out of my mouth came this stab of silver I never heard from me before. Sang Purcell’s "Evening Prayer" and Mahler’s "Um Mitternacht" with the same spears of silver flashing in the air. It utterly amazed me. What a long process to master what is, on some levels at least, blissfully natural. I want to sing now all the time.

Here is my morning prayer, Lord of the Universe: Let me always know when I am being ridiculous.