, , , ,

I admit it; my heart is filled with rage at something, everything,  85% of the time.

Whatever desire I used to have to become a loving and tolerant person toward those who are not or are not themselves capable of being loving and tolerant is gone.

Believe me, I know how frightening rageful people are– I was born into an environment of distrust and hurt in which people exploded first and asked questions later.

I think perhaps my skin was flayed off by my mother’s tongue, so that things others can shrug off send me into orbit.

In any event, these are extremely tough days for a lot of people.  There is tension and uncertainty in the air about everything.  There are millions without power and elsewhere, millions without the civil rights to complain about no power, no jobs, no food– no equality.  There are people oppressed by other people, a planet simmering in unresolved anger and fear.

In this community there are around 1000 people who have to start over because their homes fried in the High Park Fire.  This is in addition to the many who live in this “Choice City” who have trouble making it from day to the next because they are marginalized.

In short there are plenty of reasons to be completely and totally pissed off at everything and everyone.

Rage comes from a sense of betrayal, I believe.  It comes from disappointment– especially repeated disappointment.  It comes from nothing ever getting better, leveling out, things being o.k. in one’s immediate world and in the community. In me at times, it billows out of me at others’ stupidity; or I turn it against myself for my own stupidity and mistakes, and letting so many horrible things happen to me, and not being able to stop them from happening to the people I loved and needed.

I have friends who got lucky– talented, attractive women who married professors, who own their homes, who have plenty of money.  They are the do-gooders of the community and brava to each of them.

They also have absolutely no fucking idea what it’s like to spend your life struggling up a mountain of obstacles just to gain a foothold on a little ledge.

I admit to having a rageful heart, to wanting to hurt someone in moments.  I admit to apologizing often, making amends often.

At least I still feel badly when I lose it, and at least, I still have something like a conscience that keeps me from wholesale vengeful acts. And in spite of my anger, I find myself being kind and generous often.

But it has finally sunk in that this is it for the duration.  Life will always be hard; it will suck until I succumb to whatever is waiting in the wings for me.

I have tried laying my anger down, at the feet of “the Cross,” only to feel my faith trickle out of me like water out of a punctured car radiator.  I have had the platitudinous and remonstrating people of the lie, i.e. the AA lie and delusion, tell me to let go and let God.

I say, Fuck God.  Fuck being so nicey nice and pretending to be “o.k.” in the face of the unacceptable.

Richard Dawkins says the best argument against the existence of God is evolution and the survival drama that plays out in every species, including homo sapiens, every minute of every day. When starving water buffalo cascade off a cliff, where the fuck is God?  When a child is locked in a dog crate and starved to death, where the fuck is God?

I do believe in the “God” particle, as in, the empirical evidence of particles, mass, the Big Bang, the spontaneous creation of the universe where nothing was.  But I refuse to buy into a fucking fairy tale and live in a state of self-delusion that some Big Something “out there” or “up there” created us and is taking care of us.

With apologies to those who choose to believe, if under-evolved people want to sit around with their thumbs up their asses in churches and meetings and assure each other that fairy tales are true, so be it. I’ve said time and again: the Church is a fucking bloviating patriarchy, a political institution designed to maintain a misogynistic hierarchy of power. If you can tell me that Jesus was immaculately conceived and born of a virgin, and eventually rose from the dead because there had to be some kind of payment to “God” for human “sin,” I can say to you that in my view and that of many brilliant people, all of that is consummate bullshit.  To me,  “Jesus” is a myth,  a fig newton of the human imagination aided and abetted by the yearning to believe, a quasi-poetic explanation of human nature, even if once upon a long ago dream there was a kind person with his name who was strung up for his trouble.

Count me out of the false comfort of absurd lies and projections, and the need to subordinate the human intellect to to some greater power that is really in charge.  If anything were in charge, would our world be in the mess it is?  Hell is here on earth.  Hell is human and species suffering and no loving God would condemn anyone to eternal separation from “Him” or “it.”

I put my pretty brass crucifixes, with their sad-sack impotent, guilt-tripping God wired to them, in the dumpster, some time ago. I take comfort and strength from art, and the love and tolerance of those close to me.

I would rather be honestly angry at having a life consisting of surmounting obstacles, than to fake it and rationalize that suffering has some unknowable spiritual purpose.  I’m against faking anything.