Icky Trump is not an Intimate Secretary

Image via Third Man Records

 I've been trying to write this post for months. I started it in the aftermath of the white supremacist march in Charlottesville and Trump's comments about that event, and have re-started it a handful of times since then. There's almost too much to say, there's too much opportunity for digression and maybe the main point hasn't been firm enough in my mind. This introduction is a digression in itself. But after having a bit of an existential crisis this weekend that probably made some of my friends think I was going off the deep end, I'm giving it another go. 

This post is not about Donald Trump. If you want to read about him, you've got your choice of hundreds of articles in a multitude of media sources, not to mention his own shit-show of a Twitter feed. I'm not going to waste my words on him. No, this post is a reaction to Donald Trump and the effect he's had on many of our psyches.  Or at least on my own psyche. Because I don't know about you, but I've been so much angrier than usual for the last year and a half. A fair amount has been written about "Trump Fatigue Syndrome" (each of those three words links to a different article) and I believe the stress of it is real.

Image from the Augusta Chronicle, via the Denver Post

Added to the regular stresses of things like work, commuting, paying bills, dealing with our own health issues and those of family members, and, in my case, a hereditary irascibility, TFS ain't no joke. It's something to take seriously. Because it can turn you into someone you don't want to be, someone who is angry all of the time, and/or depressed all of the time, and/or who withdraws into avoidance.  It can lead to combativeness.  It can lead to cynicism.  

But the anger and frustration in response to what's happening these days is justified. And anger can be productive. Professional athletes talk about using anger to push themselves, to give them an edge over their competitors. But is that wise in day-to-day interactions, or in the realm of politics? When you have a bunch of people voicing their anger together, in a crowd or on social media, it begins to breed the sort of negativity that can so easily turn to exactly what we're seeing too much of in the world these days-- combativeness. We have so much to battle against these days-- Racism, classism, and other bigotries, a patriarchy that feels it's under threat, and all the effects of living in a kakistocracy that embraces willful ignorance.  But do we want to battle effectively, or do we want to live in a combat zone?  It's important to choose how anger is channeled, because there's a distinct difference between rage and outrage.

Rage is ugly, it's destructive, it breeds hatred and, when impotent, turns into cynicism.  But outrage says "No, this is wrong. This must change".  Rage accomplishes nothing. It amplifies and destroys and leaves a metaphorical scorched earth in its wake. Outrage, on the other hand, can be the impetus for productive action, for activism and the sort of destruction that leads to positive change.

In the week following Charlottesville, one of the most helpful things I came across were these words from Van Jones in an interview at NPR--

"People say, 'Oh Van, when you go out there and talk to those Trump people, does it change any of their minds?' That's not my job. I'm not trying to convince Trump people to be better people. I'm trying to prevent the Trump era from making me a worse person. I do not want to become somebody who is so hard-hearted that I can only see the worst in my opponent. Dr. King said you should never let a man drive you so low as to hate him."

That's it, right there. We can give vent to rage and hatred for the people we view as our opponents in this situation that more and more is coming to feel like a war. Or we can be outraged and battle for change without losing sight of our own moral compass.  For anyone feeling the way I've been feeling, I highly recommend learning more about Van Jones and the Love Army.

Another thing that helped me was a bit unexpected and I've been meaning to get back to it after the initial discovery.  Way back in May 2017, I joined the hosts of the Third Men podcast to talk about the use of Masonic references in the Raconteurs song, Intimate Secretary, which was released back in 2006.  I'd seen mention of those references at one of the Jack White message boards, but for the podcast discussion I did some actual research and what I found was both compelling and startlingly timely. Here are the lyrics, along with some of my notes about the words and possible meanings--

I've got a rabbit, it likes to hop 
I've got a girl and she likes to shop 
The other foot looks like it won't drop [things won’t be so bad after all]
I had an uncle and he got shot [oops, maybe they will]

Is this greeting the type that's meant for me? [Masonic ceremonial hand-shake &/or greeting]
Are you part of this kakistocracy? [government by the least qualified]

This ringing in my ears won't stop [stress and fatigue from shit show going on in the world today]
I've got a red Japanese tea-pot 
I've got a pen but I lost the top 
I've got so many things you haven't got [but do they really amount to anything?]

A fellow's craft is just not for sharing 
He's not an intimate secretary! [he's not qualified to be one, doesn’t understand principles of reason, love, faith, duty, etc]

I've got a rabbit it likes to hop 
I've got a girl and she likes to shop 
The other foot looks like it won't drop 
I had an uncle but he got shot 

Venerable obscurist malarkey [general stereotypical perception of Masonry as hallowed mysterious bullshit?]
A doulocracy ecclesiarchy [government of slaves defining heresy?]
A fellow's craft is just not for sharing 
He's not an intimate secretary! 

The exarchy's inspector inquisitor 
I dare mock an illustrious master 
Are you part of this kakistocracy? 
Is this greeting the type that's meant for me? [do I have the qualities of an Intimate Secretary?]
 
What I knew:  Jack's apparently got a deep connection to the Masonic Temple in Detroit-- He attended Cass Technical High School right down the street, his mother worked there as an usher, and the Gold Dollar and Magic Stick venues are only a few blocks away.  He's performed in both theaters in the Temple, and paid off their back taxes a few years ago. Wouldn't surprise me at all if his father or other family members were/are Masons.  And so Intimate Secretary is laced with references to titles of various degrees of study in Masonry-- Fellowcraft ("a fellow's craft"), Intimate Secretary (obviously), Inspector Inquisitor, and Illustrious Master.

From Freemasonrywatch.org

What I learned:  The pages and pages I read the on the internet were like reliving my 20s and early 30s, when I was deep into philosophy and classic literature, devouring writings by and about Thoreau and the Transcendentalists, Goethe, Kant, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, and the Stoics. The beliefs of the Freemasons are built on the same sort of weird mix of transcendentalism, esoterica, and reason. But underneath the mystery and esoterica, under the stuff that's bred so many jokes and conspiracy theories, lie a framework of symbols and allegories with the specific purpose of developing a spiritual and moral compass.

Whether you take the mysteries surrounding the organization seriously or consider it a bunch of Illuminati hoo-ha, their message is one this world needs right now. The degree of Intimate Secretary, in particular, is strikingly relevant.  A few pertinent excerpts from the description of it at the Freemason Information website--

You are especially taught in this Degree to be zealous and faithful; to be disinterested [as in, minding your own business] and benevolent; and to act the peace-maker, in case of dissensions, disputes, and quarrels among the brethren...

The generous man cannot but regret to see dissensions and disputes among his brethren. Only the base and ungenerous delight in discord. It is the poorest occupation of humanity to labor to make men think worse of each other, as the press, and too commonly the pulpit, changing places with the hustings and the tribune, do. The duty of the Mason is to endeavor to make man think better of his neighbor; to quiet, instead of aggravating difficulties; to bring together those who are severed or estranged; to keep friends from becoming foes, and to persuade foes to become friends. To do this, he must needs control his own passions, and be not rash and hasty, nor swift to take offence, nor easy to be angered. 

For anger is a professed enemy to counsel. It is a direct storm, in which no man can be heard to speak or call from without; for if you counsel gently, you are disregarded; if you urge it and be vehement, you provoke it more. It is neither manly nor ingenuous. It makes marriage to be a necessary and unavoidable trouble; friendships and societies and familiarities, to be intolerable. It multiplies the evils of drunkenness, and makes the levities of wine to run into madness. It makes innocent jesting to be the beginning of tragedies. It terns friendship into hatred; it makes a man lose himself, and his reason and his argument, in disputation. It turns the desires of knowledge into an itch of wrangling. It adds insolency to power. It turns justice into cruelty, and judgment into oppression. It changes discipline into tediousness and hatred of liberal institution. It makes a prosperous man to be envied, and the unfortunate to be unpitied. 

 See, therefore, that first controlling your own temper, and governing your own passions, you fit yourself to keep peace and harmony among other men, and especially the brethren. Above all remember that Masonry is the realm of peace, and that “among Masons there must be no dissension, but only that noble emulation, which can best work and best agree.” Wherever there is strife and hatred among the brethren, there is no Masonry; for Masonry is Peace, and Brotherly Love, and Concord. 

Icky Trump is definitely not an Intimate Secretary. (If you agree, maybe go buy a t-shirt to show your feelings?) 

Finally, a Facebook friend posted this quote a while back that really resonated with me--

Found via Pinterest, I'd credit the image creator if I could.

I think I'm going to print that and tape it to my bathroom mirror. And I'm also going to bookmark a few pages of Masonic texts and refer to them frequently, when I need to bolster my own character and get back on track.  Like Van Jones, I don't want feelings of rage over what's happening to bring me down to the level of Trump and his ilk.  

I want to be an outraged Intimate Secretary.


 

Confessions of a Jack White junkie, part 7: Strike three, Boston, yer outta there!!

The roller-coaster hit a trough this morning as I headed north on 95 past Baltimore on the way to Boston.  I'd been cranky and argumentative in internet conversations the previous evening, but became truly ugly as soon as the car got into rush hour traffic.  Things came out of my mouth directed at other drivers that could've made a sailor not just blush but cower.  I know how easily I become ugly like this, it's a trait that runs through both sides of my family and it used to be much more constant in me.  Discovering both Buddhism and Stoic philosophy several years ago helped me to learn to watch for it, but ten hours of sleep in four days could lower anyone's resistance to irritation and I'd also woken up this morning with the early symptoms of a cold.  So while that couldn't excuse the stuff that kept going through my head, it at least explained why it was happening.  Seeing myself become this way reminded me all over again why I identify so strongly with the song I'd requested from Jack that first night in San Francisco.  While the song is not specifically about these things, the title alone always reminds me of the pettiness, selfishness, rage, jealousy, and condescension I struggle with so frequently, much of it driven by a shadow need for recognition and attention that I've only recently truly acknowledged.   I queued up the White Stripes' Get Behind Me Satan and set I'm As Ugly As I Seem on repeat from the Delaware border all the way into New Jersey, letting the softness of that voice and guitar soothe me as much as possible (live version from the Stripes' appearance on KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic, since the album version doesn't seem to have been slapped up on YouTube)-



"I'm as ugly as I seem, worse than all your dreams could make me out to be..." While listening to that song and the rest of that album did calm my road rage, it also caused me to begin wallowing in self-loathing as a response to the anger.  When I look at myself in that state, all I can see is a bitter, vicious hag and who could love themself in such a form?  But it was too early in the day for wallowing and tears, my makeup had to last all the way through that night, so Satan and Ugly were replaced with Lazaretto and Black Bat Licorice in an attempt to perk up both my mood and energy.

One of the main things I've learned from Buddhism is the concept of right thought, part of the Eightfold Path, which is not about controlling emotions and thoughts but about catching ourselves before we react habitually in unconstructive ways, taking the time to look at the situation we're in to see if it warrants such a reaction or if the reaction is really being driven by other things going on in our own mind.  Stoic philosophy takes a similar tack.  I think most people think of stoicism as being a grit your teeth, grin'n'bear it sort of attitude, but the philosophy is similar to Buddhism in that it requires you to look at your actions and reactions and think about them.  One of my favorite quotes from Marcus Aurelius is one I should have tattooed inside my eyelids, so that all I'd have to do when I needed to be reminded of it would be to close my eyes-- 

Do not disturb yourself by picturing your life as a whole; do not assemble in your mind the many and varied troubles which have come to you in the past and will come again in the future, but ask yourself with regard to every present difficulty: 'What is there in this that is unbearable and beyond endurance?' You would be ashamed to confess it! And then remind yourself that it is not the future or what has passed that afflicts you, but always the present, and the power of this is much diminished if you take it in isolation and call your mind to task if it thinks that it cannot stand up to it when taken on its own.

I have no problem with being angry, anger can be constructive.  But the sort of irrational rage I let loose in the car this morning is not.  I can accept it in myself to a small degree, but I have to constantly watch and be ready to reel it in when it goes too far.

Self-loathing is just another habitual negative response that's no more constructive than those directed outwardly.  Another tenet of Buddhism is compassion, not just for others but for ourselves.  We have to be just as understanding and patient of our own weaknesses as we should be of those of other people. Such weaknesses are something to work on, not something to condemn.  We need to work on them because these emotions are all very productive, they breed tremendous amounts of negativity. But they're not constructive, you can't learn anything from them.  Unless you can catch yourself, step back from them, and observe them.

Whoa, wait a minute... What's going on here?  For a moment there I almost forgot that I'm supposed to be an obsessed Jack White fan-girl, er, I mean junkie.  Who do I think I am getting all verbose about philosophies and stuff?  Gotta get back to the program! 

And snideness is yet one more unconstructive reflex.  Oops.  So anyway, I was heading north on 95 to Boston today to meet up with Sharon and see Jack fucking White perform at the Bleacher Theater at Fenway Park.  Made it through the morass of interchanges that are the NJ/NYC area to find myself admiring one beautiful Art Deco bridge after another along Connecticut route 15 and then the hints of color in early-changing leaves along I-90 in Massachusetts.  And there was a whole 'nother cast of characters joining Sharon and I today, people we'd not seen since Jack's Blunderbuss tour two years ago. So I had much to look forward to.

One of the coolest things about the Lazaretto tour is how Jack's mapped it out to coincide with his recent dive into baseball.  From attending games to taking batting practice to visiting museums of the sport, to throwing out the first pitch at a Tigers game in Detroit, it's obvious that he's gone deep into the history and minutiae of baseball the way he seems to with everything that interests him.  So it had to be a huge deal to him to perform at Fenway Park in Boston, one of the few historic ballparks left.  When I scored my ticket, I half jokingly said to anyone who would listen that, at the end of Seven Nation Army, I wanted Jack to jump off the stage of Bleacher Theater, lob a left-handed homer with the Kay (he didn't have to make it over Fenway's scoreboard, dubbed the Green Monster, though it'd be an extra thrill if he did), then run the bases.  I would scream my throat raw if he did something like that. But it was not to be.  I should have been tipped off early that the night would not be at all what I anticipated when Sharon and I grabbed a pair of hot dogs on the concourse.  Most bland dog I've ever eaten.  The minor league ballpark in Frederick, Maryland has better hot dogs than Fenway.  

An incident with the tour photographer on the concourse after we'd finished our dogs left me again feeling embarrassed that I'd barged in on Sharon's thing. She's been to twice as many shows on this tour as I have, in part because she has a job that allows her to coordinate business travel with show dates.  Not everyone has such a convenient situation. But she's also admitted to putting herself into debt with all this travel and is incredibly single-minded about doing what it takes to get up there on the rail, so while I'm ridiculously envious of her I also admire her dedication.  We've been great partners at the shows we've been to together, accomplices with a common goal.  We've had tons of fun in line and very emotional experiences together in front of (and on) the stage.  But as I see her being acknowledged by Jack's crew, demon jealously keeps rearing up and making me make comments I shouldn't to try to feel that my dedication lives up to hers.  It's that need for recognition and attention that I mentioned above. But where anger-driven feelings make me picture myself as a vicious hag, these feelings of jealousy cause me to see myself as a petulant little child. I can't deny that the silly little fan-girl in me is pining for Jack to to see and acknowledge my devotion.  The rational side of me understands that's never going to happen. Not only is it never going to happen, it doesn't need to happen.  Life will go on and be just as fulfilling without it.  I've been in one-sided relationships before, in which the other person expected me to share their interests but didn't share mine and in which it felt I was loved for how I made that person feel rather than for myself.  I swore I'd never be in a relationship like that again and, in fact, that's part of what led to my recent Facebook friend list clean-up--  I don't even want "friend"ships in which I comment on other people's posts and they never comment on mine.  And yet here I am with Jack, in the most one-sided sort of relationship anyone could ever hope to have. Incidents like the one this evening, the ones that have left me feeling embarrassed for my attempts to connect, make me wonder why I bother.  But who am I fooling?  I know exactly why I keep reaching out, babbling incessantly in the Third Man Vault, on message boards, here in a public blog, needing to be right in front of him at shows to be seen as well as to see--  Because the fan-girl addict will never give up wanting to be acknowledged.  She and the rational side battle over this, but the rational side often ends up indulging her because it realizes that we've rarely in our life been so swept up and moved by anything as powerfully as by Jack's music. When a tour's going on... forget about it. The rational side may as well go take a nap. 

And I know that I'm not alone in this craving. The majority of fellow fans I've spoken to want to meet him, even if it's just for an autograph or hand-shake.  There are always people at shows hovering by the tour bus, waiting for an opportunity.  What's behind this craving?  I tend to shy away from hanging by the tour bus, I've had that experience before with rock stars I admired and it was anti-climactic, so I have trouble understanding why such brief and often hectic encounters are so important to people. And I'm honestly not even sure that I want to actually meet Jack. As I said, I've had that opportunity with other people like him and it's never once turned out the way I imagined it might.  A couple of the experiences have been decidedly negative.  I got to know one of my dearest friends when she stumbled across my blog and contacted me with a story of how she and her grandson had written to Jack and received a letter from him in reply.  She's shown me this letter and it's a beautiful thing.  It's brief, but he made the effort to touch on every subject they'd written to him about.  While I'd be amazed if he would remember writing that letter, to me something like that is a much more meaningful connection than the five-second hand-shake, "Your music means so much to me", "Thank you very much" encounter by the tour bus.  For some people, though, that five seconds is all they need to be thrilled right down to their socks.  

And what I'm talking about here really applies to any musician, actor, athlete, or celebrity that people revere.  Why do we all need this so much?  Is it an altruistic impulse, do we want to be able to give these people the gratification of knowing that what they do is meaningful (might have to question that in the case of some celebrities) and touches people ?  Or is it a more selfish desire to have our own existence elevated by their acknowledgement? I've seen people in the Third Man Vault chatroom who've gotten a response from Jack in chat gush after he'd left that, verbatim, "I'm so excited, Jack White knows I exist!"  Is the motivation for this need some combination of the altruistic and selfish?  Is it an individual thing, varying from person to person?  Interesting stuff to think about.



Getting back to the show...  I was initially very upset about my seat in Bleacher Theater, all the way over at the end of the first row far from the side of the stage, and concerned about being on a step with nothing in front of me to hold onto for balance as I danced and jumped about.  Not to mention being all alone and far from my friends, who were all one section over and spread around.  Ended up rocking my ass off anyway, despite only being able to see drummer Daru Jones from the back and bass player Dominic Davis barely at all.  And I watched Jack all night trying to engage the group of people directly in front of him, a bunch who sat for much of the show, who kept leaving to get beers, and some of whom several times stood up and turned their backs to him while talking to their friends.  I kept wanting to run down the row and shake those people, to make them turn around and realize what they were missing. I don't know what else he was seeing in the crowd, but that group definitely caught his attention.  At least once, he stepped to the front of the stage and stared fixedly at them, much like he stared down the camera man at Merriweather Post Pavilion two nights before. And I know from Cleveland just how penetrating yet impenetrable that stare is, but it seemed lost on that group (I later found out they were apparently some of the owners of the Red Sox and their wives).  And it seemed that they weren't the only part of the audience with better things to do, because he didn't even bother to invite the crowd to sing on any of the songs that are perpetual crowd sing-alongs-- Not on Hotel Yorba, not on Hello Operator or Steady As She Goes, not even the line in Seven Nation Army about the Queen of England and all the hounds of Hell. But the most unbelievable thing, for me at least, was when it came time for the Seven Nation Army chant.  This is the chant that can be sung even by people who have no clue who Jack White is because they've heard it in stadiums and via television broadcasts of sporting events for the last several years.  But could Boston pull it off in their own venerated sports stadium with Jack and his Kay guitar there on the stage right in front of them?  Fuck no.  I heard two repetitions of it and then it died away.  Jack stood in front of his amps with his guitar, waiting for the response that most audiences wait all through the show to be able give to him, and Boston couldn't muster it.  He didn't even bother to clap and gesture for the crowd to join him as he usually does, didn't bother to spur them on, just finished the song, then thanked the crowd, stressing over and over that through the night it had been "Just you and me!  Just you and me!!" I couldn't tell whether there was sarcasm in his tone or if he was trying more obliquely to let them know that they'd not held up their end of the arrangement or if, bizarrely, he'd felt a connection despite the lack of one that I'd observed.

Through it all, even though I'm not sure he or the band saw me at all, I danced and sang and jumped and cheered as usual (and only fell off of my precarious spot on the ledge a few times), feeling like a wallflower at the prom, dancing by herself and watching the Prom King have a lousy experience with the cool kids, just knowing I could show him a great time if only he'd come over and ask me to dance.  But alas, it wasn't to be.  I continued dancing by myself and he continued to be stuck with the kids who were too cool to clap.  During the break between sets, I suddenly heard a voice over my shoulder say "We've been watching you and you know how to enjoy a show!  We want to dance with you!!"  I turned around to find two young girls whose seats were two rows up and across the aisle who'd hopped down and squeezed in next to me.  I said that if security would let them stay, it was cool with me. One of them was convinced that we'd be able to get down into the empty VIP section in front of the stage when the show continued, and I didn't bother to tell her I doubted it highly. Sure enough and sadly, security chased them back to their seats when Jack and the band came back for the second set.  I would have enjoyed their company.

This is the most subdued performance of Hardest Button that I've experienced yet, fourth song to the end of the show.  Fiddle player Lillie Mae Rische is more animated than Jack is.




Compare that to this bit of the ending of Lazaretto, four songs from the beginning of the show--




The difference in his energy is notable and, again, weird to me.  Jack's typically the opposite, amping up himself and the crowd more in the second half of the show than the first. And yet despite the weirdness of the crowd response and its seeming effect on his energy, this was not a bad show. And I certainly hope that the musicians on stage got something out of it. Just like at Cleveland, the negative aspects were balanced by many high moments--

Each of the band members emerged one at a time from a door in the Green Monster and headed from there to the stage, with Jack making his entrance last.  It was a brilliant idea. Wish this person had caught his entire jog across the field, with the pouring of about half his bottle of champagne onto the grass.




One of my favorite moments was a version of Black Bat Licorice that could've been re-titled Black Bat Gibberish, and I do not mean the word gibberish in any derogatory way.  Jack started inserting mostly unintelligible verses in between the regular ones, causing me to throw up my hands as I tried to sing along and yet giggle at the same time. It reminded me very much of the second show at Roseland Ballroom back on the Blunderbuss tour, at which he pretty much completely lost the lyrics of the first song and flubbed another one shortly into the set, but then later in the evening made up an astoundingly beautiful song on the spot.  And, dammit, I love this song in any form, it's one that just speaks to me.  Loved the slight twist to the final line-- "Whatever you feed me, I'll feed you right back. But it will do me no good."




Did I say something about snideness being unconstructive...?  Just never you mind, I hope Jack never removes his King of Snark crown. He uses it so delightfully to make a point.



But despite these moments, there was still that seeming lack of connection with the crowd. My buddy Steve, seeing him for the second time this tour, said he thought Jack was just tired.  But Sharon and I have seen him at so many shows and this felt different. I mean, the man played on a sprained ankle with more energy than he displayed at some points in this show.  Was he, like me, just exhausted?  Or was he getting a vibe from the crowd similar to the one I picked up?  Hell, for all I know, he had the flu that night. But when Sharon and I found each other after the show, we looked at each other and said "What just happened?"  One of us said almost immediately that it was like Radio City Music Hall and the Detroit Fox all over again.  After the backlash from Radio City, it's possibly not likely that Jack would ever cut a show short again (though he's ballsy enough that you never know). And his tour manager mentioned in the pre-show announcement that this show at Fenway was being recorded, so we wondered if that was why he pushed through, only giving up at the very end when he didn't bother to encourage the audience to participate in Seven Nation Army. It was an experience I never would have thought I'd have at one of his shows.

All show photos by David James Swanson

Yes, there were moments when this show felt more like other recent ones, with that infectious smile.

And there I am, next to Lillie Mae Rische's right shoulder

Interestingly, there's this video of Seven Nation Army that makes it sound as if the upper reaches of the audience were much more responsive than the folks down front. There's the chant, however faint. Like Radio City and the Detroit Fox show, perspective on this one might depend on where you were in the crowd and what you have to compare the experience to.  So now I really don't know what to make of the night.





To be continued in Miami.  And this is where it began- Introduction.

On anger and Audioslave

Last week was a crazy week. Work’s been nuts for months and I’ve been angry. As usual, though, there’s been little cause for the intensity of my emotional reactions. Nothing I was called upon to do last week was a true hardship. Duties not in my job description, perhaps, but that’s never stopped me from doing things before. I make a point of pitching in and doing what needs to be done. And no one who needed or expected me to do things for them last week did so maliciously. But the stuff I had to do has just further delayed projects that I’m responsible for that really do need to be completed. In the end (as I muttered under my breath all week), "It’s not f@#$king insulin, it’s just f@#$king jewelry!" Regardless of that fact, it’s time for me to try yet again to get a grip on my anger.

I’ve already written here about hatred. I can still honestly say that I can’t think of a single human being for whom I feel hatred. I’m to the point I can’t even say I "hate" eggplant. I just don’t like it and don’t want to eat it. Same thing for people. There are many I’d rather not spend time around, and many I’d much rather not see holding public office or leading a country, but hatred is one emotion I don’t feel towards any of them. Anger, though, is very different from hatred, and it’s my downfall.

Maynard James Keenan, bless his heart, summed it up for me in a video interview that I just recently found on YouTube: "Hate and anger are two completely separate energies. They might have a similar emotional charge to them, but anger is a much more constructive emotion than hate." I’m going to elaborate on that. While hate and anger are two separate energies, I think people confuse them because the two emotions are so often felt simultaneously. The one can easily lead to the other, and back again. And anger is only a constructive emotion when it’s detached from hatred, when it’s recognized and analyzed. If you don’t step back and take a dispassionate look at what’s behind your anger, then you don’t allow it to be constructive. So, that’s what I’m doing with this blog. I’m taking a step back from the anger I’ve felt these past weeks and months, looking at it, trying to understand where it comes from, and figuring out a way to de-fuse it before it gets set off in the future.

Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Justify denials and grip 'em to the lonesome end.
Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Terrified of being wrong. Ultimatum prison cell.
(T00l, "The Grudge" Lateralus)

From what I can tell, most of my angry responses come from two sources: a martyr complex I inherited from my parents (both Martyrs Extraordinaire, though I don’t think either of them realizes it), and a shadow-side need to be smarter and better at things than everyone around me. The martyr complex clicks in pretty much whenever someone asks me to do something, or when I have to take on extra duties for any length of time. I’m certainly not the only person in the company busting butt on a daily basis to get stuff done, but I’d sure make you think I am. And those pesky little needs that I try to deny I have? They show up in a seriously offensive attitude of disdain that I often display when I’m asked a procedural or systems question. Combine those elements with a short temper and you’ll end up with an arrogant martyr stomping around breathing scorn through her nostrils like flames while muttering curses under her breath. Not pretty. And not very Buddhist.

What’s really a killer is that, very often, I realize how I’m behaving and I become embarrassed. To cover the embarrassment, I become even more angry, as well as resentful of whoever was witness to my initial over-reaction, and end up with one more brick in the wall between that person and me. Depending on my relationship with that person, I’m convinced that it could literally kill me to just stop and apologize for my behavior. With some people, I am able to do that. With others… I’m afraid to test it. What if the lightning strike from Heaven took out innocent bystanders around me?

And on I read
Until the day was gone
And I sat in regret
Of all the things I've done
For all that I've blessed
And all that I've wronged
(Chris Cornell, "Like A Stone" Audioslave)

As a some-time student of Yoga and Buddhism, of course I know exactly what I need to do to change these habitual reactions. I need to meditate and learn to practice compassion. But meditation’s so hard to make time for when there’s MySpace on the ‘net and first-season "CSI" episodes on cable tv. I’ve said many a time that I’m going to make the commitment. It’s like an addict saying that they’re going to quit, and actually, that’s a very apt way of putting it. A friend of mine once talked about quitting smoking. He said that he was actually afraid to quit because smoking was part of his identity. When he pictured himself, it was always with a cigarette. That’s my issue. I identify myself with my anger. Who would I be without it? Some namby-pamby, perky, Rachael Ray-clone? Ick. I’d rather burn in hell (which I may do anyway, but that’s beside the point).

Actually, I have thought about what sort of person I’d like to be without my anger and I have an image that I can comfortably identify with. It’s a person who can take a breath, recognize the anger, bear witness to it, and then choose a more appropriate response. No namby-pamby-ness to it. Just rational and balanced.


"Out of evil, much good has come to me. By keeping quiet, repressing nothing, remaining attentive, and by accepting reality— taking things as they are, and not as I wanted them to be —by doing all this, unusual knowledge has come to me, and unusual powers as well, such as I could never have imagined before. I always thought that when we accepted things they overpowered us in some way or other. This turns out not to be true at all, and it is only by accepting them that one can assume an attitude towards them. So now I intend to play the game of life, being receptive to whatever comes to me, good and bad, sun and shadow forever alternating, and in this way also accepting my own nature with its positive and negative sides. Thus everything becomes more alive to me. What a fool I was! How I tried to force everything to go according to the way I felt it ought to!"
From a letter to Jung from one of his former patients, discussing her acceptance of her shadow side. Quoted in Jung’s Map of the Soul (Murray Stein)

An article in the March 2007 issue of Shambala Sun was well-timed to assist me in this latest commitment to change through meditation practice. This particular statement from Buddhist teacher David Nichtern almost directly addresses some of my concerns:


"A revolutionary approach we can take is to see that the obstacles can actually become the stepping stones of the path. Our irritation, boredom, emotional upheavals, and wandering mind are the basis of the meditation practice itself. Without them, there is no meditation practice, just some kind of gooey, vague, and highly suspicious sense of well-being that lacks any real strength or foundation. We are just trying to pacify our mind in a superficial way, without working with ourselves as we really are— emotional, speedy, tired, anxious, spaced out, or whatever arises."

Bingo. No gooey-ness, instead strength and foundation. So far, so good. The article then goes on to discuss the specific practice of maitri, or loving-kindness. Now, I have trouble with my attempts to practice Buddhism whenever that term comes up. It’s just too gooey and namby-pamby for me. But, while "maitri means loving-kindness or unconditional friendliness… [it] is also a further step into overcoming and transforming our habitual patterns of selfishness and aggression." Dammit, they got me there. The only excuse I have left is the pull of those "CSI" episodes.

So, how to practice a maitri meditation? Beginning with the image of a loved one in your mind, direct the following wishes to that person: "May you be safe. May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be at ease." Next, extend those wishes to your self. Then, towards some person or persons to whom you feel neutral. Finally, direct those wishes towards some person or group of people that irritates you, or that you would consider an "enemy." Through this practice, one can "deliberately cultivate and direct… goodwill and positive intentions toward ourselves and others." Knowing myself, though, the computer and the tv will win out over any form of meditation.

Another method I’ve considered, a sort of shortcut, is something I remember from a television interview with Richard Gere. Gere is, of course, the most well-known "celebrity" Buddhist out there, and he’s apparently sincere. In this interview, he described a practice he uses that he described as "so simple, and at the same time, so profound." And it is. In any situation dealing with another person, whether positive or negative, merely think "I wish you peace" towards that person. When the barrista at Starbucks gets your order just right, look at him and think, "I wish you peace." When a woman with a cell phone growing from her ear cuts you off in traffic, look her way and think, "I wish you peace." I mean, really, do you (do I) honestly wish that she’d crash and her car burst into flames? No. Honestly, at that moment, you (I) really wish yourself (myself) peace, and the best way to achieve it for your (my) self is to wish it for her as well.

So, what excuses do I have left? I’ve found a self-image that’s genuine, that accepts the emotional response yet catches it and allows me to choose before I react. If the anger’s valid, then I can choose to use it as a vehicle to change whatever inspired that emotion. If it’s not valid, then I’ve found a quick’n’easy choice in the "I wish you peace" practice. And, one day, maybe I’ll even begin sitting my ass down on a cushion for some real meditation in order to more easily achieve the goal of becoming that new peace-wishing self-image. Any MySpace Friends out there want to give me some words of encouragement along the way?

On another note: Late last week, Chris Cornell announced that he’s leaving Audioslave. I was surprised, yet not surprised. Contrary to most of the reviews I’ve read of Audioslave’s albums, I felt the first album was the only one on which they gelled. The music and the lyrics on that album have a much more organic feel to them, I believe. They fit better than on the second and third albums. Most reviews seem to say the opposite, but I can think of two examples on the second album, in particular, that indicate otherwise. The song "Out of Exile", for which the second album is titled, begins with a martial, military-sounding drum riff. By the time the lyrics begin, though, it’s become a sappy, romantic love song to Chris Cornell’s new wife. How could the guys in ‘Slave think that those two elements went together? The first song on the album, "Your Time Has Come", is lyrically about various people Cornell has known who died senseless deaths while still young. In the third verse, he compares these deaths to the feeling he had seeing the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, DC, the "wall of names". While the song’s not about war, specifically, wouldn’t it have made a tad more sense to pair that military-sounding drum beat to those lyrics? That’s just one glaring example of the synchronicity that Audioslave seemed to lose between their first album and the last two. So, as much as I loved Audioslave, I can’t say I’m disappointed. And I can’t wait to see what Tom, Tim and Brad do next, whether it means reuniting with their old Rage Against the Machine pal, Zack de la Rocha, or not. They’re talented guys who craft some killer tunes.

As for Cornell, I really think that anyone he works with is gonna have to realize that they’re taking a back seat to Chris. Even if Chris himself tries to believe that he’s working as part of a greater whole, any musicians he collaborates with are going to end up being nothing but a vehicle for his talent and drive. While I haven’t been 100% thrilled with everything he’s done on the last two ‘Slave albums (Too many sappy love songs to the new wife. There’s one song in particular that wins the title of "First Chris Cornell Song I Just Won’t Listen To"), I’m still eager to hear his upcoming second solo album. The man’s been through so many transitions in his life that have been reflected in his music, it’s been fascinating to follow along and hear how he’s grown and evolved. At this point, I may not love everything he does, but the fascination’s still there, as well as the anticipation that at least some of his words will still move me.


Forget how soon
You become a fool for words when I speak
(Chris Cornell, "Flutter Girl" Euphoria Morning)