Robert (ASA 32) had no intent on triggering me with his post I know.
Anger is a funny thing if unprocessed, it can lead to depression. I have grown into a reactive man, I am not passive, and in fact I am aggressive even in a scary manner.
Yesterday after being triggered I went in the yard and killed Knotweed. This is a physical task and I have been winning this war of attrition with this deeply rooted invasive plant. Because of the marsh, a brook and a frog pond we decided no herbicides, and I used cut-cut-cut and pull-pull-pull to make the Knotweed expend and over time deplete its stored energy to procreate.
In the later part of August is when flowering will happen, but our Knotweed will not be able to flower because of my diligence and persistence. I am rather severely weakened myself because of Cancer treatment, but my anger was directed and focused. It served a purpose, and when I mentioned it was a Super-Power I am not kidding. It is an infinite source of energy and focus, and the key here is to do good and not evil
Anger was focused to make me work harder; Anger toughened me and made me fit and strong; Anger made me smarter and more educated; Anger helped me escape poverty… Anger in my case is truely a Super-Power.
How many angry people do you know that are alcoholics or losers? I’ve met plenty…
So yesterday I focused my anger and did an ugly physical job that needed to get done, and it was timely.
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Almost 3 decades ago I moved in with “Maggie,” we lived in a large row house in Greenpoint that had carpeted floors. There was a great danger because my startle response was a reflex to fight and attack: pure primal aggression.
Maggie quickly learned never to approach me from behind, and she would often announce herself to avoid me going into adrenaline mode.
“I’m coming into the room, please don’t kill me,” she would say.
I was in my mid to late thirties, and like a grenade that could explode at any moment.
After Greenpoint we lived in a loft nearly under the Williamsburg Bridge. The loft was open and had no carpet to muffle sound. It was a safer place for Maggie.
Our landlord was a thug, and when I told him we were moving out he made a point that there will be no problem with returning our security deposit. Evidently he had profiled me well, in fact he directly told me, “You are a scary guy.”
I use to go on long jogs with 3 pound heavy hands, and he knew that this was training for fighting.
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I want to tell a story about street justice. In Ray’s story above the police defended the perps. There is a fact that is learned that the law, police, or even Constitution will not protect you at times, and pretty much you are on your own to take a beating, or defend yourself.
My friend and Co-Worker Ray was a small black man from the Deep South who stood at 5’8”. Ray was in the Marines in the late 1950’s and don’t tell anyone but around 1962 or 1963 he was in Vietnam as a military advisor before we adledgedly were not involved in the war.
When Ray enlisted the Marines just prior had size restrictions that had been just recently rescinded. In boot camp he was the smallest Marine and he was given to job of being the heavy machine gunner.
In boot camp Ray had a problem with this white guy who was a super sized man. Ray had a big mouth, and he used it to defend himself. The big Marine threatened Ray and told him, “Just wait untill I catch you off base.”
So that day happened. Ray sat in a booth with a woman, and the big Marine came in and announced, “Enjoy your last meal, I’ll be waiting outside.”
After the monster left he asked the woman he was with to ask for the pepper shaker from the next booth.
Ray took the one shaker and emptied it into one pocket, and the other pepper shaker was emptied into the other front pocket.
He directed the woman to stand behind him when they left, and to stay behind him.
Upon leaving, the door behind him Ray stood on the landing. Point here is he stood on the high ground. This is a military tactic because it takes three times the amount of men to take a hill.
Ray stood there with his hands in his front pockets, when the big Marine got closer Ray pulled out his fists, but he stood on the landing holding his ground, and at the perfect time he threw the pepper into the attacker’s eyes effectively blinding him.
Ray started to give this bully a beating, but this man had bullied others, and before you know it others from the base joined in for the free beating of a racist.
Ray told me that this bully never made it back into boot camp. He likely was unfit for duty.
Another story is another different bully put Ray into a bear hug and was squeezing him like a pimple. Ray was ready to pop, His arms were immobilized by the hug, but Ray was able to grab the attacker’s bottom rib and he pulled until he snapped the guy’s rib.
“He stabbed me,” the attacker yelled out.
Anyways the moral here is you do what you have to do.
In a gang attack I know to use deadly force. I suggest for self defense one should learn target zones and where the kidneys and liver are located. Learn deadly moves.
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Last week I was drawn to online videos about air combat. Pretty much I was exhausted from side effects, and if I tried to practice guitar I would nod off. Since I need to keep a schedule guitar was no good.
My area of concentration was WWII. I dug into the planes, the missions, the battles and the tactics.
The Japanese Zero was a very lightweight plane that was very agile and maneuverable. In a head to head dog fight early in the war it was unbeatable.
American planes initially had armor, but were poor climbers and were not good in handling. One of the things that the Americans learned was not to dogfight a Zero one on one. A tactic used by Americans was a two plane weave where the Zero had to pick one plane to attack, then the second American plane would be the aggressor.
Until superior planes were developed, Americans had to rely on courage, balls, and tactics.
Also there were many-many remarkable stories of against the odds bravery. True heroism…
I did not understand why I was so obsessed with dogfighting. Pretty akin to street fighting because fights are brief with one winner and one loser.
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So yesterday while killing Knotweed I wondered how to make sense of all this oppression, hardship and violence…
Then I remember the breakfast last year in Brattleboro Vermont in an Inn with one of Paul Newman’s and Joanne Woodworth’s daughters and Moon Unit Zappa. This was at the Brattleboro Book Festival.
Somehow “Maggie” mentioned my MFA in Creative Writing, and that opened up a can of worms. I spoke of how 911 triggered me and how unresolved grief compelled me to process what happened to me as a result of a decade in Foster Care.
Somehow in conversation I framed my trauma that involved child abuse as having made me more alive and more human with a greater capacity for understanding. Point is I did not loose my humanity.
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I admire what Phil did greatly. He did not loose his humanity, he remained human.
What scares me is I know I can very easily become an animal and loose my humanity. It is easy for me to justify killing. This is what scares me. I have the reflex to kill and maime.
Cal
