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In den letzten Wochen wollte ich viel über Wut schreiben. In einem meiner wenigen Bücher auf meiner Reise habe ich einen Zettel als Lesezeichen gefunden mit einem Text den mein Sohn mit 11 Jahren geschrieben hat, oder ich ihn gebeten habe zu schreiben nachdem er mit seinem Bruder ein herzzerreißendes geschwisterliches Wutgefecht ausgetragen hat.
„Hass, dieser Hass den man empfindet ist eine Zusammenstzung aus Wut und Traurigkeit. Die Wut wird meist aus Provokation hervorgerufen. Doch Traurigkeit wird durch die eigene Wut beschwört. Im Endeffekt fühlt man sich einfach nur schlecht, denn Hass macht nicht glücklich.“
Ja
Gestern habe ich wieder gemerkt, wie wunderbar Wut ist und wie wichtig. Wut ist so mächtig, so dumm sie hinunter zu drücken. Wie viel Kraft in deiner Wut steckt und wie viel Energie es brauchen muss, um sie zurückzuhalten.
- It might be nice to disappear
To have a vanishing act
To always be looking forward
Never look over your back -
Lou Reed
Freunde dich mit deiner Wut an, sei froh, dass du in der Lage bist wütend zu sein, lebe mit ihr, benutze sie, sei sie.
crazy in my head
exactly what i chose
wasted time!
wasted time?
my empty rooms
my fantasy all is asleep
there for me
just one life
no
not pale and silver fade into the day
not fleeting through time
not soon resounding
not tired and beautiful ending glitter in the sea
filling up my empty rooms
my loudness, my eagerness, my goldness
Okawi
"Just before reaching the highlands, almost desperate now for a shower and a normal meal, I met a pair of Orang Aslee (the name of the tribe), who looked like they just stepped out of a time machine. I was ahead of the others, so I was the first to see them. A man and a boy of ten or twelve, a father and son, I was sure.
They stood so still that I almost bumped into them, and my first reaction was fear. The man held a blowgun by his side, it was as long as he was tall, and I knew it was equipped with a poison tipped dart. He held it casually, upright beside him. He wore only a loin cloth. The boy was completely naked. We gaped at each other, maybe just for a minute, but it seemed much longer.
The man looked strong and confident and proud, not the kind of proud that comes from collected accomplishments, but the kind that comes from being completely at home in the world. His smile was magnificent. He seemed to revel in this unfathomable moment. There was nothing he needed to say or do. But the boy's expression and stance were even more remarkable. He regarded me with a face so open, so unclouded, that it seemed to lie outside the repertoire of the human. His eyes were a window between his body and the world outside him, uninterrupted by the opacity of Self. Not an atom of self-consciousness, not a hint of anxiety, no shyness, no attempt to please. For days I tried to understand what I'd seen in this boy, and bit by bit it came to me. He knew himself instinctively, without a self- image to change or adjust, without norms or standards without which to evaluate himself. He felt exactly what it was like to be at home in himself. And for this I envied him enormously, because no matter how hard I tried, and despite my additional years, I couldn't find myself, couldn't know myself, not like that. All I could find was a collection of evaluations.
The boy stood completely still with his father's hand on his shoulder. There was no flinching away in anxiety, no concern that he would do the wrong thing and shatter the delicate father-son détente. No contracting in shame, because the father knew him, and accepted him completely. No concern about being too strong, because there was no way he would be taken as a challenge. No fear of being too weak, because his father, his family, and his tribe were there to protect him. These were my conclusions, and maybe they were etched part way between rational conjecture, and wishful thinking. But beyond envy, the experience gave me a sense of optimism. Watching that almost man, standing on the path near his home, and reflecting later on what I had seen in his posture and his face, I was left feeling amazed and hopeful. It was possible to be wide open and unafraid in this world. At least it was possible."
In the last few weeks I have wanted to write a lot about anger. In one of my few books on my journey, I found a bookmark with a text my son wrote when he was 11, or I asked him to write after he had a heartbreaking sibling tantrum with his brother.
"Hate, that hate you feel is a compound of anger and sadness. Anger is mostly caused by provocation. But sadness is conjured up by one's own anger. The bottom line is that you just feel bad, because hate doesn't make you happy.“
Yes
Yesterday i realised again how wonderful anger is and important. Anger is so powerfull, so stupid to push her down. Imagin how much power there is in your anger and how much energy it must need to hold her back and push her down. (as she is my anger i decided to artikel her feminin) Even if you are angry about yourself you are just telling yourself that you did something thats really not good for you.
- It might be nice to disappear
To have a vanishing act
To always be looking forward
Never look over your back -
Lou Reed
Befriend you anger, be happy you are able to be angry, live with her, use her, be her.
crazy in my head
exactly what i chose
wasted time!
wasted time?
my empty rooms
my fantasy all is asleep
there for me
just one life
no
not pale and silver fade into the day
not fleeting through time
not soon resounding
not tired and beautiful ending glitter in the sea
filling up my empty rooms
my loudness, my eagerness, my goldness
Okawi
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