Anger

Well, it's pathetic I know, but I hate to be a scapegoat. Or, according to Milan Kundera, I probably love it. At least it gives me a role in the world.

I just get so angry sometimes I could . . . But of course I can't. I'm just not brave enough to do the Taxi Driver thing. So I'm listening to Pink Floyd instead. Which one's Pink?

So, how to create some Beauty out of this? (Ed.: that's exactly what an angry person would say, when they couldn't handle their anger.)

I dreamt, two days ago, that I was viewing a perfect world, from many miles above. The world was not in this universe: we couldn't get there, yet we got there - at least, we got to be a million miles above it, to see how perfect the architecture is, how gracefully everything intertwined to make almost a golden age. But we cosmonauts were so high above, looking at sheer walls a thousand metres high, with no chance to climb. The only way we could get to the perfect world was to fall, endlessly fall, to give up to the gentle wind of gravity.

Maybe tomorrow I'll look up the Latin for anger. Meanwhile, I just want to put on the White Stripes and turn the volume up to 11. (Actually, Robert Plant does quite nicely.)

In the end, the thing is to be brave enough to wear the tee-shirt of your own creation. Maybe tomorrow.