BROWDERBOOKS
Work on the new book creeps along with renewed problems, because of continued frustrations with the new Mac. I was tempted to suspend this blog until further notice, then decided I could manage to do the post below instead. But I may yet have to suspend it, until the worst problems are resolved.
"Don't know what'll come tomorry and don't care one God damn, sir." -- Union soldiers, 1864.
For a clue as to why this so bothers me, see my poem "Neatnik," published online in Blue Lake Review, December 2019.
Thank God for Hate
My endless ordeal adjusting to a new computer has made me think a lot about hate, the kinds of hate, and what it can do to you. As followers of this blog well know, for many reasons I once loved Apple, Inc., but now, with the installation of my new iMac, I have come to hate it. I have succeeded in transferring files from the old iMac to the new one, but the files are frozen, pending my buying Microsoft Word and installing it in the new iMac. This I’ve never had to do before, but I’ve tried repeatedly, and Microsoft has always refused the payment, though no one knows why. Then, with help, I managed to purchase it, but my files are frozen, until I purchase Word, which I have already done. The latest twist: I must uninstall Word and then reinstall it. All this has worn me out. Result: I hate both Apple and Microsoft.
We use the word “hate” rather loosely. I admit to saying, and quite often, “I hate liver” or “I hate pop-up ads,” but this isn’t real hate, just a strong dislike. For me, real hate is visceral, goes deep. It isn’t the feeling of a moment; it lasts. It may subside for a while, but it is still there, waiting for a chance to resurface. And it hardens you, blunts your better feelings, even kills them. So there you have it. Real hate is
- Visceral
- Perennial
- Destructive
Does my antipathy to Apple and Word go this far? Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see.
Have I ever felt real hate? In my childhood I hated bullies, for I was a bookworm who wore glasses, an easy mark for some aggressive kid eager to play tough and show his manhood. But this never achieved the level of true hate.
There was one teacher, Miss Kiess, whom I feared and came to hate. She was my seventh- and eighth-grade music teacher, a hard little gray-haired woman with a wry, often ironic sense of humor, who delighted in humiliating the weaker kids — the ones deficient in musical ability — in front of the whole class. I feared her, therefore came to hate her. Which shows how hate develops. What we fear, we come to hate. But my hate of her had limits; I didn’t wish her physical harm, I just wanted to be free of her, and finally, after two horrid years, I escaped. My hate of her wasn’t visceral, perennial, or destructive; it didn’t warp my psyche.
Have I ever seen real hate? Once, years ago, while dining in a student restaurant in Lyon, France, I heard a great crash at another table. Everyone, myself included, rushed over to see what was happening. There, confronting one another amid a clutter of smashed dishes, were two male students. One had a look of rage such as I have never seen since; it warped his reddened features. The other, distraught, kept yelling, “Il ne comprend pas la plaisanterie!” (“He doesn't understand a joke!”). An older restaurant employee, a burly male, separated the two, and order was restored, but I have never forgotten the look of rage on that one student’s face. He was on the verge of violence. But was that hate?Visceral and destructive it was, but maybe not perennial. Maybe just the hate of the moment, in which case, by my definition, it isn’t true hate.
Though not usually given to outbursts of rage toward others, as opposed to rage toward God, nature, gravity, destiny, Karma, and myself, I have occasionally felt a surge of anger. Once, when talking on the phone to a male insurance rep about some complicated matter, in exasperation I muttered to myself, “Jesus Christ…!” (I get very religious when angry). The rep immediately announced, “Profanity is not necessary.” His comment enraged me. To my regret, gentility prevailed, for I didn’t shout at him the thought that surged in my mind: “Sir, that remark was not intended for your ears, but since you choose to comment, I will tell you that, if I want to use that kind of language, I fucking well will!” Later, I was surprised by the intensity of my anger. So we are all capable of rage.
Though not usually given to outbursts of rage toward others, as opposed to rage toward God, nature, gravity, destiny, Karma, and myself, I have occasionally felt a surge of anger. Once, when talking on the phone to a male insurance rep about some complicated matter, in exasperation I muttered to myself, “Jesus Christ…!” (I get very religious when angry). The rep immediately announced, “Profanity is not necessary.” His comment enraged me. To my regret, gentility prevailed, for I didn’t shout at him the thought that surged in my mind: “Sir, that remark was not intended for your ears, but since you choose to comment, I will tell you that, if I want to use that kind of language, I fucking well will!” Later, I was surprised by the intensity of my anger. So we are all capable of rage.
But rage is not hate, unless it expresses some deep, persistent feeling. So my righteously proclaimed hate of Apple and Microsoft, though provoked by constant frustration and resentment, is really a momentary outburst of rage. I can’t imagine it lasting forever, nor would I want it to. With ample cause, I’m ventilating, expressing my frustration at the endless complexities of adjusting to a new computer, despite the well-meant attempts of many to help.
* * * * * *
The text above is the post I originally intended to publish. But since writing it, I have experienced more troubles with the new Mac, which I have christened the Shitbox. In this post I wanted to include several amusing photos of myself, some showing me smiling goofily and endearingly at my old Mac, while in others I threaten the new Mac with a hammer. The post would have humor, and a light tone at the end. But after further frustrations, being totally unable to insert the photos properly and caption them, I have rejected that conclusion as too feel-goody, too optimistic, too bland, too naive. My anger won’t permit it.
Now I feel my moments of rage hardening into a steady, settled resentment that indeed approximates hate. Not that I’m going to start smashing computers or picketing an Apple store — not my style at all. Instead, I can imagine a quiet, passive, but enduring hate, rekindled at intervals by the memory of previous woes, or worse still, by a repeat of them. Hate doesn’t have to rage and bluster. It can sleep in you and be wakened — perhaps to your astonishment — at intervals. It may warp and harden you, but you can learn to welcome the warp and the hardness, to respect them, even love them. Hate has energy; it makes you feel more alive. It can become an essential part of you, a cherished part, even the core of your being. It can tell you who you are, and in doing so, give you intense satisfaction. So thank God for hate: it gives us energy and joy.
No comments:
Post a Comment