Yesterday morning I gone crazy again. Fucking furious for just a very silly reason – I ruined the beef.
For the sake of not waking my wife, I cooked the beef on my skillet without light on, except the natural morning autumn light, already dissipated by the corners, and racks, and A/C outside, through the kitchen’s window. And I then checked that the beef was alright.
Not alright. It was medium, or less than medium. The lighter colour I saw in the middle of the cut in the middle of the dim lit morning, was actually red.
“I think it would be delicious. But you know my…." She said. And my craze began the crave and climbed up from the spleen to my heart. A word “fuck it" stuck always somewhere inside my bowel began to tune up its amplifier, until I burst and shouted, with all my strength, to the crescendo “FUCK IT", Twice. And I even threw out the shirt to the ground. Children grown enough to pretend it’s BAU. And my wife walked to the bathroom to tears. And I know it’s rage, culminated since I can’t tell, for reason I can’t yet. Yet.
And today I read James Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son, and I understood my feeling. Shit lake. How could you not understand. You always understand you idiot! I said to myself, and I quote, now:
“I did not want to look on him as a ruin: it was not a ruin I had hated. I imagine that one of the reasons people cling to there hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, that they will be forced to deal with pain."
And I hate to be forced to deal with anything, much more with pain. That searing pain. That I cry every time I am forced to touch it.