conversations with a friend: on rage & being free (pt. 1)

Sometimes I feel hot, white anger erupting below my ribs, tearing through me in flashes. Sometimes it settles for longer than I want, and it blinds me. In those stretches, I want to take everything I have ever known, everything I'm expected to be, and grind it to dust. Why should I accept unfairness and the helplessness that comes with it? Why should I accept being told that this is simply how the world works? Why should I comply when someone tries to control me, to live their way, to take away my freedom? Last night, I met a friend, a local artist, for a sketch session. I'm quiet by nature, but I talk most when I'm drawing. (My art has reached a strange in-between. I sway between details and abstraction, and I'm trying to build something cohesive out of the two). At some point, I confess: Sometimes I feel this hot, white anger in bursts. All he says is, I know. I always sensed it through your art. Last year, another artist I admired gave me an assignment: Choose a word you keep…

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