![]() That is the truth our polite social lives bury.Īnd that’s a result of living in a decaying world. For naked to ourselves in our nightmares we can all be - if we’re not distracted or dozy with stimulants - a quivering mass of PTSD. That moment is the instant at which Owens sees that something far deeper lies beneath our rage. For our life can be worthless if it lacks the inner conflict of struggle. You’ll see the exact point of this book when the segue into pure classical Agon starts, in my Kindle notes. So I can tell you honestly that Owens’ book forced me to grab the live wire of my own howling rage during that long hiatus of all reason and decency that was the years 2016-2020.Īnd what I realized shocked me more than that electrical current did. Now, I’m no meditation adept like Lama Owens, but a four year undergraduate slog at earning an English degree, stone by heavy stone, has taught my words to play out the contents of my heart - as a concert musician might do. My neuroleptics tend to flatline all my more recent recollections anyway, which forgetfulness is to me a blessed anodyne.Īll I remember during those otherwise ugly four years is the delight of discovering Goodreads, and starting to WRITE MY HEART OUT. And some eighteen wheelers are better left uncommemorated. ![]() But until that cloudless day arrives, at an unnameable time in the future tense, I’l keep trying to SUBLIMATE my own Towering Rage. “This will have to be one review I’ll perpetually put off writing until the halcyon day arrives when I feel at last EQUAL to the task (I wrote then). I picked this one up upon getting myself off the floor and dusting myself off, two years ago - and trying vainly to recall the license plate number of the 18 wheeler that had flattened me during the violent political storms of the previous US Administration…
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