sturm und drang fire and ice

I have been working my ass off for about two weeks straight, with 18 hour days, night classes and grading. I had a student tell me to my face in class that he didn;t like me and I had to take it and not tell him what a sorry spoiled brat he was. I am ready for summer. I am ready to sleep in and at the same time have taken on a job three or so days a week cheffing from 6 am to noon. I need the company, the experience, and the money. And right now this blog is not helping, it doesn't format into paragraphs, so this will be one full-on vent. I like fire, I really do, even though I am challenged to make one. I have been so wrought up lately over work, over life good and bad that fire is very appealing. To that end, I have also taken to playing Leonard Cohen's music of anger and aggression very loud. I have a thin ceiling and my upstairs neighbor walks with a heavy tread. My two Russells are barkers, and I am trying ot get them civilized; they are here every other week. So last night, when I came home dragging papers, and prepared to cook 70 crepes for a self-created Senior Girl's tea there was a note telling me to "please address your dogs." Hell. double damn, I am working and I am sorry she is home all day and I do want to be a responsible neighbor, pet owner, world citizen and cure ill. But God Damn it, I was tired, and this was all I needed. I felt alone, I was pissed off that I was living in a condo where I must keep in mind neighbors and be good. I am tired of being good. I want fire, I want smoke, I want to rage, to rave, and to throw small things off my balcony. Lots of them. So, I played Leonard VERY LOUD, banged around lots of pots, slammed the cupboards and generally made a nuisance of myself. And, I called my last husband who offered to get the dogs for a night as I had to leave so early with the crepes and god forbid I have them bark. It was a great offer, and he came, they went, and I cried. I played the music louder, to the song of Bernadette and felt like an isolate saint, who sees visions no one believes. From frustration, from irritation, from lonlieness. And played music again, with company as I cooked. Back to fire, new paragraph. Fire is cleansing, and immolating, and I want to be immolated. I want the flesh off my bones of irritation, I want to step like Joan of Arc into the embrace of purity and anger. I need to get this off my chest, and I want to be surrounded with actions that destroy me, that destroy the quiet part, and release the openness and anger, and from that the creativity that has been locked up on the pyre of my good girlness. To hell with that sometime; I have always been the good wife, the good mother, none of those things I regret. I am both, and do it well. I try very hard to be good, to do right, and right now the meek do not inherit the earth, they get the goddamn condo, not the man. But, good girls don't ride harleys, get tattoes, and enjoy flesh stripping sex for the sheer creativity of it. I used to do those things as an art student, but as Thoreau said, " the greatest tragedy is what dies within a man while he lives." I have died, and Joan is right. Leonard sings about her stepping into fire's fiery embrace, and I want those wings of smoke around me. Anf if those who read this blog worry, not to, I am not suicidal, but my life is and was and needs to change, and be changed. Throw it out there, be a bad chapter in a Nora Roberts bodice buster, a good line in a song, an isolate in a sea of idiots. I am tired of being careful, I am tired. This sound and fury and sturm und drang will pass, but I still like fire. I want to melt the steel into the furnice like I did in welding. I want hot spices, rich wine, red meat, to be taken charge of with hands and authority upon me, the ability to speak my mind and not worry about my job, my relationships, my acceptability. I want it all, and in 24 hours another part of me will die until I get angry again.