June 26, 2001

Good ol' Fred had this theory on German art and culture, but I think it's a good metaphor for anyone. He believed there were two forces for creativity, the Apollian and the Dionysian.

Apollo, the sun god, was also the god of art and music. He defined beauty in art and intellectual satisfaction. Finished art reflected the Apollian side of creativity. THe mind gave form to the formless, meaning to the meaningless.

Dionysus, the god of wine, was also the god of madness. He was passion, raw and insane. Pure emotion reflected the Dionysian side of creativity. The heart spontaneously creates the formless idea, the meaningless morass of thought.

The problem is that you need both sides of the coin. Apollian art has no energy. It's intellectualism at its worst, sitting on its ass, commenting on the old, but going nowhere.

Dionysian art has no sense. It's pure chaos and insanity. Raw passion unchecked is just throwing temper tantrums, and screaming at the walls of the rubber room.

You're supposed to take the powerful Dionysian energy and channel it through your Apollian intellect, forming art.

...

I like this theory because I use it to explain my bad temper. I try to convince myself that it's just the heart getting loose, it's nothing to be ashamed about. But that never works, really.

It's not my temper I have a problem with, it's what I do with it. When I was 17, I challenged my dad to a fight. I was 5'2" or something and was 110 lbs. My dad was only a little taller, but weighed 250 lbs. with arms thicker than my neck. As I stood there, mad as hell, arms raised in a silly boxing pose, the rational part of me thought, "You're an idiot. He could snap me in fours and use my bones as toothpicks. And dad also has a temper, so you're going to die." I never thanked my father for having more restraint that day than I did.

When I was 12, I grabbed my desk and flipped it over. My milk cartoon flew across the room and drenched this poor kid walking by with cold, sticky milk. I remember him just standing there, dripping. He made no move to clean himself up, since he wasn't expecting flying milk that day. I spent the rest of the day sitting in the principal's office, answering stupid questions, like "Why did you flip your desk?" "Why were you mad?" "Why didn't you resolve it peacefully?"

When I was 14, I threw a softball bat behind me, missing the catcher, and jumped-kicked the shortstop for talking shit. My foot touched his shoulder and then I fell off.

Friedrich Nietzsche liked struggle. He thought conflict made us human and great conflict created great humans. In other words, it builds character. And does hitting my head against the wall build character, or kill brain cells?

In reality, I need a ton of therapy and medication. But sometimes I intellectualize my temper, because then it feels like there is a reason and purpose whenever I lose it, instead of knowing I'm just being an idiot and a spaz.