It may seem a small matter, chancing to pass the house of a neighbor the very moment he is cursing vehemently in his driveway at six in the morning, his garage door open and garage brightly lit behind him; and it may seem an equally small matter, chancing to pass the same house the following evening and to have the scene repeated, with minor variations — this time he was cursing in the garage and his wife was in the driveway, looking down. No one wants to be present at such a time; no one wants to intrude upon the momentary or prolonged unhappiness of another; no one wants to be thought of as an eavesdropper, as someone who knows more than he should. And yet it might also be said that my own privacy was invaded. It might be said that being startled by a low-flying owl is one thing, and that being caught in the shock-waves of someone’s anger is another. Or it might be said that there is no difference at all, and that whatever arises, passes through me, that what enters as anger is transformed into calm by the time its exit is made. I know anger; I remember it well, and how my own made me feel. I know what it is like to be around one or more angry people. I know what it is like to live in a world where anger passes for news.
Moss in the iris bed . . . frost on the roof . . . tea on the stove
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