And precipitation is expected

My brother surprised me one time by raising a toast in my honor. I can't remember how he said it or what in fact he did say. I can't even recall the place or the occasion or the people around us. I do remember there was family and some kind of special occasion, perhaps a holiday altogether forgettable like the Chinese New Year or Easter.

He looked me in the eye, head half turned and bent with a mischievous spark and announced something like, I hope this year you don't hold any grudges. God, maybe it was the new year, Chinese or otherwise. Regardless, I thought, Wow! what the fuck did you just say? He was already laughing to himself, oh... that was a good one Benjamin. Because the truth was there, it was said, and it was dead on.

I hadn't really thought of it that way before. Goddamn, he was right! I'd always thought of my anger and rage as something dignified and gallant in its air of chivalry. Inconsiderate? then Fuck You! from here on out! Unfair, unsaid, unwanted? Well, there's the door. I have so much to learn.

I've been listening to some talks by this woman named Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun and teacher. She talks about the Shenpa, which is human attachment or the hook in all its strength. Shenpa is the tightness we feel stemming from negative reaction to the world around us. Pema observes that the majority of a person's actions directly relate to the fear of facing the void and the devising of a complex system of distractions and lockdowns to ensure it from happening. Shenpa represents that binding fear and she instructs us to face it, feel it, and revisit it, until it loses its power or dissolves. God I sound like such a cult member already! Still, I really relate to Pema, her voice and her way of understanding and explaining. I'm not typically interested in anything resembling religion or self-help or over the top new-agey. But, there's something about this Shenpa thing that gets me...

It's still early on a Thursday night, my Friday by product of four tens, and I find myself sipping a nightcap on the couch and feeling utterly enervated from the week. I've been mulling this idea of revisiting old wounds and wondering about the thin line between healthy recapitulation and straight indulgence. I have the Fear as Hunter Thompson would call it, with every part of my body repelling the inward pull. And so I sip this drink and distract myself. I write old friends and lovers unsolicited letters of greeting and recompense.