An experiment in not editing—much anyway

I’ve been thinking about posting more and editing less because it’s making me crazy that I can’t stop editing. Even after I post something, I continue editing for days. So, here goes.

It’s a good day to live in Eugene (the photo is one that I took of some area scenery). The six months of drizzle are at an end, and the drought hasn’t arrived. It’s our second 80-degree day (27 C), 80 being 15 degrees above my ideal, but still pleasant enough.

I did yard work yesterday and suffered a lot for it last night. In fact, I’m such a wreck today that I’m avoiding unnecessary chores. I had intended to at least march in a pro-marijuana parade, but my knees were hurting too bad. I did bike to the library and got some books about war (I just finished—and can recommend—American Sniper, The Autobiography of the Most Lethal Sniper in U.S. Military History). I also bought some eucalyptus incense—which I’m now enjoying—and biked around the downtown area looking at the freaks. I like freaks—if they’re pleasant freaks. I also enjoy homeless men. Years ago, I considered them disgusting, so one day I passed a panhandler without speaking to him although he said something to me. He got up and followed me, demanding in a loud voice that I at least show him the respect of acknowledging his existence. I walked on in silence. I now shed tears when I remember that man. I could have done good, and I chose evil.

My right shoulder is hurting me a lot today, but I do my damnedest to avoid drugs in the daytime with the exception of marijuana, and I’m already so strung-out from the drugs that I took last night that I don’t dare use that. I literally feel like I’m losing my mind, and marijuana could make it worse. I’m also so tired that I'm sick, and marijuana could make that worse too. Then again, it could make me hyper. It's not a predictable drug, at least in my case.

Kurt and Jackie are coming for supper. Their cat was killed the day before yesterday, and although we rarely see them more than a few times a year, I thought it good to invite them to supper for the second week in a row. They accepted with an enthusiasm that made me sad for them.

I have two other recommendations for you. The first is an interview entitled A Portrait of Maurice Sendak. It's the heaviest thing I've ever seen on film, yet it's only 39 minutes long. He died a few days after I watched it, and I've seen it a few more times since then. My last recommendation is Memoirs of an Addicted Brain: a Neuroscientist Examines His Former Life on Drugs. The author reminded me a friend from 30 years ago named Larry. One day Larry and were smoking pot with another man when the other man handed Larry a handful of pills and asked if Larry knew what any of them were. Larry had no idea, but he swallowed them down without even asking. After that, I thought of him as a starving dog.


So, I took a hit, and I'm happy to report that I feel a little better. The pain is still with me, but it doesn't hurt like it did.

How did the CFI meeting go?

Good, I guess. Since no one would help facilitate, I spent hours creating a program all by myself, but the three people who previewed it thought it was too structured. I edited it down from two hours to a fifteen minute introduction, and left the rest of the meeting open for an unmoderated discussion. As soon as I finished my part, people exploded into a verbosity that made my presence pretty much redundant, and that was fine with me because, by then, I was a bit drunk. I had thought that my glass held three ounces of vodka, but it actually held four and a half—as I later realized while trying to determine why I had been so affected by so little—which meant that I was sufficiently wasted by the time I finished my introduction that I was afraid to open my mouth for fear of slurring my speech. After two years of narcotics and sleeping pills, I am sorry to report that I can no longer hold my liquor.

When everyone departed, they said they had a great time, and I had to take their word for it because I was pretty clueless myself. God at the food they left! I asked them to bring snacks, and, predictably, some brought nothing and others brought enough for five people, so there was a substantial net gain to me that consisted of sundry hors d'oeuvres, two partial bottles of wine, one full bottle of wine, three six packs of beer, three bottles of hard cider, and two liters of soft drinks (I’ll save the unopened liquor for our next meeting).

As the meeting closed, I said that I could do the Internet announcements; I could be the welcoming committee; I could do the writing; I could support people who wanted to sponsor an event; and I could host events; but everything else was best left to someone else. No one complained, so that’s where we left it. Two days later, someone offered to sponsor a book group, and we have another general meeting scheduled, so the group gives every appearance of really taking off despite our recent loss of the two people who started the Eugene chapter.

It’s both funny and sad that no matter how hard I worked to support any group that I was ever in, I always felt like an outsider. Now that I’m older than most of the people in this group, at least, I feel that way even more.