Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Feels Like 52

The temperature is 51 degrees or, 3 degrees below the "low" which was forecast for the night.

I stayed in Monday (last) night, when temperatures hit a low somewhere around 35 degrees (2 Celsius) in the small hours of the morning.


Harold the cat had not been scratching at the door to go outside, as if he knew what was waiting for him out there. At the same time, he seemed to be a bit uncomfortable in the 74 degrees that I have set my thermostat to.

I used to play in front of a Kangaroo store on Baymeadows Road in Jacksonville, Florida where there was the time and temperature flashing from a bank sign across the street.

As the minutes went by and the temperature dropped, it was at some point around 38 degrees (3.3 Celsius) that I would first drop the pick, due to finger numbness.

One strange phenomenon was my ability to continue playing when I couldn't feel anything below the wrist. I was sending the signals from my brain to my fingers, telling them what to do, but getting no feedback.

Any temperature below 38 degrees became physically painful to play in. Any stoppage would allow the guitar's neck to cool down from whatever temperature the body's warmth had been able to boost it to, against the air temperature, and so the only way to play below 40 degrees is continuously.

Tonight, I could go out and manage to play, but it would probably be counter-productive in that, whatever I made on such a Tuesday night would be offset by wear on the strings and harmonica, and the coffee and chocolate and energy drink that I would buy during the course of the night.

It's a good night to stay in and draw more Christmas cards. I drew one that I am going to send to my mom last night, but won't post it here until it physically arrives there in Massachusetts, so as to not spoil any surprise, should she check this blog to ascertain that I'm still alive.

Theme For The Day

I woke up at 3:30 PM, realizing that, if I were to send the Christmas card off to my mom, I would have to get to the post office as soon as possible and then probably stand in line for close to an hour to mail it.

I would have to buy a stamped envelope, once there.

Also, I hadn't personalized it by writing anything to go with the "sentiment" that came with the card.

Pondering these things, while I made coffee and tried to decide in what order I was going to don about 7 layers of clothing, I let enough time go by that I soon blew of the idea, as I then had less than a half hour to get to the post office.

I can wake up early enough and with ambition and drive, feeling that the whole day is ahead of me. Then, at a certain time of day (when I used to invariably have my first drink) I begin to become preoccupied with my chariot turning into a pumpkin, so to speak.

There was a feature on NPR radio that played while I sipped my coffee.

It was about the increase incidence of opioid addiction in senior citizens.

"These people grew up in an era when being addicted to drugs was something evil," said the reporter, alluding to the shame that came along with the predicament that those members of the Silent Generation had found themselves in.

The person interviewed, who was a retired lawyer and pillar of society said: "all I thought about were the pills and when the next one was coming. I knew I was in trouble."

He said that he had just been following his doctor's instructions, after having surgery done on an infected ear, but afterwards feeling no alleviation of the pain.


"I'm a rule follower," he said, alluding again to the era in which he grew up in where being addicted to drugs was something evil; but following rules was good.

It had taken him a week to ultimately get over his withdrawals, and now he is crusading to warn others of how addicting Oxycontin et. al. can be.

It is another feather in the cap of he and his generation that he had been able to come to the conclusion that he was "in trouble"after he found that he had to take more and more of the stuff to get the same "relief."

A "millenial" would probably only see the problem of how to be able to afford such megadoses by finding a way to purchase them online, through a Chinese website, or something. They would be "in trouble" if they couldn't make that happen.
How am I going to get more money, for more...?

I guess this ties in with the fact that I have gone a couple days now without smoking weed.

What the Silent Generation-er had said reminded me of how I had remonstrated over having hunted David the Water Jug player down Saturday night, so that I could smoke a few puffs of weed before going out to play.

I guess I have some of the same sensibility and wherewithal to tell myself: "Really? You can't go out and play music for people unless you're stoned. Really?"

So, I'll be staying in tonight with Harold the cat, drawing perhaps one or two more Christmas cards.  I'll be waiting for it to be "much warmer than today" tomorrow, as promised by the weather website.

This will give me a few days without smoking weed, and take care of any withdrawals (that some insist are non-existent with pot) that might be lingering and, as I approach the one year anniversary of when I quit drinking, maybe I can add "ambition be gone" to the list of things that I have quit.
It doesn't seem likely, but neither did quitting the booze.

"Oh, I'm gonna drink again. I can't read Hemingway and get that sense, that I always do from him, that "the good life" naturally includes consumption of some of the best wines and ports and scotches on the planet, to go along with the best food and company; without realizing that I will drink again, it's only a matter of time..." was my belief for months after going sober.

If doctors tell me that I have 3 days to live then, yeah, I'll probably break my piggy bank* for a bottle of Chivas Regal...might even give a swig to one of the resident skeezers....

*If you're thinking "you got 3 days to live? why not just snatch up a couple bottles and run out of the store with them?" then you are probably not a member of the Silent Generation.

1 comment:

  1. The weed *does* seem to dominate your life. However before it was booze and weed and now it's just weed so that's progress.

    I agree with you, if I had 3 days to live I might get a bottle of Chivas Regal, but until I'm in that kind of a situation, fuck alcohol.

    It just seems to take vitality out of the body.

    On what temperature to stop busking, I think I decided years ago that 50 degrees was the demarcation point; at that temperature people are just not gonna give, but in reality I think it's because I was going places and playing at 9 or 10 in the morning and that's just too early. Even at a farmer's market that might go from 10 to 2, it's probably best to play from say, 11:30 to 2:30 or something.

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