Graduation night (not quite mine)

This evening I attended one of CATS' periodic graduation ceremonies, honoring a couple dozen people who've completed the program. Each group coordinator took the podium to proudly call the name of each graduate, with a few (or more than a few) choice words of encouragement; the graduate was given a certificate of some kind, then spoke some words of thanks to the coordinator and the CATS program. There was also a lengthy but spirited speech from a woman who'd been through the program a few years ago and, not surprisingly, attributed her very existence to CATS.

As these affairs are wont to do, the ceremony went on a bit too long, especially since a buffet of lasagna and cake (supplied by CATS alumni) beckoned. And in fact I decided to forego the repast since it promised to be a loud and chaotic affair, with people I mostly didn't know. It did get me to thinking though. This was my penultimate meeting with the intensive outpatient group -- Friday will be my last day -- and I suppose I'll be asked to come back to participate in this ceremony myself soon.

Will I attend? If I do, what will I say? Do I give the entire spiel about the brain injury, the sleeping problems, Robin's funeral? I can just see the people glancing at their watches, waiting for this guy to finish so they can get at their lasagna dinners.

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POSTSCRIPT: 1-15-14
I was never invited. I am not particularly surprised since, as Pat told me upon my departure later that week, I was not exactly the model patient. I didn't attend but one AA meeting my entire time there, and was pretty skeptical of the spiritual approach toward drug and alcohol recovery she took. And, frankly, I doubt I would've attended even if I had been invited. It was a pretty dull affair, I hate speaking in public, and the lasagna didn't look that great anyway.

Papo Rapozo

The other night I had another dream, this time of an opera I was watching. The title, or the main character, or both, seems to have been "Papo Rapozo," as this phrase was sung repeatedly in the dream. To thunderous applause, mine included, although I can't recall a single thing about the dream aside from this.

I checked, and there does not exist any opera, or song title, or anything of significance, named "Papo Rapozo." Nor do I know, or ever known, anybody with either name. Dreams are funny that way, especially for me since I hardly ever have them.