Couldn’t properly breathe, had no drive. Days on end, stretched on my cot, smoking cigarette after cigarette, piling ashtrays with butts, the room dense with smoke. Thought I must be depressed. In the meetings, heard some speak of the onset of vicious blues. Asked them what they thought. Go on meds, they said, or jog or stop to smell the flowers. Yet another told me to get in touch with my Inner Child, listen to John Bradshaw tapes. I even invited my good old Columbia University bud the poet John Lane, now moved to Berkeley with his wife Kevi, to sit witness as I watched a Bradshaw video and bawled “cleansing tears” of Inner Childishness. Appalled, not knowing what to say or do, he sat there as I sobbed and gagged about God knows what. When I reported back to the Bradshaw enthusiast that nothing had changed, she suggested I fondle cheap Walgreens baby toys to satisfy my Inner Child. “Buy yourself a rattler and shake it,” this person said, smiling with New Age luminescence. I did.
What do You think about Drunken Angel (9781936740062) (2011)?
