I spent much of today at work either reading, or typing the introduction to, Quiting the Nairobi Trio by Jim Knipfel. You might think this is some obscure avant-jazz bio; mmmmmmno... what it is is something I stumbled across in the library bios a few days ago. I began browsing the author intro for some reason (perhaps the blue-tinted cigar-smoking apeman on the book cover), and got hooked.
As I said, at home I'd been reading the Zappa book, but finally got into this one today, and it's been rewarding so far.
So for your pleasure (well, the pleasure of those who read long Journals, anyway), here's the preface (with some non-Knipfel-included visuals added by yours truly [read below for the details on where I found 'em]):
Theres a song Gene Wilder sings in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory that says, in part, If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it. As the esteemed candy magnate, Wilder goes on to sing, There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination. Living there, youll be free, if you truly wish to be.
Fact of the matter is, it wasnt until I was in my twenties, and saw the movie for the eighth or ninth time, that it struck me that Willy Wonka was condoning, even encouraging, schizophrenia as a viable lifestyle option. And while very few of the schizophrenics Ive come to know over the years have chosen to populate their new worlds with candy-laden trees and chocolate rivers, a few have, indeed, been tormented by stern, finger-wagging orange midgets.
Most people get creepy and nervous when I offhandedly mention that Ive spent a good amount of time in the bughouse. I can understand that. Its not their fault. Its a topic most normals dont care to face- especially since nearly everything they know about mental institutions comes from movies, television, and the occasional book about the subject. One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest, Titicut Follies, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, and The Cramps Live at the Napa Sate Mental Hospital are all remarkable bits of work, and for the most part, they were also reasonably accurate portrayals for their times- of the cruel warehousing and abuse to which the mentally ill have been subjected.
One thing these documents rarely admit, however, is that there are a few folks who (maybe just because theyre insane) honestly enjoy being where they are, and would never want to leave. I have run into more than a few such individuals, in fact, through my travels in and out of these places. And I, for one, enjoyed my time on a locked ward in Minneapolis.
I wasnt exploding with joy each minute of every day I spent there. That would be nuts, and Id probably still be there today if that had been the case. There were elements of horror and menace- though of quite a different nature from what you run into on a daily basis living in New York, as I do. There was also devastating boredom to contend with- which, for me, was much worse than the horror and menace. But the food was okay and my bed was comfortable.
In the late 1980s, when these particular events took place, mental institutions had changed a great deal since the days of the hellholes were used to hearing about. They were cleaner, for one thing, and more was known about the nature and causes of mental illness. Advancement in psychotropic drugs and other treatments had, to a great extent, done away with straightjackets and shock treatment. Not completely, but almost.
According to The Center for Mental Health Services, an estimated 41 million Americans will suffer some sort of mental disorder in their lifetime. Of those, 5.5 million will suffer a form of extreme psychological trauma, such as schizophrenia, autism, or immobilizing depression- something severe enough to require medical treatment.
Statistics for the number of people actually put away for a while are hard to come by, given the vast range of hospitals, institutions, independent treatment centers,, and halfway houses scattered across the country. Then there are the people with serious mental problems who go untreated- the estimated 600,000 nuts around the nations homeless population, and the quarter-million figured to be house in our prisons, to name a few. I have no social comment to make here. My only point is that there are a hell of a lot of us out there.
Im often asked if my stays in various psych wards changed me at all. Im of two minds (so to speak) when it comes to answering the question. Yes, it changed me. The analogies between prisons and psych wards are undeniable. Its impossible to go through an extended incarceration, isolated from the rest of the real world, separated from the people you care about and can talk to in a normal fashion, without being affected. A person cannot be surrounded by men and women who are considered unfit for general society and not be changed in some fundamental way.
At the same time, though, on an individual level, if the implied question is, Did it help you? or Did it cure you? then the answer is- Pah!
I was locked away in that ward in Minneapolis because I was a self-destructive young man. Months later, I left the ward a self-destructive young man. All these years later, Im older, grumpier, too tired- and to be honest, too curious about the things going on around me- to be bothered with the effort of trying to take my own life anymore.
I do, however, continue to find myself in situations that might raise the eyebrows of the well-adjusted.
Parts of this book recount a series of events, as I perceived them, that followed an intentional drug overdose. In those sections (theyre pretty obvious), I was not writing science fiction, nor was I trying to be surreal, postmodern, or even silly-assed. I was not trying to pull a Burroughs or a Castaneda or a Cendrars, and I didnt drop acid before I started typing.
From my perspective, these events are as real to me as lunch. They may have been simple hallucinations. They may represent what my doctors later called a psychotic break (If you want to view paradise, simply look around a view it). Or, as I believed for some time afterward, I may have died after that overdose and gone to Hell for a few days. My doctor in the ICU did hint that he had lost me temporarily.
To put it in a slightly different way: Ive had dreams and Ive had hallucinations, but theyve always faded in time. The events of those three particular days are lodged in my mind with a tenacity and clarity unattributable to any simple unconscious reaction in the brains chemistry. I can remember the details of those days, which exist somewhere in the usually murky zone of memory, better than I can remember what I did yesterday.
And because of the nature of what I experienced, well, lets just say its the kind of thing that sticks with you.
For the record, I have included excerpts from the preliminary and official reports of my check-in examinations, one by an intern and one by the emergency room physician. The examinations were conducted while I was in the midst of my frolics. The reports reveal certain contradictions in my own account, as well as a few things I was not aware of before obtaining these reports, almost fifteen years after the stated events.
One of the things they reveal that I never knew was that I had been diagnosed as having mixed-personality disorder. No medical professional had ever told me that to my face. In technical terms, a personality disorder is, by definition, an enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior which persists over several years and deviates markedly from the expectations of ones home culture. There are several distinct categories- antisocial personality, dependent personality, paranoid, schizoid, schizotypal. Labeling me as suffering a mixed-personality disorder meant that I didnt fit neatly into any one of these categories- or fit in neatly much of anywhere else, either. I was comforted to hear that.
Old habits are hard to break if you want to go to the bother of breaking them. In my case, the habits and impulses that landed me in the hospital in the first place have mostly subsided over the ensuing years. Ive had better things to do. To some, this might be called growing up. I prefer moving on. Be all that as it may, I still stand by my account. I did trail Satan around for a bit, and I did perform Tristan und Isolde all by myself. Point being, I guess, to pass along a warning that things get pretty fucking weird.
But dont they always?
JMK
Brooklyn, 2000
-- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- ---
Cheech here again... yeah, so more weird coincidences. I typed this intro out and saved it, then at lunch I went to Barnes & Noble and what do I see in the discount area but- Pure Imagination by Mel Stuart! A book I'd wanted for months, normally $30, it was $5... and then there was a (*deep-down groin shiver*).... mmmph... Sophia Loren coffee-table book there, that B&N had published themselves, chock full of pics I wanted to... (ahem) look at... for 8 lousy bucks! And I looked at the book's filmography-index, and guess who shot the TV biopic in which Sophia did her own life story? Mel Stuart!
As I said, at home I'd been reading the Zappa book, but finally got into this one today, and it's been rewarding so far.
So for your pleasure (well, the pleasure of those who read long Journals, anyway), here's the preface (with some non-Knipfel-included visuals added by yours truly [read below for the details on where I found 'em]):
Theres a song Gene Wilder sings in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory that says, in part, If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it. As the esteemed candy magnate, Wilder goes on to sing, There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination. Living there, youll be free, if you truly wish to be.
Fact of the matter is, it wasnt until I was in my twenties, and saw the movie for the eighth or ninth time, that it struck me that Willy Wonka was condoning, even encouraging, schizophrenia as a viable lifestyle option. And while very few of the schizophrenics Ive come to know over the years have chosen to populate their new worlds with candy-laden trees and chocolate rivers, a few have, indeed, been tormented by stern, finger-wagging orange midgets.
Most people get creepy and nervous when I offhandedly mention that Ive spent a good amount of time in the bughouse. I can understand that. Its not their fault. Its a topic most normals dont care to face- especially since nearly everything they know about mental institutions comes from movies, television, and the occasional book about the subject. One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest, Titicut Follies, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, and The Cramps Live at the Napa Sate Mental Hospital are all remarkable bits of work, and for the most part, they were also reasonably accurate portrayals for their times- of the cruel warehousing and abuse to which the mentally ill have been subjected.
One thing these documents rarely admit, however, is that there are a few folks who (maybe just because theyre insane) honestly enjoy being where they are, and would never want to leave. I have run into more than a few such individuals, in fact, through my travels in and out of these places. And I, for one, enjoyed my time on a locked ward in Minneapolis.
I wasnt exploding with joy each minute of every day I spent there. That would be nuts, and Id probably still be there today if that had been the case. There were elements of horror and menace- though of quite a different nature from what you run into on a daily basis living in New York, as I do. There was also devastating boredom to contend with- which, for me, was much worse than the horror and menace. But the food was okay and my bed was comfortable.
In the late 1980s, when these particular events took place, mental institutions had changed a great deal since the days of the hellholes were used to hearing about. They were cleaner, for one thing, and more was known about the nature and causes of mental illness. Advancement in psychotropic drugs and other treatments had, to a great extent, done away with straightjackets and shock treatment. Not completely, but almost.
According to The Center for Mental Health Services, an estimated 41 million Americans will suffer some sort of mental disorder in their lifetime. Of those, 5.5 million will suffer a form of extreme psychological trauma, such as schizophrenia, autism, or immobilizing depression- something severe enough to require medical treatment.
Statistics for the number of people actually put away for a while are hard to come by, given the vast range of hospitals, institutions, independent treatment centers,, and halfway houses scattered across the country. Then there are the people with serious mental problems who go untreated- the estimated 600,000 nuts around the nations homeless population, and the quarter-million figured to be house in our prisons, to name a few. I have no social comment to make here. My only point is that there are a hell of a lot of us out there.
Im often asked if my stays in various psych wards changed me at all. Im of two minds (so to speak) when it comes to answering the question. Yes, it changed me. The analogies between prisons and psych wards are undeniable. Its impossible to go through an extended incarceration, isolated from the rest of the real world, separated from the people you care about and can talk to in a normal fashion, without being affected. A person cannot be surrounded by men and women who are considered unfit for general society and not be changed in some fundamental way.
At the same time, though, on an individual level, if the implied question is, Did it help you? or Did it cure you? then the answer is- Pah!
I was locked away in that ward in Minneapolis because I was a self-destructive young man. Months later, I left the ward a self-destructive young man. All these years later, Im older, grumpier, too tired- and to be honest, too curious about the things going on around me- to be bothered with the effort of trying to take my own life anymore.
I do, however, continue to find myself in situations that might raise the eyebrows of the well-adjusted.
Parts of this book recount a series of events, as I perceived them, that followed an intentional drug overdose. In those sections (theyre pretty obvious), I was not writing science fiction, nor was I trying to be surreal, postmodern, or even silly-assed. I was not trying to pull a Burroughs or a Castaneda or a Cendrars, and I didnt drop acid before I started typing.
From my perspective, these events are as real to me as lunch. They may have been simple hallucinations. They may represent what my doctors later called a psychotic break (If you want to view paradise, simply look around a view it). Or, as I believed for some time afterward, I may have died after that overdose and gone to Hell for a few days. My doctor in the ICU did hint that he had lost me temporarily.
To put it in a slightly different way: Ive had dreams and Ive had hallucinations, but theyve always faded in time. The events of those three particular days are lodged in my mind with a tenacity and clarity unattributable to any simple unconscious reaction in the brains chemistry. I can remember the details of those days, which exist somewhere in the usually murky zone of memory, better than I can remember what I did yesterday.
And because of the nature of what I experienced, well, lets just say its the kind of thing that sticks with you.
For the record, I have included excerpts from the preliminary and official reports of my check-in examinations, one by an intern and one by the emergency room physician. The examinations were conducted while I was in the midst of my frolics. The reports reveal certain contradictions in my own account, as well as a few things I was not aware of before obtaining these reports, almost fifteen years after the stated events.
One of the things they reveal that I never knew was that I had been diagnosed as having mixed-personality disorder. No medical professional had ever told me that to my face. In technical terms, a personality disorder is, by definition, an enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior which persists over several years and deviates markedly from the expectations of ones home culture. There are several distinct categories- antisocial personality, dependent personality, paranoid, schizoid, schizotypal. Labeling me as suffering a mixed-personality disorder meant that I didnt fit neatly into any one of these categories- or fit in neatly much of anywhere else, either. I was comforted to hear that.
Old habits are hard to break if you want to go to the bother of breaking them. In my case, the habits and impulses that landed me in the hospital in the first place have mostly subsided over the ensuing years. Ive had better things to do. To some, this might be called growing up. I prefer moving on. Be all that as it may, I still stand by my account. I did trail Satan around for a bit, and I did perform Tristan und Isolde all by myself. Point being, I guess, to pass along a warning that things get pretty fucking weird.
But dont they always?
JMK
Brooklyn, 2000
-- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- ---
Cheech here again... yeah, so more weird coincidences. I typed this intro out and saved it, then at lunch I went to Barnes & Noble and what do I see in the discount area but- Pure Imagination by Mel Stuart! A book I'd wanted for months, normally $30, it was $5... and then there was a (*deep-down groin shiver*).... mmmph... Sophia Loren coffee-table book there, that B&N had published themselves, chock full of pics I wanted to... (ahem) look at... for 8 lousy bucks! And I looked at the book's filmography-index, and guess who shot the TV biopic in which Sophia did her own life story? Mel Stuart!
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Yep, I'm out of the coke biz, so no Key West party hook-up for you.