Discover more from The Last Hundred Miles
August 1st, 1977
And what followed were two blindingly crazy weeks of emotions surfacing like tidal waves. Dog day dusk in Glover Park. Land of my mid-youth dreams. Window fan blowing like hurricane winds through muggy Florida Keys. Sticky interiors of mid-city summer night houses. Interior explosions keep me everywhere. I am reigning over intellectual chic Sunday afternoon brunch in New York with my lover, Harry– art director for GQ who I have fallen madly in love with. I am in my mother’s trailer. I am at my father’s funeral. I stay at the hospital as he dies. I am here. Rich inner explosions. As I keep living and wondering why I am alive. What is keeping all this going on? What is going on? Where is it going?
I realized what a lush I am. A 26 year old lush. Another Tharon. Because what else is there? Which is to say I drink like a fish. As I continue to write my story I must record the alcoholism. But of course, how romantic.
Creative people are especially vulnerable to alcoholism. They lead such an intense emotional life that the need for release of expression is intense. Narcotization prevails. Alcoholism as a method of avoiding madness.
Thinking of going to Missouri this weekend. Both dreading it and needing it. Think of my mother constantly. Worry about her methods of dealing with my father’s death. Yet knowing that my own adaptation is proceeding smoothly. She is operating with the same mechanisms I guess. I amy be wrong about that.