The Honest Courtesan

Since I wrote this column last Tuesday, I don’t actually know what mood I’ll be in when you read it.  But I can guess.  My Year of Disaster is thirty years gone, and time has mostly worked its magic; though the effects of this anniversary were still sharp ten years ago, several years of therapy and ten years of regular cannabis use have really helped me to gain a healthy emotional distance now.  But my emotions are often insidious, slippery things, which is why I often used to refer to the “snakes in my head”; though I’ve gotten much better at handling those snakes, I was presented with a new brood of them this year thanks to the passing of my dearest friend Grace.  So I anticipate a black mood Monday; my old back injury started playing up last week for no apparent reason, so I’ve been forced to remember the accident (whose 30th anniversary was in April) in particular, and that whole awful year in general.  I’m already planning to spend the day stoned and maybe have a soak in the hot tub; if the snakes are going to be restless, I’m going to do all I can to sedate them.