This is a small section of an ongoing memoir. A fragment which unfolds during the volcanic upheavals of the 60s, an unparalled time seen in this case through the eyes of a young man who arrives in the Big Apple mid-decade, filled with visions of art stardom and who, in the process of several years (or were they centuries?), not only misses the brass ring but witnesses the magic of the carnival slowly turn into a nightmare.
Whether driving a cab through the haunted neon streets of Manhattan by night, painting in my studio, or out mixing with the colorful denizens of the Lower East Side in the heat of the day, I believe this conveys at least a small sense of what it was like to be swept away in a dizzying swirl of colors toward a whirlpool which would lead – if only I had known at the time – to the very gates of hell. Fortunately enough for me, though, it would also lead to the gates of heaven.
By the grace of God and the kindness of a circle of strong, loving and honest friends, I would ultimately survive those days in the wilderness; but that part of the story remains to be told. Though much of that work is now done, I revisit those days with care, since retelling necessarily requires reliving. I proceed with faith and patience, as I now fully understand how fragile (and yet how elastic) the human psyche truly is.
- Mick Brady, March 29, 2008
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