CBTD

‘Johnny 23’ is dressed in old fashioned puttees, green sports coat of English cut. He has a white moustache stained with tobacco, pale blue eyes…..speaks softly….. ‘Tell me, Burroughs, have you ever tried CBTD before?’

‘Gi’ me a break….more medical bullshit.’

Maybe, but what’s it stand for?

How’s about Cogitating Batshit Therapy on Dolophine?

‘No.’

‘Central Bureau for Toxifying Delinquents?’

‘Ha! Inspired but no cigar. Here, puff on this.’ ‘Johnny 23’ leans forward and offers his old patient a huge pipe.

Burroughs is curious, ‘What’s in it?’

‘Coltsfoot soaked in marijuana.’

Dressed in a drab suit, white shirt and tie, the thin one takes the pipe with a shaky hand. His bloodless face might be smiling, it is hard to tell. He places the stem between thin lips and sucks greedily. He holds in the fumes for several seconds before exhaling.  ‘Aaaaagh! A hard man’s smoke,’ he enthuses.

‘To be enjoyed, my friend, not brandished like a fashion accessory.’

The thin one sniggers aping Dandyism. ‘Lung cancer didn’t kill either of us,’ he splutters.

His old friend looks over his half moon specs; ‘Didn’t you ditch gaspers and typewriters for knives and guns - was that for a harder look?’

Burroughs lowers his gaze. ‘Shameful, I know, but there was a cult to feed. Anyhow, we’re talking smokes. Do you know that nicotine is dopaminergic? ‘Ooooo, listen to you! Burroughs the scientist!’ I’ve matured…. but you’re being unfair. I always said you can achieve chemical change by other means.’

‘Yes, you certainly benefitted and then….?’

‘I collaborated with everyone, you were no different.’ 

‘Haha! You were certainly high maintenance.’

Did I let you down? 

Me? No, not at all. Your simpering vulnerability could be irritating to some but with me you were always polite, a stimulating guest, never broke confidences.’  ‘And you were great material.’

‘As if I didn’t know.’

‘Only had to parody your polar opposite. It ain’t hard to figure.’

‘Simplicity, Burroughs, the great guiding principle. Good for writers, and essential for doctoring.’

‘Yeah, but when did you realise that metabolism could be achieved symbolically? With words for example, through your ‘conversational environment’?’

‘Well feelings, our emotions spring from the biochemical makeup in our bodies. Change one will change the other, it is obvious.’

Yeah, I know that now, but when did you get it?

‘Hard to say. Remember we were a close medical family, but contradictory.’  ‘How do you mean?’

‘Let’s say we were simultaneously orthodox and unorthodox.’

‘Go on.’

‘My father ran a busy doctor’s practice caring for ordinary men and women and their families. All very respectable but underneath appearances were strained to breaking point because the Dent household was very much under the yoke of addiction.’

‘How exactly?’

‘Well, the senior medical partner had syphilis. He agreed with my father, the junior partner, that he’d self administer morphine until he couldn’t manage at which point my father took over. His final years were spent bedridden in the bedroom between me and my sister. My mother helped care for him and with the household swimming in morphine she was tempted to anaesthetise herself against arthritis. This was chronic so inevitably she became dependent….but, worst of all, my favourite uncle, another doctor, OD’d on it, just 42. Now, if that had got out it would’ve destroyed the practice. In addition there was the continual pressure of keeping up to date with the emerging psychological disciplines. Behaviourism was all the rage of course, Coueism was talked about Pavlov & Watson too, but we were sceptical determinists, encouraged to see for ourselves how the symbolic through visual or auditory channels could stimulate visceral reactions. The penny dropped for me one afternoon outside the hospital.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was a very hot Sunday. There was an absurd military parade, a long line of soldiers awaiting inspection. Tin trumpet patriots crammed the pavements where we, the medical staff, were ordered to mingle, to support the flag waving lunacy that gripped the nation. Now, every doctor and nurse was well aware that this farce would lead to more mutilated and shell shocked patients we were already struggling to care for. One of us, probably overcome with rage mimicked the sergeant barking out orders; ‘Present Arms!’ be bellowed. Roughly half of the soldiers obeyed. This drew an angry response from the actual officer in charge. ‘As you were,’ he countered and the regiment readjusted itself. A few minutes later our subversive spokesman filled his lungs to capacity and authoritatively bellowed; “ATTENTION!” His delivery was perfect and the entire line stood erect. The Commander exploded: ‘You ‘orrible lot, I will clap you in irons, AS YOU WERE’D’ etc. etc. Unfortunately when the archbishop of cant and hypocrisy finally arrived flanked by his puffed up sycophants the genuine order of ‘attention’ drew a ragged response. Half remained ‘at ease’ while the rest stood erect but with worried glances left and right. One hapless private dropped his rifle with a noisy clatter and the crowd laughed. It was a shambles, a Pavlovian mess.’

‘That’s a great story, I might use it.’

‘You already have.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But it demonstrated that even heavily conditioned behaviour could be overridden very quickly through spoken words….later I devised various therapies accordingly….even more effective when received in a semi-hypnotic state.’

‘Back brain stimulus.’

‘Don’t wear it out Burroughs, but while we’re on the subject this brings me to a sore point. Many of your followers, attracted to you because of their addictions, could have benefitted if you’d explained your experiences more accurately.’ ‘Agh, I knew this was coming. Look, I became a reluctant participant, Miles of bullshit, trivialised and blabbed over like any other commodity. I was a writer with ideas for Chrissake, turned into a faddist’s freak show by lush workers.’ ‘Strange this wasn’t picked up.’

‘Yeah, I write about addiction but they couldn’t see that your treatment begot its parody.’

‘The Onanists? Come again?

‘Their sin; omission rather than emission.’

Burroughs laughed. ‘And you blame me?’

‘Not entirely, but you started what they cultivated. Notoriety and celebrity are easy hooks, but in light of your life, a writer known for his addiction, a ridiculous oversight.’ 

‘Yeah, weird.’

‘Your experiences were guessed at or ignored by people who weren’t there. And that’s my point, if people had explored the sustainable nature between your writing and recovery others could have benefitted.’

‘Well, science was not used honestly, never has been.’

‘Now you’re deflecting. Face it Burroughs, you contributed to the confusion. What was your position; science, superstition or guesswork? Unless we’re consistent the unscrupulous take advantage.’

‘When have I been inconsistent?’

‘What a joke. It’d be easier to point out when you haven’t. In that essay, the one that MacLean rejected you state that psychotherapy has no place in the treatment of the addict but fail to mention that under my care you received it throughout. And then, because of the childish tendency to make illusory correlations… to be enchanted by superstition, you lay yourself open to being dismissed. This should not have happened. Naked Lunch was inspired by a profound ethos, its social value was both its legitimacy and its motivation…. yet you allowed your experience to be reduced to “apomorphine cure” when it was no such thing. Ironically you’ve become another justification for addiction remaining the preserve of drug corporations and legislative fascists…the eugenicists.’

Burroughs shrank into his grey suit and brushed some imaginary ash off his sleeve. ‘I tried.’

‘For pity’s sake Burroughs, a man who tries isn’t succeeding. You should have been clearer, instead…...’ 

‘I constantly referenced you, your methods.’

‘Oh please! That nonsense about decoupage. Why didn’t you make clear it was simply a shift from spoken word to text? You even called it ‘cut-ins’!

‘Gysin needed a leg up.’

‘And by helping him you have alienated others and pulled the ladder up after you. Did you know that Matisse used a pair of scissors as he recuperated?’

‘No.’

‘Well I bet your friend did and, just like you, Matisse got better. He achieved, as mentioned, biochemical change but no drugs. He healed himself, from within, endogenously.’

‘Because he found stimulation through his art?’

‘Yes. You could say his mind became occupied with other matters while his body adjusted and healed itself. You temporarily achieved the same, with writing.’

‘I said that.’

Yes, but how Burroughs, how? You had constant encouragement to stick to the game plan. The relationship between apomorphine and the psycho-social support has never been acknowledged….let alone researched.

‘Yeah, it seems obvious now. But I always needed help. The technical stuff, you know?’

‘You lacked guidance, so when trauma revisited, you relapsed.’

‘Yeah, well I missed you, someone I trusted. You defined every aspect of control; the over prescribing poisoners, the bureaucratic creep, all the fictitious freedoms, the myth of free will.’

‘Well, all art has origins. We wrote books our words stand witness. But Burroughs, your allegorical illustration of professional malpractice, it’s sadistic brutality, stand as the greatest indicators of what happens when people don’t question the wire pulling going on over our heads. The pity therefore is your work and reputation being increasingly marginalised by a top table of radical losers. They get it but they’re rather too fond of the idea that they’re the only ones that do. People repeat endlessly that Naked Lunch is unreadable, impossible to fathom, depraved, and so on…..yet this is said in a world where Man’s worst excesses - the very things you depicted - are on every High Street, upheld by pulpit professionals, pervade every aspect of public service, every media outlet….’

‘ Well, fuck ‘em. The moronic majority, just too stupid.’

‘No, people are controlled because they’re still told their choices are their own. In Naked Lunch you urged unity now they’re morons, how’s that going to work?’

‘Agh, dammit! I give up. You’re the glass half full type. Naively believing in the potential for benign outcomes. I’d like to know where are they?’

‘They only ever arrive from the bottom up. Rebellious and progressive men and women, cooperating in order to reform.’

‘Now who’s joking? Please, Doctor Pangloss, Just look at it now, the bestial dung heap of human depravity, what would you prescribe?’

‘Shared understanding. People want to help each other but they’re lost. Society must learn to challenge orthodoxies that fail, but legitimately, with evidence.’ ‘Bullshit. What about the mugwumps saying experts should be ignored.’

‘Yes, liars and bigots. Armed with knowledge, informed by experience, ordinary people become the experts.’

‘Aaaagh! Folk have been taking it up the arse forever, that’s not gonna change. Take your methods. The boffins will claim that apomorphine has been superseded.’

‘Well you didn’t help, did you? Anyhow they’re defensive, in denial over the sicknesses they’ve enabled to say nothing of the countless number killed.’ ‘Arseholes. They never took my enquiry seriously.’

‘Because they couldn’t take you seriously. You, William S Burroughs. The man who wrote, rather marvellously I might add, ‘If you can’t be just be arbitrary’! Elsewhere your cheerleaders lacked veracity making it easy for others to claim ‘conspiracist’. but that cute comment; “the line between art and science should be erased.” Now that I applaud. It reminded me of the run in I had with the Christian Scientists.

‘Oh yeah?’

I met a gang of them who were trying to get a terminally ill patient to change her will. I tried to appeal to them by saying I had a lot of sympathy with the notion that we need a scientific religion but, I wondered, why couldn’t it be a great deal more scientific and a lot less Christian.

‘I tried in my own way, hanged you in Naked Lunch; You were ‘23’ in Skidoo, Academy, Johnny….you’d have to be special sort of stupid to miss it.’

‘Sorrowful ramblings with superstitious overtones. Pathetic.’

‘’So I did let you down?’

Not me, you BF, your fellow sufferers. Wake up!’

‘I can’t!’

‘Why?’

‘I’m dead!’

Both ghosts burst into laughter. The thin one returned the pipe with the fist sized bowl to he with the loudest laugh.

‘And so, his whiskery face disappearing in a cloud of heavenly smoke. ‘Tell me?’ ‘Tell you what?’

‘Tell me what does CBTD stand for, exactly, mmmm?’

‘I dunno, you’re the wise guy?’

‘Congress Between The Dead.’

‘Ah, Ok! So, let’s mark our happy reunion - the old routine?’

‘The Ancient Rime?’

‘Sure…why not…maybe the religious will get it thissa time.’

‘We can dream’

‘More coltsfoot?’

‘Why Not?’