"It's an adolescent representation, and when a person delves into his subconscious all the symbols from adolescence return. . .
Medical science knows next to nothing about it. It's disappointing to read the books that mention delirium tremens; they explain patients' physical disorders but turn their backs on interpreting the images. To this point, it has been a disorder for psychiatrists. I learned that a man died during an attack because of muscle contractions. You see? We don't know what he was seeing or hearing. Nevertheless, no medication can stop that flow of images or voices, and sometimes even odors, that place the patient squarely into hell. Well, there is one, as you probably know, but a drink condemns the patient to more delirium. It's a vicious circle in which the illness is the remedy. . .
The images of delirium are like a pump that purges guilt. The experience is so profound that afterwards the alcoholic understands things he didn't understand before and can therefore change his life. Maybe it isn't too different from what happens, in another way, to those who try LSD. The vision transforms, seemingly with no remedy. Things that make up part of daily life -- love, hate, sex, fear -- are experienced during delirium tremens and go beyond their usual limits."
"With his hypersensitivity, I could imagine the deep depressions he must have had when he was drinking."
Ignacio Solares
Delirium Tremens
The rain acted as a catalyst in the stew of the Rouge, making the river steam like a potion; it emanated a foul, trash-like smell throughout the woods that smelled distinctly of childhood. The potholes on the dirt road puddled with mud. I found my truck in the spot underneath a hanging branch where I left it, climbed in, and hunkered down in the storm with the radio on, taking a swig of my blue liqueur.
An hour later, when the rain let up, I found myself wandering the trails near my cousin Frank’s old house -- namely the trails to and from the old sandlot baseball diamond where we'd spent every waking hour as teens. I explored mini-trails I’d never known before. The bottom ends of my jeans were browned from mud, adding to an already disheveled general appearance, and for that reason I prayed I didn’t run into a jogger, or worse, another crazy hermit. I went to the stone bridge over the Rouge River behind Frank’s old house. The Rouge there had flooded from the rains, pooling up to form a bubbling brown pond on one end of the bridge. It was the spot where we’d played truth or dare with Dawn and Jenny, public school girls from Frankie’s neighborhood, and I was lost in drunken nostalgia when something moved out of the corner of my eye. It was a coyote sitting in mud in the swampy underbrush -- I was sure of it. It stared back at me with yellow glowing eyes, a look of empathetic pity in its gaze, and, although it showed no signs of aggression, I scampered back towards my car in terror. When I got to my truck, it occurred to me that the coyote might well have been a hallucination, a symptom of my worsening withdrawal, but I felt certain it had been real. Either way, the encounter spurred me into action; I needed fresh beer to keep the withdrawals at bay.
The rain acted as a catalyst in the stew of the Rouge, making the river steam like a potion; it emanated a foul, trash-like smell throughout the woods that smelled distinctly of childhood. The potholes on the dirt road puddled with mud. I found my truck in the spot underneath a hanging branch where I left it, climbed in, and hunkered down in the storm with the radio on, taking a swig of my blue liqueur.
An hour later, when the rain let up, I found myself wandering the trails near my cousin Frank’s old house -- namely the trails to and from the old sandlot baseball diamond where we'd spent every waking hour as teens. I explored mini-trails I’d never known before. The bottom ends of my jeans were browned from mud, adding to an already disheveled general appearance, and for that reason I prayed I didn’t run into a jogger, or worse, another crazy hermit. I went to the stone bridge over the Rouge River behind Frank’s old house. The Rouge there had flooded from the rains, pooling up to form a bubbling brown pond on one end of the bridge. It was the spot where we’d played truth or dare with Dawn and Jenny, public school girls from Frankie’s neighborhood, and I was lost in drunken nostalgia when something moved out of the corner of my eye. It was a coyote sitting in mud in the swampy underbrush -- I was sure of it. It stared back at me with yellow glowing eyes, a look of empathetic pity in its gaze, and, although it showed no signs of aggression, I scampered back towards my car in terror. When I got to my truck, it occurred to me that the coyote might well have been a hallucination, a symptom of my worsening withdrawal, but I felt certain it had been real. Either way, the encounter spurred me into action; I needed fresh beer to keep the withdrawals at bay.
Ch. 29
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