Joe Clifford sings the praises of San Francisco, of youth, and the deep attraction that many of us have had for abuse in his newest book, Junkie Love. He sings with the voice of a poet, his writing sure-footed and vivid: Standing on 22nd and Mission, two o’clock on some random Sunday afternoon, fat, orange sun splashing, the mango, melon, and papaya peddlers on rolling carts camped beneath the giant Woolworth’s sign, the Mexican panadarias baking empanadas, rich wheat breads… Here’s how he describes his honeymoon on the Grand Cayman: the entire island had been dipped in coconut tanning oil and spritzed with lime wedges. Contrast that with a drug house he’s squatting in: roaches big as plums and closets that stank like pickle brine and piss…
I reacted to this narrative as both a person who embraced excess in my twenties, and as an anxious mother, imagining how I would feel watching my perfect child destroy himself.
Clifford doesn’t make excuses for all the promises he made and broke to the people who loved him. For the money he stole to finance his habit. For going into rehab time after time when he had zero intention of giving up dope. As squalid as his life was there seemed to be some glory in how deep he could fall, how many chances he could take and still survive. I started to ask myself as I read on, is this the bottom? Is this the bottom? Good god, how far are you going to take this?
My antennae were out, looking for hints of a bad childhood, bad genes, bad love. He doesn’t go there. Of course, we know that Clifford will choose life over addiction (he wrote this book after all) but what led to that choice surprised me. He describes his recovery as an intense journey to self-discovery and health. I’ve never met Clifford, but I suspect he is wiser for having spent a decade in free fall.
I reacted to this narrative as both a person who embraced excess in my twenties, and as an anxious mother, imagining how I would feel watching my perfect child destroy himself.
Clifford doesn’t make excuses for all the promises he made and broke to the people who loved him. For the money he stole to finance his habit. For going into rehab time after time when he had zero intention of giving up dope. As squalid as his life was there seemed to be some glory in how deep he could fall, how many chances he could take and still survive. I started to ask myself as I read on, is this the bottom? Is this the bottom? Good god, how far are you going to take this?
My antennae were out, looking for hints of a bad childhood, bad genes, bad love. He doesn’t go there. Of course, we know that Clifford will choose life over addiction (he wrote this book after all) but what led to that choice surprised me. He describes his recovery as an intense journey to self-discovery and health. I’ve never met Clifford, but I suspect he is wiser for having spent a decade in free fall.