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Someone said to me once, a friend from years ago - "You were fantastic," he said, "articulate, witty, I loved it, but at any minute it seemed like you might explode." It's true. I knew it. I knew I was dangerous to myself and others. I'd known it since I was a little girl. There'd always been a crazy woman in my family, and I recognized that in my generation I was first in line for the job. But if I loaded myself with enough responsibility and accumulated enough honors maybe I could keep the lid on this dangerous thing simmering inside of me. Okay. . . there were a few explosions - I was locked up in the Bellevue Psychiatric Ward for the Criminally Insane, thrown in jail for grand larceny, almost died a couple of times - and yes, I did join Ken Kesey and the Merrie Pranksters on The Bus, who could say no to that? - the fabled trip that became a legend for all the young hippies-in-waiting. But when I became a professor at the San Francisco Art Institute and started making good little movies that won big prizes, I thought I'd solved the problem. Maybe things had finally changed? My life was good now, wasn't it?' Then at thirty I met my first psychic.
