Novelist Michael Rubin, 36 -- in medias res, uncloseted but perhaps not a confirmed homosexual, and full of ""Guilt for it all. Always. Everything"" -- spent two or three weeks (conflicting statements here) at the Janovian Marin Center for Intensive Therapy in California. This is the notebook of that therapy day by painful if productive day -- ""Feel it, kiddo -- or get lost."" Rubin gets lost many times before he can, via screams and cries and tears and tears, accept the responsibility for what he feels most of which stems back to his mother who turned him into a ""faggot-slave."" Having previously had eight years of analysis, he makes some interesting differences between these ""professionally sanctioned head trips"" and this newer ""let it out"" mode of liberating feelings in the interests of achieving ""total feeling,"" the beau ideal But his book has none of the sassy tourism of Stuart Miller's Hot Springs (1971) and it is inevitably limited by the solipsism of this kind of cathartic journal having its primary value for the participant rather than the onlooker -- who may not be as interested in Rubin's sexual and biological activities too frequently recorded in the ""forbidden words"" of his unresolved childhood.