06.07.03 - 10:10

the alley cats outside are screeching again, like angry infants, like wounded women. the sun rises early these days and sometimes i watch it from my bed. the sky starts out flat and gray, fog covering the city. then the lurid colors of sunrise, muted by the clouds, but still beautiful, come pouring through the haze. they fade as the sun rises and the sky turns flat again, this time more white than gray. when the fog burns off (and it will, this early in the summer), all that's left behind is a beautiful empty blue.

melissa made blueberry muffins at my house the other day and i'm eating two for breakfast. she ate a few, but i suspect her motive behind making them was to leave me something for breakfast once my cereal ran out and i was too tired to go to the store. there are four or five or three muffins left and i'm less tired now and i can go to the store tomorrow.

i am feeling a bit better. maybe the pills are working. i try not to get too enthused about it though because if i crash later i want to be able to handle it. i'm getting stronger. i can feel it.

he said, i could see you fronting a band. i said, i always did want to be a rock star. he said, you already are. i smiled. he told me i should buy an electric piano and i laughed because i don't know where THAT money's coming from when i don't even have money for rent and he said he'd keep an eye out for one because i really needed it. we talked about some book we'd read about manic depression and genius and i told him i was still waiting for the genius part to show up. he told me if i had that piano maybe they could get a record out of me before they locked me up. we laughed. i tried to explain that i wasn't waiting on that sort of genius. i told him that i never thought i would be some sort of innovative musician, but that there had been times when i thought i was going to write the great american novel. sometimes i still believe it.

we talked about the hospital some more the other day and then i talked about it some more and melissa told me again how i might write my wasteland there. i don't think it's gotten quite so bad, and i feel like i'm on an upswing now. so maybe i won't have to talk about the hospital anymore.

don't get me wrong. better than terrible can still be pretty bad. but i'm trying. i really am.

and i'm listening to this song over and over and over until the words burn themselves onto my brain, until the melody becomes a part of me. you write such pretty words, he sings, but life's no storybook. he's so right.

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