Late yesterday afternoon, the temperature dropped to 45˚F, with a 28˚F windchill. Currently, it's overcast and 56˚F, and there's no real break in this shit forecast until sometime around the third week of May.
I do not know for sure what today will be. Yesterday was an Up Day. I talked until my voice gave out. Not because I really had anything to say, but I couldn't stop saying it. The inability to sit still. The persistent thrumming. I become a swarm of mosquitoes, says Spooky. The clouds behind my eyes part, and that great big yellow phony manic sun comes pouring through, and after days of the red-black rage and the icy, diatomaceous seafloor ooze of depression, it's as good as Percocet, almost as good as heroin. Sure, I can't actually keep one train of thought long enough to be genuinely coherent. But I can try to clean the kitchen, take care of backed-up email, dust my bookshelves, wash dirty underwear, read fifty different news stories via Twitter, and reorganize the kitchen pantry – all at the same time. Or I think I can, until seven hours later, when it dawns on me that I've actually done nothing whatsoever.
I've not left the house since Monday, and I've only looked out the window once.
I've been wearing the same Ramones T-shirt for going on three days now, awake and sleeping.
The other night I dreamt of knives, continental-drift divide,
Mountains slide in a line. Leonard Bernstein,
Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce, and Lester Bangs.
Birthday party, cheesecake, jellybean, boom!
You symbiotic, patriotic, slam-book neck, right?