I took these pictures outside my psychiatrist's office. As some of you know, my medication has been recalled by its maker because of wacky FDA shenanigans. As a result Dr. Waterford has had to "get extremely creative." Some of his patients have given him leftover medication to be distributed to those who need it. A nearby pharmacy that is still receiving small shipments calls him whenever one comes in, so he can send over whatever patient is in the direst straits that week. Yesterday he gave me several blister packs of the samples he is supposed to have sent back to the pharmaceutical company, which he instead held back and earmarked for me. I had to dig my camera out from under several boxes of these forbidden samples, looking around nervously all the while as if a pharmaceutical rep were about to leap out at me from behind the tulips.
This picture does not really do justice to the violently bright color of the blooms, which caused them to pop out of the surrounding landscape as if they inhabited more than the ordinary number of physical dimensions. New York City also sports tulips in pink, yellow, white, and purple, but only the red ones actually hurt your eyes when you look at them steadily.
Spring in New York is wonderful to me; it makes my heart swell with the longing to be part of life. I love the little breezes bearing smells of tar and asphalt and concrete warm in the sun. I love looking at the sandaled women in long skirts like flowers, the gay men swaying their hips as they walk down the street. Suddenly bodies are everywhere. And so much light -- clear golden summer sunlight, filling the air, soaking every brick and pylon.
For those of you keeping track, Dr. Waterford has put me on a low dose of Wellbutrin. (He would like to put me on more of what I'm already taking, but the FDA shenanigans prevent this, hilariously.) Wellbutrin acts on the dopamine system, with which we have not so far tinkered; so my reaction to the drug might tell us something useful, or even, which is still the goal, enable me to feel happy. However, it might also exacerbate obsessive thinking, i.e. "That thing I do where I fixate on one ugly thought until it seems to fill the world, as a penny or a pebble will when held close to the eye."
Folks, I can see it from here, the city of palm trees, the utmost sea, the plain of the valley. I want to run down the steps into the sunset city, I want to walk those streets of of pure gold as clear as glass. My dreams tell me that I used to know the way. My dreams are full of rooms that used to have doors. How to open them, the doors that aren't there?