Fleetwood Mac-Part III of Fritz Series

Give Me Shelter

I haven't finger-painted since I was in grade school. It was a simplistic activity, centered around introducing my young mind to color and shape and contrast. As an adult I find it therapeutic in a different way. It makes me stop thinking. My thoughts, my so-called brilliance, it's the single most crippling aspect of my psyche. My thoughts make me anxious, angry, insecure, afraid. My music is an expression of those emotions, every song I've ever written from my first nervous scratching in high school to Rumors to Mirage, all of my music is an up close and personal glance into the mind of a very, very, disturbed human being.

Dave refers to my songwriting as my emotions forcing themselves out of my tightly shackled consciousness. Things I would never say out loud find their way into my songs. Things I should say, that I regret never having said. I'm a prisoner of my own mind, and I'm also the jailer...fuck. I'd kill to smoke a bowl right now.

Smearing some dark red paint across my canvas I look down at my plain cotton T-shirt and khakis. It's a uniform of sorts, not one that I relish wearing. I have a closet full of expensive clothes, one of a kind originals made for me by designers all over the world. To simplify my life I wear a uniform on stage the same way that Mick, and Stevie do. John wears whatever the hell he wants, and Christine goes for comfort. Here I have one choice, it's simple. It makes my life simple. It keeps me from thinking. And since my thoughts are bad, not having to think must be good.

My casual clothes haven't changed in years because I don't like having to worry about what I wear when I'm spending time with my family. Stevie goes through about four wardrobe changes in a day sometimes, it's always amused me to watch her study and fuss over her outfits. Honestly I've always enjoyed watching her get dressed and ready to go out. There's something intimate about getting to see her with her make up not done, and her hair in a messy bun before she gets glamified. In those rare quiet moments she's mine and mine alone, no fans, no producers, no band. Just us. The way it was when we were young.

I don't know if it's the meds, the therapy, or my isolation from the outside world but I feel relaxed. If I didn't miss my family so much I'd stay for a few weeks to rejuvenate myself. This doesn't compare to the hell hole Schlicz ran, no forced injections. No horrifying shock therapy, no tranquilizers passed out like candy. It's a hospital for the mind, not a warehouse for nuts.

"It's 2:30 Mr. Buckingham time for your one on one with Dave" ah, my daily therapy session. Again nothing like my appointments with Schlicz which I approached with dread. I rather enjoy talking to Dave he's older, educated, and extremely competent. But he makes jokes, talks sports, wears his hair in pony tail and refuses to wear a coat or collared shirt of any kind. I feel like I can trust him to a degree. My fingers smudge one last red line across the canvas and I wipe my hands with a towel "It's so beautiful...what is it?" smirking I look down at my masterpiece. It's a Rick Turner guitar laying on a stage and engulfed in flames.

"It's an expression of my discontent" smiling the nurse waves me toward Dave's office, it's day four of seven. If I make significant enough progress I'll be able to go home Sunday, "Lindesy, come in" Dave waves his journal at me making a few last minute etchings in the margins. When the door's closed he opens his mini fridge and hands me a bottle of coke. A rare treat, since the only thing the cafeteria offers is ice tea and some kind of lemon flavored water.

"I take it your afternoon crafts class was fruitful" he says, chortling.

"Yeah, a few more lessons and I'll be ready to exhibit at the Louvre" I take my customary seat by the window peering out on the lawn. A few visitors stroll the grounds with their loved ones, they wear yellow badges so as not to be confused with the inmates. It seems a bit superfluous to me, if I wanted to escape from here it wouldn't be difficult. The day guard is in his early sixties and he sleeps through most of his shift. The night guard is in his mid twenties and he flirts with pretty nurses for most of his shift.