Another Winter in a Summer Town

          I got here on Friday.  I had my first panic attack on Friday.  The town was dead.  Hardly anything open.  The last time I walked down Commercial Street in September, I had to fight the throngs of people.  On Friday, I walked down Commercial Street and saw one person. 

            What the fuck have I done?!

            I have moved back to Provincetown until September.  The end of the world.  The tip of the cape.  And in the winter, I can attest that it is, indeed, the end of the world.  Locals have told me that the winters are actually milder than in Boston and New York.  And true, the weekend was nice.  But upon arrival on Friday, it was bitterly cold.  The only people out and about were walking their dogs.  Luckily, I have friends here who like to drink.  And Friday night, we did just that.  A cast of characters so colorful that they really are stranger than fiction.  My roommate from last summer who can drink till he drops.  Another friend who can do the same, but not before he yells at someone about politics.  And finally, a charming queen with a penchant for oversized glasses and who never wears long pants.  Even when it’s ten degrees outside.  His name is Mrs. A.  I have no idea what his real first name is.  Just Mrs. A.  Only in Provincetown. 

            They took me to a local talent show on Monday night.  It was snowing when we left my house.  The walk down Commercial Street took twenty minutes.  The only person we saw was some old drunk stumbling home from his watering hole and singing “Let It Snow” at the top of his lungs.  When he passed us, he apologized.  We ignored him.  So he let out a big loud “FUCK YOU!”  And just kept right on singing.  By the time we got to the restaurant, I wasn’t expecting much.  But it was actually quite charming.  Cozy restaurant packed with locals.  The show started to wild applause.  People here are thirsty for something to do, I suppose.  Some lumberjack dyke sang some Michael McDonald.  A stoner got up and announced that he is a pothead (duh) and then proceeded to screech some song he wrote.  An ethereal lesbian with wild crazy curly hair and a British accent sang an original song she wrote about her bicycle while playing a piece of tin siding.  And finally, a tall barrel-chested man—a practical giant—walked up to the microphone.  I was expecting a booming thunderous voice.  Out came a sweet quiet rendition of Mancini’s “Moon River” which always makes me cry.  And it did.  But only a little.  Even if the show wasn’t Broadway caliber, or even Duplex caliber, it was still entertaining, fun, and quite nice.  Four glasses of wine didn’t hurt.

            So I’m making do.  The days are long, the nights are longer.  Even though I have friends here, I have a lot of time to think, dream, plan, write.  My reasons for coming weren’t clear to some and crystal clear to others.  For one, New York City—my home that I love—didn’t really welcome me home with open arms.  I found it to be rude, grating, difficult to maneuver, and impatient.  Maybe we should have stayed separated a bit longer. I went on countless job interviews.  Interviews for jobs just like the terrible one I left last March.  And after each meeting, I walked out completely dejected and depressed about the thought of working there.  The only job I remotely entertained taking was as the personal assistant to a very gifted actress.  However, the pay was literally next to nothing, and well, I’ve got to eat.  Being here last summer taught me that there is more out there.  I want to be a writer.  This will once and for all allow me to prove to myself that I have the discipline and patience to see it through.  Because if I can’t find the time to write here, then it’s over. It will also buy me more time to figure out what I want to do if I can’t make a living as a writer.  I have eight months to figure it all out.  And finally, Provincetown…the community….the vibe…the people…they all got into my gut.  I wanted one more shot at it.  One more summer of abandon where I work my ass off but feel fucking great about it at the end of the day.  A friend asked if this was my mid-life crisis.  After all, I just turned 35 again for the fifth time in November.  I said no.  That was so last year.  Besides, I was knocking on 40’s door last summer in a very tiny, very snug, very red bathing suit in front of a pool full of strangers and not once did someone tell me to cover up. And queens aren’t shy about telling someone to cover up.  So turning forty didn’t bother me in the least.  This is just about constantly challenging myself, going in new directions albeit temporarily, and new adventures.

            I firmly believe that we are sent messages constantly from God or the Universe or Whatever.  Some come at us through friends.  My good friend Valerie just sent an article to me yesterday about a man who quit his six-figure job in New York City to become an actor.  He hasn’t made it yet, but he’s giving it a go.  My good friend and writing teacher—even though I haven’t been in her class in a few years, she will always be my writing teacher—sent her blog my way yesterday.  She talked of greatness and what it takes to be truly great.  And that is practice.  Everyday.  Honing a craft, perfecting the art.  Whatever art or craft that may be.  Practice it….all the time.  So Valerie made me realize I’m not that alone, and Nancy through her terrific blog told me to keep practicing, practicing, practicing.  Finally, my horoscope literally the day before I left New York City.  I saw it at my good friend Kip’s restaurant on my second glass of wine.

            “Make the most of the Sun’s last few days in Capricorn to travel.  It does not matter if your journey is short or long, it matters only that you are on the move.  What you discover will brighten up your life.”

            God...Universe...Whatever?  You have my ear.