The Bitch is Back!

Now that I have a follower on this brain fart of a blog, It occurs to me that it may be high time to quit whining about my ex and my sad pathetic winter. Henceforth, I am all sunshine and daisies. I will no longer be a Montauk Exile as of this weekend because I refuse to be exiled from Montauk. I am the type of girl who will break your window if you steal my shit, or spend my New Year's staggering through the streets screaming "I'll challenge you to a dual with pistols" if you have crossed me in love. I belong in Montauk, just like the rest of you freaks. I have a repugnant sort of charm about me.

Hello follower. Thanks for following.

At any rate, this weekend was a blessedly happy one in Montauk and elsewhere -- I don't know about anyone else but my mood correllates pretty directly to the weather, and the weather this weekend had me absolutely convinced that we are all going to be just fine and make tons of money this summer doing what it is we do best -- catering to the needs of other people for just long enough to get enough money to go out and party, and doing it all again until we are wretchedly sick and unhappy and think every tourist should be shot on sight.

But they shouldn't be shot on sight, because they are the reason we survive. Let us never forget that. These people are our bread and butter. So when I heard chatter at Robert Moses on Saturday about "taking a ride out to Montauk soon," I was absolutely delighted about the prospect of stimulating our little economy. I want people to come out here and spend their money, so that you and yours can survive. And I swear to God, I am going to be sooo hospitable to them this year. Really.

Montauk doesn't always attract the kind of truly sickening people as East Hampton -- this is a family vacation spot, after all. Let us all hope and pray that since upIsland families might not be able to afford their annual trips to Aruba this year, they will spend their hard-earned, working class dollars in our cozy hamlet this summer. Let us rejoice at the prospect of pedestrians meandering aimlessly through our streets, and of multiple orders of chicken fingers at our restaurants! I'll take what I can get in the midst of a recession.

Do not, under any circumstances, tell any of these people that the lighthouse is "a short walk from town." They are spending their money here, and we need it. Be nice.

I am not suggesting by any means that we go so far as to welcome the Surf Lodge, but even still, I heard a rumor that they're going broke and might actually be hiring local bands as a result. We could have fun listening to local bands. I say we all get in our kayaks and float around the pond in the periphery with our own booze to hear the shows for free, like people do in the cove outside of Jones' Beach.

Maybe when it's 40 degrees and raining next week, I'll be pouty again, but for the time being, I'm riding a wave of optimism. Let's hope it continues into a profitable summer for all, and that the bad economy weeds out the weak. I'm all about taking back the town this year, and painting it all sorts of bright and pretty colors while I'm at it.

1 more week...

April cannot end soon enough, although even as it draws towards a close and it seems that everything is falling into place, there's the nagging uncertainty... what if this is a mistake? What if I move back into town and shatter over something stupid, cry when I see him, or even worse, get drunk and expose my vulnerability once again? 

Did I really think I could stay away? Against the better advice of most of my friends, this is what I want. I want to move back to town. And it looks as if I've found a place, although I won't believe it until I'm there. Anything could happen, in the world of rentals. 

I daydream about starting over, decorating my walls for hopefully the last time in a while, maybe planting a few flowers and discovering a new route to walk the dog. This time around I will be free, to listen to Bob Dylan as much as I want, to run off and take pictures in the rain without being reprimanded when I get home, but also so cautious, afraid that people who have hurt me will find me and try to destroy my peace. Afraid most of all that I will long for a past I know I'm better off without.

When I moved to Montauk the first time, I had the advantage of no one knowing who I am. This time around, everyone knows, or thinks they know, about me. I'm not saying that anyone cares, and that may be the key. I've always needed a thicker skin, so this might be a good time to grow one. 

I picked up my first hitchhikers of the season today, after sharing a few pieces of fried chicken with the dog and reading the papers at the lighthouse. One of those adorable Russian couples -- they always seem so young, good looking, and so in love, do they not? They were all sorts of obsessed with Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and were so disappointed to hear "the house" was in East Hampton. (Or maybe Wainscott? I don't remember.)

Still, I dropped them off at the Plaza Diner-- I ate there once, before I moved here. They never seem to be open. They were so happy, for the tour and the ride. 

I loved the idea of that movie... I'd decided I wanted to move to Montauk to be a tortured romantic outcast long before it came out, but now, the idea of erasing parts of my mind has become so appealing. As if I could just cut out my heart and throw it into that ocean, and that would be the end of it.

But, alas. They say the Pacific has no memory. Not so here. 

The internet, It's a compulsive itch, something to do to maintain the boredom, to procrastinate over doing something that matters -- as if any of us ever have anything to do that matters. I can feel my brain turning to swiss cheese. Check facebook, check gmail, check phone. It's strange to think there might be anyone out there listening. The internet is like a modern day message in a bottle.

Except once you throw that message out, it boomerangs back to you with comments attached. And you read them because you're compulsive and not quite ready to set aside the war over what, exacatly? Maybe that's why you can't let it go. You never quite understood what it was really about, anyway.

I am so close to coming back now, but for the week, I have a place to stay, cozy and full of contradictions. It is nice, not to be able to watch television, one of my crutches. The internet is still here but I want to go out, and honestly, if it were a tiny bit warmer, I would be outside, every chance I got.

In the meantime I am curled in a corner, sort of like a fort, in an old old house with wood-paneled walls and nautical pictures, with a funny hundred-year-old smell and three dogs, curled around each other and my feet. In the corner, there are some shingles, whitewashed and waterlogged, because this room is connected to the porch. I love the idea of a loft. The only thing I love more than a loft is being underneath it.

I went to The Dock, three days in a row, because I am absolutely going out of my mind and need to get out. When I get towards the stretch, I aim towards East Hampton, and somehow wind up turning around every time, because I want to eat, but I also want to wear this worn and dirty sweatshirt, even though deep down it could remind me of him.

The point is, I don't want to get dressed up to go out, I just want something warm -- the warmth associated with three pints of Bass Ale and a bartender who knows your name. When I show up there alone, I feel like I've been silly all this time, to think I never belonged. I start to think it would be ok for me to be, wherever the frick it is I am.