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.