Aries 16° (April 5)
Working with Mike for hours and hours, trying to get this thing into some kind of shape. I’ve decided to have Greg for dinner on a whim. Well, we know I’m lonely. I’ll make my miso-molasses salmon with ginger and scallion, wasabi mashed potatoes and bok choy. I’ll grab as much from the boutique fishmonger but I will have to go to the supermarket as well. I see these wanton wrappers in the produce fridge. I flip it over and there is a recipe for crab rangoons. I will make them. I’ve bit off more than I can chew starting so late. I have to cook and shower and clean the house and I’m making crab rangoons? What is wrong. Anyway looking forward to hanging out as he is a good friend and we have a lot in common. I need to make some much needed changes and frankly I’m on it. Greg brings vermouth and olives and a fool for dessert. I suddenly realize I have a lot of food in the house. I did quite enjoy the martini I must say. I have a weird spasm in my tongue this past week and I think I’m going to stroke out. But not really. What I think it means is that I am severely run down. And I don’t want to be. I want to figure out my life. That thing that happened someone smashing into my car. I feel somehow it is a sign. Like I was identifying so much with the new car—the first car I’ve ever bought for myself—but that would suggest that I expect a slap in the face for even the slightest sign of happiness from the universe. And I know that can’t be the case. Not really. I also do understand the limitations of what might transpire on the platonic front—and that episode with that awful man G.F. over the weekend was something of an eye open. You see there is this seventy- (or eighty-?) something man from NYC who spends time in Provincetown. He used to be an admitted criminal, now he is a decades-long “sober” person. In truth he is a twelve-year-old girl lodged in a wizened body. He is a fop and a sycophant and he hangs around the fringes of the artistic community, specifically among the fellow AA crowd; and he went on the attack against me nearly a decade ago when I had a falling out with a close friend. Like many close friends I’ve had over the years, this fellow was/is a malignant narcissist who doesn’t really like anybody, not even his inner circle (because he doesn’t like himself), but because of his status in the design/art world he has millions of follows, foremost among the gay mafia that make up the hordes traveling from Manhattan and other cities to Provincetown, either as second residents or as annual holiday makers. Those who know this crowd know the magnitude of its sprawling population. The point is that not only did our friendship necessarily cut, despite my trying to make cool it, and keep it, in a less intense form, which my then friend took as an insult, like a monarch would a knave, but he poisoned that giant pool of mafioso against me, which means many poisonous rumors in the form of his damaging opinions of me. One such piece of evidence of such treatment would be this elderly criminal dandy, G.F. taking the liberty to post on social media that, in effect, the throngs of those we know in common have all taken to blocking me on social media (which isn’t true because my numbers remain the same) because I have a “personality disorder.” Mind you I have met this person maybe twice in my entire life. Then he private-messages me with probing questions about my sexual life and identity. Shocking. Well, you can guess who blocked whom. In a time of cancel culture, in a place like Provincetown, which is a junior high school in geographic and architectural form, it’s main drag likened to locker-lined halls, the alienation, snooty and snippy, is palpably, unambiguously, demonstrably real.
Typos happen. I don’t have a proofreader. And I like to just write, post and go! Copyright 2022 Wheel Atelier Inc. All Rights Reserved.