Arrived on Fire Island. I’m here for the next few weeks… until I decamp (via Martha’s Vineyard) to Provincetown for a month or so… then it’s LA for the rest of the summer. Nobody wants to be on the East Coast for August. Not when one has Malibu… everyone agrees that Southern California is gorgeous in August.
I finally found an affordable and rather beautiful house near Whitstable to buy. Just far enough to be close to those I love… yet out of harms way. There’s so much on the market. Everything in my old home town seems for sale. Everything.
I’m staying, as usual, in The Pines… a guest in the most gorgeous house. I stayed here last year. So many pretty things to look at, art to admire and crisp white linen to drown in at night. A fancy cooks kitchen, every utensil one could possibly wish for.
As I was winding down last night I noticed that the house is loaded with alcohol, bottles and bottles… and I am all alone. It’s odd isn’t it? What keeps me, and those who want it badly enough, away from the booze. Sober. Nobody would ever know if I took a huge gulp of something before I went to bed. Only me.
What’s stopping me from taking a drink from the well stocked bar? Even if it’s just me? I suppose… I would know and God would know. The power of ones conscience. I’d lose the only thing I’ve ever worked really hard to keep.
I realize that many people don’t get sobriety. The disease, the god part, the endless AA meetings. During the past 17 years it’s been a struggle to remain interested or focused. There’s so much to put you off. Sober people can be a big pain in the butt. The endless revolving door of people you meet who commit to sobriety then drink again, the deaths, the drama, the fucking rules… but I tell you, if this is a cult (and many say it is) I’m a happy member.
I’m cooking a very old-fashioned coq au vin. A hearty treat for a chilly May evening on Fire island.