on destiny: deviant lust & possibility

by Samuel Saint Thomas.

Walking down Commercial Street in Provincetown is an adventure in eccentricity. P-town is a magnet for all things unhomogenized. Paris and New York distilled. Its lust for deviation seems as much a footing as the sand that supports its tumbled wooden houses, galleries, night clubs, and lobster joints. It's simple to make out the face of the town, to describe the colors, smells, and movements of tanned retired executives in a topless vintage Mercedes, artists staring away from framed oils, crusty fishermen shouting toward the sea, lovers loving, and the cue of buff gays waiting for a show.
Yet, how is it that the browning 60 something woman in blue and beads -sucking on a Marlboro Red- got to that corner on the south side of Commercial Street? Of all the places in the world she might have ended, there she is. And what of the guy to her right, taking in the same view? And what of the wrinkled cross-dressing 76 year old street-crooner and the busty girl on the sidewalk pressing cds right out of her Macbook? And you? How is it that you are sitting there reading this piddling ponder and not saucing a pizza in Pomona? Would it be Pomona UK, California, Kansas?
And what about me? Some would say that fate or a god of some sort drives me to destinations and crossroads, Provincetown or Pomona. Yet, that would suppose I had no control. No control over boarding a plane to Tegucigalpa, asking Rosanna to dinner in London, staying on in San Antonio, reading Kerouac on the bus, buying Vlado a whiskey in that underground Croatian bar, letting go at a NYC rave, going for that second coffee in Princeton, not sleeping in the bathtub in New York, and not making that left hand turn yesterday.

It's a beautiful complicated mess. Every one of those choices hooked me up with yet another set of choices that hooked me up with yet more choices that, through a long series of lefts, straights and rights, put me on the north side of Commercial Street with a view of the 60 something woman in blue and beads. It's tempting to think of the what-ifs, rather, it's my history. I have caused my sitting in this chair, listening to Fresh Air Radio, drinking my coffee, thinking into my screen about how great it is to have nothing ahead of me but possibilities and ashes.  The notion of destiny seems quite bland and painful when I think of Rosanna naked.     

comments and discussions welcome..

click photo for a photographic essay..