I’ve been feeling really moody and ponderous this weekend.

I’ve recently decided to give up chat rooms, and as a result, there’s a void. I’m bored. I’m seeing just how much I’ve used chat rooms to relieve the loneliness. And I’m hoping that the short-term pain will result in some long-term gain. At least I’ve joined the chorus — and although we haven’t even had the first rehearsal yet, I’ve already been invited to a party the following weekend.

Last night I stood in a crowded, noisy, dimly-lit place and drank a liquid that dulled my senses. This is what passes for entertainment in the gay community? Why go to bars? What’s the point? I walked down Eighth Avenue and everyone looked the same, and it made me feel mad and scornful and inadequate. I walked into G, but it was so crowded I thought I was going to throw up, so I walked out. I went to Barracuda instead. I bought a Corona and stood/sat in different parts of the bar for an hour and a half. Oh, it was thrilling.

It’s absurd.

As I walked out of Barracuda to head home, I picked up a copy of Next magazine for some fluffy PATH train reading. Rufus Wainwright was on the cover. I read the article, and I simultaneously fell in love with him and desired to be him.

“14th Street” — I love this song because it’s the triumphant return, where I’m coming back home, and the unattained lovers who fucked me over in the first half are forgiven and idealized and then put on a shelf as relics.

I downloaded a bunch of his songs about a year ago, and he’s so brilliant and beautiful and original. He makes me want to cry.

I want to be like that. I want to turn pain into beautiful, original art, and have unknown people admire me for it and think I’m wonderful because I’ve confronted and slain my inner demons and grown into a beautiful human being because of it.

I want to meet a guy who’s not afraid of his emotions.

The problem is, whenever I do, I become afraid of my own.

I have been chosen as a member of the Gay Gotham Chorus! I’m in!

Rehearsals start in a week and a half.

YAY YAY YAY YAY!!! Hooray for me!

The world seems dead today. My office is quiet. My phone is quiet. Even MetaFilter has slim pickings today. I guess that’s what happens on the last official workday of summer.

The end of summer. Is it here already? How did this happen? Where did it go? Summer gets shorter every year. It used to be considerably longer; back in college and law school it ran from the end of finals in mid-May to the return to campus in late August.

When does summer begin? The middle of May? Memorial Day weekend? The summer solstice? Late June, when all the kids are out of school? The Fourth of July? And when does summer end? The end of August, when college students go back to campus? Labor Day weekend? September 11? The autumnal equinox?

I don’t even know what summer means anymore. It’s just a time of year when things are hot. And not always.

Once, when I was a little kid, I asked my dad when the last day of work was. It was a reasonable question. There was a last day of school; why wouldn’t there be a last day of work, too?

I’ve felt a shift in my life lately. The click of a pivot point. I’ve hit something and I’m careening in a new direction. Fall is coming. Change is coming. New things are in the air — to a degree I haven’t felt in a few years:

– I auditioned for a chorus last night. (If I don’t get in, I’m auditioning for another one next week.)

– I mailed off my screenplay to a screenplay competition yesterday.

– In a few days, I have to tell my landlord that I won’t be renewing my lease for another year. I’m terrified, because it will mean I’m officially committing myself to look for an apartment in Manhattan.

– I’ve been having new insights into sex and dating lately. I’m re-evaluating the role of sex in my life, and I might take a short break from dating. These are things I need.

So my life is headed for some changes in the next few months. I hope they’re changes for the better.

The summer ends and we wonder where we are.
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