So, I may not have told you, but I'm on Long Island. Crazy, right?
Actually, it is kind of crazy. Since way back in the day, the family Strong, turned Munson-Strong some time ago, has had a cozy, cedar-sided home in East Hampton. For about as long as I can remember this house, which is so graciously lending me its porch as I write this, has been a great place for me. Whether traveling here by plane, my first experience with aviation, by train, my first experience with a gameboy, or by automobile, certainly not my first or last experience with sibling rivalry, I have always enjoyed making the trip out East. Some of my most vivid childhood memories have been formed in a place I've been to only a handful of times.
Though this particular trip was planned primarily around my grandmother Eleonore's passing, it's turned into somewhat of a big-tent revival for James M. Munson. Away from Walker, buzzing tourists, waiting tables on buzzing tourists, the lake and the woods, I've started to work on making sense of the inner shit-storm that's been brewing inside me for longer than I rightly know (if this sentence here seems a bit heavy, you either don't know me very well, or should call me in the near future). I feel good tonight; I feel even better knowing that it's on account of my own hard work, and not some other stuff.
Tomorrow, for the third day in a row, I'm getting up at 7:30 to buy fresh bagels and coffee, and I'm happy about it, damnit.
I cursed twice in this post. Sorry. Here's another picture I took of a fence at the beach to make up for it.
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