Sand in the raspberries

Sand in the scalp. And raining down from my bag as I hoisted it over the head (and salad) of my seatmate on the LIRR back into the city last night.

Another weekend in the shacks. Returning to the city not as hard, or abrupt, as the return in from upstate. Shacks/share/Hamptons = spending a weekend interracting with more New Yorkers than I encounter in a month, then wedging in with still more for the train trip back.

Reaching my apartment this morning, puttering to put away weekend, answer emails, make tea, detox with water and blueberries, feels more restful than the weekened itself.

But then the shacks have never been much about rest.


This weekend there lovely. MH, Micah and Chantelle, and Zeugma, camped between the cottages, made it down the beach to observe the other planet that is Neptunes bar and the hedonistic and glistening who travel in from the outer boroughs for the Saturday night party, ate lobster, made bonfire, splashed about in the very strong surf...

More to report, and pictures to share, but not sure I can bring myself to post the Neptune bar pictures. Ought pictures of novice monks to exist in the same cyber-space as those who'd upgrade their bodies via any means unnatural? Compromising the fomer via proxiumity to the latter...

C (burnt)