first day of june ended the drought in florida.
time to realize that the window that won't close, the driver-side passenger one, is going to be a big problem. it's rained once, maybe twice since i bought this heap, way back on valentine's day. i really need to just fix it and sell it, stop being so damned embarrassed by it.
early morning on the second day of june, grey and wet outside, windy, clacking the vertical blinds together in the bedroom so loud that i had to get up. trees bounce around like muppets in the wind, cars roll by on wet tires and slick asphalt, their noises amplified in the rain.
the air and cool and think with water. my skin is a little sticky with humidity.
wild winds whip through the windows, popping open doors and howling, faintly, chillingly.
the girl at the gelateria last night thought i was an actress; i was flattered.
books. work. grants. nonprofits. writing. saving the world, not doing my laundry.

i remember, as as child, sitting in my father's wood-paneled living room, watching the news and seeing a techni-colored map of florida, paths of storms and rainclouds dotting its surface; publix commercials and the look and feel of the lanai's tiles out the window. white, rough, perfectly square, spaced about an inch apart, and i was fascinated by how the ants could navigate the crevices and by the quick, manic movements of the geckos darting around.

this is the flordia of my memories