taking my pulse

 

 

Believe it or not, weather is actually more important down here than donald trump. Everyone checks NOAA radar multiple times a day, myself included. The heat of July and August is relentless in the Keys, night time temperatures drop only 2 or 3 degrees. The humidity is painful, dew rags are both fashion and function. And so, on another hot Sunday afternoon, my cat and I take refuge in my cottage, siesta practices a part of island life—we’ll go outdoors after 5. And pardon me for repeating myself, but this is Barbie’s Dream House, and I’m dreamily listening to torch songs and sexy Latin sambas, stepping outside for a smoke or a joint now and then. Despite a searing sun and moisture everywhere, the skies are crystal clear, a blue that belongs only to the sky, never to be captured, replicated, duplicated. There’s little to no pollution here, no industry, few cars, Gulf of Mexico on one side, the Atlantic on the other. I tear up at the bounty of it all, the bounty of this island and the bounty of living a life I imagined. I’ve worked hard for these rewards. It’s a good day to take my pulse.

 

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