North Dakota. Wind. Wind wind wind. Plains wind, the kind that makes you suspect there's nowhere else in the world, that the whole world is as wind-hustled as Siberia. A tropical island feels as unreal to me as one of Jupiter's moons: it exists, perhaps, but what does it have to do with me?
Lori, whom I'm visiting, has fixed me up in a cozy camper out behind the house. There's a heater, a big bed, and lights for the evening, and that's about it. The camper shakes when the wind blows, which appears to be all the time. I'm writing from the camper right now.
Landscape and weather (and they're inseparable, no?) determine so much. Everything, really.