After the sunburn, my arms peel, the skin coming off in rolls after a shower, in flakes the rest of the time.
I scratch my arms and think of snow, and of whether or not these shavings could be pressed into a voodoo doll.
It’s not if, it’s when, I say, and I’m talking about skin cancer, and he points at me, hard, the way that means be quiet and don’t tempt fate. I roll around on the bed, shedding skin, wishing I was a little less Irish and a little more Basque.
Once, I recognized my body. I knew its limits and its power, its strength and weakness, and it was a familiar friend. Now, it’s like a house with uncertain power supplies. I move through hallways blindly on days in darkness, sensing patterns with my fingers. The path has changed now, strange obstacles appearing where I least expect them.
It’s beautiful, here in the dark, but strange. Some days, I bite at myself like a wild dog. Some days, I am, myself, strong current. But the tunnel has no end-light. The map to resolution is nowhere to be found.
In this season, ladybugs rush in my sun-warmed, open window.
They’re just beetles, someone once said to me. What’s the big deal?
They’re lucky, I replied, thinking of the brush of their small feet against my hand, the mechanical clatter of their elytra against the air. They land and take off again as quickly as a surprise, as unexpectedly as a wish-come-true.
I let them in, let them wander walls and ceilings, let them alight on my computer screen. The season will change, and they’ll disappear, but for now, they are my welcome guests.
I just took a sip of this wine and smelled the bedroom of my ex-girlfriend, said the man behind the counter at the wine shop. I need to buy bottles of this wine. Cases of this wine.
He lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply, then set the glass down and looked up at the ceiling, a small smile settling across his lips. We all breathed in, breathed out, breathed in again.
He shook his head. Let’s be clear, he said. I don’t want to go back to that time.
I introduced myself as The Instigator, and the man put a hand to his chest and stepped back. The Instigator, he said, and he chuckled. We need you at the Temple, so you can help us finish this build.
But I’m not a builder, I said. I would be of no help.
You would bring your energy, he said. That’s what we need right now. Instigator energy.
When I shrugged and smiled, he put up a hand. I have a shrine in my home to all instigators, he said. I’m very serious about this.
Wear your Playa finery, the invitation said, and so, decked out and dusty, we ducked through the dome’s opening into a dining room set with flowers and silverware, candles and skulls. The setting sun filtered through an opening in the parachuted draped above, and a gold-masked man explained the rules for dinner.
Outside, strange cars lumbered out toward the open desert. Riders sailed by, propelled by rusty bike chains, unaware that we were toasting with cocktails and dipping bites of fried chicken in lavender-infused vinegar.
We slipped out after dark, bellies full for our return to mayhem.
Feel how weathered these bones are? asked the man in the safari hat. He ran his hands over the tree adorned with skulls and femurs. There’s even a Tyrannosaurus Rex bone or two here. This is thorough work.
Where? asked the French photographer. I don’t see any dinosaur bones at all.
No one sees any dinosaur bones, muttered the old man wandering behind the tree.
Well, not their bones, the photographer said. But that doesn’t mean there might not be a Tyrannosaurus or two wandering, somewhere, out there on the Playa. Keep your eyes open.
100 Proof 