Memento Mori VI – Or, The Gecko on the Ceiling

CW: Animal death, decomposition, grotesque imagery, grim humor

Sometime in the night, the tokay gecko had finished a battle mortally wounded, had climbed to one of the most out-of-the-way vertical surfaces in the parking structure, and had perished.

So it was that early Sunday morning, I spotted the mottled grey-and-orange corpse while walking with my family from our condo to our van. I was sixteen and living in Pakkret, just outside of Bangkok, Thailand. The tokay gecko clung to a cement support beam spanning the vast ceiling, on the face overlooking the cars, rather than the side facing the open air over the man-made Nichada Lake. He happened to be situated directly above our assigned spot.

We did not yet realize the lizard was dead—after all, dead things don’t cling to vertical surfaces on their own. We noticed him, figured he was hunting some morning insects, and forgot him in moments.

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Close-up of green gecko’s toes clinging to glass. Photo sources.

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An American Goth and a Belgian Designer Walk into a Boneyard…

When my dear friend Hannelore arrived in Las Vegas last month on her 1988 Honda Africa Twin adventure bike, I asked what she and her boyfriend, Jasper wanted to see. Both wanted to experience the Strip, of course—there’s an unspoken rule that you really can’t visit Las Vegas without having at least seen the Strip, just to say you did. Beyond that, Hanne listed two specific sites: Seven Magic Mountains and the Neon Museum.

As you’ll recall from last week, I hadn’t heard of Seven Magic Mountains until Hanne requested it. But the Neon Museum?

Oh, I had definitely heard of the Neon Museum.

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The Neon Museum’s newest acquisition, and the first thing you see when entering the Boneyard. Photo by Katrina Reinert.

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Temple of Goddess Spirituality – Cactus Springs, Nevada

Katrina and I stepped under the pale stucco archway. To our left, tucked between the eastern and southern arches, stood a tall statue of Sekhmet, ancient Egypt’s lion-headed goddess. To our right, between the eastern and northern entries, was an altar covered in small representations of the Divine Feminine: Quan Yin, the Venus of Willendorf, Parvati. The flagstone floor glistened with desert rocks, sand, and small glass pebbles.

Above us, open sky beckoned beyond a dome of intersecting copper circles.

Gazing up, I realized I’d made an error. The small, open temple wasn’t cut off from the Mojave Desert surrounding it, but the feel within its walls was different enough, and familiar enough. Sacred space.

“Hey,” I said, looking back at my sister. “I need to take off my shoes.”

Katrina stepped backwards several steps. “I was thinking the same thing.”

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View of the sky from inside the open-air Temple of Goddess Spirituality. Photo taken by Katrina Reinert.

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The Mob Museum – Las Vegas, Nevada

Of the many theoretical shenanigans made possible by time travel, towards the top of my list would be this:

Late 1933. American Prohibition has just ended. I walk into the beautiful, brand-new, Neo-classical Las Vegas courthouse and post office building, approach the nearest official, and smile winningly.

I inform them that in fewer than 100 years, their basement—yes, this very one—will be home to a government-endorsed functioning speakeasy, complete with in-house moonshine operations.

I just want to see how they’d react.

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Front view of the Mob Museum’s historical facade. Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash.

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All the Profound Clarity of the Gods

Communication did not become a problem until I moved towards the register. The woman behind the counter remained stationary, hands on either side of my donut box, giving me an urgent, confused look and gesturing with an open hand to the donut display before her.

I mimicked the gesture, my hand indicating the register. “Okay kha,” I said, nodding. “Finished.”

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Multiple assorted donuts. Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

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The Cranes Were Not the Strangers Here

For my ninth birthday, just weeks before my family left Bangkok, my best friend gave me a sheer pink sash screen-printed with cranes in flight.

This friend was Japanese, but, like me, she’d spent her entire childhood in Thailand. When you’re small, you understand too little of the world to comprehend cultural provenance. You simply absorb. You exist where you exist. You believe you belong until given reason to believe you do not. Continue reading “The Cranes Were Not the Strangers Here”