CAN’T FEEL MY FACE

Florida’s toxic algae bloom smells, according to a boat salesman, like “hundreds of dead animals that have been baking in the sun for weeks.” Meanwhile, in our backyard, the hydrangea is blossoming. As is the tree—I’m not always good with names of things, especially in nature—where the previous owners hung a furry orb held together by what appears to be strips of wicker; at first, I thought it was some kind of witch ball—at least that’s the phrase that appeared in my head when I saw it. I’ve since been informed that the thing is supposed to be a supplier of material for bird nests. If that’s true, few birds seem to like it; it’s the same size it was four months ago. So, “witch ball” it shall remain. Speaking of witch balls, a friend of mine—a woman who, when I was a kid, convinced me that two bite marks on her arm were the result of an encounter with a vampire—sent me a string of Facebook chats about how she’s making a medicine bag—for protection against evil—and how she did a rain dance and then it rained and that, recently, a vulture talked to her. I like the idea that such a vile-looking bird might have something to say, or have some kind of wisdom to dispense. Earlier, on my bike, I surprised a venue of vultures (that’s what a group of them are called, I know this because I looked it up), as they were pecking at the bloody, fur-ratted rib cage of a dead deer: the explosion of black wings nearly caused me to swerve into a ditch. Later, as I walked behind a lawnmower, light-blotches appeared and disappeared in the shadow cast by a tree, depending on whether or not a cloud was passing in front of the sun, and I anticipated the satisfaction I knew I’d get from eyeballing a just-mowed lawn, and how this particular sensation might be explained in part because shorter, more uniform grass blades create a pleasing symmetry, but also because it allows me to bask in the illusion that I have restored order and—for now—staved off chaos, and thus death. I was happy, once I reentered the house, to hear Spotify playing “Can’t Feel My Face,” a song that leaked on my birthday in the year 2015 and is—at least in part—about the numbing effects of cocaine. The composer, Abęl Makkonen Tesfaye—otherwise known as “The Weeknd”—is the son of Ethiopian parents who immigrated to Toronto. A biologist I know—a man who grew up in a community of power plant workers in China and who has for a number of years been developing a vaccine to help smokers who want to quit—told me recently during a long car ride from a soccer tournament our sons had played in that he—the biologist—doesn’t approve of Tesfaye’s hair, which Rolling Stone described as having “its own distinct personality” and that the front portion is similar to a “flopped-over moose antler” and that the back resembles a baby octopus. Aside from the fact that Tesfaye sounds so much like Michael Jackson, his hair is my favorite thing about him, especially after I learned he doesn’t do anything to it except give it a good wash now and then. He doesn’t style it at all. The hair does what it does on its own. All Tesfaye has to do? Just leave it alone.