I’m fantasizing about the desert again. The Mojave, Sonoran, and Chihuahuan. A place where only the occasional shredded tire or dilapidated cabin would interrupt my fantasy that I’m driving on another planet. I’m daydreaming about the desert as a tabula rasa, a blank-slated land of spiritualized visions, even though I know there’s by now no such thing as a fresh start. The past must be reckoned with, and it can be done painfully or gracefully. But one day, I’m going to live in a double-wide and get weird.