Spa on a Cliff

Here on this fraction of a volcano, the views are steep: several women in nurse-like uniforms mold the seven million year old ash onto your sun-burnished cheekbones under a canopy of kentia palms. Their blouses fold in front like a doctor's coat but with a thread count soft as the feathers on the mutton bird's back. They move in the circular outdoor space like a space station where every bowl, rock, and massage table pillow with a face-down hole in the center is sun-bleached white. What, in the heat of their hands, will you dream about? Nothing. Your mind will become a place unknown to you, where no anxiety survives. It will be like the prehistoric ghosts of lumbering animals before this land was land, before the fire that made this land was fire. It will obliterate every cluster of neurotic, constructed notion of selfhood, of vanity, self love or lack thereof, your body will expand to the size of a building, while your brain stays the same, your brain actually shrinking in its dark little chamber as the next chamber out fills with echoes as the muscles and sinews stretch and stretch like the hurling out of the universe.