Juxtapositions at the Gates of Hell…
45C and I am cycling through the Gates of Hell.
(At least there is a good breeze.)
It blasts my face like a furnace in January.
The trees have gone limp – from here to Colorado the rains have disappeared – the land weeps for water. We are now into our 4th or 5th heat alert of the year – in a year that is blasting the record books into cinder-ash.
When I left the house my cats were semi-comatose, sprawled on the hardwood floor in front of the fan, where they will not move until dusk. On the way to work I saw two different dogs vomit on the sidewalk, while two homeless men snapped and snarled at each other over a patch of shaded grass at Sherbourne and Queen St.
22 people were shot last night at a Bar-B-Que in the east-end of the city. The heat is making us mad. Vicious.
The Nostradamus’s-of-the-Day are preaching the Zombie Apocalypse, all the while the earth burns, and the park grass turns to acres of lightly-tanned straw. And the trees hang limp – as if they were great forgotten plants left behind on a family vacation.
The rainmakers are dead and the earth is cracked and dry like an old farmer’s face. The heat-wave now moves into its 8th month – with no end on sight. The drought is now more than a year old
An old man drums frenetically on the corner of Yonge and Dundas, while the young Indian man, drunk, his face covered in the battle-scars of some back-alley shit-kicking, sits on the sidewalk, and with his right palm lifted up to the sky, beseeches the passer-bys for some spare change… While not ten yards away, sitting on a large cement planter-box – filled with great scoops of red and orange explosions – a middle-aged woman in baby-blue fatigues weeps quietly to herself. Her face in her hands, tears pooling like raindrops on her thighs.