The heat is on. It is right here in scorching concentrated fury; it is relentless and ruthless. Those passing showers mean nothing, but more savaging heat to follow. It is so powerful that some political people are walking around ‘bassadee.’
It is midnight; it might as well be midday. Not a leaf stirs; there is this massive universal stillness and a hovering weighty layer of suffocating humidity. This is the skin-tautening, pores weeping, knee shaking tension of High Noon lived every day. The long street has to be walked, an endless ferocious street it is. I take three steps and I feel three hundred years old. John Denver can speak for himself with that insanity about “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.” I am not, especially when it is a fever in the eyes, and a broil of the body.
There can be no thinking in this well-toasted place; this much is obvious from the wobbly political commentary and sun crazed political pundits. Their brain (if there ever was any) freezes. More accurately, it boils and shrinks. Boil down, as Guyanese would say, to mere dregs. I am still wondering how there can still be further dregs from what started out as dregs. The heat has fried and baked and incinerated the few brain cells there were of leading political players, who were better off staying in the pavilion and imbibing some molten gold. They shrivel and it is not from seeing spirits; the cerebral output points to amnesia, Alzheimers, and an arresting asininity. All the areas that they did not touch (well, they did trample upon some things), they now bullishly and shamelessly clamour for delivery and execution. There are lots of lonely bulls in that overheated pasture. I chalk it up to heatstroke. In opposition ranks, matters have assumed heatwave proportions; many senior figures stumble around in desultory fashion chasing mirages, and grasping at straws. It is time for a long draw; better make that drink strong. Numbness is added to dumbness.
Some on the government side of the fence are indistinguishable from their counterparts on the far side. There they are: mental lightweights (might be featherweights) stricken by the grinding, blinding, destabilizing mercury that keeps rising. Clearly their personal and political barometers are falling. It is the stagnating doldrums for these fine folks, who warm Guyanese constituents with hot flashes of burning ignorance and singeing incompetence. Without a doubt, they are constructed of softer sinews and can learn from others.
Another thought that comes about my favourite constituent, political characters, is that there is no need for such drawn out messy inconveniences as capital punishment, through burning at the stake. Simply give them a shovel and put them to clear a drain. As evidence of great compassion and leniency, I would forgo the ball and chain around the ankles. After all, they are not going anywhere and leaving all those opulent assets behind.
On the honesty and industry corner, I salute cane harvesters and garbage collectors. I cringe when I think of those sturdy souls working on rooftops. Even as I flinch, I am hearing the lush melodious tones of Sam Cooke crooning “all day long they work so hard…wearing a frown…” That came out of nowhere and I suspect that heat has penetrated my defences and gotten to me. Come to think of it, a chain gang would be a good learning experience for those sun-struck political delinquents and underperformers. It might make them see god through the haze. See, the noggin is still working over here.
Separately, anyone challenging the existence of global warming (or boiling) should be summarily committed. I remember the soothing embrace of the north east trade winds from antiquity. Those seem to have changed direction and headed for the distant North Pole for all of their blowing and presence here. As for that lovely balladeer from yesteryear who hollered that “somewhere the sun is shining…” Forget about that; it is shining and blazing right here with malice aforethought and wanton savagery. So those follow-up lyrics about “so…honey don’t you cry” fall on deaf ears. The tears come anyway, if only to chill the raw face. One can bake a duck simply by throwing it on the sidewalk. Of course, it is recommended that it be plucked first.
Editor, I do not need Credence Clearwater Revival asking me if I have ever seen the rain coming down on a sunny day. Just bring it on down and put me out of this misery. Give me some cooling sprinkles, flooded city and all. And as if to pile it on, there are the Beatles crowing about “Here comes the sun.” I prefer the Ken Lazarus rework, but certainly do not need that unforgiving glare, that punishing peeling pinch. Sunbathers can object to their heart’s desire. I am not listening.
Those Guyanese sun worshippers can join forces with Johnny Mathis with his rollicking “Aquarius/Let the sun shine in.” I will settle for the tingling cool of Ray Charles or Brook Benton’s “Rainy night in Georgia.” It can also be during the day and Georgetown is as good a substitute as any.