I awakened this morning to learn from MSNBC that the hottest place in the nation was not Phoenix, as it should be, but was JFK Airport in New York City.  As I am located only a little to the north of that, I reacted with something less than excitement.

This is not the weather in which poor-but-honest artist/writer/poets can carve out a sad little living by having their dog Django dance on his hind legs down by the Piggly Wiggly, or by having their dear little niece, Faith, sell matches by Town Hall.  Django danced for a while, his belled collar making a jolly noise, until it became apparent that we was only dancing because of his bare paws on the sidewalk.  And poor Faith’s tattered little gown caught fire when her matches spontaneously combusted.

Most acts of begging are far better suited for cold weather than for hot.  Hot weather is for guessing the price of the showcases on The Price is Right and for rubbing frozen peas across one’s forehead.  We are not, as a rule, as well prepared for this kind of heat in Connecticut, any more than Tulsa is prepared for the snow and ice that comes as a surprise there every winter.

The point is this:  The old concept of Summertime and the Livin’ Is Easy has been replaced with heat alerts and the sound of window units cranking away as best they can and people hiding inside, sitting next to the units, trying to guess how many appliances they can use–dare they use the microwave to heat that frozen burrito or should they just eat is as a frozen savory treat?–before they blow the fuses.

And so as it all becomes like that Twilight Zone, where the world was heating, heating, and the paint came running down the artist’s canvas, I sign off, in hopes of better days ahead, or, at least  a ride to the beach.

 

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