Burnt To a Crisp

Water before the cafe this afternoon at Faisal’s. Earlier in the morning the open studio door had let in some of the furnace and needed to be closed. In the heat here more than the equator those old football players in Nis, Southern Serbia, were recalled, contemptuous of the suck-holes on the team who would curry favour with the coach, hladeci mu muda, cooling his cock; or cock and balls both it might have signified. As the torch ratcheted up the good sense of the matter returned again and again. (Once it had been pretty well incomprehensible. Heels you can forget.) Mid-December, summer only just begun. Through the week the Africans from the Horn had complained, suggesting it was an entirely different heat down on the great southern land. At Marble Bar in the Pilbara near 50 degrees had been forecast a day or two ago, expected to be the hottest point on the planet, with fears the aircon might break down. (The latter was the pinnacle of human invention according to Mr LKY a generation ago in Singapore.) Economical pacing on the Footscray Street, the wrappings of the Somali & Sudanese women just the thing—not to mention the beauty of even the simplest of the hijabs. Toxic Cokes however remained the beverage of choice for some of the lizards resting on the benches. Round dawn a short spattering of heavy rain drops had surprised, arriving like misdirected mail on the doorstep. Yesterday Faisal had attended the communal prayer at the makeshift mussolah a few doors up at the back of one of the shops, after having steered well clear the past few months, performing his observances beside his cash register, where customers tip-toed by. With escalating numbers again and omicron threatening, yet one more lockdown might prevent another gathering until who knew when.