MOJAVE: HEAT WAVE
Who is to blame for the meteoric rise of the heat index each year?
Is it my home, the United States of America? Our Chinese rivals? Russia? Europe?
I do believe my country plays a role in this…however I don’t believe it’s just us.
It’s too simplistic to place all blame on one country. But if I must give an answer, there is a commonality from all First Worlders which contributes to this relentless, heatstroke inducing hellscape:
The Greed of Man.
Man gets what He wants.
At the cost of others lives, his own life, of Planet Earth’s.
In the bustle there’s hotels for everyone
You don’t need a room to partake
Only appreciation
Indoors keep us away from Hell
They harbor cold air, sustenance, water…alcohol
The French Quarter has Old Western color during summer days.
Latticed red-brown bricks and gritty streets take on the Sun’s rays for hours;
Heat waves simmer from afar,
Wild and ready, grab the bull by the horns
That’s the approach,
Sweating is the toll to pay in this horrific weather.
A blank canvas entices man to leave his mark.
Is it for pulling the aloof passerby’s attention?
Or is it for proving their own existence?
The city speaks to me through these marks
Graffiti is vandalism and poetry when done purposefully
Sunlight and steel create shadow contours on the CCC
Stop, observe the hot golden splotches
And get rich,
For the eyes have seen an intangible gold
The cellphone has become common.
How much do we truly understand?
Electronic communication amongst ourselves is held by the thinnest thread.
It’s disturbing how easy it is to visit these telecommunication zones.
Hidden gems in the Crescent are bountiful
Like this hallway to who-knows-where.
Such radiance could only mean luxury and relaxation.
Gaudiness can’t lead to boredom
There may be spirits, garnishes, beer
Paradise for sure.
The mannequin showcases the proper colors to equip in summer heat
She looks comfortable, beautiful
Wishing they had reprieve from the scorch,
The world surrounds her through the window’s reflection
The Quarter balconies protect me from the scorching Sun
Construction workers? Not so much…
It is their duty to tear apart, refurbish, and pour
I see them even when they’re absent
The equipment, the barriers;
The damning evidence of builders from the city and abroad
The color red is nectar for the eyes.
Is it an advertisement?
Is it a warning?
Is it here to fight for us? Against us?
The color red has mysterious power
No wonder They cloak themselves in it
News is hell and News is necessary
Even if it’s too hot for the eyes,
The information overload appeases the worries of the passionate, the inquisitive, the cultured
Oh, how brutal the heat is from prolonged exposure
Shade from the balconies can’t protect all
Even the paint of a vehicle becomes a victim
Another one of construction’s orange varieties.
Always near empty lots. Old buildings.
Perfect for ad placement.
I guess people really do pay attention.
Otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many examples.
Ancient French Quarter streets,
And red brick buildings and walkways,
Blend with New Orleans’ perpetual construction projects
The longer these drag on, the more tattoos the Crescent receives
Only Hades could drive without AC in a blaze
But this is January air,
Don’t let the sunset fool you
Open the windows: driver, passenger, backseat
How much longer until I reach Kenner?
Those long drives from the Crescent to Lake Pontchartrain was life after the film industry
Now, I’m on the Other Side of the River
Documenting to this day.