It's Hot

It’s hot in Melbourne today. But if you’re in Melbourne today, you probably already know this. And if you’re not in Melbourne, well, it’s hot in Melbourne today. Like top of the thermometer hot; no bare feet on hard ground hot; clothes dry quickly hot; slightly hurried movement makes you break out in an uncontrollable sweat hot; really pale people are genuinely fearful of spontaneous combustion hot; fits of rage make more sense cos your blood is all up and about hot; my computer is probably wondering what the hell it is doing on, cooling itself off hot; and so hot that I am writing about it hot.

I don’t deal well with the heat. I glare at the sun, which I occasionally punctuate with angry gestures, and always lose the staring contest, wiping my forearm pointlessly across my brow.  My thick skin begins to wonder, when I am down to my underwear, sitting of a (p)leather couch, if it can be removed and dried out for a little bit. I breathe heavily and mutter frequently, ‘it's hot today,’ and no one disagrees.

Beer, I have found, is great for an initial cool off: a couple of happy swills and some illusionistic sense that your body is suddenly air-conditioned. Then the heat rapidly ruins the beer, making it hot and thick, like drinking beer flavored moistly dense humid air. I’ll finish it, but I always wonder why. I feel the weather laughing at me. It takes away from me what I truly love.

Kiddy pools work wonders also. Until they get filled with grass clippings and fly carcasses.

And it don’t look like getting any cooler tonight, with it still being a stinking 30 degrees up to midnight. Meaning that sleep (even with my game little air conditioner) will be a decidedly sticky affair, with much rolling and peeling. Lying there on top of the covers, I’ll just think over and again: ‘it’s hot.’

The repetition of that phrase during days such as this—from friends and strangers—is almost ritualistic; some perverse prayer to the sun, letting it know we know ‘it’s hot’ and maybe can ya let off a little. Please. Yet, it does nothing. Indeed, it only draws attention to the simmering air and hot winds around you. We repeat it all the same: an ancient adage to live by in such days when the bleeding obvious is the most the brain is capable of.

So I intone: it’s hot.

If you wish to find me, I’ll be over there sweating and trying miserably to look comfortable drinking a warm beer, cursing under my breath with just the shade of a bad sunburn rising majestically on my nose.

It’s hot.