I am wilting in the scorching summer sun. Wilting like the half-crooked, Old Man Sunflowers, which line the home bricked wall in the back yard.
Looking like rejects from the ‘Day of the Triffids’, the Sunflowers have seen better ‘days’ – reduced to dried-up yellow petals, charred green leaves, and a date with destiny on the compost heap.
The Sunflowers are in War with the Roses. The Roses are blooming at the end of the garden, a fertile deep red bloom of fresh love, poetic expression, and somehow tragic Englishness.
The reggae playlist is streaming sunshine tunes under the unapologetic sun. A timely number from Third World – ‘96 Degrees in the Shade’ – brings a wry smile.
Like a mole in a hole, I am hiding from direct sunlight, chilling in the cool shadows of the garden wall, where, from time-to-time I have lightbulb moments, in others, grave moments of medicated angst.
Today, I am musing over the shitty sandwich of long-time addiction to Big Pharma medication, which I am rudely reminded of, and served up gruel-like, in the unrelenting baking heat of this Island.
The psych meds, in the form of chemicals in the bloodstream, cause my skin to burn and crisp up in the blazing sun like the Sunflowers, when I just want to hangout and bloom with the Roses.
It’s the single-edged sword of these bitter pills that are hard to swallow. They cramp on style, substance, and survival. Killing the vibe.
Meanwhile, Bob Marley is keeping it low-down, real, and dirty – a true ‘Soul Rebel’ – on the rolling reggae playlist from the febrile garden of my mind. He is urging the listener to travel wide if they are feeling blue.
I am feeling the blues in this heat but questioning hard whether travelling wide in these extreme weather conditions is recommended by the relevant government department.
Feeling like the scaly, spindly lizard in this Attenborough documentary I watched – I go in search of water and sustenance. Memory recalling, the lizard leaves his rocky outcrop home, in the burning noon heat of the Saharan desert, with a five-minute window to search for his lunch.
Five minutes later, I return to the shelter of the shadows.
Gregory Issac is urging the nation-at-large to ‘Cool Down the Pace’. I am inclined to agree. The birds have stopped flying in this midday heat. The dogs have forgotten how to bark. And I am waiting for Will Smith’s ‘Summertime’ vibes to drop from some nearby neighbour’s window.
I imagine the waft of charcoal smoke and dead meat.
Caught in exile on suburban street on this day of days, it’s the sun getting on its beanie hat of African reggae colours in this backyard. Determined to go where the trade wind blows, I wait in the darkest part of the yard waiting patiently for my time in the sun.
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