Heat Advisory

They're telling us to stay indoors. It is going to be deathly hot, they say, and your body will work as efficiently as it can but at some point, you will drop onto the pavement. I figured, quite naturally, that this was in direct effect to my internal anger and frustration which certainly had the potential to have infiltrated the Austin area weather system. My anger had slept tightly with me in the previous night, roaming around with torches in the spaces between my ears. When I awoke I had hoped it would be gone, but I could still feel the footsteps.

I decided that, being at one point accustomed to that degree of air hostility, I would go to the Hope Farmer's Market in East Austin despite the heat. If you haven't been to this part of town, then it's hard to describe the juxtaposition. From East 5th and Waller, where the market is, the buildings still rise like unhinged sunflowers smack in front of you but it feels like they must be a clever mirage of wealth. It's like there's a concrete mote (I-35) keeping you from the castle, but then again, not everyone wants the deed to a fairytale.
On the East side, shops and local vendors are popping up, and people that want to actually be a PART of a diverse community, instead of keeping it in their backyard like an unruly puppy, have concluded it is a place that is a manifestation of one's projections and a lovely but volatile piece of town that brings all kinds. There is a new 'trend' for certain people to move to the East side as a sort of statement.....excuse me, I just threw up in my mouth. But, in the defense, and someone who themselves almost lived there, I hope some of these people are moving there for a diversified lifestyle, and not to just be a floating ghost. Needless to say, the East Austin is a very difficult place to really understand. This, of course, pleases me immensely.
As I walked through the market, crunched the lose rocks under my torn flip flops, I was thrilled to see the bicycles entangled in each other, leaning on the abandoned warehouse walls. Did I mention the market is right next to the train tracks, in an abandoned warehouse? Oh, well, my dear you have not seen half of its charm! Everything is open and there are bright colors flung around the room. As I admire the local crafts, like Spanish hand-painted tiles, I find myself drawn to the brightness outside. I hop off the step and sink into the earth, immediately smiling at the joy of feeling a slight bounce beneath me. I like it when the ground moves, like it's whispering, lungs contracting.
As I walked to the produce stands, I see a perfect bundle of parsley and bring it to my nose. It smells like how I envision my hair would, high in the branches and sprightly winds of heaven. I then walk further to find I am drawn to many of the smiling faces around me. Some I even recognize from before, but they don't know me, and there is a mild comfort in my anonymity. There is a father with a small girl, who is looking at eggplants as though they are fat purple accessories. She holds one up, twists it, and gives it a quizzical stare. I am secretly hoping the eggplant will sprout a hand and give her a thumbs up. The sign above the vegetable labels it "Nature's gem." I smile at her, how could one not with those rosy cheeks, and move on to become yet another slave to the carbohydrate as I purchase a fluffy circular loaf of sourdough wheat bread. After a while of wandering, the heat slips up, swirls around my ankles and then lingers on my neck until I am swooning at the thought of air-conditioning. I will admit to feeling mildly wimpy at my own pleasure in electrical salvation such as fake air.
On my drive home, I start to feel heavier. I think I had, for a small while, forgotten my sadness; for we all know anger is really just sadness with different glasses. My head has literally started to droop, an unattractive quality that may make me look five years older, when I see a gathering of people under the freeway overpass. Without thinking, I pull in. It is my experience that most of the good things in my life are prefaced by a large gulp of non-thinking. This makes me feel mildly less guilty when I am hungover and thoughts refuse to link together and instead hover like blurry moths.
As I pulled in I immediately rolled down my windows. There was music, vibrating in tune with the cars flying above, honking below, and the heat seemed to actual steam. But, the music floated out to me, wrapped me in it, and I had to listen. I don't think you actually pick your music, it finds you with serious intention. There were some RV's around, and a small podium where a man stood with a thick book. Ah yes, it was Sunday.
The guitar stopped and the man at the podium flopped the book open. Everyone was quiet as he began, "The Lord brought us together, brought us this music to rejoice in this day, in this heat, in His grace." There weren't enough chairs. People were standing, leaning, pacing. An ambulance screamed behind the preacher, and he paused, yielding to the cries with his eyes closed. After it passed, he began again.
There was one man there, a black trash bag slung over his shoulder, unkempt in physicality but he had found a church, in the useless organ of the city, beneath the freeway. Isn't that all we really look for? A church, in our town, in ourselves? As I looked closer, I noticed the people, and though their clothes gave me ideas about their way of life, nothing translated more profoundly than the way they listened. Their ears, their bodies, their eyes, were that universal canvas that begs to be dripped, carved, embroidered into something beautiful.
As I drove away I could see anger hovering outside my car door, at one point it even scraped my window with its overgrown nails. But I was safe, at least, for a little while, and the next time I saw anger again, at least it would be me that opened the door.