august
On the second day of the month I read the “August” poem by Alex Dimitrov, a day late to the ritual because of a hangover, and posted it to my story to say that this is my second-favorite month of the year, behind June. No one agrees with me on this. Loving August is the most toxic relationship I’ve ever been in—no one supports it, the month doesn’t love me back, and because of these factors I fall in love with it even harder every year. It’s something bad that I can’t help but love, like humidity or staying up until dawn, both of which I dreamt about last night.
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Speaking of Dimitrov, he posted on his Substack recently that even he, he who wrote the beautiful poem about this month, dislikes August as much as he dislikes Februrary (the worst month in any locale). I can’t really understand this. August is fine in Austin but perfect in New York, which is where I initially fell in love with it. Especially as an adult, when August no longer marks the end of summer and the beginning of school. As a grownup, the summer just keeps rolling.
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It’s something about how, in the city, August was always so green. In Texas, not so much, but isn’t there something romantic about the unrelenting heat? Doesn’t it remind you a little bit of passion? If cold is the opposite of love then heat is the expression of it, and so can’t you then think of August as 31 days of love love love?
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