As the post below from back in August of 2010 points out, most years I struggle with the month of August and this particular one is no different. The doldrums set in and I am filled with an anxiety and a stifling restlessness that combine to create a sense of desperation within me. If I hadn’t experienced this before, this feeling would seem unbearable.
But it’s not something new so I realize that it’s just a matter of hanging on and letting it pass, all the while trying to pull something from it that will show itself in my work. I have found that such keen desperation is often the source of great work, much as playwright August Wilson —a fitting first name!— points out so eloquently in the quote above. So, while I find myself fighting through the cruel days and demons of August, I do so as I listen for the song of angels to begin.
And from experience, I know they will begin soon enough. Sing, angels, sing!
From August 18, 2010:
This print from Picasso [ Above] very much sums up my feelings for the month of August.
I have never been a fan of August. Memories of the so-called dog days of summer spent as a child. Hot from a relentless sun. Bored. Burnt grass crunching underfoot. The coming school year hanging overhead like the sword of Damocles.
August has always had a faint aura of death around it for me. I remember the death of my grandfather in ’68. My beloved dog Maggie years later. Several friends over the years, from a variety of causes. Elvis. The bright glare of the August sun seeming to taunt the grief of the moment.
We were watching something on television the other night, perhaps Mad Men– I can’t really remember. Anyway, the character in the scene that was on said , “I hate August.”
It made my ears prick up and I couldn’t help but mutter, “I’m with you there, brother.”
Well, I’ve got a lot to do this August morning. It takes a lot of work to keep busy to ward off the cruelty of August…