A void, a vacuum, a late-summer vapor. August is....
Dan Zak published this in
The Washington Post just before I left for holiday.
August is what it isn't, and it isn't really anything. It is autumn as rumor, not rite. August has textures, like damp denim, but not colors, though if it had a color, it would be a roasted orange, the hue of dried apricots.
August is for avoiding thought. August is for thinking about August. August is for reading essays assaying the meaing of August's meaningness.
August is for digressions. August itself is a digression. You can hear it at the shore, where it's impossible to get farther away from something unless you swim, in which case the ocean heaves you back with a hiss.
Digress, Digress, Digress
It will run its course like the flu. Don't give August the attention enjoyed by its more conceivable cousins: July, with its pomp and relish and purple satin dusks, and September, second only to January in it arbitrary ability to re-rudder our priorities.
August is a warm beer. August is a nap deferred.
In reality, August is for scrolling Facebook and learning that some people are weathering August just fine - on a deck, on a river, in a skiff, in a boozy recreation, surrounded by crab carcasses, attended by bosomy buddies -- without you.
Nice.
