draw things paint things write things make things, number 318 … goodbye july

A long, dumb month that demands active resistance.

What you look at hard seems to look at you.
— Gerard Manley Hopkins

How was your July? We tried to make the most of it. The kid started her summer fun by getting all four wisdom teeth plucked. Much mashed potato ensued. For Canada Day, in Ottawa, she got a hotel room to herself (unconscious, sleeping in) while her mom and I went for a run behind the Parliament Buildings. We were in the middle of our NHS Couch to 5K, and have since finished it, ending with three runs of thirty minutes each. When I was most unwell a few years ago I thought I’d never run again — certain internal connections would collapse from just walking around the block — so this was something, I guess (I continue to move like a wounded wildebeest but at least now I’m a wildebeest that can run five kilometres). A few weeks later we went for another memorable run along the Meewasin Trail behind the University of Saskatchewan, a vastly underrated campus in terms of attractiveness. We were in Saskatoon to visit with family (everyone seems fine) and watch the skies turn orange as temperatures descended to ten-degree mornings because of wildfire smoke. End-of-the-world vibrations. Our hotel parking lot filled with big trucks covered with the grime of their escape. And then the kid went off to camp and July was done.

But I do not like July. I do not like the way summer suddenly drops in with all the fluidity of the Tin Man trying to climb out of a taxi. I do not like the psychic and social demands, often verging on panic or disbelief, for fun and relaxation. What are you doing in July? Are you going anywhere in July? Any fun plans for July? No, I’m broke and alone and my body smells like hot dogs, but thank you for asking.

I do not understand this collective need escape. I used to understand it, when people had less means and access to travel. When people drove old cars and counted out cash. When we lived in a society that was less predicated on consumerism and gratification. When the seasons were less susceptible to the random violent coups of climate change. When corporations weren’t answering every question in our lives with colours, vibes and limited-time taste sensations.

Like Christmas, this idea of summer as a fixed calendar point for reward is in desperate need of an operating system update. Holding up July as the apex of the year is like bragging about doing your master’s thesis on Big Gulps. It is big and wet and dumb. The kids don’t need it. They do not live outside anymore. They do not live unsupervised. Their school year is already filled with too many pyjama days, Harry Potter days, performative awareness-for-something days. They do not need a break. They do not need any rest. Especially with the college system collapsing, kids need to be school more, not less. AI is going to eat them alive.

July is not helping anybody. July is the headache at the wedding you can’t leave yet. July is the dead mouse in the coffee maker at the cottage. July is the car trip with friends you can’t stand anymore. July is fat raccoons all over your garbage. July is a pile of damp, stinking towels at the back of your kid’s closet. July is the boyfriend who takes a five-thousand dollar camera to Mexico, then spends the entire holiday worrying more about it than you. July is where you give up and walk away from your coffee order at the ONroute Tim Horton’s because it’s staffed and run like a half-assed Kid’s in the Hall skit (and then you go use the washroom just to remind yourself what hell will be like). July is the shirtless neighbour with a new chainsaw. July is the backyard party where everyone laughs like they’re in a Gap commercial. July is the carnival you promised to take your kids to, some day, and now it’s in town. July is the public swimming pool where the sixteen year-old lifeguards are ignoring the visitor limit. July is the broken air conditioning at the train station. July is the spider you find in your hairline. July is an abandoned gym plan. July is the frog that you keep rescuing, over and over, from getting drowned in the pool skimmer. July is a staff barbecue where all the hamburgers have little nuggets of bone, and you stand there under the furnace winds and sun as if trapped in the griddle of God. July is getting nothing done. July is every client request followed by unreturned email. July is everyone late, all the time, until you start showing up late, too. July is entire seas of road construction cones and no one around. July is a beach where you hate yourself with every calorie you have. July is a Heat Warning and you forgot a hat.

So: I prefer August. It still has plenty of sunshine but without all the pan-fry aggression and stupid humidity. Bit of a breeze, most days. Fewer crazy storms. Select moments of clarity.

Happy August, everyone,
djb

p.s. This afternoon we went to a matinee of Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight, which is basically On the Beach except the atomic apocalypse in Australia is replaced with the election of Robert Mugabe in Rhodesia and the we-are-doomed story is narrated by an impossible ten year-old. Recommend.

Also, Loni Anderson just passed away, which is sad.

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Only the impossible lasts forever.
— Djuna Barnes