Remembering the Shitshow

“There were days, there were days,
There were days between.
Summer flies and August dies,
And the world grows dark and mean.
Comes the shimmer of the moon
On dark, infested trees,
The singing man is at his song,
The holy on their knees,
The reckless are out wrecking,

The timid plead their pleas;
No one knows much more of this
Than anybody sees,
Anybody sees…”

- Robert Hunter, “Days Between”

Looking back on the summers of my life I find that most, of them possess a certain distinct flavor, or at least a certain defining memory that stands out as belonging intrinsically to that summer, that year. Naturally, as this has been my thirty-seventh attempt at my favorite season, these unique qualities grow hazier the further back I go, with notable exceptions. I remember the summer of ‘92 very well because for 25 years it reigned as the best of my life. ‘93 was a slightly dimmer version of the same thing. But I couldn’t tell you what happened in ‘94 or ‘95 really, not without trying to find some actual records. 

That being said, I’d say I have a pretty stark recollection of each summer for the last 22 years or so. As this fair summer draws to a close, it seems worth wondering what this summer will be remembered like ten years from now. Yeah, I know there’s the obvious answer: 2020 was a shitshow. Or, “the summer of Fear and Loathing.” Some will likely be tempted to immediately answer “Worst Summer Ever.” 

I have many, many complaints. But I’m actually not sure I’m willing to say that. Not just yet. I’ve definitely had worse summers. Personally, 2002, 2008, and 2013 were far worse (and for widely varying reasons). This has been a very difficult and challenging time, but I’ve also had some truly great moments this summer. As someone who really values positive memories and has gotten good at cultivating them, I can say for a certainty that we made many brilliant ones. 

But let’s concede, for the sake of argument, that this summer was “a bad time.” Certainly next year, that’s how we’ll remember it. And the year after. Probably the year after that. But ten years removed, (presumably) the fresh wounds wholly healed, finding ourselves at a sufficient distance to coolly and honestly look back and see what waits to speak to us there through time, will it be the same? Might we find our memory from the time to have more nuance than that? 

One thing I’ll say about this summer is that I am very easily distracted from the things I’m “supposed” to be working on or at least have my mind on. In an example of one such diversion, earlier this month I read a very short book by Sebastian Junger called Tribe. It’s about how intense and generally traumatic experiences (like war, from all angles) shared by small- to medium-sized groups of people creates social bonding at a high level that is difficult to replicate under more “ordinary” circumstances. Now, in truth, I found the book to be decent, but just okay. Had it been edited down to concisely cover only the really interesting facts and insights, it would have been much shorter. (I’m pretty sure the author, in the introduction, recounts how the concept for the book started as a long-form article; it would have been better off in that format.) Nonetheless, Junger describes many anecdotes of people who lived through really intense periods of warfare, like in Bosnia, followed by periods of peace. Ultimately and reluctantly, they preferred the social solidarity and closeness to life itself of the former to the perceived emptiness of the latter. The heightened sense of living, sharing, and belonging that arises in times of utter horror and devastation, it seems, do not last once the acute difficulty comes to an end. 

How does this apply to 2020? Well, from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t, and that’s what is remarkable. We are faced with overlapping difficulties and crises, but I don’t see the slightest evidence of anyone coming together in shared sacrifice and survival - not in the US, at any rate (and I’m skeptical of the fanciful tales of it happening in other countries, though I’m sure it’s true in a few places). Here, I don’t even think we can agree on what that would look like, what the goals are. In fact, I know we can’t. Even in a little artistic hamlet like Peterborough, which I would have described until this year as a true, capital-c Community , we’ve done nothing but tear one another apart. We are wholly fragmented between (legitimate) competing interests and (often less substantial) competing ideologies, but what seems to me to be glaringly lacking is anyone in possession of previously existing, coherent principles and values that apply in difficult times just as they do in times of relative ease. Such things, were they to exist, might have provided not just a guiding light for present and future action, but a means by which to talk about our actions and desired outcomes that might have helped to avoid the savage and vicious carnage that has spread and crashed like waves every couple of weeks. 

Will we then remember this summer as the year our ideas of community (and maybe even “unity” generally) fell apart? Crashed and burned? Will we remember, with heads hung with shame, that we managed to defy commonly observed human crisis behavior in order to attack one another rather than bond? Or might these effects of this period of vitriol fade, eventually, with these challenges, just as the social unity disappears when the wars end? Is it possible that things return to “normal” and everyone tacitly agrees to forget everything done and said in 2020, that we might obtain a crude but real form of absolution through collective denial? 

In a way, that’s the closest thing to a hopeful thought I’ve got. I have darker fears and suspicions as well. For one, if the astrologers and diviners and soothsayers are right, we haven’t even seen the worst that 2020 has to offer. That’s what’s coming in September, October, and November. And if that, whatever it may be, lives up to the hype, it’s possible the Summer of 2020 gets remembered as (of all things) the Summer of Innocence, when we didn’t yet know the real horrors that lay in store for us. And if things really collapse from here, in a more long-term sense - i.e., if things do not return to anything close to what would qualify as “normal” - we might remember this summer as the rather quaint time when things were just starting to go wrong.

*

I’m not trying to be a bummer, I swear - but at this point in this year, what’s really the point of sugarcoating anything? I’m not giving in to despair and neither should you, but if there’s a silver lining to our present moment, it’s that everyone has finally shut the hell up about silver linings.

Some of you are probably upset that I would even ruin everything by launching into a summer retrospective right now. TecHnIcALly tHerE’s StiLl a MoNTh lEfT in suMmEr, yes I know, and no there isn’t. Astronomically, the season shifts in late September, on the autumnal equinox, but that’s just when the change is final and complete. It begins on Lammas, August 1, the cross-quarter holiday with which I famously have the greatest personal difficulty, and accelerates dramatically toward the end of the month, as we approach what I’ve always called “Back to School” time, and coinciding, I’ve just known, with the Feast of the Assumption. Now is the time to look back on what’s been summer; if you wait until the actual equinox to be in fall, you’re already behind. 

(I mean, if nothing else, the light has Changed; if you don’t see it it’s because you don’t want to or you haven’t looked.)

Whatever else might be wrong with me, I am not behind. My “August vacation week” has just concluded. I’m fairly depressed about it, from many angles; in fact, one of the reasons I’m writing this right now instead of working on one of the many projects I’m supposed to be working on (or even doing what any reasonable, half-responsible person would be doing right now - sleeping) is as a foolish and vain attempt to prevent this from being true. But the fact remains that I am fortunate enough to have had this vacation week (along with its July equivalent just a couple of weeks prior) and, as ever, the rejuvenation and fortification I always consciously obtain from these brief annual respites will be enough to carry me through much of the months ahead.

My summer mustache is gone. In just a couple of days, I will receive the haircut required to match my newly bestubbled (and soon to be fully bearded) face. I’ve obtained my annual “back to school sneakers”, a pair of Saucony Jazz featuring a moss green, medium brown, and off-white motif. I hate trying new things and I’ve never owned a pair of Saucony’s, but the Puma Romas I want are indefinitely out of stock, these seem to be extraordinarily comfortable, and I’m even starting to accept that they look sufficiently cool. 

My complicated relationship with August is, as one might imagine, still complicated in 2020 - mostly in the usual ways but of course also inclusive of the twists and additional obstacles this year never fails to deliver. Whenever August 1 rolls around, I get a pang of panic and regret, unready for the light and the air to change, unwilling to accept the finitude of summer itself, feeling so much unworthy and unfinished. And yet early August is such a glorious time, a time in which the best of summer has finally come to live within me, guiding my spirit and filling me with life. And this year, Lammas did not even go unobserved; we marked it with a wonderful and colorful camping trip with dear family friends.

As the month goes on, I always remain, from the standpoint of productivity, just as lethargic and ineffective as I was in July, but I can always feel the lethargy begin to decline. I learned just recently that Rudy Steiner himself, whose depiction of the annual pageant resonated so strongly with me for both Whitsun and St. John’s Day (the summer solstice), made the argument that during this time, the Perseid meteor shower spiritually fortifies our blood so that we will begin to prepare for the challenges announced by Michaelmas two months hence, when we must begin to rely upon the light and courage we carry within to get us through the darkness. I feel that. I’ve felt it watching the meteors themselves, on the beaches and by the sides of ponds, on the side of my Mountain. It’s the same as ever, but it’s made more urgent this year by the dread I feel for whatever catastrophe will begin to reveal itself in just a couple of short weeks. 

As mid-August turns to late August, the light changes again, turns to what might be my favorite variety of sunlight of the year. For whatever reason, I can see and experience it most strongly in Townsend, my hometown, where it is unquestionably the best light of the year, but I see it here, too, and everywhere I go. It’s the light of golden decline, the light which teaches us that though we might be on the back side of the year, though new crops are no longer to be planted, and though winter is no longer a memory but a looming fact ahead of us, that we are blessed with the gift of one more season of new beginnings and possibilities. There’s a reason I cling to the “back to school” metaphor even though I haven’t been inside of a classroom since 2003: when I’m done with my vacations and accept that the glories of summer are more or less complete, I turn to my Work with a renewed sense of purpose, meaning, and routine. In other words, the beginning of September represents our final chance each year to Begin Again. 

Don’t waste it.

*

As for myself, for the last few years I’ve had an irresistible urge to develop for myself a New Back To School Plan for how I’m going to approach each day, managing to complete many tasks while steadfastly adhering to a regimen of spiritual and physical exercise. This year I’ve done it again, a brand new and different scheme, yet also similar in intent and general thrust to the ones that came before. Each year, this is only successful in aggregate, in the sense that I do take advantage of the new beginning, I do get far more done in September and October than I ever do in July and August, and I do renew my focus to some degree on the habits and practices that I always resist but end up making all the difference. When it comes to the details of whatever plan I’ve written down, I generally fall flat on my face by the end of the first or second week. For the most part, I think that’s okay.

This year, my plan is not necessarily less ambitious, but it’s certainly less complicated. We’ll see if I can pull it off, but I also have a certain sense that I have to if I am to survive whatever the hell lies in store for us with any measure of dignity and style.

It’s not necessarily en vogue at the moment to talk about things like dignity and style, but I believe they’ve never been more important. Whatever has happened and whatever is to happen, I refuse to reduce myself to a state in which mere survival is all I’m after. You should, too. Mere survival is for the birds. We aren’t birds. We are called to do better than that. We are going to survive all of this with grace, dignity, principle, and style, and I have a hope (that I hope isn’t a vain hope) that perhaps some of us might be able to find some unity or - dare I say it - community in the pursuit of such things. If that’s interesting to you, please join me in it. 

Something I’ve long intended, independent of my new back-to-school plan, is to be out here more, to stop being so quiet. Those who see me in person or are familiar with my Facebook feed will likely laugh at the notion of me being quiet to begin with, but I am referring more to my more semi-formal written addresses such as this one, which have slowed to what might only charitably be called a trickle. In 2019, I did a pretty good job issuing weekly or bi-weekly Dispatches in this publication, while in 2020, when I’m not stuck using most of my energy just to keep my shit together, I’ve focused on writing a book, writing for Underground Over the Air, and (more recently) writing for our upcoming (and late) themed collections. I have not been idle. But I’ve been hearing, both from many others around me and from that little voice I trust within (and when those two factions are in agreement, I can more or less take for granted that something is true) that my voice needs to be heard a bit more regularly and a bit more loudly. Not, of course, in the form of more Facebook rants or denunciations or catastrophic arguments, but in helpful, practical, comprehensive, and relatable ways. My intent is not merely to resume regular (I won’t yet commit to weekly) Dispatches and other essays, but also to deliver even more regular short video addresses. If this proves feasible and also helpful or at least interesting to people, we will know very quickly.

Stay tuned. It’s time to go back to school. If you’re not ready, get ready. Pick a date. I’ve decided I’ll give myself another week to screw off but that September 1 (technically September 2 since the 1st is a Sunday) is my “first day of school.” You’re certainly welcome to allow yourself a greater buffer by selecting September 8, the day after Labor Day (as many school districts are actually doing). But if you have half a mind toward your own well being over the next few months, do your own version of this.

Like many (most?), I do tend to focus on the negative. And I’ve been speaking out against “silver linings” for almost six months now. But despite and amid all the horror and strife, despite the many I believe have proved themselves untrustworthy, undependable, and otherwise of bad character, there are many others who have distinguished themselves otherwise, who have instead proven themselves True Friends of mine, true allies even in crisis, true backers even against the grain, truly solid-ass salt-of-the-earth souls. If you’re reading this, you know who you are. I love you and I’m grateful for you. I’ve had a blast this summer - in some cases thanks to your direct help and presence - through sheer determination, sheer will to remain upright and smiling and drinking deep of whatever’s in front of me and of life itself. 

Together, whoever is with me, this is how we will live life all through the fall - and beyond.

I’ll see you at the bus stop.