I am not a friend of August. It’s not for the usual fussy reasons – that I can’t stand sand between my toes, or dread oceans of red tide, or feel sad at once-bright green lawns now tough and rusty. No, though it feels strange, I admit my emotions are complicated by the name….August. The word really dogs me. I feel under its sticky spell of an unfortunate conglomeration of letters. The name is slow, lugubrious, it moves like the outside air outside — unsure of itself, stuck, confounded, congested.
More specifically it’s the vowels. The “u”– two of them, on either side of the “g” – oppress me. They drag, are phlegmatic. The first syllable – Aug – isn’t beautiful, but for it, you can work up sufficient energy. By the time you get to the second “u,” it stays stuck in your throat. There simply is no gust. A kind of disgust goes with it. It is mugginess itself.
I know there were great emperors – Augustus,“the revered” – with the same kind of name, same problem. Too heavy, oppressive, daunting.
You always portent this, August. But you are on your last shaky dog’s legs. Adieu! On to September!