I’ve been reading a ton of F. Scott Fitzgerald lately. Finally got around to seeing Baz Luhrmann’s film adaptation of The Great Gatsby and, overall, I’d have to say I really enjoyed it. I’m still in love with some of Fitzgerald’s short stories – I think he’s pretty spot-on about North-South relations, even if the critics gave him hell for it.
I’ve been looking at the blog lately, and with more than a little melancholy, because I realize how slack I’ve been about posting this summer. I was doing so well last summer! Of course, I was also imposing a more-than-slightly-ridiculous writing schedule on myself then, but…I’ve been considerably less productive on the poetry end of things this summer. (This is mostly because I’ve been doing things like the work that pays bills and looking into the shining bauble of grad school. And managing my personal life, natch.)
I am sure that I’ll be saying this just a bit more between now and the beginning of August, but I’ve never looked forward to the end of summer as much as I am this year. August always seems the end of summer to me, or at least the beginning of the end. I’m sure I’ve been sad to see it come around before. (actually, I distinctly remember feeling that way, once) but now it’s hard to look at August with anything less than giddy excitement. My favorite Englishman flies to the states a month from tomorrow. My sister gets to go to college for the first time. I get to start my last year of undergrad and wade into the whole adulthood shindig in May, preferably by boarding a plane for Galway, Ireland. Oh, and I’ll (finally) be turning 21.
There may or may not be fireworks when August rolls around.