Fuck August

This time of year, my high school classmates engage in the long-standing tradition of posting five to ten beautiful photos of the outdoors on Instagram with the caption, "can't beat oregon summers." Sometimes it varies; maybe there's only one photograph, if it's beautiful enough, or maybe they write simply "oregon summer" and let you draw your own conclusions, but the siren song remains the same. That's what it is, really. It looks more like a hazing ritual, or perhaps a PR strategy, but they're calling out to college friends, luring them in, photo by tantalizing photo. "Come to this place," they sing. "Come to my enchanted fairy village of a hometown. Couldn't you love it? Couldn't you love me?"

I have used these tactics myself, albeit in person, but it doesn't matter how quickly I recognize and point out Multnomah Falls while watching Twilight. My Boston friends will never know me in Oregon. They know I love trees, but they've never seen me in the forest, wandering in my sundress and converse because I know the roots won't trip me here, and anyway my ankles can take it. They see the storm cloud inked into my skin, but the lift of their brow says that they don't quite believe me, that they think it must be Stockholm Syndrome, that I must be the beauty to the rain's beast. They notice that I cycle through strange perfumes with esoteric names, but they don't know that I'm trying to replicate the smell of pine and cedar, damp earth and campfire smoke, sea salt and strawberry. They don't know that when I say my favorite color is green, I'm talking about that smell. 

It is 1:00 AM right now. I have to leave for work in four hours. I will walk across the Harvard Bridge, and it will be empty, and I will watch the sun rise over the harbor. Soon the East Coast heat will burn off into autumn, and I will remember myself again. Boston will breathe some life back into me yet, or else I'll dash myself to pieces on the rocks.

With teeth, love, and fairy dust,

Natalie