Henry Rollins:
Born as Henry Lawrence Garfield.
(Washington, 13 February 1961)
American singer, actor, poet, writer and all-round artist.
I have come to regard November as the older, harder man’s October. I appreciate the early darkness and cooler temperatures. It is a month for a quieter, slightly more subdued celebration of summer’s death as winter tightens its grip.
The month of November makes me feel that life is passing more quickly. In an effort to slow it down, I try to fill the hours more meaningfully.
We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. We will welcome summer’s ghost.
August used to be a sad month for me. As the days went on, the thought of school starting weighed heavily upon my young frame.
Every year, August lashes out in volcanic fury, rising with the din of morning traffic. Its great metallic wings smashing against the ground, heating the air with ever-increasing intensity.
August, the summer’s last messenger of misery, is a hollow actor.
August brings into sharp focus and a furious boil everything I’ve been listening to in the late spring and summer.
