September isn't a month. It's upheaval. Or renewel, depending on the circumstances. It's when the world pivots back into step, separating ourselves from the sweet tea afternoons of August, embracing sharp pencils, early Monday morning meetings and dry-cleaned dress shirts.

"What Were the Chances" - Damien Jurado 

I'm usually excited about September. It's my birth month. It's back-to-school time. It's when I can finally start to feel productive again, after a long summer spent hungover by the watercooler. A welcome shift in priorities, you might say.

"There is No There" - The Books (Bonus: "Smells Like Content")

But not this year. This year, the summer has given me an emotional hangover. And the fog isn't lifting. In fact, I fear it's settling in.

"September" - David Sylvian 

Things I carry with me, that I know about myself: Frank O'Hara, good wine, China, Jean Shepherd, Are You Being Served?, the warm glow of christmas lights, records, old photographs, my grandmother.

"Ode to Joy. To Hell With It"
- Frank O'Hara
LP, The Dial-A-Poem Poets, 1972 You can find more here.

 From the cover of the Dial-A-Poem: "Open the lines to the poets! We used the telephone for poetry. They used it to spy on you. Poetry plumbers unite! We invite you to do it yourself. Start your own 'Dial-A-Poem' in your own hometown. Get hooked up to the telephones. Call your local telephone company business office; order a system and put on it these LP selections; put on your own local poets and we'll supply you with more poets."