I hate summer. It's hot, it's humid, it's bug-ridden, everything is alive and green, I have allergies, there are too many people out doing things, it's too sunny, the days are too long and the nights too short, and it gets ridiculously busy where I work. Perhaps the worst thing about summer is that I can't write during this season. For proof, check the dates on which most of my poems were written. This environment simply is not conducive to my poetry. It's hard to write about icicles, darkness, and barren trees when it's 80°F, the sun is out at 8:30 PM, and there are birds chirping.

This isn't to say the ideas aren't still there. They're just more incomplete. For example, the idea for a poem usually starts out with several lines but with a general theme/story already in my head. With a little time, work, and patience, this eventually turns into a poem. In the summer, however, there may only be a few words but without the general underlying story. I cannot get any sort of completed idea. When this (the few words/no real poem) happens in the winter, however, I can still come up with something by lighting some black candles, sitting in the dark, playing some tunes, and contemplating everything. Not so in the summer. It's hard to think about lighting candles when it's 85°F in ones apartment.

This whole summer/winter thing is also why I believe the best metal comes from Europe (that and the domestic U.S. record companies, but that's another topic). The white sand beaches and sun of California (where, presumably, many musicians live) are no match for the snows of Norway when it comes to doom metal. Though I'm not particularly fond of much of the "Seattle sound," look at the difference in environments between there and California and the angst-ridden lyrics so commonly heard from Seattle.