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  • Writer's picturePam Newton

Water Drums

Somehow August holds a humid awe for me. This lazy month reminds me of breasts and buttocks, tears, massage oil, and abstract water colors. Blissing out on Everyday Enchantment just feels natural. Everything is easier, more fluid, more melodic and rhythmic than any other time of the year.

Vegetation, infatuation, integration, and disintegration float upwards through the reeds and rotting water lilies. Images pound in my head, crest, and ripple into strands of fireflies. Aches simmer down into relaxed states. Choreographic ideas, chants, and storytelling themes surge up and out into creative possibilities. Each peach-colored dawn I worship this world, and again on fireside evenings, poems come. I welcome oozy states of relief and joy. It is warm now. Then I feel a chill.

Without asking, death sits right down next to me. Melancholy resurrects the ruddy faces and decomposing bodies of those who are now lost and untouchable. Just as eventide brings new life into my words and fantasies, mating cicadas or shock-causing yellow jackets remind me of other seasons. I remember the stripping of peace, the long waits at the Hospital, not knowing how much time I have to make theatre and dances.

But, August is glorious. Fall and Winter will come, but now the garden plants are celebrating with me, lifting their foliage up to the blessed sky.

The bird songs build like ending salvos of the Timpani, a symphony. Rustling pine limbs at the river’s edge sway in the breeze. Even the spiders want to dance outside, as the sun creates magic when it hits lacy strands of phosphorescent webs on the side of the deck. In August, I sway and say, “Let’s see what comes next.”

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