Seattle, Washington
Written in mid-August 2008

AUGUST

Intensive tango is over for me for the summer. A strong festival and two performance evenings of Tango Cabaret have zipped by. As I write I gaze across the room and smile at my dancing partner.

Louise: Orange-red hair, pink dress, gold shoes, scarlet lipstick. With an enigmatic, enchanting Mona Lisa smile on her expressive face.

Louise, I regret to say, is in fact a full-size lady orangutan. A stuffed animal. We danced together at the cabaret. She follows well. I could have easily made some very flashy moves with Louise. Swung her around my neck, thrown her up in the air or slid her between my legs. Like the professional dancers from Argentina did in the cabaret show.

In my role as master of ceremonies, I did say to the audience, after some spectacular dancing by the Argentinians, that the Surgeon General of Argentina asked me to warn that tango dancing could be dangerous to your health. You should not try some of the flashier moves made by the professionals unless an aid car and a medic were standing by.

Or, of course, unless your partner is a stuffed orangutan. (Louise is smiling.)

Less than three weeks before September. This part of August always has touches of nostalgia and tension in it. Already there are memories of the summer of 2008 in the scrapbook of my mind. Already the far off Olympics are underway. Already the days are noticeably shorter. Already the fiercest heat of summer is past. Already the list of things I was going to accomplish this summer has been revised by reality.

Why is it I think the three months of summer are going to be longer than any other three months of the year? And I will be more efficient and energetic?

I did actually manage to triage and reorganize my basement - because it was the only cool place in the house during a mini-heat wave. And moving the boxes of stuff as far as the garage is, despite the opinion of others, progress.
Next summer I will clean out the garage. These things take time.

Already the incoming mail and calls and e-mails aimed at me in my office are about September and the fall. People are back from vacation, getting geared up for an energetic plunge into busyness. Immediate reply required.

No. Not me. Not quite yet. There are still the late summer farmer’s markets to attend - sweet corn and tomatoes and late peaches and melons and wild salmon are in season. County fairs and music concerts at the zoo.  A parade or two. The lake is finally warm enough to swim in. And the evenings soft enough to sit outside in lantern light and talk with old friends visiting from out of town. There’s no reason to run for the work train of the world just yet.

Though I slop along looking back over my shoulders at oncoming September, the sanest voice in my head reminds me: there are still days to go. September will come, no matter what. And running to meet it is not quite as fine a plan as strolling in its inevitable direction. One is always free to choose one’s attitude and one’s pace and one’s focus.

The last summer full moon rises up on the 16th.
I have reserved seat tickets for the performance.