Terdhajlat

The day is still warm in the pavement beneath my feet as I flip my shoes off on my side of the street.
I love this summerness, or rather, it seems later, this is the summerness I love. Not the searing wet heat of the sun at noontime, but this muted, shaded night-time summer. Bringer of voluptuous frangipani smells that waft over me like a heavy scarf. Heat making the illusion of stars simmer, tremble at the edges.

There is something sensuous about heat like this at night. Not the dense blanket of unbreathing in a closed bedroom, but this festival heat - illusory lights and jaunty music, crowds milling despite Monday. Skin-revealing, smile-making enveloping summer.

Hamvas Bela wrote, in his Philosophy of Wine that the most sensuous part of a woman, the place where her essence is smelt is the bend of her knee. Terdhajlat.
I remember reading the slim green volume in Budapest, aged twenty perhaps, still naive (and still!) enough to sigh at such description. Now I think perhaps Hamvas had had more wine than philosophy, but perhaps there is something to be said for that difference. I can picture cool shadows in a springtime meadow, wine with a proper cork, skirt lifted to just above the knee and sunshine abandon. I like this emerging. It's the winter retreating I fear, but seriously, after this much 800% humidity, I am ready to sweat less.