indigo kimono : urban outfitters
"It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water." -- Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex
It is partially, I think, a habit of rereading his novels in the summer time, and part his uncanny descriptions of American suburbia overcome swarming with heat stroke -- but a hot summer day seems always to make me feel as though I'm living in the midst of a Jeffrey Eugenides book. I equate his writing with this season. In such a way that they cannot be divorced. I said to someone the other day that at any given time, my life is 10% waiting for Jeffrey Eugenides to publish a new book. I think this figure might increase to 50% in the summertime.
Summer is a set-apart season, because it is not defined of its own accord...but by its relativity. Its extremeness. Its encroaching, unbearable heat. Which becomes the most wonderful thing in the world, in that moment of pure enlightenment when you are so incomprehensibly hot that you're thrust into existential crises about the stuff around you and your relationship to it, and what you're doing with your life, and are you happy about it, and what do you really want -- and I find, historically, I can only answer these questions in the flushed itchiness of summertime. It is my season of unbecoming and becoming again.
Summer can be magic if you let it.