“The end,” ran that noisome scrawl, “is here. No more ice—the man looked and ran away. Warmer every minute, and the tissues can’t last. I fancy you know—what I said about the will and the nerves and the preserved body after the organs ceased to work.”
(Lovecraft, Cool Air)
27 degrees Celsius (81 F) inside; 31 C (88 F) outside, and this is supposed to be the Finnish countryside, a place where to holiday in after a year of work and a week of conference-business? This is madness! Lunacy! Some unnatural dreamworld abysm of inversion and blackest contempt of all natural law, a green demon pit of gasping life ringed by malevolent crimson suns ceaselessly a-shining and turning on screaming bearings of glow-white iron, all under a sky covered with jostling rings of corpulent blue daylight moons dripping the molten effluvia of unnamable sooty blasphemy, a place of sweating silent greenery, the silence broken by nothing but the warbling of some Satan’s mocking torment-bird chittering its idiot laughter over the fate of the sweat-beaded sons and suffering daughters of Finn, kissed by winds as warm as the breath of a putrescence-hot grave, a wrongness where thick gelatinous formless invisible things of sluggish warmth flow and slip in place of cool air!
You may have noticed I do not like summer as much as I like winter.
More lucidly, 35.9 C (96.6 F) is the all-time temperature record for Finland, and it seems this is a good summer and a good coming week for shattering it. This, I say, is foul and unbearable and makes my Finnish heart (stone and ice and a touch of fey madness) wish for a nuclear winter. (“Halloo? Kan jou kontakt me to Mr. Opama? I hav a rekuest. Koult jou nuklear pomp Sveden so ve in Finnlant voult hav nuklear vinter? Tank jou veri mats.”)
In other news, back from the math shindig. Was nice, as mathematicians are a.e. nice people… oh wait, shouldn’t do heavy math jokes anymore. Let me try again: we mathematicians are generally speaking nice people, because we’re too clueless to be vicious, and too absent-minded to be more formal than one needs to be.
Now I’m off to the casket-style freezer, to ponder if I could burrow in there between the squamous and rugose frozen vegetables and yesteryear’s frost-shrouded elder berries, to temperatures more fitting for me of frozen Kadath in the cold waste, which is Finland.