Saturday, 16 April, 2011 Christian / 56 after Bearslaughter. 10 PM. A small apartment in a small city in Finland. Diary.
I read the blog of a science fiction writer, and wish the pizza deliveries didn’t stop so unholy early here. But no can do; when the sun sets, the bearclans come out and it won’t be safe, not in a city as small and wooded as this. Lately they have even been shaved and stuffed into suits; if they learn the shibboleths too, there will not be anyone left in the morning. By the golden nail of the heavens’ pillar, how foolish we were to think the war was won, just because you can take a stroll in Helsinki without a bear-cane when the summer is high. Now the winter lingers, the knocking at the door comes more often, and less often is a man. But as long as the karhu don’t think to chew the Internet cables, I can still tell the world how we live. As long as… as the next winter isn’t as bad as this was, or there will be no-one to speak into the audient void.
Just the snow, the karhu, and the baying of Winter and his wolves.
So yes, a Saturday as usual in Finland.
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If the world is a great high school of nations, Finland is a nerd or a hick with more talents than self-confidence, and absolutely no social graces.
(Oh, and Finland is a girl. Most probably an eternal virgin.)
(And living next to a violent bully boy called Russia. And one with a sordid history of shared misadventures with the now oh-so-urbane lad Sweden who, in the dim childhood days of the 17th century, urged Finland to basically piss all over Germany when he, the poor disoriented chap, was down with a severe case of the Reformation. See Wikipedia on the Thirty Years' War for more on that.)