It’s that hideous time of year.

Even with all the airconditioners at full capacity, I feel as though I may as well be sitting on the surface of the goddamn sun. The worst part is that I can practically feel myself getting slower and dumber in the heat.

Antonio Vivaldi hated summer. He had chronic asthma as a child, and so couldn’t go outside and play in the heat for very long without almost asphyxiating. Consequently, his ‘Summer’ movement from The Four Seasons isn’t exactly a happy, playing-on-the-beach, ideal Australian summer. It’s more of a wilting, withering, muggy, dangerous, nighttime thunderstorm kind of summer.

He wrote a little sonnet to go with it:

Beneath the blazing sun’s relentless heat
men and flocks are sweltering,
pines are scorched.
We hear the cuckoo’s voice; then sweet songs of the turtle dove and finch are heard.
Soft breezes stir the air… but threatening north wind sweeps them suddenly aside.
The shepherd trembles, fearful of violent storm and what may lie ahead.
His limbs are now awakened from their repose by fear of lightning’s flash and thunder’s roar, as gnats and flies buzz furiously around.
Alas, his worst fears were justified, as the heavens roar and great hailstones beat down upon the proudly standing corn.

I’m with you, Tony. The next Ice Age cannot come quick enough.