The Passing Of Time Through Winter

The future is inherently a good thing. And we move into it one winter at a time.

Things get better one winter at a time. So if you're going to celebrate, have a drink on this: the world is, generally and on balance, a better place to live this year than it was last year.

Those are the words of Spider Jerusalem, writer Warren Ellis' take on a Hunter S. Thompson-like journalist in the future; they are taken from the very last page of the fourth volume in the Transmetropolitan series, called The New Scum, in which a new President is elected to the U.S. Ironically, they were written and published in the year 2000.

Transmetropolitan currently sits atop my line of favourite books, along with other comics Preacher and The Walking Dead.

It's funny that I happened to read this volume again, for perhaps the tenth time, today, if only because tonight marked the final in a five-night series that I was outside putting up posters for a show happening on the 18th at La Sala Rossa, for supergroup Magic Christian, comprised of members of Flamin' Groovies and Blondie, among others.

Five nights during which I froze my balls in minus-30 weather, with a windchill I hadn't felt in years. And last night was the worst. I actually witnessed the temperature go down at least 5 degrees in mere seconds, with the swoop of one short blow of wind, at precisely 2:10AM. It was decently cold, with the wind providing extra chill to the fingertips, but without exaggeration, when out of the blue a tiny whirlwind of a weirdly milder wind came and took over Parc Avenue for a few seconds, just enough to make you realize something wasn't quite right, and as soon as it died off, it became colder than death in an instant.

It was yet another proof that Nature is a much stronger beast than we bipeds, but I know for one I didn't need any. It was also a reminder that February is coming at full speed and we Montrealers should just lock ourselves inside and hide/hibernate for 28 days and just order out, fuck, and play Playstation and let the whole world go right by past us for a month.

And if Jerusalem's/Ellis' words are to be true, it's so fucking cold out there right now that this particular winter should signify the death of the past decade completely - what with its 80s-revivals, shitty music, brand new and brand old wars, political tragedies and all-out fucking up of our way of Life - and bring about some actual, consistent, lasting change. For The Better (not sure why I need to add this in particular, but I've been unlucky with my wishes the past few years, in case you can't tell).

It's not in my genes, in my upbringing, in my habits. Perhaps it can be, although I'm quite happy being skeptical and realistic - but I'm actually hoping for Hope. It feels juvenile and stupid, but set against a backdrop of 100 km/h winds outside my window pushing a growing cemetary of white snow in minus-40 degree weather merely 5 inches from my face, a bottle of Jack Daniel's in my right hand, it's all I can muster up that feels right.

That, and putting this text to rest so I can go meet the Lady Of The House in bed.

Good night.

Tell-Tale Signs Of Shitty Days To Come

Get to a street that's usually crowded, but it's not. Understandable, 7AM is no time to exist. If anything, early-birds should wake up at this time, or die. Which is the point, isn't it? Because on this Monday morning, on Sainte-Catherine street, a bird commits suicide. Falls right off a tree branch, falls neck first on the asphalt and stops moving. Forever. Right across the street from me, becomes car fodder.

Chances are it was a natural death, and it just fell. Or that it had broken wings and couldn't escape its fate. But it could also be that it couldn't bear to live in this place. Not like this. Not in this day and age. A bird like Hunter S. Thompson, like Elliott Smith. Man we're fucked if it's come to this.

And it does, indeed seem like it's the case, when one of the busiest patches of circulation cement is so desolate, the sky is so grey, the world's economy is on the brink of collapsing, wars are raging, Elections are happening and seemingly complementary with possibilities of hostile Conservatism takeovers... I could understand why a bird wouldn't want to live here anymore.

Sure, there are pieces of paradise in the Caribbean, but can't the birds sense danger looming? Perhaps the prettiest islands on earth are also doomed.

And some species are more apt at survival. Rats, locusts, roaches, vermin. Birds can fly away, but if you take away their desire to fly, break their wings by breaking their minds, their spirit - they will be left with nothing. Just like us. We mostly seem to be able to take it, some of us barely, a few can't at all. It's a wonder why we do, though. We are fully aware that there are too many of us in this world, not only for comfort, but also for the planet's ressources and balance. And billions of us go on with misery, unhappiness, useless stress, obeying corporate or actual masters for no good reason at all. You've got to know Keith Richards knew what he was doing when he fell out of that tree a few years ago. He knew. He had decided. He missed. And The Beast took him back in, told him he had better not do it again, and off he went Rolling Stoning again with his buddies, ridding the world of half of its drug-and-alcohol content selflessly, as a one-man sniffing task force.

But birds, eh? Way to start the day. One has to end for another one to start? Good thing I ever hardly sleep, I'm doing more than my part. But as the sun was coming up this morning on a grey artery that barely keeps the city's blood alive, the light seemed terribly dark.