Who can ignore the maddening scuttle that fills these darkened halls?

Winter is coming.  Outside words manifest themselves in ghostly spirits from our lips and the snow weeps in drifts. I wonder, is it a thing of beauty or of terror? I suppose it depends on what universe you live in. For some, the chilly white will mean it’s time to decide which brand of iPod they would like this Christmas, others will wonder if they’ll survive. George R.R. Martin calls a bleak winter from a gilded bugle.  If I lived in Westeros during the snow’s descent I may be stringing up ropes, one for each of member of my family, just to get it over with. (Mr. Martin, when does the dance with the dragons begin?). An Irish singer rings in a vibrant season, nutmeg scented, warm and silvery, but not without its ghosts (say what you will, but her music will forever remind me of my nomad father and the inevitable scent of cigarettes and pine; let’s not forget when she lent her seraphic voice to Frodo’s epic ). The Flaming Lips are throwing a long overdue party on Mars, that will no doubt contain deranged santamen, screeching aliens, and effectively turn anyone who watches it inside out.  I also hear there’s a Lich King what raises zombie dragons with a sword . . . but that needs neither link nor mentioning, does it?  I’m pretty sure most of you are pursuing his frosty highness now as opposed to reading this.  2009 could not come any slower.

With all these things forming from the snow, it is no time for hibernation. The humid climate makes cold a living thing.  She undresses you and finds your spine with her fingers.  So I must shut myself in and by the volcanic breath of the creature on my wall, I must wait.  I’ll explore one jungle and another, see what escapes from my own cortex.  I’ll let my hair grown long, my beard grow to my knees.  When I wake, the world will be erased by the drifts, the people frozen into screaming popsicles.

In order to face the white pupiless eyes of winter, I must once again bow to the black beast (no, not heroin . . . coffee). A liquid void that keeps me warm, but puts the wild in me, my responses all fangs and black words.

But Winter is only beginning to open its icicle ribcage.  How are you gearing up?

-C

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 16th, 2008 at 12:00 am and is filed under All Comics, Incompletes. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.