I have been trying for several days to write something short and humorous about how I often find myself listening to The Music Of Your Life when I drive around, especially in the morning, but the task has defeated me. It is a thin subject for humor to begin with, and this week in particular all my capacity for mirth seems to be drained out of me. When my Internet connection was knocked out during a thunderstorm at 2am as I strained to reach some conclusion to my main argument that Engelbert Humperdinck's 1976 hit "After the Lovin'" was an especially unnatural and unsexy piece of art, I accepted it as a sign to employ my life and mind on more worthy subjects.
My frame of mind this week has been unusually blank and pessimistic even for me, which makes it difficult to write about anything. I am experienced enough with these low sorts of spirits to know that it will pass, or at least be moderated, though how or why this happens remains mysterious to me. My present mode of life in my present state of mind seems unbearable to continue in, yet I lack any mental force at this time even to conceive what realistically might be done, let alone bring it about. I have at the moment lost in my mind my connection, or my imagined connection, even with literature and all other areas of learning in which I formerly believed myself to have some stake, and in which I took my consolation. This complete collapse of any identity with the interesting parts of the world will pass and maybe in a week a different spirit will be apparent on these pages. Right now attempting to think, talk, read or write seems utterly pointless and hopeless, however. Would that the burst of intelligence that only can clear mood would come upon me.