Analysis brings no curative powers in its train; it merely makes
us conscious of the existence of an evil, which, oddly enough, is
The need to express oneself in writing springs from a
maladjustment to life...
It is the day after Christmas and the New Year looms ominously, the last in the present millennium. And what a millennium it has been, from the Norman Conquest to the invention of dry cleaning. However, this late-December cusp has never been a particularly good time for any but those witless scions of normalcy who would be better off dead in any case. So why is it so much worse this penultimate time around? That is the theme of today's little meditation.
We know there are certain Valued Readers who hate it when we interview ourselves in this fashion. But then, some percentage of you hates at least one of the many genres with which we have experimented over the years, so it pretty much doesn't matter which form we choose. Of course, you don't have to read this tacky suite of interrogatories, and for that you should count yourself lucky. We, in contrast, did have to write it. We had no choice in the matter. It was either write or die of ennui. We can only hope the following will provide others some solace -- that they are other, and not identical with any of our several selves.
Chris Locke: I gotta tell you, RB, I am truly bummed.
RageBoy®: Yeah? Me too. Maybe it's that SAD thing -- Seasonal Affective Disorder or whatever. Whaddya think? That's sorta tony these days...
CL: I dunno. I hate those crypto-medical explanations. Sure, maybe it's just depression, but what does that really mean? It just seems like a fancy way of saying you're bummed out. I'm bummed out.
RB: So if not S.A.D., then what? Been grappling with the Grand Narratives again, have you? The One and The Many? The Great Chain of Being? History? Death? The Afterlife? All those head crackers they put inside the bindings of the The Great Books? You know that shit'll fuck you up.
CL: No, that's not it. I stopped thinking about all that. At least