It has not even been one whole month since the solstice, but may I just say that it seems like a long, dark winter. And even though, minute by minute at dusk and at dawn, I can sort of see--my circadian self sees--that there is empirically, categorically more light, I can't find it in me to celebrate this fact, because of you, My Proclivity for Complaint.
Yes, I am addressing you, a part of my self, as if I were Yeats writing that poem I parsed when I was an undergraduate. Except in this case, the Self I am writing to is, as it were, My Foul Moodiness, and the Soul I am writing to is you, My Proclivity for Complaint. I hope you see what I'm getting at here. I'm getting no relief. From myself.
Perhaps there is a philosopher who can give me a salutary smack, loosen up some stuck gear, get a little hopeful action happening in my brain and my, what's it called? limbic system. The part that doesn't have to think so much, that isn't required to sort out the horrible from the awful from the irritating, in order to make a Taxonomy of the Rotten.
Also, My Proclivity for Complaint, my dishwasher is really not getting the dishes clean. When I pull a fork out of the dishwasher and it feels a little bit crusty, that occurrence does not really allow me to show you the door, for good, because a crusty fork that is supposed to be clean is the paradigmatic instance of an occasion for complaint. And there you are, my trusty animus, all sour and full of pestilential verve. Yeah, that fork is pretty much the emblem of the demise of all order, all efforts to keep the darkness at bay. The barbarians are at the gate, and by God, they eat off dirty dishes, the ones that were supposed to be clean.
My Proclivity for Complaint, will you take yourself away if I wear pink shoes? if I turn up the radio? if the snow melts or the skies blue? Will you dissolve like dish soap if I start writing again? if I spring clean, even though it's not spring? Will February bring a sudden disappearance of you, what with Valentine's Day? or will March?
Or can I count on you to scintillate, sussurate, seethe and surl in every corner of my being, no matter the weather or circumstance or song or holiday?