It used to be called post-performance let-down, and I haven't experienced it for a while. Once you start performing regularly, the end of each individual performance is merely an opportunity to get your shit together for the next one. This June, however, is the perfect storm: I gave 14 performances in two months, self-produced three, and then stepped off the cliff into complete giglessness.
Not to mention that I am otherwise unemployed and entering the second-to-last month of my lease. That kind of stuff will throw you.
I have responded with fortitude and vigor. Which is to say, I have been lying around napping and watching episodes of The Bachelorette while attempting to subsist on a diet of bread and cheese.
Ennui: so classy.
Sure, there've been a couple of novels in there, and a chore or two, but overall I've been drifting. The Bachelorette is emblematic of this drift: watching it feels vauguely like pleasure and vaguely like punishment, the force of both blunted by the benumbing brainlessness of the contestants. Dialogue this insipid CANNOT BE MADE UP. It's so bad it's inspirational. I will shut down the synapses of three quarters of my brain and live in happy witlessness with a shirtless yahoo named Hunter. Yes We Can!
Only it's too late and I've grasped the show's deeper meaning: The Bachelorette is a bowdlerized, three-legged version of The Wings of the Dove, in which an enterprising young man, out to make his fortune and further his own ends, woos and wins a wealthy heiress. Only wealth in this case is the lucre of life on the C-List...
Even IMMORALITY is deteriorating, people. God, I need more cheese.