Earlier today I was playing a CD of favorite Russian melodies (Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic), and our disc player got stuck in a loop, which is happening more frequently as of late. A fragment of the soft clarinet introduction to Borodin’s In the Steppes of Central Asia kept repeating itself as seamlessly as if it had been written that way, and I had little desire to go fix it.
I couldn’t help but accept it as a vague metaphor—a somewhat melancholy, insidiously pleasant rut that would probably cause damage if allowed to continue…