Self-sabotage as wake-up call

This morning I was trying to decide whether my life is a story by Henry James, by James Joyce, or by Franz Kafka (dorky? yes, but these little sorts of brainstorming exercises help me transition my lit class from one author/style/movement to another). Many James stories feature characters who realize only when it's too late to do anything that they haven't truly lived their fullest potential lives; often these folks are successful and seem content, but somehow they missed out on love or emotional attachment or true depth of feeling. Joyce's stories of course feature an epiphany, or a moment of supreme clarity and self-awareness, in which the character involved sees all of his faults and comes to understand his life is a fraud and his persona is completely manufactured and his motives false and corrupt. The ego is left vulnerable at such moments, and is capable of redemption. Kafka, on the other hand, creates (at least in "The Metamorphosis" and "The Hunger Artist") central characters who are so alienated, so distanced from themselves, their culture, their true passion, and removed by a decaying culture from true labor and regligious significance and actual emotion as to become less than human beings. Gregor Samsa--trapped in a false job for a false wage for false reasons and at the command of false duties--is incapable of questioning his role in the world, even while he chafes under the yoke of capitalist brutalization. As a result his repressed hopes and fears and angst erupt in a bizarre outward manifestation as some sort of insect. The only clues we get to his hopes and dreams? A small wooden frame he carved himself (and into which he puts an advertisement clipped from a magazine), and his secret desire to save enough money to send his sister to violin lessons, thus giving her a form of creative expression his lot in life has denied him.

I took a brief nap today before coming to work, falling into a disturbed and feverish dream because of these thoughts. I slept for at most 10 minutes before waking with a start. I'm not in a James story, I've already had numerous epiphanies, and I've yet to outwardly manifest the failure to find my true work in a monstrous transformation (though my readings of Tibetan Buddhists tell me that having skin cancer is often exactly that--a wake-up call that some hidden discontent is festering within).

So what the fuck?

Ferocity gestured frantically at me, hissing and waving and ducking behind her Dell monitor shortly after I arrived at work. I'd crept upstairs to see if there were any packages for me, had dropped off a received item, only to hear "pssst! psst" and notice this urgent attempt to get my attention.

Must be good gossip, I thought, but no. Apparently Nick had told her to caution me because I left my 'blog up on the ILL terminal. Very strange, given that I'm extremely cautious about such things, but my PC was off the 'net briefly yesterday and in order to read Em's journal and search some stuff on Amazon I'd had to work on the ILL machine for a while. Nick was all like "he's lucky to have me to close that window out..."

Freud teaches us that we do this type of thing purposefully; there's a pre-conscious or un-conscious element of the psyche which wanted to sabotage me. Some part of me wanted this website to be left up on that PC so others could find it, either to alert me to focus on what I'd typed yesterday, or in the hopes I'd get in trouble. At first I thought "Oh my God, what if Y. or M. had seen that and all the shit I say on here about how I have nothing to do, and how goofy I think this place can be, and--even worse--what if Eskimo saw it and was hurt or pissed or both?" These thoughts vanished immediately. The fact is, I don't care. I was very fortunate that E. called out today--she and some students are the only ones who ever use that computer anyway. I was very fortunate that a supervisor or nosey Nellie of some sort didn't see it and report me. But so what if that had happened? Good! It would force my true feelings into the open, and allow more honest interaction, and possibly (if I were fired) cause me to DO something with my life.

Eh.

Julio rang last night and we chatted awhile about houses, family troubles, teaching and Aldous Huxley. This morning I had my best 102 meeting of the semester. We discussed "Looking at Women" by Scott Russell Sanders, and I went off the deep-end by deconstructing the marketing of Brittney Spears as a series of male pornographic fantasies--innocent school girl waiting to be taught many naughty things, virginal abstinence advocate who gets her boobs enlarged and says "I'm waiting until marriage," then who does a strip tease shortly thereafter with a snake. Virgin/whore--great stuff. Get the girls to beg daddy to buy all the products, and make sure daddy's perversions are stoked enough that he'll not only hand over the credit card, but will gladly take a carload of screaming 12-year olds to the concerts. Once daddy's in that cycle, he'll of course be unable to prevent young girls from dressing like Brittney, and they'll have to buy new clothes as well. So cynical, and yet so brilliant.

Now, I'm back at "work," alienated from labor that I don't even HAVE at this time. I'm listening to my Champs-Elysees french exercise CDs and blogging. Next I'll read other people's blogs. Then I'll read a bunch of news sites. Then tonight on the desk I'll grade papers and read Kafka for tomorrow morning, and L'Amant for class. It would be fucking GREAT if my boss read this!