8.31.2000 - 12:56:33

sometimes i wish i could wander into people's heads and figure out what they're really thinking. we all wear faces. we're all interchangeable parts. today in my postmodern class, we discussed the love song of j. alfred prufrock, which happens to be one of my favorite poems by my favorite poet of all time. we discussed the sentence 'it is impossible to say just what i mean.' for about an hour. literally. and in the end, it was just so depressing. the inadequacy of language to communicate what we want, no, what we NEED to say. the way we use the term 'i' to signify uniqueness, a sense of self, while the word itself is a shifting, abstract entity with no identity of its own, much less a fitting term to serve as a descriptor of YOUR self. when you say 'i,' you mean, you. but when i say 'i,' i mean me. how can a word like that really represent any sort of essence of selfhood? it can't. and what does that mean in terms of our being? does it mean that we do not possess a self? and yet, we continue to use the word 'i.' i think it's because we cling to that belief that we are special. somehow. and if we keep talking, keep saying i, well, maybe we'll accidentally stumble upon 'that thing' that makes us different. special. unique. us. me. i.

we talked about the ford motor company in my history class today. about how the workers all were transformed into automatons with the advent of the endless conveyor belt. i started thinking about mao II, about the idea of simulacrm, about millions of reproductions without an original, cds, videos, dvds, tapes, magazines, millions of reproductions with the same value, the same meaning, the same lack of significance. and then i think about the workers at ford motor, human versions of this concept, interchangeable parts, nothing more. and then i think about myself. an interchangeable part. see, this is what depresses me.

in prufrock, silence is a preemptive strike that protects against misunderstandings, as language is inadequate to communicate what really needs to be said. therefore, it is better not to speak at all and thus avoid the confusion that will result (without a doubt) if we attempt to put our meaning into words. and when considering this in the scope of the whole poem, prufrock's inaction is a preemptive strike that protects him from the meaninglessness of the world. he knows what is to come; he has been there before, and so we watch him, assured by this knowledge, and still, unable to let go of the feeling that he is wasting time, that he is letting opportunities slip by. and how do we escape that trap? prufrock's solution should have been suicide, but he is so characterized by inaction that this move would have been horribly incongruous. i have questions about this sort of thing for my prof, and i'm just a little nervous that in the end, the sort of question i'm asking is 'what is the meaning of life?' 'why go on?' and i know he's a professor, and he's smart, and he's read lots of books, but yo.

that's a lot of pressure to put on someone.

but i'll let you know if i hear anything earthshaking.

i register for my harp lessons tomorrow.

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