Cheering up the world while sitting in my chair

Yes, that’s what I’m doing. I’m interacting with people (or their virtual representatives) from China, Taiwan, Sweden, Portugal, England, Australia, France, and who knows where else. I’m taking care of their virtual animals. Oh, what a warm feeling it brings. I earn money by stroking these virtual pets in a Facebook application called “Fluff Friends,” in a kind of innocent virtual affection trade. Then I use that money (or “munny”) to buy various types of “food,” with which I gift the strangers’ pets now and again (admittedly, most of the “food” is consumed by my own virtual pet, a Land Giraffe named “Madame Y.”) I also buy “habitats” and “decorations” for Madame Y, as well as a series of “Minis,” or little friends to keep her company. These “Minis,” like most children, slaves, and real pets, cannot earn money, even for other people. They are not pettable. They are dispensable, and can even be given away as gifts.
Though I do have access to a vast number of virtual pets, and thus, a vast number of glimpses into the virtual decorating, eating, and commenting habits of their owners, I nevertheless am not “free to be me.” I must keep up with the virtual Joneses. Many pet owners change their habitats for the holidays: every holiday from Hannukah to Fourth of July. New decorations must be purchased; new gifts must be distributed so that one’s pet page won’t be sporting an empty Easter basket or Christmas stocking. One, in fact, gives in order to receive. That’s how it’s all set up.
For those who simply MUST shine, there are credit card options available for purchasing an “artsier than thou” environment, or fancier decorations and minis, with one’s REAL MONEY. Some folks buy multiples of things in order to create interesting background patterns on their page. Some use the application to create art, pictures that can be glanced at for a moment and appreciated, or possibly transmit something about another culture’s visual preferences. Some of these pages are missing the Fluff Friend entirely, the virtual pet originally chosen, and feature only myriads of Minis in starry skies, or feasts of flowers and hearts.
I don’t believe a Fluff Friend can “die,” although those who have not been “visited” by their owners for weeks may plead for others to send the owner a reminder. Peer pressure is encouraged here, I am not sure to what end. Now that I have my Madame Y, it seems a shame to abandon her, but others feel no such shame about abandoning their virtual Racoons, Pigs, Puppies, or Chicks. Many of these languish unvisited, unpetted, and unfed, providing neither munny nor joy for their owners, who apparently have “real” lives, or are playing more active/violent virtual games.
The idea of being able to “give” something, to make others “happy” with a few clicks of the mouse and a few minutes of time is irresistible, however, to some. It takes the messiness out of real-world charitable giving or volunteer work, and provides instant feedback. One is THANKED, one is petted, one is connected, one is able to identify with others on the safest possible level, from the privacy and comfort of one’s own home. I am reminded of the Buddhist meditative practice of breathing in the evils of the world, and breathing out love. What is really happening with this practice? Is world suffering eased? It can’t be verified. Neither can the “benefits” of Fluff Friends. I rest my case.

The Ultimate Reality

Having just finished final grading for my first English class, I must have been relieved, exhilarated, disappointed, understood that achievement is relative—all those things. Because a dream that followed that night was extraordinary, and left me with a feeling I’d been allowed a glimpse of the ultimate “reality.”

It took place in and around a museum that kept expanding, becoming more like a castle, and then like an entire city, but still all one building, with halls that were sometimes streets; rooms that were sometimes entire mansions, and all at varying levels. An exhibition was about to open, and I was helping. The small room I was working in held a model of the base of an obelisk. The model was of styrofoam, painted gold, which I discovered when I accidentally broke off part of it. Distressed, I left the room, and noticed that other rooms were being filled with antique furniture. Outside was a model of the entire obelisk, but it had fallen over due to the wind. It, too, was of styrofoam. I didn’t know whether I should be relieved that others had had problems with the exhibits too, or if I should tell the woman supervising the re-erection of the outdoor obelisk about my breaking the other exhibit. Before I could say much, a golden object fell from the sky. It was a tiny piece of armor, just the chest part of it. It was made for a monkey, I knew. But inside it were other objects, including an ancient gold coin, which the woman gave to me despite my murmuring that I did not deserve it.

Coin in hand, I ascended some stairs and revisited the room where the obelisk base had been, but someone had substituted another exhibit. My worry gone, I went to a balcony that overlooked a landscape, and sat down in a chair. I soon became overwhelmed by the view to the extent that I no longer had the faintest idea that I might be dreaming; this was reality. I would never wake from it, never leave it, never grow tired of it. I knew the privilege of seeing this perfect sight of hills, clouds, and sun was somehow due to the coin in my hand. The clouds moved continuously in a hypnotic swirling motion, creating bursts of sunlight and shade in my eyes. There was no sign of sentient life, let alone “civilization.” All the forces necessary to Understanding and Experience and Acceptance were contained in this view, and although there was a feeling of slightly fearful awe, I knew I would never lose sight of this; it was the ultimate reality.

When I did wake up, I was neither disappointed nor relieved. My own familiar “reality” was adequate and pleasant. But I now suspect it is not the ultimate one.

I feel that individual waking “consciousness” is divided into at least two parts. One consists of seemingly coherent thoughts that are in words or images, and these are necessarily contaminated by the “superego,” and/or influences on same. The other part is simply unknown, and may show itself (move into consciousness) as impulses or emotional responses. I am lately very aware of how the necessity to fill out a certain bureaucratic form, for instance, having to do with my full-time job (at which I strive to be conscientious, at least worth the money they are paying me) interferes completely and painfully with the “unknown” part of my consciousness. There is so little silence. And silence is necessary. It should be a given, not a treasure that one has to steal. And by silence, I mean a reprieve from certain roles whose fulfillment requires constant conscious self-admonition. That’s what “Fall Break” should be about. But it’s not. Not for secretaries. I guess what I’m saying is quite simple. It’s the reason people shout, “T-G-I-F-!” and the like. But there have been times when I’ve been able to hitch the two kinds of consciousness together, and not need a break at all. Some of these times have to do with teaching, being a “person” in front of a class. Trying to convince them it’s worth it to put some time into writing well. Because I know everyone CAN do it. It’s our human heritage. At these times, my two types of consciousness come together. At other times, however, when I’m NOT teaching and am in my other role, I feel, not for the first time, like Cinderella, only with no ball or prince in sight. Oh, I know it’s not “all about me,” but one can only be servile for so long before it becomes a fetish that might be worth joining a recovery group to eliminate. Yes, I feel like a teacher with a secretarial fetish.

Teaching

I never really understood what it involved, although I've enjoyed almost every class I've taken. Mostly, I enjoyed following the talk of the professor (whoever it may have been) with an eye out for something with which to disagree, or for some point upon which I could digress. I felt free to burst out with statements when the spirit moved me. I must have been obnoxious, but I often felt as if I were riding in some boat down a turbulent stream with a few other people, and that making sudden declarations was like commenting on the water (which we were all watching) and on the sturdiness of the boat (which some of us might have been worried about). Or, as in the still from Fellini's "La Strada" (above), I would feel I was watching a circus performer whose credentials were ultimately unknown. Since I wanted to be a circus performer too, I would have no choice but to suspend disbelief.

It turns out I'm not that great a lecturer, although I certainly could work on it if I looked upon it as a performance. But that would mean two performances per week, and my natural rhythm is, like, two (studied and contrived) performances per year. I do care about my students, though, and I e-mailed each one of them regarding their "brainstorming" notes for their first essay (a mere two-pager). The essay is to be on Kate Chopin short stories, "The Storm," and "The Story of an Hour." The main female character in each story is, according to most of the students, "cheating," and "selfish," respectively. I don't believe this is what Kate Chopin intended to convey. Have expectations for women's potential and behaviors not changed since the 1890s? I suppose not. For these young people, the 1960s never happened.

In "Deschooling Society," the late Ivan Illich wrote:

"Universal education through schooling is not feasible. It would be no more feasible if it were attempted by means of alternative institutions built on the style of present schools. Neither new attitudes of teachers toward their pupils nor the proliferation of educational hardware or software (in classroom or bedroom), nor finally the attempt to expand the pedagogue's responsibility until it engulfs his pupils' lifetimes will deliver universal education. The current search for new educational funnels must be reversed into the search for their institutional inverse: educational webs which heighten the opportunity for each one to transform each moment of his living into one of learning, sharing, and caring..."

I have always thought the position of "professor" to be rather strange, even though I fell under its hierarchical spell when I was in college. I cannot believe that the people who show up for my class don't have ways of learning without me. What I have to share with them is what I happen to be interested in, but only for my own reasons. I am supposed to be teaching them "how to write," but the formulas I have been urged to tout have never been the ones I have used in my lifetime of writing. This makes me feel divided, and sometimes a fake.

Yet still, I want them to look up to me and come to me for some sort of "advice." I don't care what about, though.