A Cubicle. Capital. And The Revelation.

Good morning, wary travelers of the world-wide web! I thank you for stumbling upon my page.

I write today to express certain feelings I've gathered after my (so far) short, yet very enlightening period of time spent in an 8' X 8' cubicle. I am surrounded by grey, floral-printed cloth, seated in a chair much larger than the average bear (yes, I enjoy Yogi Bear cartoons), with my office supplies neatly organized around me. In front of my faintly bewildered face (as it is still early in the morning and I have not bothered to paint my visage as of yet [and will likely not do so for the rest of the day]), is an astoundingly large piece of paper with a list of "Things-To-Be-Done" for the report-writing that I did approximately a week ago.

Why, you ask, do I have this piece of roughly scribbled-on paper still tacked to my cubicle (hereafter referred to as "The Cube") wall?

It is a fine piece of office art, is my answer. Yes, friends, for today I have come to realize that although The Cube possesses subtle hints of my individuality (a piece of notepad on which BE POSITIVE is written in block letters with a huge smile drawn beside it, a Harry Potter book placed carefully on the corner of my curvy desk, and two boxes of tupperware, one with dry Honey-Nut Cheerios in it), I crave more. More pens and pencils when I know that I will only use one or two during the course of my term, more pieces of official-looking paper that have meeting minutes on them, MORE trinkets such as Post-It notepads in different colours, hand sanitizer bottles, and lotion containers, and EVER MORE material possessions that can assist me in claiming my domain, in showing every co-worker who flits by The Cube that this is MY work area, filled with interesting little pieces of merchandise, the most of which is a violently purple door-hanger embroidered with a dancing monkey, claiming that it is either "born to dance" (an open invitation to enter The Cube), or that it is "all boogied out -- keep out!" (a clear indication that I am currently away on seemingly important business matters, or that I have gone home for the day). But I find myself asking, why must I feel the need to occupy my work space with material goods?

The answer: CAPITAL. I enjoy purchasing items. I feel satisfied that I can adorn my cube with THINGS. As much as I would like to say that I am upper-middle-class, that I have certain luxuries not available to others (which is true), popular education has taught me otherwise: labelled me as a lowly student with an agency job serving the public, likewise known as a poor old sod in the petit bourgeoisie, in Marxian terms (though I do not consider myself a true Marxist, I do enjoy what he brings to the table). What right do I have, buying papers and pens and other supplies to make myself happy? Am I -really- at the top of the food chain, when someone else makes these things for my pleasure? I would say NOT.

The true kings in the world are, and I deviate from the obvious leaders with heap-loads of disposable income, those who do not answer to anyone. The vagabonds, the 'liberated spirits', the obviously care-free souls who have really no business in the corporate junkyard we call our jobs, professions, and qualifications. Hats-off to them, I say. For, despite the fact that I would once have categorized myself as such, I am constantly plagued with the disease of self-assurance through social acceptance. The yearning for a place in league with the capitalist giants that will grant me heap-loads of disposable income so that I can perhaps decorate my work space with -real- fine works of art, my desk with complicated, intellectual pieces of writing composed by me and other gurus, and my walls with awards and medals telling the world to look at me while I succeed, and while it fails so miserably at being as great as I am. Oh, THE PRESTIGE!

But I shake my head and laugh at the thought of one day being a millionaire, a billionaire, a some-really-really-large-illionaire. Because I know that, although I am now part of the corporate world, I can never reach the top without resorting to exploiting others around me, which is something I vow never to do. I cannot lie, cheat, or steal. I have not the physical or mental capacity to invent something totally revolutionary (or, as is the norm today, an extension of something totally revolutionary).

Too bad.

I really would have liked a Dali on The Cube. But I guess an astoundingly large piece of paper with a list of "Things-To-Be-Done" for the report-writing that I did approximately a week ago will just have to do.