Writer's nonclinical analysis - Is this a Kafka upgrade?
Obviously, I'm not a literary theorist. Yet, this imaginative "Shouts and Murmurs" by Cirocco Dunlap, published in the September 16, 2019, The New Yorker, seemed "Kafka like", in my opinion.
How is it that insects can become metaphors, weirdly used to visually represent transcending life experiences? Kafka's bug was not delicate, it became too big to hide under a bed. The Metamorphosis analogy (link here) probably represented the political monster that was brewing in Europe during the first decades in the 20th century. Dunlap's bug, on the other hand, hides in the ceiling, where life seems to be much simpler.
Or, maybe, a bug is just a bug.
Or course, Kafka was like Dunlap, both genuinely creative writers.So, I am posting Dunlap's essay for the readers to evaluate for yourselves:
Kudos to this literary creativity!
Title: It's Not You
Cirocco Dunlap- I woke up on Tuesday as a bug, and my boyfriend did not want to work through it.
“We have to break up,” he said, and I could feel the floating organ on my back, which had taken the place of my human heart, start to break.
“Can we try to make it work?” I pleaded, though it came out as a series of garbled clicks.
I should have seen it coming. He smelled different, you know? Clean and fresh, and there was little to no feces on him that I wanted to ingest. Isn’t that strange? When someone who once smelled like home suddenly repulses you with his lack of a feces scent? Love is brutal.
He said that, ever since that morning, I’d had “wandering eyes.” In fact, I had twenty-six wandering eyes, but they weren’t looking at attractive young pupae. They were looking at flying predators, at crawling prey, and, mostly, at him, the love of my life. But also mostly at danger, because everything in this new world wants to eat me.
“I’m not feeling supported in this relationship,” he offered by way of explanation, and I understood that to my core. Mainly because I was now a bug, and because he hadn’t even considered offering me a leaf.
I had concrete ideas about how we could make things better. We’d pile a few mounds of dirt on my side of the bed, and we’d make our relationship an open one so that I could have a colony. We’d turn the temperature up very high and leave rotted food around so that I could feel at home.
And I, for my part, would pretend that time didn’t move radically differently for me now, and that I could still understand television. I would sit for aeons in front of a screaming wall of light if it meant that I could stay with him. I would perch in his palm, and things would be different, maybe even better.
“We have to break up,” he said, and I could feel the floating organ on my back, which had taken the place of my human heart, start to break.
“Can we try to make it work?” I pleaded, though it came out as a series of garbled clicks.
I should have seen it coming. He smelled different, you know? Clean and fresh, and there was little to no feces on him that I wanted to ingest. Isn’t that strange? When someone who once smelled like home suddenly repulses you with his lack of a feces scent? Love is brutal.
He said that, ever since that morning, I’d had “wandering eyes.” In fact, I had twenty-six wandering eyes, but they weren’t looking at attractive young pupae. They were looking at flying predators, at crawling prey, and, mostly, at him, the love of my life. But also mostly at danger, because everything in this new world wants to eat me.
“I’m not feeling supported in this relationship,” he offered by way of explanation, and I understood that to my core. Mainly because I was now a bug, and because he hadn’t even considered offering me a leaf.
I had concrete ideas about how we could make things better. We’d pile a few mounds of dirt on my side of the bed, and we’d make our relationship an open one so that I could have a colony. We’d turn the temperature up very high and leave rotted food around so that I could feel at home.
And I, for my part, would pretend that time didn’t move radically differently for me now, and that I could still understand television. I would sit for aeons in front of a screaming wall of light if it meant that I could stay with him. I would perch in his palm, and things would be different, maybe even better.
He nodded, considering my suggestions for a moment, before concluding, “That would be gross.”
He was kind but curt when he asked me to pack my things and go. I flew to the top of the bookshelf we’d assembled together, and he looked at me with impatience. But I will not be shamed for being a bug who is drawn to light bulbs and stares at them, transfixed, while my ex-boyfriend tries to use human language to get me to remember what we were light light light light light light.
Excuse me.
I stared at that light bulb for four hours before he turned it off. I mean, look, he was a terrific boyfriend in many ways, but it’s absurd that it took him so long to realize that he had to turn the light off. Get it together, Matt.
I had a lot of things at his house—I’d practically lived there when I had hands—but I couldn’t really use any of those items anymore. I mean, you don’t need a bike if you have wings, and you don’t need a man if you have both male and female bug genitals, which I do now. I was gentle when I told him that he could give my stuff away, but I guess it came out as a threatening screech, because he batted me away with a rolled-up magazine.
I understood. A jaded flea I met recently told me, “Don’t put all your eggs in one person.” But I still think that if you find the right human it’s worth shoving some eggs in him and seeing what hatches. So I took a few specks of dirt from a plant at my ex’s house and nestled them in my proboscis, just to have something to remember him by. Am I glad that I had this experience? No. Did I learn a lot? Absolutely not—my brain is so small now.
But, if you’re experiencing heartache and/or you’ve turned into a bug and are struggling to make it work with someone who isn’t interested in you, know that you are lovable and that you are not alone and that there are plenty of bugs in your house. ♦This article appears in the print edition of the September 16, 2019, issue.
Cirocco Dunlap is a television writer.
Excuse me.
I stared at that light bulb for four hours before he turned it off. I mean, look, he was a terrific boyfriend in many ways, but it’s absurd that it took him so long to realize that he had to turn the light off. Get it together, Matt.
I had a lot of things at his house—I’d practically lived there when I had hands—but I couldn’t really use any of those items anymore. I mean, you don’t need a bike if you have wings, and you don’t need a man if you have both male and female bug genitals, which I do now. I was gentle when I told him that he could give my stuff away, but I guess it came out as a threatening screech, because he batted me away with a rolled-up magazine.
I understood. A jaded flea I met recently told me, “Don’t put all your eggs in one person.” But I still think that if you find the right human it’s worth shoving some eggs in him and seeing what hatches. So I took a few specks of dirt from a plant at my ex’s house and nestled them in my proboscis, just to have something to remember him by. Am I glad that I had this experience? No. Did I learn a lot? Absolutely not—my brain is so small now.
But, if you’re experiencing heartache and/or you’ve turned into a bug and are struggling to make it work with someone who isn’t interested in you, know that you are lovable and that you are not alone and that there are plenty of bugs in your house. ♦This article appears in the print edition of the September 16, 2019, issue.
Cirocco Dunlap is a television writer.
Labels: Cirocco Dunlap, Kafka, The New Yorker
posted by Juliana L'Heureux at 1:11 PM
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