The Flick of an Eye

At six a.m. a terrible ache in your shoulder awakens you. The choice is to stir or suffer motionless: you choose the latter. Anything to become invisible while you plan your escape. After everything you exchanged last night, is there anything left to say?

In today’s world, there’s nothing unusual about consummating a relationship an hour after introductions. We’re impatient and a tad A.D.D. Why wouldn’t we be, we’ve had excellent conditioning. The evidence is everywhere: lose 20 pounds in 10 days with two-minute rice and a five minute workout; master French in two weeks, jet to France in three hours, view digital pictures instantly; e-mail, Fed-ex, Napster. That’s what progress means, isn’t it? Ease and expediency? And the options! Why invest months dating some enigmatic Romeo only to discover that he’s about as mysterious as a pencil?

Review the modern relationship. First dates go as follows: You meet, you like, you exchange numbers, you go out. You’re wired—fear the first impression (God, you could be great together)—so you inhale a few cocktails, relax into each other’s gaze, and profess. In the haze of the moment, half becomes whole: vulnerable meets nurturing, responsive greets lonely. Sure you can trust each other—you’re soul mates, right? You go home, fall into each other’s arms, and wake up in a panic: The stakes have just risen. The act must be legitimized; previous “bonding” resumes.

Later, safe and alone in your apartment, you feel uncomfortable. A little twitchy, like your underwear’s too tight. You think about your date, the intimate chatter, and expect butterflies any second. They don’t come, not even one flutter. Amidst your confusion, one feeling dominates: You never want to see this person again.

What the hell’s going on?

Hello-you’re humiliated. Did you really want this guy to know about your sister’s abortion or your laxative addiction? Is it love just because you watched him pee? Doubt it. And the feeling’s mutual. But we’re junkies: Our need for stimulation is so urgent, so compulsive, that we accelerate around the hairpin turns this “relationship” is taking. Suddenly but inevitably, we crash, and dream lover is mangled into a deformity we can no longer bear.

So that’s it? Embarrassment? There’s got to be more to it.

Recently I read an article in talk magazine about a filming technique called “the frenzied camera.” According to author Lee Siegal, today’s filmmakers are so concerned about our lack of concentration that they refuse to count on the actors—no matter how sexually charged—to hold our interest: It’s the camera that wins the leading role. Consider those hyper flicks that entertain by way of fear, tears, and tantrums—you know, the ones you’ve forgotten by bedtime. Notice the manic perspective swaps, the smothering close-ups and breathless repetition of movement. If there’s significance behind these dazzling impressions, it’s escaped you.

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 13th, 2009 at 10:49 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.