Written 7/10/12
A couple hours into this transatlantic flight, I’ve reached the point of sleeplessness at which my calm veneer turns brittle and bits of unchecked emotion creep out. Almost in vain, I exert effort to stop up this leakage, but the soundless scenes on my neighbor’s in-flight movie poke me ever closer off the gangplank and into the ocean.
I also feel restless. And I feel lazy - too lazy to mention trivial details that others might find pertinent. For instance, I’d have overlooked the fact that the video screens are situated on the backs of the passenger seats. They’re touch-activated and come complete with an astonishing selection of new and old movies and TV shows, news, games, a radio, and I don’t know what else. (So far I’ve enjoyed the pilot of Veep and episode 3 of Girls. Both are definitely worth your time but the former is better and almost great.) The screens seem tailored to fit the whims of every man, woman, or child who happens to find him/herself in one of these seats (although, you wouldn’t know it, listening to the complaints of my dad and brother: “Where’s the HD!? Man, Air Canada is cheap…”)
A few weeks ago I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey with the same brother. This movie, released in 1968, is ahead of its time in a lot of ways. Take one of the opening scenes. Well, I mean after all of the ape-man business, after it fast-forwards to the time in human history (2001) when traveling to the moon for pleasure or business is commonplace. "The Blue Danube" plays in this scene while a passenger relaxes in a commercial shuttle headed for the moon. Eyes closed, he and his pen float in minimal gravity, and this man doesn’t pay attention to the screen on the rear of the seat before him. It’s there for his enjoyment, but he doesn’t feel like using it just then. Such a depiction of technology is almost prophetic. (Or maybe it’s where the idea originated. I also noticed something like a web cam.)
But the film gets something else right, too. One of its dominant themes involves man’s gradual, excessive, and detrimental reliance on tools/technology throughout history. As the movie progresses, we see that communication among characters is either non-existent or superficial. In fact, one of the main players is HAL 9000, a murderous supercomputer in charge of all operations aboard the “odyssey” to Jupiter. If anything, 2001 correctly predicts the isolation of present-day socialization.
The breakdown of “real” communication seems pervasive in our world. Amid texting and Facebook, or anything else that impedes direct contact, emotion barely breaks through. We are mired in screens; we take care with our veils. God forbid they should come to any harm. (Really, though, the scratches on my phone piss. me. off.)
I can’t help looking at these strangers’ screens. Is it really so perverse to want to feel what they’re feeling? I want to know what they’re feeling, yes. But I wouldn’t mind sharing, either.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
At Café Brazil
Kotaro Yumi decided to free her phone of the men who made no impact. She sat under one of Café Brazil's umbrellas and let her Mexican Mocha cool. While she hunched over the screen between her legs, her hair hung down and provided a shield from the passersby. They were not looking at her. Yet, waiting there, she took pleasure in the certainty of the boy's instantly recognizing the red shock that covered her face.
In the daylight, Yumi's eyes squinted back through the smudges on the screen. She opted first to clear the device of memories and watched the photos before her slide into the trashcan. She would soon move on to her contacts, most of which were friends, family, or colleagues with first and last names listed. However, the men she saw regularly had no last names. They floated around in her head and begged to land on their feet; they asked to stay grounded. It seemed they were always demanding that she put them first. Only one of them never wanted anything, and his last name was Kuroda.
Kuroda was not among the ones she wanted to erase. The men she intended to delete took her months to engrave on her mind, for she always had trouble remembering a new countenance. Even after the third date, weeks after the first meeting, Yumi lay awake at night and strained to recall the contours of their faces. She mistook the lines and curves for someone else's and cursed the holes in her memory. After she checked the phone, she relaxed and thought of how photos were relative but never wrong.
When she hovered over those faces, she tried to memorize them. Sometimes the men pierced her eyes, and when she leaned in she could see her own judgment. The feeling was wrong, and the fault was mutual, she thought when the contours contorted. The kiss wasn't enough; neither of us got it right. So, one by one, they slipped away into the trash icon.
Yumi smacked her lips and set the empty cup on the table. The combination of Mexican chocolate and cinnamon left sweetness in her mouth, but its aftertaste was unpleasant. She grew disgusted with her task and dropped her phone, which bounced beneath the rail. Horrified, she scrambled to retrieve it when a shadow covered her body. Kuroda's face was blocking the sun, and Yumi could hardly see his features. He laughed at her grimace. "John, you ass!" she screamed, "You make me wait!" She stood up, punched him on the arm and stumbled inside with her bag, red-faced.
In the daylight, Yumi's eyes squinted back through the smudges on the screen. She opted first to clear the device of memories and watched the photos before her slide into the trashcan. She would soon move on to her contacts, most of which were friends, family, or colleagues with first and last names listed. However, the men she saw regularly had no last names. They floated around in her head and begged to land on their feet; they asked to stay grounded. It seemed they were always demanding that she put them first. Only one of them never wanted anything, and his last name was Kuroda.
Kuroda was not among the ones she wanted to erase. The men she intended to delete took her months to engrave on her mind, for she always had trouble remembering a new countenance. Even after the third date, weeks after the first meeting, Yumi lay awake at night and strained to recall the contours of their faces. She mistook the lines and curves for someone else's and cursed the holes in her memory. After she checked the phone, she relaxed and thought of how photos were relative but never wrong.
When she hovered over those faces, she tried to memorize them. Sometimes the men pierced her eyes, and when she leaned in she could see her own judgment. The feeling was wrong, and the fault was mutual, she thought when the contours contorted. The kiss wasn't enough; neither of us got it right. So, one by one, they slipped away into the trash icon.
Yumi smacked her lips and set the empty cup on the table. The combination of Mexican chocolate and cinnamon left sweetness in her mouth, but its aftertaste was unpleasant. She grew disgusted with her task and dropped her phone, which bounced beneath the rail. Horrified, she scrambled to retrieve it when a shadow covered her body. Kuroda's face was blocking the sun, and Yumi could hardly see his features. He laughed at her grimace. "John, you ass!" she screamed, "You make me wait!" She stood up, punched him on the arm and stumbled inside with her bag, red-faced.
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