There was a birthday party at a beach with me not very keen on being there, me very keen on just saying a quick hello and then cycling home to a night spent in front of the TV. But somehow intentions changed and four of us ended up going out and dancing until the sun came up again. Hungover and tired I saw your FB message, and from there on for nearly half a year I was in the throes of a different kind of catfishing.
Catfishing normally implies meeting someone online and then forming an intense, co-dependent relationship with them. When the one then tries to see or speak to the other IRL, their illusion starts showing its first cracks as the other will always find some excuse for not being available. The body and its speaker don't manage to be in the same place at the same time, thus making it hard for the catfishee to continue the relationship. In most cases, the catfishee then finds out that the catfish is not who they said they were, and that they faked their profile for some reason, but that in essence it is the same person, just not. Then the catfishee is very disappointed and the relationship does not continue.
In an article for the New Yorker, Amanda Ann Klein considers the catfish by looking at how ambient intimacy fools someone into believing that this online-thing is a real thing. That words on screens are just conversations done differently, that someday a meeting will occur, something will develop beyond its digital origins into reality, and somehow the fairy tale will be complete.
But just as I naively clung to the idea of this real-not-real person, everywhere around me there were people doing the same thing. A friend was involved with someone with whom it was a constant back-and-forth of currents of communication being interrupted by long stretches of absence. Another uses one of the apps to entertain herself, admitting that none of the people she chats to are serious interests and yet becoming annoyed when no messages light up her inbox. We are all idiots not for love but for attention, lulling ourselves with pointless questions about the other's life into a belief that this matters.
Klein's article is more optimistic than my thoughts, stating that in the age of social media we have become used to a different kind of intimacy where we do not see distance as an obstacle, but instead accept "an ever-growing modern form of intimacy: the bodiless, online romance". The world has evolved so much to no longer question a mind-body-screen split, instead accepting the internet as merely another extension of our reality. It is an unusual thing, wanting to trust that what is presented to you on your smartphone is a flesh-and-blood person with valid experiences that you want to hear about. The most resonant part of the article is its last phrase: this shift to finding someone online is simply the continuance of what humans have always looked for - "the attempt and the failure to truly know another person".
Whereas catfishing still implies a relationship of some longevity, Nancy Jo Sales looks at the influence of dating apps and the possible "dating apocalypse" in an article for Vanity Fair , as most millennials use a combination of apps to chat with lists of people where the ultimate aim is to get someone in bed and not to actually get to know them. The apps all run similar algorithms where people can match up with one another by approvingly swiping right, with most men apparently using a combination of apps to find as many women to sleep with as possible. The article argues that the applications creating the illusion of there being an abundance of possible partners available, resulting in users thinking that someone better might always be just a swipe away. Basically people swipe right, meet up, hook up and then forget they ever exchanged bodily fluids.
One man in the article is quoted as considering whether his insatiable habit of sleeping with an ever increasing amount of women is misogynistic, whilst a group of sorority girls discusses how the sex they are having is mostly short, unpleasant and at times even painful. My question then is: if you're not enjoying the experience, why continue? Just as I wouldn't continue to buy chocolate with orange peel in it as I don't like the taste I won't go continuously having bad sex with men who won't remember my name because neither situations would make me feel particularly good. And with there being so many situations beyond my control that could already make a day seem quite shitty, I think being able to control who you sleep with and why should not be something you simply do because everyone is doing it.
Now, more than a year after being reverse-catfished, I found myself again in a digital weird-ship. An interest in the life of an other with an interest in mine, or so I thought. But after a while mysteries that reveal no new ways of solving them become tedious; you realise that despite a child-like trust there is no way of trusting a screen; ultimately, none of this matters because the thing about digital friends is that you can be rid of them simply by turning off your phone.
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people. Show all posts
Thursday, 12 November 2015
Thursday, 18 June 2015
The Wolf at the Door
All these people coming in these doors. They do not see me, yet I see them.
I observe their mannerisms, the unfriendliness and superiority; the ones intent on a quick chat, the ones in a hurry, the ones that know what manual labour means and the ones that don't.
On the weekends an older man comes in with a tiny felt bag that fits two plain bread rolls. He looks like rat-man Peter Pettigrew in the Harry Potter films when he becomes human again. The top of his head is bald whereas the white whisps of hair around the sides stand out as though he has been electrocuted. He walks slightly hunched over, shuffeling wherever he goes. His face has a gnawing look. All of this I can chalk up to old age and genetics. The thing that freaks me out though are his nails. Long, hard nails that scratch my skin when he hands me the money for the bread. Those nails. The only thing that shifts my facial expression from friendly to freaked are those nails.
Today an older gentleman walked in with his young son. I'd estimate him to be in his mid-50s and his son about 10 years of age. They just wanted to cinnamon rolls, Zimtschnecken with either chocolate or normal icing. Deliciously sweet. As the father handed me the money, his hands were shaking. Shaking constantly. What it means to not be in control of your body, this. Wondering whether he has had a stroke, an illness, or whether the shaking was never not normal to him.
An lady of advanced age comes by daily. She brings her own miniature yellow coffee pot for one. The lid is chipped, the pot stained by daily Danish coffees. We fill it up, and she goes home.
An American woman comes in ever so often. Loud, brash. What you would expect an American to be, stereotypes not being disappointed. She comes in eating sweets and buys more pastries and breads. I like her because I can speak in English but her loudness and her insistence on having a chat at times becomes an obstacle when there is a line and I can see Europeans not understanding why things aren't being done chop chop.
There is a Spanish lady as well, in her early 30s. Her husband sings at the theatre here. I have never been. She speaks in Spanish to me, asking about the day, but then switches to German when she orders.
At times, friends suddenly stand there when I look up. At other times, people I recognise from somewhere, class perhaps, but where I can't put my finger on it. All these people, waves of them, crashing into the heat of the bakery. And I, sweating, in an ill-fitting T-shirt and unwashed hair, I see them all.
I observe their mannerisms, the unfriendliness and superiority; the ones intent on a quick chat, the ones in a hurry, the ones that know what manual labour means and the ones that don't.
On the weekends an older man comes in with a tiny felt bag that fits two plain bread rolls. He looks like rat-man Peter Pettigrew in the Harry Potter films when he becomes human again. The top of his head is bald whereas the white whisps of hair around the sides stand out as though he has been electrocuted. He walks slightly hunched over, shuffeling wherever he goes. His face has a gnawing look. All of this I can chalk up to old age and genetics. The thing that freaks me out though are his nails. Long, hard nails that scratch my skin when he hands me the money for the bread. Those nails. The only thing that shifts my facial expression from friendly to freaked are those nails.
Today an older gentleman walked in with his young son. I'd estimate him to be in his mid-50s and his son about 10 years of age. They just wanted to cinnamon rolls, Zimtschnecken with either chocolate or normal icing. Deliciously sweet. As the father handed me the money, his hands were shaking. Shaking constantly. What it means to not be in control of your body, this. Wondering whether he has had a stroke, an illness, or whether the shaking was never not normal to him.
An lady of advanced age comes by daily. She brings her own miniature yellow coffee pot for one. The lid is chipped, the pot stained by daily Danish coffees. We fill it up, and she goes home.
An American woman comes in ever so often. Loud, brash. What you would expect an American to be, stereotypes not being disappointed. She comes in eating sweets and buys more pastries and breads. I like her because I can speak in English but her loudness and her insistence on having a chat at times becomes an obstacle when there is a line and I can see Europeans not understanding why things aren't being done chop chop.
There is a Spanish lady as well, in her early 30s. Her husband sings at the theatre here. I have never been. She speaks in Spanish to me, asking about the day, but then switches to German when she orders.
At times, friends suddenly stand there when I look up. At other times, people I recognise from somewhere, class perhaps, but where I can't put my finger on it. All these people, waves of them, crashing into the heat of the bakery. And I, sweating, in an ill-fitting T-shirt and unwashed hair, I see them all.
Thursday, 14 March 2013
I speak because I can
It is a scary thing, speaking a language that is not your own. You don't know what the right words are as your tongue stumbles over unfamiliar sounds and your synapses search frantically to relay information that they have acquired, somewhere, at some point in time, but that you cannot seem to remember.
You are afraid that the others will have learnt the mastery of the language, that they won't make mistakes as you, in turn, take an axe to a language that is supposed to flow beautifully.
Learning a languages means pronouncing words from your mother tongue with a different accent when you don't know the correct word. It means gesticulating a lot. It means nodding and smiling when someone else finally finds the word and you have an 'aha'-moment. It means opening your mouth and stumbling because yes, it does get better. It might even get so good that you won't have to search for the right words, that you won't fall over each grammatical exception and that you might even interject youthful slang like a local.
Speaking more than your mother tongue opens worlds and breaks down barriers because people appreciate others making an effort to learn their native language, even if you aren't extremely proficient yet.
It isn't easy because your brain cannot simply go into Google Translate mode, but all the strain and embarrassment is worth it when you don't have to think what you are saying anymore and the executioner has become eloquent.
Therefore a friend and I created Taaltandem, a page on FB that aims to unite people in Pretoria who have learnt a language or are in the process of acquiring a language and want to practice their oral skills without the confines of traditional classes. It is a free event, about twice a month, where a random group of people get together and chat about their lives. The only condition is that you try to speak whichever language you are learning.
Our second event took place yesterday, and although I was nervous it would be a big awkward flop, every one that came was charming and keen on interacting with so many new faces. Wonderful.
If you are interested, there is a 'like'-button on the right side of the blog or simply search for 'Taaltandem' on FB and join the page to see when the next meeting is.
You are afraid that the others will have learnt the mastery of the language, that they won't make mistakes as you, in turn, take an axe to a language that is supposed to flow beautifully.
Learning a languages means pronouncing words from your mother tongue with a different accent when you don't know the correct word. It means gesticulating a lot. It means nodding and smiling when someone else finally finds the word and you have an 'aha'-moment. It means opening your mouth and stumbling because yes, it does get better. It might even get so good that you won't have to search for the right words, that you won't fall over each grammatical exception and that you might even interject youthful slang like a local.
Speaking more than your mother tongue opens worlds and breaks down barriers because people appreciate others making an effort to learn their native language, even if you aren't extremely proficient yet.
It isn't easy because your brain cannot simply go into Google Translate mode, but all the strain and embarrassment is worth it when you don't have to think what you are saying anymore and the executioner has become eloquent.
Therefore a friend and I created Taaltandem, a page on FB that aims to unite people in Pretoria who have learnt a language or are in the process of acquiring a language and want to practice their oral skills without the confines of traditional classes. It is a free event, about twice a month, where a random group of people get together and chat about their lives. The only condition is that you try to speak whichever language you are learning.
Our second event took place yesterday, and although I was nervous it would be a big awkward flop, every one that came was charming and keen on interacting with so many new faces. Wonderful.
If you are interested, there is a 'like'-button on the right side of the blog or simply search for 'Taaltandem' on FB and join the page to see when the next meeting is.
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Pragtig
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| Pretoria city centre 2011. |
* If my cousin describes someone as beautiful, then you know she is ( it is always a girl). But now I am wondering if not everyone is beautiful? Isn't everyone pretty in their own way? I was at a party last night and two guys rated the same girl as a 2 and as a 9,5 ( on a scale of 1-10). If two people can see someone so differently, then every one of us has to be beautiful to at least one other person? And this just concerns what we look like. We're not even taking about inner worth.
The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths.
These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep, loving concern.
Beautiful people do not just happen.
--Elizabeth Kubler-Ross
via Dialogic
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