A Bright Light in a Dark Tunnel

I have been told that there are sixteen different ways to bow. I could only think of a simple, natural lowering of the head and a slight bending at the waist when I finally made my way up to her in the lobby.

What struck me most about her was the fact that she actually talked to me, wondered where I was from, how did I like France, all the while holding my hand in the warmth of hers and looking me directly in the eye. I was taken aback by the lucid blue color in hers. Her pupils constricted with the frequent flashing of the cameras behind me. They instantly betrayed a fear that could only be seen while standing at arms length. I thought I could even feel her hands grip mine just a little more tightly with each snapshot.

I know that works of art, primitive cave paintings, fragile things are often protected from the barrage of light that cameras emit. Someone has determined that for each snapshot taken of objects d’art, they are diminished ever so slightly, the images fade in imperceptible increments.

But how about people?

I remember seeing a movie in which a Polaroid camera produced a picture of a group of African Natives. Perhaps it was an old Tarzan movie. The Medicine Man declared the picture was bad ju-ju magic. It steals the souls of men, he would say.

Next to her was her boyfriend, shorter and darker in appearance. He seemed to be perturbed with all of the attention given to her. They were genuinely affectionate towards each other without providing an open display, hence an opportunity for the paparazzi to make another killing on the newsstands. What couldn’t possibly be recorded was the fire between them, a kind of grace that they seemed to pass back and forth to each other. They are indeed two people in love. This is a greater light which can never be recorded on film lest their souls fade from the overexposure.

Love can fade or grow stronger as two people learn more about each other. Truth can be the blinding light and love the fading image. I think of how long I have had a relationship, it started out with such fanfare and gradually over time became stale and lifeless. The two of us merely actors in a play about love. Merely rehearsing our lines over and over. Our moves are well blocked, the scenery predictable, the lighting dark, the interaction forced and unnatural, the music… We sang separately, there were no duets, no choruses, no stunning solos that would bring the crowd to its feet or the paparazzi to the wings. I have felt that, like real actors, our real loves were off-stage somewhere waiting for us to take the final bow.

However these two looked so fresh, so in love, so immersed in the Summer of their Love. They were spontaneous, joyful, yes… even brilliant beyond the echo of halogen bulbs and shadowed walls.

As they walked to the awaiting vehicle, I noticed that he picked up a flower, I think is was a rose, and placed it in her hair, kissed her, and gave a long slow sweeping bow. It was a flowing gesture stopped momentarily, and became staccato -like by the luminous applause of the vultures waiting for the right moment to capture.

“Perhaps they have captured too many of their moments,” I thought. They closed the car door and drove away into the intermittent darkness of the night.

The End