Sunday, April 10, 2005

So she hated him. Or so she said.
Or so she loved him. Or so she said.
What was anybody to believe? What was she to perform?

The story after all is never too far from the performance. Because it is a story. If I had said truth, then it would be a different matter altogether. But it is rather the story of the truth and they are not the same.

But back to the story. What does love mean here? Is it the endless safety of the same Pavlovian smile to the face at the thought of the beloved or is it the sigh of relief at the diminishing effort required to keep this metaphor in place? I contend not. Love as she performed is was the active denial of hate, hate being the underlying sinking truth that at the base of it what was different was not he from he, but her ability to manipulate what he could do for her as opposed to what he would not. But if she could manipulate him, then so could he her. In the way that enmity is intimate and arm-twisting but an arm's distance away, she weathered the reaction that came with her every action. Not only that he did what she wanted, but that she had to want everything that he did. So that he would not notice.