The Eye

Putting yourself on the Internet is strange. If you have body dysmorphic tendencies, it's exhausting. A delicious exhaustion.

It’s time to record the video essay script. I stare into the inky black aperture of the iPhone camera on the tripod four feet in front of me. We can’t afford a monitor, but I don’t need one. I can perfectly see my face. The double chin. The scar on my eyebrow from when I drunkenly walked into that light pole. My receding hairline, which I’m stressed about, further receding my hairline, I assume. I’ve always wanted to visit Turkey. To see the Hagia Sophia; I used to climb it during late nights of Assassin’s Creed. Tired eyes. Growing more tired.

For a long time, I was afraid to post on TikTok. I thought it was cringe - cheugy - unbecoming. Cloying, even. I told myself that I was capable of blowing up if I really wanted to. I saw the kind of low effort content that garnered attention, and, in response, I began to complacently reside in wholly unearned satisfaction - I could do that, if I tried. But I won’t.

At one point, my best friend bet me I couldn’t take an anonymous account to 10K followers in a month. I talked a huge game. We set the terms, and I made the account: godzillaballs69. “This is going to be a cake walk,” I joked. I made my first post. Almost nobody saw it. I gave up almost immediately. Too busy. Fortunately, the debt was forgiven.

I was afraid of what people who might see my content might say or think of me. I thought of the tristate area Jews from my Poconos sleep away camp, my Vineyard Vines clad high school classmates, former bosses who for whatever reason now follow me on Instagram: usernames I’ve collected in lieu of human beings I have any form of substantive social contact with. Faces I’ve gathered in a digital menagerie. Acquaintance doesn’t quite encapsulate it. We’re no longer functionally acquainted, but I’m still aware of them. Of whatever part of themselves they want to cut off and grind into the Internet.

The reality, as I’ve learned over the last couple of months, is that nobody cares. Or at least far fewer people than you might imagine. Most people are almost exclusively wrapped up in their own lives. Right now, we’re trying to solve the problem of how to get attention on the Internet. We’re speaking to experts, marketers, and creators. Opinions are like assholes. Covered with dingleberries. Did you click that? Why? Stop doing that. It’s not going to change. What are you hoping for? That I put the Samia Tiny Desk Concert in instead? You can trust me again.

For years, I’ve been envious of the friends who’ve produced work. Who’ve put a piece of themselves into the world. The same friend whose challenge I lost produced an album with his two best childhood friends the summer before they all left their hometown and departed into the world as young men heading off. It’s no longer on Spotify, but they created a piece of art that will always contain the cuspy versions of the people they were on the eve of young adulthood, frozen in that moment of transition. Their sensibilities. Their tastes. Their literal voices. The final track of the multigenre album is a cover of Colder Weather sung a capella. It’s a haunting performance - in both its vocal performances and its emotional context. Every time I listen to it, without fail, I’m moved.

I want to put a piece of myself into the world. Not manicured. Or polished. Brand unsafe. Honest. Flawed. Human. Maybe this is the place for that, at least for right now.

If you’re reading this, I appreciate you more than you know. Give yourself a kiss for me. Actually, waiter, make it a double.

It’s Rosh Hashanah tomorrow - the start of our new year. My (creative) partner and I have committed to a year of trying. Frankly, I don’t know what the next year has in store - I’d be rich if I did. However, I do know that one day I’m going to die, and I’m glad these videos exist. Aside from anything else, as records of effort. Even the ones where I’m in my underwear. Especially those.

I like these pieces of me, albeit imperfect, and at times crass. I may regret them one day, but for now, it feels nice to try. To make. I’ve spent too long afraid to do so.

We’re only in the sucking period. We’re going to suck. For probably a long time. But we’re learning a lot. For right now, I’ll take it.