Arnold - The Strange Fascinations of Noah Hypnotik

Ill hold my breath and tell you what I mean: I first discovered the Fading Girl two months and two days ago, soon after summer began dripping its smugly sunny smile all over the place. I was with Alan, per usual. We had fallen down the YouTube rabbit hole, which was a thing we did from time to time. Generally speaking, I hate YouTube, mostly because Alan is all, I just have to show you this one thing, yo, but inevitably one thing becomes seventeen things, and before I know it, Im watching a sea otter operate a vending machine, thinking, Where the fuck did I go wrong? And look: I am not immune to the allure of the sea otter, but at a certain point a guy has to wonder about all the life decisions hes made that have landed him on a couch, watching a glorified weasel press H9 for a bag of SunChips.

Quiet, and a little sad, but in a real way, drifting through the Rosa-Haas poolI fucking love it here.

I would live here.

For the sake of precision: the Fading Girl video is a rapid time-lapse compilation of photographs clocking in at just over twelve minutes. Its entitled One Face, Forty Years: An Examination of the Aging Process, and underneath it a caption reads: Daily self-portraits from 1977 to 2015. I got tired. (I love that last part, as if the Fading Girl felt the need to explain why she hadnt quite made it the full forty years.) In the beginning, shes probably in her early twenties, with blonde hair, long and shimmery, and bright eyes like a sunrise through a waterfall. At about the halfway mark the room changes, which I can only assume means she moved, but in the background, her possessions remain the same: a framed watercolor of mountains, a porcelain Chewbacca figurine, and elephants everywhere. Statues, posters, T-shirtsthe Fading Girl had an elephant obsession, safe to say. Shes always indoors, always alone, andother than the move, and a variety of haircutsshe looks the same in every photo: no smile, staring straight into the camera, every day for forty years.

Always the same, until: changes.

Okay, I have to breathe now.

I love this moment: breaking the surface, inhale, wet hair in the hot sun.

Alan is all, Dude.

The moment would be better alone, to be honest.

That was like a record, says Val. You okay?

A few more deep breaths, a quick smile, and...

I love this moment even more: dipping beneath the surface. Something about being underwater allows me to feel at a higher capacitythe silence and weightlessness, I think.

Its my favorite thing about swimming.

The earlier shots are scanned-in Polaroids, but as the time lapse progresses and the resolution of the photos increases, the brightness of the Fading Girl begins to diminish: little by little, the hair thins; little by little, the eyes dim; little by little, the face withers, the skin droops, the bright young waterfall becomes a darkened millpond, one more victim in the septic tank of aging. And it doesnt make me sad so much as leave an impression of sadness, like watching a stone sink but never hit bottom.

Every day for forty years.

Ive watched the video hundreds of times now: at night before bed, in the morning before school, in the library during lunch, on my phone during class, in my head during the in-betweens, I hum the Fading Girl like a song over and over again, and every time it ends I swear Ill never watch it again. But like the saddest human boomerang, I always come back.

Twelve minutes of staring at your screen and watching a person die. Its not violent. Its not immoral or shameful; nothing is done to her that isnt done to all of us, in turn. Its called An Examination of the Aging Process, but I call bullshit. That girl isnt aging; shes fading. And I cant look away.

There it is, the inevitable shoulder tap.

Time to join the land of the breathing.

The fuck, Noah? You trying to drown yourself? Val is on a float in the middle of the pool, wearing these giant sunglasses, sipping some kind of homemade daiquiri.

For real, says Alan, popping a handful of caramel corn into his mouth. Hes been working on this giant tin can (the kind with forests and snow and frolicking deer painted on the side) most of the afternoon. Ours is a delicate triangle, yo. You drowning fucks up the whole system.

Val and Alan Rosa-Haas are twins. The Rosa-Haas house is a quick walk from my own, plus it has this amazing in-ground pool and Mr. and Mrs. Rosa-Haas are rarely around, so you tell me.

Alan was the first kid I met when my family moved to Iverton. We were twelve and he came over to my house and we read in my room, and he told me he thought he was gay, and I was like, Uh, okay, and he was all, Um, uh, and it was totally squirrely. And then he said not to tell anyone, and I said I wouldnt. And he said, If you do tell, Ill whiz on your hamster. Back then I had this arthritic hamster called Goliath, and I didnt want some kid whizzing on him, so I assured Alan that my lips were pretty much sealed. Later I found out I was the first person Alan had come out to, and, at twelve, I had no idea how important a step this was. All I knew was my hamster was in dangerous proximity to a person threatening whiz. I asked Alan why he didnt want me to say anything, and he told me I wouldnt understand. A couple years later he came out publiclyand kids called him terrible names, and kids jumped a mile in the air when he bumped into them in the halls, and kids moved tables when he sat with them at lunch, not all kids, but so many kidsand I found out just how right hed been. I hadnt planned to tell you, hed said in my room that day when we were twelve. And he told me how he felt like a shaken-up can of Coke, and how I just happened to be around when the lid blew off. I told him I was fine with that. So long as he didnt whiz on Goliath.