Resorts “acknowledge the incongruity in teenagers playing video games their entire vacation,” the Times reported, “but say many parents still feel it’s better than having them holed up in their room watching TV or moping around the pool.”11 Fair enough on the TV thing—but as something of an elite poolside moper myself, I resent that last crack. Yet how interesting-slash-horrifying that the resorts are taking their cue from parents on this one, that they’re piling on the teen technology in an effort to assuage our anxiety about our kids’ engagement, or lack thereof. In a sense, parenting in an age of affluence means we’re all resort operators now. And then we wonder why our children behave like querulous guests with a silver-plated sense of entitlement.
Taking away my kids’ room-service menu of media on demand was, in this sense, part of a larger project. And as the weeks went by, I began to see how a subtle “You can make my room up now” mentality infused our lives in other ways too. Like, why was I still changing their sheets and doing their ironing and generally leaving the moral equivalent of a chocolate on their pillow each night? It’s not always clear where a mother’s responsibility lies in these matters. But stripping away the technology smokescreen helped me to see more clearly how their learned helplessness was something I’d unwittingly encouraged. I think a lot of us do. We lay on the amenities partly out of guilt—especially if we work full-time or in some other way devote a big share of our energy to extraparental passions (whether professional, political, creative, or community-driven)—and partly out of affluence (i.e., simply because we can).
Being a single mum raised my own guilt-o-meter by a factor of twelve. I’d been dimly aware of that for years. Trying to “make it up to them” for failing to provide the expected features of four-star family life—to wit, a live-in father—had been part of my parenting agenda since ... well, forever. The Experiment marked my declaration of independence from that doomed strategy. Giving them stuff, particularly stuff with wires and microchips, was never going to compensate for the loss of a traditional nuclear family. And if relinquishing that stuff caused our family to unravel, honestly, how closely knit could we have been to start with? It’s funny, because I would never have allowed them to gorge themselves on sweets or fatty foods. But when they were in danger of becoming comfort eaters of entertainment—gluttons for gaming or instant messaging or MySpacing—I’d contrived to look the other way.
Once the Teen Lounge (home edition) had been dismantled and I found myself staring straight ahead—albeit at a blank screen—it was so obvious, suddenly, that our entire house had been set up to accommodate separate spheres. To use the language of realtor speak, I had my “retreat” (in the form of a bedroom—complete with perfectly made bed—bathroom, sitting room, and study) and the kids had their “retreat” (a separate wing comprising bedrooms, bathroom, and a “family” room)—and the twain met only in the demilitarized zone we called the kitchen. Without our personal media to structure our migration patterns, where would we go? Most terrifying of all: What would we do once we got there?
“They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom!” growls Leonard Cohen in “First We Take Manhattan.” I played that song a lot in the southern hemisphere summer of 2009. And every time I did, I focused less and less on my yearning for technology—and more and more on my yearning for home. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised by that. Experts say most addictions are symptoms, not causes—ways to anaesthetize an older, deeper, more virulent ill. Clearly, my own media codependencies were no exception.
My diagnostic hunch—that I’d been using technology to treat my homesickness—grew stronger with the passage of each tech-free day. Yet in some ways, it was simply a confirmation of something I’d known all along. After all, the irony of having moved from New York, by general consensus the most exciting city on earth, to Perth, the most isolated and arguably the dullest, had not been lost on me all these years. Indeed several times I’d actually been asked to reflect on it publicly, especially in the wake of a local furor over a tourism website that had christened Perth “Dullsville.” The annual Perth Festival of the Arts had even organized a public debate on the topic in which I’d participated, arguing—as you might imagine—in the affirmative. (We won.) Then, in May 2009, I was invited to address a consortium of Australian and international urban planners on more or less the same theme. The suggested topic? “Perth: An Outsider’s Perspective.”
Keep in mind that at this point, I’d been in continuous residence for more than two decades—giving birth to three children, buying and selling half a dozen properties, writing an award-winning volume of Western Australian history, and marrying or merging households with a dizzying array of local residents (okay, three). If I was an outsider in Perth, then Jonah and the Whale lived in adjacent suburbs.
But it was hard to work up a good head of righteous indignation. Because the truth was, I thought of myself as an outsider too. I was frank about that in my talk, possibly inappropriately so. I spoke of having felt stranded right from the git-go, and how I struggled to put down roots, like an introduced species badly adapted to its environment. I acknowledged that there were many reasons why this was so, most of them to do with who I was, rather than with what Perth was (which I knew sounded a lot like a cheesy breakup line, but yeah). I added that the lack of a critical mass of inquiring minds—given the size of our population and its geographical annexation by desert and sea—meant that our little puddle was a comfortable but stagnant one.
My audience listened intently, or at least politely. I was relieved to note how many of them were, like me, “not from around here” anyway. But afterward someone asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks. “Have you ever considered whether Perth’s ‘dullness’ may have inspired you rather than inhibited you?” she asked. “I mean, maybe it was the lack of stimulation that made you so productive and sort of ... determined.” She trailed off, looking a bit self-conscious. “Do you know what I mean?”
I just stood there. Blinking like a cell phone set to silent.
January 24
Who are these people, and what are they doing in my bedroom?
9:00 a.m. Reading Saturday papers in bed as per usual. Knock on door. Anni: “Can I come in?” Grabs magazine—also as per usual, as cannot begin weekend without consulting her Mystic Medusa horoscope. Fair enough. Is a Libran, after all.
9:10 a.m. Knock on door. Sussy (in boxers and “NOFRIENDO” T-shirt): “Yo.” Points to unoccupied half of king-size bed, as if to ask, “Is this seat taken?” “Go for it,” I say. She snatches sales catalogues and dives in.
9:15 a.m. Scratch on door. Hazel the handheld kitten wants in. Levitates self onto bed. Notices best pillow and stakes claim. Rupert gazing up mournfully from rug. Emits snort.
9:30 a.m. Smack on door, possibly kick. Bill: “Double-u tee eff, Mum. Why is everybody in bed with you?” Me: “Dunno.” Bill (contemptuously): “Losers!” We ignore him. Hazel blinks. Rupert yawns. We ignore him some more. “Well, is there room for me or not?”
February 2
B.’s first day Year 11. (Verdict: “Sucks less than ten.”) Says will aim for practice goal of three hours a day. A. snorts. Rupie too (but then he would). Fought impulse to remind him first law of goal-setting is “be realistic.” After all, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a heaven for?” (Always preferred Browning to Drucker.)
February 3
Anni darkened door of kitchen twice in twenty-four hours. What’s cooking?! She made beautiful banana muffins this a.m. ... entire meal for Mary and family last night. Coconut fish curry. Cucumber salad. Fudge (aka the fifth food group).
Then announced intention to compile personal cookbook. Proceeded to locate pen and paper and take dictation. Surprisingly tidy handwriting! (Although have probs not seen it since fifth grade.) Took down recipes for spaghetti bolognese, muffins, pancakes, chili con carne, and potato salad.
Lots of laughs reminiscing re: family dinners gone wrong—“dog food” mis
taken identity meal, plastic cheese incident, etc.—but truth is, was very touched. Realize that I learned to cook family fare by osmosis—mooching around kitchen watching my mother, grand-mothers. (Except muffin recipe, copied ounce for ounce from seventh grade Home Ec. and still possibly most useful thing ever learned at school.)
S. has done a bit of that, but the others? ... not really. Suspect the cooks of the world are the kids who cared most about licking the beaters.
February 4
Wrote column in longhand again, then to X-Wray Café (nearest and cheapest Wi-Fi option) with laptop to type and send. Stressful, as have no idea of word count and tend to do twice as much as needed then scrape painfully back. Also have had to read proofs as hardcopy (sent to Mary’s e-mail at work, who prints and delivers them), and call in changes. Weird, but works okay, I guess.
Arrived home just before B.—who spookily enough (given yesterday’s entry) watched and chatted while I cooked dinner. (Couscous with chickpeas, sweet potatoes, raisins, and spices: bit gloppy really, but welcome break from nonstop bbq—still pushing 40 degs at 8:00 p.m., btw.)
READ ME HIS ENTIRE ENGLISH SYLLABUS.
Does that sound normal to you?
February 10
A. and self resuscitated library cards today. Even the Miss Trunchbull-ish librarian laughed at the term “blacklisted” ... which is what we were, thanks to repeated failure to return—oh, how I winced—The Total Makeover Book and How to Be Lucky. (“Intellectual much?” as S. would say.) A. borrowed veritable treasure-trove of trash. A bit disappointing for a kid who read—and totally got—Jane Austen in middle school ... but, hey. A book is a book is a book, right?
February 15
The prodigal returneth☺☺☺and surrendereth her devices. Fatted calves being scarce, we settled for homemade macaroni and cheese. Fell helplessly asleep, one arm flung over her Ducky, as of old, at 7:30 p.m.
Interesting to hear A. & B. assure S. screen-free life a “breeze” ... compared with no lights and no power!
Big showdown between A. & B. yesterday re: possession of stereo. Had to happen. It is A.’s, though B. argued hard for possession being nine-tenths of law. Silently climbed to attic to retrieve old CD turntable and dismantled own amp for B.
Pretty crap sound though, so may have to spring for secondhand system, esp. now music is no longer audible wallpaper.
February 28
A. made lasagna. Excellent in that special way that only lasagna one has not prepared oneself can be. Has also been doing Sudoku and word puzzles in paper like an old retired guy on a park bench. Too cute! Also, took Rupie for two walks to beach this week. When asked why—as is totally out of character—replied, “Dunno. He just looked kinda depressed.” Didn’t remind her he’s a pug and he always looks that way.
Both went to Murdoch Univ. to do A.’s enrollment but were told enrollment is now online or nothing. Further irony: Their system was down.
B. playing “Autumn Leaves” à la Adderley (my CD but happy to donate to good cause). Also now teaching self piano with old Suzuki books. Almost surreal to watch him in battered board shorts and Led Zeppelin T-shirt playing minuets, and picking it up like lint. To Pat’s house last night and back an hour later. (“I’ve had my Internet fix.”)
S. dividing weekend time between sleep and landline. Mostly the former. Is bad-tempered when forced to get up or hang up. Is clearly trying to hibernate way through The Experiment like some prickly teenage echidna. Possibly not a bad idea.
March 3
A. finished Gladwell’s Outliers. (What? Nonfiction that isn’t about feng shui?!) Also observed venturing beyond horoscopes and word games to actual “paper” part of paper. “I am a journalism major, Mum,” she sniffed, as she turned to the celebrity gossip page.
B. and I fought about math tutoring today. He wants more of it. Random! Has been doing geometry homework at kitchen table like Abe Lincoln or John Boy Walton or somebody.
Is reading Kafka on the Shore (my somewhat desperate suggestion—he likes Japanese stuff so figured was worth a shot). Verdict: “Awesome.” Try to hide my shock. J. K. Rowling to Haruki Murakami?! Okay, I give up. Where’s the hidden camera?
Turns out Murakami’s full of jazz references. Hadn’t remembered that. What hooked B. was mention of Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things,” WHICH HE WAS LISTENING TO AT THE TIME.
March 15
Cooked roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and cucumber salad for self, B., A., and Millie. Lingered long time, picking over carcass, conversation. All of a sudden, kitchen has gone from Transit Lounge B to Command Central.
Yesterday B. described as, quote, the best Saturday of my life. Jammed with newfound musician pals—one of whom drives (OMG)—drank bubble tea x 2 and went to the beach x 2. Topped it off with a sleepover at Oscar’s (evidently featuring tearful reunion with a PSP). Fascinating because it was ordinary, really—but clearly intensely so.
Later A. & S. discovered in A.’s room, side by side under covers, singing along to top-forty radio in euphoric, trancelike state. (Taylor Swift: “Love Story.”) Moral: If you can’t get the ringtone, be the ringtone.
» 4
My iPhone/Myself: Notes from a Digital Fugitive
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.... A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work.
—WALDEN, chapter 1
I get up at 4:30 every morning. I like the quiet time. It’s a time I can recharge my batteries a bit. I exercise and I clear my head and I catch up on the world. I read papers. I look at e-mail. I surf the Web. I watch a little TV, all at the same time. I call it my quiet time.... I love gadgets. I’m an iPhone guy.
—ROBERT IGER, CEO, Walt Disney Company1
Like most illicit affairs, this one had started innocently enough. We were just friends at the beginning. Work colleagues, really. But you know how it is. You start having lunch together. You meet up on the train. You go for walks. And the next thing you know, you’re practically living in each other’s pockets. Or one of you is, anyhow.
I was always going to fall for my iPhone. I can see that now. My craving for information—a black hole of lust and neediness, incapable of satisfaction—was something I’d struggled with all my life. I’d go to the dentist and bring two New Yorkers, a novel, a portable radio, and a rhyming dictionary ... just in case. Boarding an overseas-bound plane, it never once crossed my mind to fear a crash. But the possibility of settling in for a fourteen-hour flight and discovering I’d left my novel in the airport (a living nightmare that happened to me on a Qantas flight from L.A. to Sydney in 1998, and which still gives me flashbacks), now that could trigger a panic attack.
When the iPhone came along—which it did in Australia in mid-2008—I had been tapping my toes and hyperventilating for twelve long months. I’d been in New York in July the previous year, right after the U.S. launch, and a handsome stranger in a hotel lobby—seeing the gleam of yearning in my eye—gave me a quick induction. I loved everything about it. The way it felt in my hand, so sleek yet substantial. The way it moved, in such sinuous spins and slides. The way it responded when touched in that special way.
We’d only been together for six months, but in that time we’d developed a relationship that was totally in sync, in a totally out-of-sync kind of way. Needless to say, The Experiment shattered all that. Talk about a toxic breakup. This one had all the elements: anger, denial, bargaining. A massively overdue bill. I write these words five months, two weeks, four days, ten hours, and nine minutes—no make that ten—since that fateful day on which I told my iPhone “We need to take a break ...” And although I would never have believed it at the time, in the end I’ve found acceptance.
There was never a question in my mind that getting clean after six deliriously dopamine-fueled months on the iPhone would be my own biggest challenge. But then, as far as I was concerned, most of the other screens in
our house had been a turnoff for a long time.
Even the loss of my laptop, while acutely felt, was something I was able to put into perspective in the early weeks. Mostly I associated the laptop with drudgery: churning out copy and column inches to the implacable, circadian-like rhythm of daily deadlines. The prospect of writing anything longer than a grocery list in longhand (and even those I’d been known to type, format, and print) was horrifying. But I’d organized a nice long hiatus for myself. One puny little five-hundred-word column a week was all I’d have to worry about, and if I really hit the wall, I knew I could take myself off to a café somewhere for a latte and a bracing shot of Wi-Fi.
The Winter of Our Disconnect Page 10
