The Winter of Our Disconnect Page 6

  No matter how tech-savvy we Digital Immigrants become, we betray our Old World origins at every turn. Starting with reading the instruction manual, which is a dead giveaway. When a new technology arrives in the home, the Natives don’t need to set out on a humbling search for the “On” button. They just know, as though they’ve been fitted with an auto-detect device their elders and inferiors have only read about in the IT pages of their sad little newspapers. A new application is the same. Immigrants such as you and me wade conscientiously through the documentation. We do the tutorial. We register for online support. In short, we approach every new media experience—from Twitter to TiVo—as if it were a digital disaster waiting to happen. We respond by lining up a walking stick and a wheelchair, just in case.

  The Natives find this hilarious. They are no more frightened by new media than they are by a new pair of running shoes. They just jump right in and start sprinting. While we’re struggling with setting the time and date, they’ve shot a music video, customized the ringtone with seasonally appropriate sound effects, and changed the wallpaper to a close-up of the pug relieving himself.

  We Digital Immigrants work hard on our second-language skills. But we still speak “Download” haltingly, and with thick foreign accents. We say “write” where we should say “post”; “page” where we should say “profile.” We balk at using “friend” as a verb. We “dial” our phones and “look up” facts. We forget the word “avatar,” if we ever knew it to begin with. And we appeal constantly to our kids to translate for us. (“Hey, guys! Cousin Linda just threw a barrel of monkeys at me on Facebook. Please tell me this is a good thing.”)

  Like most others of their tribe, my own Digital Natives regularly traveled to foreign lands, albeit in short hops, even before the Winter of Our Disconnect descended. They did read books (every once in a while). They played music and sports, and went shopping. They indulged in the odd bout of extreme hair coloring. Lord knows, they would always press “pause” to eat—grazing pretty much constantly, like a small but attractive herd of goats. And, of course, no matter what other balls they were keeping in the air, they always seemed to find time to annoy one another.

  The whole point of The Experiment was to send the Digital Natives on an extended trip abroad. A sort of family holiday back to the Old Country. An immersion experience, if you will, in the culture of their forebears. In time, I dared to hope, they might even adapt some of their quaint folkways for use back home in their native land.

  But such lofty dreams would have to wait. For now, I had a more modest goal: to move the goddamn television already. I repaired to Bill’s bedroom, located at the very back of the house, for a site visit. It had been a long time since I’d surveyed the Crack Den in any objective way. Looking around me now, I could understand why. The TV was the size of a refrigerator box. The room was the size of a refrigerator. To say it dominated the space was an absurd understatement. The good news was that the television sat on a dresser that was just at waist height. Ergonomically this was propitious because it meant I didn’t need to bend my knees to lift it. I could easily wrap my arms around it, if only I were a gorilla. As it was, the thing was as bulky and unbudgeable as a husband on a couch. There had to be another way. Maybe a wheelbarrow? If so, I’d have to work fast because Bill was due back any minute.

  I made haste to the shed, half expecting to find Lucy and Ethel crouching behind the fertilizer. (Over the next six months, I would experience many such moments. If I’d ever secretly wished my life were being filmed live in front of a studio audience—and trust me, I hadn’t—it would have been deeply gratifying.) Lined with an old horse blanket, the wheelbarrow made a serviceable rickshaw. I wheeled it around to the back entrance, just a step from Bill’s bedroom door. I even managed to grip the TV and heave it off the dresser. What I couldn’t do was turn or walk. Or breathe. I was rooted to the spot, frantically wondering what to do now, before my forearms unhinged like Lego pieces, when Bill came charging down the hallway, a pool towel flapping, capelike, around his ankles.

  “WTF, Mum!”

  Oh God. I hate it when he uses bad abbreviations.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he repeated crossly. “Let me do that.”

  At that moment, I was so moved by his unexpected affirmation, I practically found the strength of ten menopausal mothers. To me, it meant Bill was in it for the long haul. Metaphorically and otherwise, that took a huge weight off my back.

  In the end it took all we had—and he’s a six-foot-one fifteen-year-old with shoulders as broad as an ax handle—to wrangle the TV out of the back door, into the klieglike glare of the midday sun, across the grass, and under the orange tree to the suffocating blackness of the shed. Somehow or other, Bill balanced it on top of the other set, crushing the boogie board and an index finger (mine). He covered it lovingly with a blanket and trudged manfully back inside.

  From my perspective, the next two weeks passed—or wafted, really—as if in a dream. “That’s because it was so dark you couldn’t see anything, Mum,” Anni reminded me tartly. But even so, Blackout Bootcamp proved to be one of the most serene and transforming periods of my entire adult life. A cynic might say it had something to do with the fact that the lights were off but nobody was home. There was a kernel of truth there, no doubt about it.

  Sussy did indeed move out entirely—taking her suitcase and her MacBook with her. “I really think it’s time I spent more time with Dad,” she explained again earnestly, and not entirely convincingly. I wasn’t happy about it. But she probably did need to spend more time with her father, whom she’d tended to see only sporadically in the last few years. He lived in a country town about an hour’s drive south, but had a pied-à-terre just down the road, where he stayed during the week. And if Sussy really believed that home was where the MySpace was, here was a perfect opportunity to test the hypothesis.

  I tried not to feel “blocked”—to use the language of social media—but I wasn’t always successful. There were many times over the years when I’d felt reduced to a kind of glorified service provider to my children, but this was taking it to a whole new level. I told myself it would be a learning experience for all of us, and kept combing through Walden for consolation. “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone,” I read. Yes, but not your daughter, I couldn’t help thinking.

  Although they were more subtle about it, Anni and Bill also took a fugitive approach during these early weeks of tepid milk, hot sheets, and ice-cold showers. (It had been a shock to discover that our gas-powered hot water system required electricity to ignite. When I figured this out on the second day—there had been enough reserve hot water to see us through the first—even I started to wobble. If the weather hadn’t been so sultry, The Experiment might have dried up there and then.) There were a lot of sleepovers at friends’ houses. Less predictably, there were a fair few incoming sleepovers as well.

  The kids had plenty of friends who’d been back and forth like blowflies to Europe and North America. But nobody, nobody had been on a power trip like this one—not intentionally and in their home. The Harry Potteresque lanterns weren’t the only draw card. So too was the opportunity—if you can believe it—to play board games. I hadn’t anticipated that Blackout Bootcamp would have such strong novelty value among the been-there, done-that crowd.

  The first night without power, Sussy, Maddi, and I kicked it off with a round of ImaginiFF. And they initiated it. (“Imagine if we could turn on the fan,” Sussy quipped.) I tried to remember the last time any of my children had asked me to play a game. Not counting mind games, it had been years. Sure, we’d played poker and Yahtzee when we were on holiday with other families—especially at Rottnest Island where, like Gracetown, the lack of technological amenities was world class. And of course I’d played lots of games with them when they were little. (Like a good feminist, I’d taught them that the player who gets stuck with the Old Maid is the winner.)

&n
bsp; But everybody had grown up to be so damned competitive, I’d purposely steered away from anything that involved winning and losing. They still arm-wrestled most mornings over who was going to ride in the front seat of the car. I certainly wasn’t about to take my life into my hands and play Monopoly with these people. The Experiment would mean we had less choice about whether or not to cooperate—like that Hitchcock film where the people are stuck in the lifeboat and they all have to pull together or die of exposure.

  A few nights in, Bill’s friend Pat slept over. It seems he’d had a huge fight with his parents and his brother about computer time. LOL! “Did Bill tell you we have no power here?” I asked cautiously. “Fine with me,” he’d growled. “I’m over it.”

  The last time Pat and Bill had had a sleepover, Pat had brought his desktop computer along with him—strapped to his bike like a large child. This was not unusual. The friendship was really a foursome: two boys and two PCs. No matter how often Bill explained it to me, I could never quite figure out why this was necessary—like, if they were playing games, couldn’t they just take turns?—but it was something about battling each other in real time. Frankly, it sounded a lot like being married.

  This time, Pat brought a toothbrush and a book instead. “Wow. Pat can read?” Sussy hissed. (She was home on weekend furlough.) That night, I went to say goodnight and found the boys sitting up on Bill’s bed, side by side with their Coleman lanterns and their books: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and—get this—The God Delusion.

  So Dawkins was wrong after all, I reflected as I tiptoed down the hall. There really is a God.

  January 5, 2009

  Peaceful, almost Zen-like atmosphere in house today.

  Duh. No one home.

  Seriously—the quality of the silence has changed. It’s thicker, more meditative. The buzz is gone. It’s good.

  Cleaned fridge and found two gel eye-masks buried under a drift of pecorino. Gross! Made chicken curry for dinner. Girls (Anni, Maddi, Suss) returned around eight p.m. and screamed with laughter to find Bill and self eating it on verandah by kerosene lamplight. “Creepy!” they cried. (A: “Mum, this is the dorkiest idea you ever had.”) But dutifully took up their lanterns and went inside.

  Snuck down hallway later to find all arrayed in A.’s bed surrounded by lanterns and mags. Suss reading novel titled No Fat Chicks. Others discussing “fear of intimacy.”

  Bedrooms terrifyingly slatternly at present but thankfully cannot see much detail.

  January 6

  Wrote column in longhand, just like this diary. Painful to hand and head, big-time. Harbor no ambivalence whatsoever re: MS Word. It rocks. Sigh.

  Bought bunch of new pens, notebooks as treat to self. (Sharpie ultra fine points, permanent, and spiral bound nbks with sober but elegant black covers.) Spent foolish amount of time trawling well-lit, climate-controlled aisles of OfficeWorks. Can see myself starting to abuse stationery if not careful.

  Keywords wish list (i.e., stuff I wanted to Google today): 1—natural diuretics, 2—“French justice minister” AND pregnant, 3—Perth New York airfare cheapest, 4—cause of death, HD Thoreau.

  Read every blessed word of newspaper.

  Bill rode bike to Vinnie’s and just called to ask if he could stay the night. Evidently The Beast still roams, seeking whom he may devour.

  January 7

  Have totally settled into Walden-worthy routine now. Spent morning at South Beach, snorkeling, snoozing, and rereading Thoreau. Home for grilled cheese cooked in frying pan. (NB: Have discovered how to make toast over an open flame. Spear bread with long fork, wave in circles over gas ring. Avoid observing self in rangehood.)

  Definitely eating strangely, out of all routine. Today: ½ almond croissant, 2 mangoes, 1 cheese sandwich, 1 glass wine, 1 grapefruit soda, 1 Kit Kat. Thoreau would gag. He did have some pretty odd cravings himself, though. “I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path,” he wrote, “and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented.” Interesting. Felt much the same way about the Kit Kat.

  January 8

  Near 40° today—same for tomorrow. Cannot Google “metric converter” for precise Fahrenheit equiv but know it’s over a hundred. (Weird how after twenty-three years of metric I still feel this need. “Ten kilometers? Yes, but what’s it really?” I always want to know.)

  Taking many walks, despite heat. V. strange without iPod. Normally have certain podcasts for certain routes. (Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me on Lefroy Rd heading west. This American Life on Dog Beach, etc.) Unplugged, am trying instead to focus on surroundings. Taking new routes so I have something interesting/new to observe. Figs, e.g. They are everywhere in this neighborhood! Am trying one from every tree I pass. Thoreauvian? Maybe. Fattening? Definitely.

  Hair issues continue to challenge. Have experimented with low-tech straightening—i.e., combing wet bangs straight back and pinning them as if skull were a giant roller. Sad really.

  Do look, as feared, like bag lady. But at least have acquired good tan. So perhaps a glowing bag lady ...

  January 9

  Tension.

  Fought with A. about dishes, credit-card charge for overdue books, and general princessy attitude. Returned home from clubs last night at TWO A.M. Silently handed her and friend a lantern and stalked back to bed. (“Sorry about my FREAKY HOUSE, Laura!” she called out.) Always blaming The Experiment for everything undone, disorganized, and dysfunctional in her life right now. Literally ask myself on a daily if not hourly basis where I have gone wrong. Powerlessness? Don’t get me started.

  January 10

  Bad night: hay-feverish and disturbing dreams. I want my, I want my, I want my NPR!

  Explained to B.’s coach about The Experiment and was startled/ slightly freaked out to see his eyes misting over. He gave Bill a lecture about how fortunate he was to be having this experience ... how he would remember it his whole life AND BE GRATEFUL TO HIS MOTHER (my favorite part). Said he would love to do the same at his house. Bill dumbstruck. Looked at me with something bordering on respect.

  Anni apologized for yesterday and we did a big, cathartic clean of her room. (“Simplify, simplify, honey. Like, why have a dozen empty cans of Diet Coke when two or three will do?”) Said she’d told friends about The Experiment and was surprised how many thought it was cool.

  Did laundry by hand, btw. Surprisingly pleasant (just a couple of summer tops and underwear—can’t imagine doing linens or, God forbid, B.’s football stuff). Remembered my grandmother’s washboard and how she washed her “smalls” in the kitchen sink every morning and hung them out to dry first thing. Felt v. virtuous and carbon neutral, pegging it all out like some fifties housewife. Shame about the hair though.

  January 11

  NEW KITTEN!!! Decided we needed a handheld toy after all. Hazel! So adorable. A. & B. picked her out of lineup from Cat Haven. She is afraid of Rupert, even though he is about as fierce as a Persian rug.

  Eleven p.m. Girls talking and reading by candlelight, in clean, aired room, not glued to Facebook in zombie-ish oblivion to surrounding chaos. They are tired—as they should be at this hour—not wired.

  January 13

  Have decided dishwasher is hugely overrated. Not really a timesaving device—more a time-delay device. Its function surely ¾ aesthetic— i.e., removing dishes from view. A dark kitchen does the same job instantaneously.

  January 15

  How to manage time (drop-offs, pick-ups) without cell phone? First attempt today, as needed Bill’s help to pick up bed. (Offered him queen-size bed to compensate for loss of TV. Will have literally no room to swing a pug in there now, but whatevs ...)

  Complicated logistics! Me at ABC in Perth, B. in Fremantle. Devised plan for B. to take bus and then train to Subiaco, where would meet him at station at 3:30 p.m.

  V. anxious, as plans like this usually need a dozen t
exts back and forth to confirm, rejig, reconfirm, and re-rejig. (“Missed bus,” “Can’t find SmartRider,” “OK to meet fifteen mins later?” etc. etc.)

  And guess what?

  Bang on time. When I saw his head appear in the crowd on the up escalator, practically punched fist in air (but knew that would make him go down again!).

  It’s like the old days, when people just showed up.

  January 16

  Am so over that damned ice chest. Wine bottle tipped, and bouquet of cut-rate Sem Sauv infuses all provisions. Nasty scratch on countertop too.

  Went to Bill’s room this a.m. and caught him playing with SHADOWS. Besotted with Hazel, as are all. (Suss put out she was not in on selection. Sat on rug for hours playing hide and squeak.)

  Missed iPhone painfully when had to wait twenty mins with B. at Thai takeout joint. In desperation, played Mr. Squiggle and Scattergories instead. Pretty fun. A notepad makes a decent handheld game actually. Had forgotten that.

  January 17

  10:30ish—last night of powerlessness!

  Anni literally counting the minutes till midnight. She is reading Dating Up by lantern light, surrounded by candles, Hazel dozing on chest.