R. Munro's Blog

Here I was being as quiet as possible, avoiding all the damn booby traps and there he is at the foot of the stairs, pointing a goddamn smartphone at me. He’s not taking photographs either, he’s actually shooting video.

Hope that’s something you were planning to upload later and not live-streaming to a mate somewhere else, little buddy.

“Gotcha,” he says with a smarmy, gap-toothed grin.

Fair cop, kid. You got me. Here I am in the jolly red suit, long white beard and lugging a sack full of loot, and you’ve sprung me. I’m even lit up by Christmas tree lights to make the video clearer. What did you reckon, you too-clever little shit? This time of year is easy pickings for all sorts who want access to people’s houses. Despite all the fear being peddled by politicians and the media, people just get too fucking trusting around the holiday season.

Doesn’t mean I should be less cautious, though.

I hate when this happens.

Does he genuinely believe I’m Santa? He’s young, like eight or nine, and the superhero graphics on his pyjamas suggest he reckons he’s older than he really is, but he’s not too old to not believe in Santa any more. Is he the one who insisted on the home-baked biscuit and glass of milk on the coffee table? There are even carrots there for the reindeer. It’s a nice enough house. Both parents work by the look of things, and the home-made decorations on parts of the tree show the little sister is a big believer with a heart of gold and the artistic talent of a deranged meerkat.

He’s still grinning, but even from here I can see he’s trembling too.

“So what’re you gonna do now?” I ask. He shrugs. Springing me had been the priority. What came next was something he was probably going to try and work out later. He hasn’t yelled for anybody yet. Maybe I can sweet-talk the phone off him. “Did you get my best side?” He nods. “Can I see?” He shakes his head and holds the phone behind his back.

Devious little bastard.

“What did you bring me?” he gushes with a little hop. Like I haven’t heard that one before. This whole area has always had some snot-nosed junior piss-artist ready to challenge the rumours Santa’s not real and wait in the shadows on Christmas Eve. Makes getting around a bit harder than usual, but the pickings are just too easy to resist.

“You’ve been naughty this year, so no bike for you,” I tell him flatly. He’s genuinely upset. There are the beginnings of tears, but even from here I’ve got doubts they’re real. If he wails, the rest of the family will be awake and down in a shot. “I did get you a mini drone,” I quickly assure him, gesturing to the pile of presents under the tree. The tears evaporate and his appreciative eyes widen.

“What did you get for your sister?” I ask, trying to distract him. Maybe I can make my way over and snatch the phone away. He points. There’s a wooden doll house. It’s not big by any stretch, and looks like the carpenter had hiccups when he put it together, but the thick coat of paint and big red ribbon are guaranteed to win over his sister’s heart.

“I made that for Maddie,” he says.

Did you now? Clever and talented. Hmmm. At least he’s been a bit good. His sister’ll be thrilled.

“I’m gonna show my dad the video of you coming in through the door. He said you came down the chimney but we don’t have one and he didn’t believe me when I told him you’d have to come through the door,” he declares and turns to head back up the stairs. “It’s why I left it unlocked.”

“Jasper,” I call. He looks back, shocked. Of course I know your name. It’s all over every second tag under the tree. “Don’t. You can’t let your parents know I’m here.”

“Screw that,” he says with a laugh and takes the first step.

You made me do it, you stupid little shit. At the end of the day, you’ve only got yourself to blame.

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen! Hang on tight Jasper, this is going to be a bumpy ride!” I yell with a crack of my whip as the sleigh rises from the roof into the crisp night air.

Mother Christmas is going to have to set an extra place this year, but we’ve always managed every time it’s happened. Besides, there’s always room for another pair of hands in the factory.

Just have to remember to magic him up some pointy ears.

Child labour’s a no-no these days, but nobody bats an eye at elves slaving away in Santa’s workshop.

Identity

In light of the recent decision by Australian parliament to legislate in favour of same-sex marriage, I’ve had a bit of a think about my own situation.

Here are my thoughts.

I have long held a sneaking suspicion I rarely ever “dressed up” when I was a kid because I had deep-rooted difficulties with identity.

A normal, healthy kid develops a sense of self from an early age, and through middle childhood forms concepts of identity in myriad ways. When adolescence kicks in, those ideas get turned on their head, and the fraught years of early to mid teens tend to revolve around experimentation, exploration, and establishing a sense of independent, real self. This happens as part of establishing adulthood, usually at a distance from parents and traditional role models. Some teens maintain their attachment to identities experimented with in childhood as a place of safety amidst conflicted environments. Others leave all that behind and progress to form new identities for themselves as adults who don’t rely on anything more than the wisdom developed during their younger years. Thus society celebrates a diverse spectrum of personality types.

Young kids constantly experiment with ideas of identity. For little guys, this can manifest itself as character costumes, face painting, clothing, physical activities (e.g. organised sport) and numerous other activities where forms of self-expression and mask-wearing (and inner mask development) become particularly focused. Identifying with characters in games, movies, literature and so on takes observation of role models to the point of emulation. At a point short of early adolescence, those experiments tend to give way to more practical applications—fantasy gives way to enactment, e.g. the superhero costume becomes sports gear; listening to music becomes playing guitar in the garage, and so on. The mask becomes reality, the identity becomes codified and life patterns become established norms adhered to well into middle adulthood.

From my own perspective, even when very young, I struggled with identity. I didn’t connect with other kids, and my aloof, frequently negligent parents provided no role models there. Family friends? There were none. TV? It tended to be too fantastical for me. Books? Too diverse. The near obsession some of my school peers had with popular culture references I found off-putting, to the point where—at the risk of being labelled a snob—I chose to distance myself. I came to dislike superhero comic books and eventually comics in general. This was not because I found anything intrinsically bad in them, it’s just the fawning and slavering by said peers acted as a deterrent. This extended to other facets too—music, books, movies, TV shows, even fashion. If they raved about it, I hated it. Popular culture became my antithesis.

One major phenomenon spared that indignity was Star Wars, which I saw before any of my peers. I liked it a great deal, which meant my peers became suspicious. A little later, I found myself drawn to the Superman phenomenon when the 1978 movie was released with great fanfare, but unlike some of my colleagues, I didn’t race around the neighbourhood in blue tights with red undies over the top and a red cape tied around my neck to express my appreciation. I never wore costumes. Not even for Star Wars. Indeed, my enduring interest tended to gravitate to how they made the movie itself, and an appreciation for John William’s brilliant score, created hot on the heels of Star Wars, Close Encounters and Jaws. I thought he was such a genius, but his efforts were largely ignored by my peers.

When my school conducted concerts and plays and all the students were required to perform, I ended up in roles requiring little to no fantasy role-playing. I did not require much of a mask. While others strutted the stage as woodland animals or animated toys or rats or knights in shining silver-painted-cardboard armour, I wore regular street clothes or perhaps something a little formal. Not for me the life of cap-and-bells under the proscenium arch, not for me face paint or makeup or funny costumes. Indeed, one year I was the only boy on stage who wasn’t in a pair of tights (to this day I’ve never worn tights on stage). My final year of primary school didn’t even hold a play, much to my relief. In high school, I worked behind the scenes for the stage, and was happy with that.

I had identity issues from early on. Being ‘different’ and not knowing why meant traditional or even meaningful role models weren’t there for me. I couldn’t find anything or anyone who resonated. I wasn’t to know until many years later I had Asperger’s, which is now acknowledged as one of many states on the autism spectrum. Asperger’s wasn’t even recognised until the late 1980s, towards the end of my teen years, and my own situation didn’t get formally diagnosed until my early 30s. It went deeper than just that, though.

From an early age I also had gender identity issues.

I started “noticing” people differently when I was about nine, and it only intensified as I got older. I say “people” instead of “girls” or “boys” because I was paying attention to both. Confused and increasingly frightened by playground (and even mainstream media) innuendo at the time, I withdrew from engaging in discussion with anyone. I became immensely embarrassed by it all, and preferred to pretend it didn’t exist for me. The 1970s and 80s were a particularly cruel time for individuals on the LGBTIQ spectrum, and I wanted nothing to do with any of it. I denied my own feelings and maintained an aloofness which became interpreted as snobbery. To add to the already potent mix, my father decided not to bother with the birds-and-bees father-son “chat”, which I think at the age of eleven, twelve or even thirteen might have really helped. The reality was I loved everyone. I wanted to be with everyone, with anyone, but with such cruel and torturous judgement (and often outright hatred) from many of the more vocal of my peers for anything outside a very narrowly defined norm, combined with my then undiagnosed Asperger’s, I went into denial and ended up with no one.

I was alone. Worse still, I was lonely.

My crushes (even the “appropriate” ones) went unexpressed and unrequited. Poetry became an outlet, yet rapidly found its way into the bin alongside my short stories, novels and the like to make way for more important things on the bookshelf, as far as parents were concerned. Aged eleven, a girl who wanted to whisper something in my ear became distressed when I ran away. After that, she expressed outright hatred for me and even did cruel things to my schoolbag on more than one occasion as revenge. Not long after, I was invited to a “camp” in the backyard of a popular boy from my class. I found myself in a tent with another boy I barely knew, who privately asked if I would like to be his boyfriend. He later told his mother I smacked his leg (then colloquially referred to as a “horsebite”) in an unprovoked act of malice. He was wrong. I did it out of fear and a deliberate attempt to have him not like me, which worked. I hated being physically abusive, especially as I had been the subject of physical violence from bullies on more than my fair share of occasions, but I was dwelling in a perpetual state of confusion and fear, and lashed out. I maintained my silence as to why I smacked the boy and was appropriately punished.

In high school, I developed a crush on a girl which stayed with me for a long time. I confided in a “friend” who promptly told everyone—except the girl herself. We became the object of public teasing, scorn and derision for a good while after that. I withdrew into my shell. Some time later, a boy I knew at a youth group I attended made a pass at me, but at the time I failed to understand his language. Frustrated, and perhaps interpreting my response as something else, he moved his attention elsewhere.

My “attraction” barometer sloshed from one end of the spectrum to the other, as if my in-built Kinsey scale tipped and tumbled in random fashion. To this day, I haven’t a stable orientation. Sometimes I like women. Other times, I like men. I can’t think of a time when I’ve liked both together. Much of the time, I don’t have a preference either way, and in my tumbling, confused world of identity, that suits me just fine. As an adult, I’ve been with folks from both genders at one time or another, but I’ve tended to be awkward, befuddled and frankly useless with either. None of my attempts at emotional or physical intimacy ended with any measure of satisfaction for either party, and I’ve known it’s always been my fault. As part of my Asperger’s, I don’t instinctively read body-language. I have to intellectualise it, which takes more time than instinctive interpretation, by which time, others have moved on. In that respect, I am slow. In the quick, sharp flow of my mental river, there are more than a few jagged rocks to be wary of.

I’ve been told I need to “find someone” if I’m going to achieve any semblance of a meaningful life and even a token measure of happiness. My problem is I find it difficult to imagine there would be anyone out there with the patience to put up with an individual who—in terms of sexual attraction—might be interested (for a given value) for an unknown period of time, and then disinterested for the remainder, only to swing back at some random time down the line. I’ve often felt to make such demands of any potential partner would be grossly unfair to them. I’m still friendly, still connective and connected. My Social Anxiety Disorder precludes rushing out somewhere to meet people, but that doesn’t mean I can’t conduct myself in an appropriate fashion in the presence of a person or small group of people.

I’ve often said I don’t know what planet I belong on, but it sure as hell ain’t this one.

I suspect in the great scheme of things, nearing fifty years old, I have settled on a form of identity. It might not have the substance most folks prefer, but it is something. I understand my mental health difficulties now, better than I have at any time in my past. I’ve made incredible headway with treatment for a panoply of issues, and now feel many of my challenges are manageable. Yet, I must also reconcile that perfect storm of circumstances in my youth have led me to a future of loneliness and isolation which I may never escape. Am I gay? I don’t feel I am. Am I straight? I don’t identify as such. Am I bisexual? Perhaps. Pansexual? Possibly. At this point, all I can say with any measure of certainty is I am celibate, which renders such lines of questioning and others moot. Am I ruling out having a connected life in the future? All I can say to that is I’m leaving my options open.

To give all this cloud cover its silver lining, I would like to believe my uncommon perspective has been broadened by my situation. I’ve always been a very positive and supportive equal rights kind of person. I’m unsure whether or not I should call myself a feminist. I certainly don’t discriminate based on gender. Or race. Just competence … and maybe a bit on intelligence (I find my patience wears thin when it comes to stupid people … it’s a failing of mine, sorry). I’ve had problems with empathy, but I think much of that has to do with dwelling in my own shell so much. These days, I have all the empathy under the sun. It’s just sometimes it gets so overwhelming, I become affected enough to want to withdraw. I still strive to connect. I love to share. I feel I have so much to offer, the ability to help others even though I struggle to help myself. Like I was in my youth, I still have deep and abiding affection for everyone.

I guess that’s why I create art and write so much.

Which is something … I guess.

’Tis the Season

Now the crass commerce of American Thanksgiving and its shadowy cousin “Black Friday” have permeated every corner of the globe thanks to the internet, the stage is set for the crass commerce of the “holiday season”, which seems to span the month of December. Merchants and retailers the world over sweat bullets in anticipation of the biggest consumer spend of the year. Giddily, they line up yet more junk nobody needs but so many want because it will make them look better, nicer, and—most important—richer to their friends and colleagues.

Here in Australia, hot on the heels of adopting Halloween as a worthwhile event, some retailers thought they should cash in on the American “Black Friday” phenomenon, completely ignoring Australian custom of naming any day of bushfire tragedy as a ‘black’ day. Oops. They also conveniently ignored Australian custom of heavily discounted sale day being Boxing Day (i.e. 26th of December), but that probably won’t stop them providing sale opportunities at that time as well. Two for the price of one, so to speak. As long as the money flows. Looks good for the economy, and augments the myth the 99.9% are well off enough to permit tax cuts for the 0.1% and all that. The politicians and their owners must be in serious danger of breaking something from laughing so hard, but since folks are sheep-brained enough to vote for them, they thoroughly deserved to be fleeced.

In these difficult times of predatory online discount sellers like Alibaba and Amazon, many brick-and-mortar retailers have every right to be nervous about the changing landscape of consumerism. Booksellers have been a miner’s canary for retail, demonstrating just how much of an impact a well-positioned mouse click can have on the real world. Of course, the demise of so many, wreaking havoc on real estate, experienced staff, logistics specialists and sundry others who made their living from the sale of books in the pre-internet days, in favour of a few, seems to be the way of things now. Why worry about a thousand people losing their jobs across one nation when a handful in a single city in a completely different nation can add a few extra million to their bank accounts every few days instead? Living the capitalist dream, after all. Yet in all this, the underlying constant is the actual books themselves. The books remain, whether they’re sold online or in a brick-and-mortar shop. Printers might be missing out as more people opt for ebooks, while requests for hard copies are fulfilled by print-on-demand (“POD”), which can now crank out a paperback, but it’s about adapt-or-die. Why pay talented specialists to run printing presses when an underpaid spotty 19 year old can press a button on a machine instead? Think of the savings!

What comes out at the end of the POD process tends to be comparable to the cheapest of pulp paperback of the 1960s, whose pages half a century later, brown and brittle, are easily forgotten and crumble to dust if they’re not binned first. It’s anyone’s guess where an ebook might end up half a century from now. Gone are the days of widespread quality book production. Quality books are still produced—the bookshop in my favourite art gallery stocks luscious titles in scintillating binding, with paper so tactile the pages make love to both your eyes and fingers as you fondle each word—but the cost of doing so tends to be so prohibitive, only the most exclusive titles celebrate such treatment. Thus exclusivity becomes the norm. Books become a luxury, and reading survives chiefly via self-published ebooks. The problem is those very same self-published books struggle to gain eyeballs as authors are left to promote their own work in a sea of voices clamouring to be heard. As a result, the next Shakespeare, the next JK Rowling, the next Edgar Allen Poe, the next new voice capable of shaping and challenging and improving the world gets lost in a morass where commerce is king and content is commodity first, concept last.

Do the world a favour. If you feel compelled to give something to someone this holiday season, make it an original work of art or a book. The world doesn’t need another piece of moulded plastic. What it needs are ideas. Thoughts. Emotions. Humanity. Fewer beneficiaries might be in the chain leading from author to reader these days, but the reality is perhaps someone who has suffered a job redundancy might read new words which provide an idea or inspiration to set them on a new path in life. Books can give hope, just as they can share wisdom. In a world now seemingly led by crass, self-centred and stupid people, now more than ever the world needs intelligence. Don’t be part of the problem, be part of the solution. Give a book, and may a wonderful, life-improving, inspirational book come your way too.