Paul Verhoeven is awesome. Part one of millions.

Every artist, whether they are a writer, a musician, a painter, or photographer, has influences. Some broadcast their influences more than others. But we all have them, and different influences work upon us to different degrees. As an aspiring author and storyteller, I do not mind telling you that one influence in particular overrides all others where I am concerned. That influence is the work of the Dutch director named Paul Verhoeven. Verhoeven frequently alludes to things in audio commentaries that have to do with his childhood in The Netherlands during the second World War. One thing he mentions at least once is how the Germans would put the corpses of his countrymen on display in public. Both as a method of controlling local resistance, and to signal to the Allies that the Germans could and would kill Dutchmen if they encountered sufficient trouble. So if one wants to search for an influence upon Paul Verhoeven‘s methodology in terms of storytelling and depicting violence, World War II is the first, last, and possibly only place to look.

A common, and sorely mistaken, theme in reviews of Verhoeven‘s films is that he directed it, ergo it will not be subtle. No offense to the reviewers concerned, but fukk you. The difference between Paul Verhoeven and what Hollywood feels to be acceptable is not subtlety, but rather that Paul knows when to be subtle.

Speaking of names…

By now, I am sure at least someone who has read my ramblings will have asked “what is with that title?”. I will try to keep this one brief. When I say brief, I mean brief by my standards, not yours.

The name of this journal is a quote from the New Order song Blue Monday. You know, the one where the words “how does it feel… to treat me like you do?” are remembered by most who have listened. Well, a little further into the song, the vocalist states, “I still find it so hard… to say what I need to say. But I’m quite sure that you’d tell me… just how I should feel today”. This song and the quotations reflect directly how I feel about certain people who are still in my life in spite of my having wanted them to get out since I was seventeen or so.

Between the ages of nine and fourteen, I came under the purview of what was supposedly a respected psychiatrist in this country. There followed a lot of pain and fear, but the most frustrating thing was that even as an adolescent, I felt I was perpetually engaging in a game of finding the right words to say to this woman in order to get her to pursue the course of action that would benefit me. If you think services for autistic children often miss the point today, then all I have to say to you, normie parents, is that at least they have the virtue of being there at all.

Add to that the fact that the people at the service she was a part of liked to correct every word coming out of a person’s mouth even when they were seventeen. Hence, “I still find it so hard… to say what I need to say. But I’m quite sure that you’d tell me… just how I should feel today” is a very appropriate source for a title.

The psychiatrist in question. Let me put it this way. I could not have gotten less subtle about it if I had walked into her office with the words “I am autistic” tattooed into my forehead. That it took another ten years after my last meeting with this… person… to get an accurate diagnosis is something that Australians, and indeed the entire world, should hang their heads in shame about. And communicating with people about what I need done is still a very difficult exercise that makes me want to neck myself after every attempt.

As I said to the ghost of William Shakespeare, then. What is in a name? Quite a hell of a lot, actually.

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