There's a Shark in my Bed . . .

Failure. I don’t think there’s a person who has ever not been afraid of failing at something. That’s why mirrors and spell check were invented. We've all been there, failure. Some of us a lot more times then we’d like to admit. 

We all fall short of the social normal. Some of us trip; some of us full-on faceplant. There’s normal failing, like being late, forgetting things, and stupid crap like that. No one really holds little failures against you, unless you do them a lot.

Then there's middle failures, which are worse. Failing a test, failing a class, these failures do not make you a failure, but you can only do them once before the stink gets hard to wash off. 

Then there's failures you only have to do once before you become a failure yourself. Like driving drunk and killing someone, cheating on your spouse with multiple people, failing college, etc. That’s a thought, isn't it? That you could fail at something (or a lot of somethings) so much, that you are now yourself a giant walking failure.  That's the ultimate fear.

There are some people who will literally kill not to fail. Wall Street CEO's shooting mistress to ensure their silence, mob bosses, all the Hollywood villains. In my opinion, they’re only a little insane for doing so. Honestly, if I could have killed someone to cover up my freshmen year in college, I’d have considered it.

So much of the value we give ourselves is based upon how successful we've been at not failing. But the good news is that society is built upon avoiding failure. Now, don’t read that as “society wants you to succeed.” I mean “society doesn't want you to fail.” Failure really is a concept. Failure is someone noticing that you have screwed the pooch. You know, pics, or it didn't happen.

What I'm saying is, you can fail: 

But until someone notices that you screwed up, you’re not screwed. 

You see the idea isn't that you have actually succeeded in not being an idiot, it’s that you nobody saw you being an idiot. This idea, that the failure is not a failure until someone else sees it, is dangerous. It makes you think you can live a perfect life when really, you're just good at hiding. I have attempted this method myself. 

At first I figured  failures were like needy friends. Sure, they’d crash on your couch and eat your food, but eventually they’d leave. But failure isn't like that. 

Failure is an ever growing aquarium. It’s little at first, and there’s just a few fish in there. 

Honestly, if you didn't have to feed them every once in a while, you’d forget you had pets. But then time goes by, and you get a few more fish.

It’s okay though, you don’t even have to feed the fish, they’ll take care of themselves (there’s an ecosystem now). 

And little by little the aquarium grows.

And grows. 

And grows.

Until one day. . . 

 You wake up and realize you’re living in a shark tank.

The fish have evolved into failure sharks that have taken over you life, and living room. Suddenly you realize with dead certainty, that no one is ever going to come into your house again because the failure sharks are hungry and ready to consume anything they can get in their giant greedy jaws. So this is when you drain the tank and kill the sharks, right? Opt for a nice golden retriever?

Nope.

Instead, you rent an apartment, nothing expensive, and you fill it with other things. 

You fill it with nice things, happy things. 

And whenever you want to have people over to your “house” you take them to your apartment. And everyone oohs and ahs at how well adjusted you are. The apartment is failure free, and you have so many nice things. Your problem is solved.

Except that it isn't  Your house is still a shark tank, and you can’t get rid of it (no one is going to buy an illegal shark tank). No matter how much you love your apartment, and how much other people love your apartment, it’s not your home. Your good friends know that you don’t actually live there. You tell them you've got some issues, but not about your marine biology. And every night, when everyone’s left, you make the long trip home, pop on an oxygen tank, and sleep in your watery grave.

This is your new life. 

And then one day, you meet someone, someone really great. At first, they like your apartment, but this person is special and smart.

“So where do you live?”
“What? This is my house.”
“No, this is your apartment. Where’s your home?”

You can’t fight them off forever. Special people are hard to fight. Little by little, you tell them about your house.

“Well, I live in a house.”

“A house?”

“Yeah, but, um, it has some pests.”

“Well, yeah everybody gets bugs every once in a while.”

“Well, no, not bugs . . .”
“Then, what?”
“My house is full of sharks.”

Special Person is surprised, but since they are special, they understand. Special people have a way of staying with you. One night, when you are especially tired and not paying attention, Special Person follows you from your apartment, to your house. The last place you want Special Person to be is on your soggy front lawn, but there they are, being special.

“Can I come in?”

What are you supposed to do? You must protect Special Person. Your house is a dangerous shark-ridden Atlantis of misery and woe that you haven’t cleaned in at least a week. They can never know.

“Um . . . you really shouldn't.”

“But I want to see where you live.”

“It’s not that great. We could hang out in my apartment.”

“ Please?”

When a special person says please, you must obey. 

It’s a universe rule.

You let Special Person into your house and you watch their face drain. That’s right special person, I’m roommates with Jaws. This is when you discover just how special your person is. Normal people run away from sharks, but not special people. You see, special people have one flaw: they are very brave. 

Special people look at your sharks and they say I’m not afraid. But you are. You’re afraid that the sharks will eat Special Person. This is a common problem. Sharks attack special people and chew the special clean off, sometimes resulting in permanent damage.

Sure enough, the two of you sit down to watch Arrested Development and along comes Sharky to nibble on Special Person’s head.  Special Person says it doesn't hurt, but you know better. Shark bites sting. You have your shark bites, you know, from living in a shark tank with cranky sharks. 

Your family has them too. For a long time Special Person is brave, but you know that they can’t make it here like you can. Weeks pass and you see Special Person getting shark bite scars almost as bad as yours and your family's. 

You know what you have to do. You kick Special Person out of your house.

“Can I come back in?”

“No! The sharks will eat you, Special Person!”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well I do. Go away.”

“Can I stay if the sharks leave?”

What? Your failure sharks have been here so long you forgot they were once just fish. You were the one who kept feeding them, and sure, you didn't kick them out, but . . . can you do that now? Can you get rid of failure?

The answer isn't simple. You’ll never be able to get rid of the scars you have. There are always consequences for having sharks in your house. But which is worse: the scar of a shark bite, or living in a house of sharks? Some sharks you can kick out on your own with hard work. Some sharks swim away with time. Sometimes you have you bring other people into your house to get rid of them. But little by little, you can regain control of your house. A  lot of the time, it’s not easy. Sharks don't like to be kicked out. 

And as soon as people find out you have sharks in your house (mother freaking SHARKS) you get a lot of judgment. Friends may not admit to knowing you. People may even stop visiting your apartment.

But you know what, screw those people. You didn't want those sharks in your house, you didn't ask for those sharks in your house. They were mistakes. Anyone who says they haven’t had a home pest problem is lying. And just because they only have termites and not great white sharks, doesn't make them a better homeowner.

Ok, if we were talking about literal sharks, then yes, termite girl wins, but we’re not.


You are going to fail a lot growing up. 

Angering a Hive of Monkeys

Forgetting to Write a Paper

Gaining a Freshmen 15 . . . or 30

Wearing Pj's as Clothes

Not Controlling Your Impulses 

Writing A Blog

But my point is that if you hold onto those failures and shut them up inside of you, they’re going to eat you alive.  You need to let them go, which is hard. You've got to admit that you have failed, even if no one saw it. And you have to change. That may mean letting Special Person help you kick out the sharks, or it may mean asking Special Person to leave, so they can be safe. Life’s hard like that. But admitting that your failures are hurting you, or even that they happened, is the first step of getting them out of your life.

But What if people find out?

It’s my fault they’re here. I need to keep them around so they remind me not do it again.

I don’t know how to get rid of them.

What sharks?

You need to get rid of the sharks folks. Call professionals if you need to.

Failure is an option. 

Holy Mysteries

            As a child, I was no theologian. I was a devout follower of Sunday school, but rather indifferent to the inner workings of an invisible, transcendent, and omnipresent God; I liked it when we played duck-duck-goose. It was to such an extent that when my sister was baptized in the large blue hot-tub one fine Sunday morning, I faked getting saved. Now, I do not know if I was aware of my wickedness— I was five at the time—but I did know that I wanted a chance at a holy dunking. I’d often thought about the baptismal. My first church was funded from the pockets of multigenerational good Southern families. There were four buildings in all, two attached to the “new” building (I say “new” because it was old by the time I got to it). The first building was split into two parts, which included more than thirty rooms on the first floor, and a well-developed nursery and children’s church on the top. I never knew why they wanted so many rooms. The second housed our sanctuary and bathrooms that had lounges with carpet in them. Then of course there were scads more rooms that I didn’t care to count, since this was the adult building, and there were no toys or pictures on the walls.

            The old buildings were a thing of mystery. There was an old Sunday school building with catacombs off abandoned rooms and an old sanctuary. The sanctuary was truly old. It was a thing of history museums and backward southern towns.  It had a dome like the Capitol building with a stained glass window inside of it. Most southern churches have stained glass windows, which I have always loved. I’ve neglected many preachers’ sermons to stare at the windows. It was the characters and lights that attracted me the most. But this window, set up high above the nodding heads of the congregation, was a thing of fear. I never dared to stare at that one. 

It was an eye stretched open to observe the congregation. And when the sun hit noon, the great eye glared and burnt with holy wrath. I thought as a child that it might have indeed been the very eye of God. Now, I knew that God wouldn’t show up like that, since that sort of thing has been out of style since the Old Testament, but I also knew that he watches us. And he never sleeps. This large unblinking orb affixed in the decaying building could well be one of God’s spy cams; it could be watching for me.

I would hide in the dusty classrooms and peak out, ever so silently, at the dome window. When I could no longer stand the gaze, I’d jump back into the room, heart racing at from how close I’d come to being stricken down. If I were daring, I’d lay on my stomach and creep army-style to the door and squint from the floor. I would behold in reverent six-year-old wonder, God’s glass eye. And when I was full of sufficient conviction, I’d scoot back and pray a quick apology. I spent my childhood fantasizing about that building and its holy mysteries. I don't think the building is till there, thought I can't imagine they'd tear it down. I suppose I’ll never get the chance to wander back into the hall and let God see what I’ve become over the past fifteen years. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. 

Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum: A Writer’s Tale

            My family keeps photo albums. Well, my family tries to keep photo albums. The only extant ones taper off somewhere between Anna coming out of side-ponytails and baby dolls, and Kayley getting into high heels and boys. There’s a gaping hole between this time and my early college years because my mother, bless her heart, wiped out a hard drive by accident. I think it was a blessing. A providential keystroke snuffed out my awkward adolescence and ushered me straight into profile pictures and posing.

            I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood recently, the time before the great blackout. In one of the albums, there is a picture of me sitting on an old couch. In my lap there is a think pink book the size of a dictionary spread wide and resting between my legs. I used to read stories to my brother and sisters. Not that they couldn’t read, we were all wonder children and bright little academics. But when I read, I did voices. If it was a favorite of mine, I’d do motions. And if it was Jack and The Beanstalk, there was no couch that could contain me.

            I would open the book reverently, the pages crackling with age and dust. Tape bound the edges of the spine where the old laminate was slowly peeling away. I had to be gentle with the pages, and not pull them out of the jury-rigged binding. The story began without much excitement or violence, but I got to make a few animal noises and twang out an Alabaman peasant[1]. The peddler’s voice was hard; I went as low as my seven-year-old lisp would allow. Formalities, really, all this beginning stuff. My sisters and brother would listen and look at the pictures, but we all knew it was just a means to an end. They were waiting for the giants.

This particular picture was taken during the “fi-fie-fo-fum” portion of the story. In the picture, my legs are high in the air, kicking straight out from under me. My siblings cower in the cushions mostly to evade the dramatic thrashing, but also from fear of the camera. I have no such fear. I stare at the camera, mouth agape in a giant roar, teeth scattered at random like jutting Styrofoam cups[2] in my cock-jawed thespian epiphany.

I was a precocious little snot.

I quickly grew out of that stage. My mother thought it was cute enough the first, second, and even the third time. After that, Jack and the Bean Stalk became a lot harder to find. But, I found other books. I found lots of other books. My mother liked to decorate the house with vintage quilts, pictures, and books. The shelves and flat spaces of my home were littered with books of no particular genre or subject. She bought them at yard sales, auctions, and markets, not ever expecting anyone to open them again. They’d serve as makeshift coasters and end-table arrangements to the end of their days.

Not if I had anything to do with it.

I started in the upstairs hall. There was one collection of large brightly colored leather books. I believe it was for meant for children in a sturdier generation than mine. There were Grimm’s fairytales (the actual bloody versions) and myths, and wives stales, and the superstitious suppositions of dead secret societies. I devoured the books in the corner of the hall and in my large bean bag chair. Next, I went to the basement where I found a treasury of Poe. I knew I liked him, because he made my mom shudder.

Oh, no, you don’t have to read that.

What, mom?

Just ignore this assignment, we’re skipping Poe. His stuff is just creepy and dark. Y’all don’t need to think about those kinds of things.

As my teacher, she vetoed poor Poe, but now I sucked him down along with Jack London and Edgar Rice Burroughs. We used to listen to audio books in our car as we drove about our day. They were best for road trips. We listened to more than thirty books over my childhood.  It was just a matter of time.

I began to write stories in my head, though I didn’t write them down. I acted out my stories with little plushie animals and plastic horses. I repurposed any small object I could get my hands on, down to my actual hands. If I wasn’t telling, showing, or seeing a story, I felt like I was dying. That’s when I began to notice there were stories happening all the time. Cars whizzed by, and right there inside the cab, was a ten second soap opera. The mall was Times Square and there were plays in abundance.

It got harder as I got older and staring was no longer cute and unobtrusive. I’ve scared a lot of people. But the selling point for me was that, in all of those stories that I saw and acted out alone in my room, the people were the same. Even as a seven-year-old I knew that there were stories written on the bones of the universe. They’re written in the very blood of human kind, and something that powerful and intimate doesn’t deserve silence. I don’t know how people don’t explode from all the wonderful things inside of them. I just know that I saw them as a child, and I see them now again as an adult. I have to keep writing for the little girl sitting on the couch screaming Fe-fi-fo-fum! She’s got to be allowed to scream to the world, “Come; come back to the place you used to be. Come, come to the place you’ve never been, where you’ll never be again.”

---

[1] My mother was from Alabama and it was one of the few dialects I could mimic along with a very racist French accent.

[2] There was a good amount of space between my two front teeth and neither of them had neighbors.

It's a Crazy Duck Filled World

Ok, I haven't been ignoring my blog... ish. I have been writing, it's just been plays. Namely the first 5 of 31, it's part of the 31plays31days challenge, but that's not the point, the world is the point.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Recently I was asked by a wide-eyed six year old, to draw a duck. Ladies and Gentlemen, that is harder than it sounds. I've been asked to draw a lot of things, to carry a lot of things, to "watch me" do a lot of things, and to explain a lot of things. Ladies and Gentlemen, it's harder than it sounds.

All jobs are hard in their own way, even a job you really do like. And I have found nannying to be no exception. It's the first job I've had where it is possible to have a very crappy day and it not be metaphorical. I've watched everyone from 11 months to 13 years and folks, it is a crazy duck filled world.

You take a broad sample, of just two year olds, and I can guarantee you, they are as different as night, day, and perriwinkle meltdown. But of course you already know this, all people are different. But, there is an honesty in children, the little ones, something that hasn't been stamped out yet. There is some ancient spark of understanding that you see in their eyes that transcends the Dora the Explorer mind mush being shoveled down their throats. Children Understand. When a child asks you a question, they're storing and shaping their mind around your answer. It may be as trivial as "Why do fish have gills?" or "How do I know my prince is a good prince?" I've been asked both, and a lot more. Believe you me, the hot seat is a few shades warmer than the center of the sun.

Now, I'm not going crazy, not yet. I've just been struck over the summer by the honesty and receptiveness of our tiny counterparts. When did we start teaching them that they are dumber then they are? That they need only rise to Backyardigans and Wiggle Time?

I'm not bashing children's programming, I mean, I am, but I'm not. It's all fun and games on the surface... but why, why would you give your children a leg up into the world over the back of a middle aged actor doomed to blue face paint and falsetto for the rest of his life? It confuses me.

On the same note, when did we start telling ourselves we need only rise to the American formula? When did that become okay to check off your checklist and not care that you were doing motions? Your job means nothing, the small talk, the movies you go to see, the endless vanilla parade. How can you live your life knowing that only playing at it?

This doens't categorize everyone, but for the people it does, I ask you... Why?

Okay, I think I've used up my question marks.

Anyway, today's post isn't really funny. There aren't even pictures. But, if you get anything, get this.

You need to live life with the wisdom of an adult and the passion of a child.
Anything else is just motions.

P.S. If you want to follow my ever spiraling scripting, please, treat yourself to my insanity over the next 31 days.

http://www.scribd.com/my_document_collections/3734898