Playing Dumb

I read an article a few years back in the NYT by a journalist who lived for a few months in a flat with Paris Hilton and her cousin. This was back before Paris became the red carpet party queen and apparently she was a rather clever, charming young woman. It wasn't until Paris saw the promise in the "blonde bombshell" market that she started to shorten her words and play down her apparent savvy choice of books. She got a stylish haircut, some great clothes and soon
became the girl we all love to pretend we don't know anything about.

There is something a little smart in playing dumb. Certainly Paris' persona is well crafted and that is no small feat in the media world today. I've yet to run into another piece about the heiress that was so favorable. The woman must have people running round the clock to make sure no one knows about the secret, smart girl who is running her own multi-million dollar business branded solely on herself.

I wonder how much time she spent in trying to find just the right amount of dumb that would keep people interested and not thoroughly disgusted. Where did the idea to dumb it down and bleach it up come from? And how difficult does she find it to be dumb? Does she plan her "off-the-cuff" quotes? Does she study old "dumb dora's" for inspiration? Does she sometimes slip and say things that show off her incredible insight into the business of Hollywood?

I wonder these things because I, like Paris, have played dumb from time to time. I used to be quite proud of my smarts. As a child growing quickly into a young woman I spent much more time attempting to impress the people around me with my intelligence than with my looks. I had it a little easier being the youngest child in a family full of people too smart for their own good. People expected me to be smart. And I didn't disappoint. First as the girl who always had the
answer and always had her hand in the air, then as the girl who always had to challenge ideas. I loved to debate. Even when I agreed with my opponent I enjoyed coming from a new angle and wrangling a topic to death. It served two purposes. It gave me a chance to stretch an under-utilized intelligence and it allowed me to find new avenues of knowledge.

But even though I was recognized as the "smart girl" it was always tainted with those small comments girls, smart or not, always hear. "How insightful for such a pretty girl." "You're very clever for someone so sweet." "Beauty and brains…don't see that every day." Of course when people say these things they mean them as compliments. But they damaged. I realized that often people saw me first as the pretty girl and that's what drew them to me. I could have been dumb as a post and gotten the same amount of attention. It was a strange thing to know I could bat my big brown eyes and win a debate without even touching my stored away arguments. But at the same time I couldn't keep anyone from looking at my brown eyes, batted or not. My
naturally shy disposition made me hate the attention more and more. And so like the girl who developed too fast I would hunch my shoulders and try to look as plain, and as a dumb, as possible.

So, slowly, like Paris, I started to play it up. Once I even dyed my hair blonde. That was one in a string of mistakes. The latest of which came last week when I realized I may have been playing my intelligence cards too close to my chest.

I am sure that Paris did not orchestrate her trip to jail. I doubt that in her grand scheme to win the dumb game she planned to get pulled over for driving on a suspended license. Perhaps Paris, this time like me, had played her smart cards too close. Perhaps there are disadvantages to playing dumb for too long.

Last week I was speaking with someone who I rather like talking to. In an effort to not be too presumptuous, or overbearing, I often pull out my dumb card in our quick conversations. I often will ask questions, sweetly, in order simply to hear his answer. Sometimes often when I actually know quite a bit about the subject. I often wait for him to explain things I already know. It's a shameless manipulation and I am sure he's well aware of it. He, unlike me, does not play dumb. Girls use this tactic everyday. I use it simply because I like hearing people talk and lately have been enjoying hearing stories float around me.

The conversation in question though had something to do with crocodiles. In an effort to be chipper and cheery I deferred calling the crocodiles killer move a "death roll", since death is neither chipper nor cheery. I think I referred to it as a puppy roll or something equally absurd.

"It's called a death roll." He responded. I'm sure he was trying to be helpful.

"Yes. I know what it's called." I snapped back. Less helpfully and probably with a little bit of a "well duh" thrown in for good measure. I'm smart, I didn't say I was mature.

"You know what it is?" He asked. You could almost smell his incredulousness. It seemed to me that I had caught him by surprise, not by my rude response, but by the fact that I knew something. Knew anything.

I was mad. My brain took his small little sentence and inflated it into something far more dire. How could he possibly think that I was so dumb as to not know something so basic? Hello, general knowledge question for $100, Alex. Perhaps if I had suddenly come out with the
mathematical formula for a water buffalo to escape a death roll I could have forgiven his surprise. But did he really think I was so stupid as to not remember a name? Did he think my head was all curls and no gray matter? I mean if I was that stupid how did I possible survive to the ripe old age of 25? For gods sakes, why even waste his breath trying to tutor such a moron. Why even take the time to instruct me on the term for a crocodile rolling over in the water. I
was obviously too stupid to be able to grasp such a complex concept.

What a freaking jerk!

Of course all that came in the first 5 seconds and I didn't mean any of it. The second 5 seconds was me angry at myself. (If truth be told so was the first five minutes...I am kind of a jerk.) How could I have played so dumb as to let it get to this point? Was I so afraid that he'd be frightened away by some form of knowledge that I allowed him to think me completely
trivia free? What had I done? What had we discussed previously? Had I ever let him know I was smart or did I play the humble card? How many times had I asserted my intelligence? How about my shyness? Obviously there was a big gap.

"I'm smarter than I let on." I said. "I play dumb a lot."

"Why would you do that?"

Good question. I've never felt more dumb.

Nap

It is one of my favorite places to be. This state of drowsy unwakefulness. This precipice between real unconscious and conscious. It's where my body sinks, slipping into the comfortable curl that I learned in infant hood. It's safe here, my body is safe here. The sounds of life float past my ears, the mumble of the newscasters, the roar of a lawnmower.

In a little while I will slip into real nap mode. My cat curled inside my curl, purring till she can't purr anymore. Soon we'll both be oblivious to the world, unaware of what is happening around our head and in our heads. Victims to dreams that will be instantly forgotten. In a little while I'll fall away from my body, not to return till someone takes my ankle in his hand and shakes me back.

But now I am aware. And not. Now my mind is open to the world, taking in all the stimuli it can give. I can smell the earth drying in the sun. I can hear the trees rustling against the wind. My house settles into it's foundations. I settle with it. Here I receive all information without processing. Here, between wide-eyed and relaxed I am filled without prejudice or thought. Receiving and sending. I pour forth my thoughts, my ideas. They fly past my eyes in jets of light. Potential bubbling to the surface without restraint. I can feel my mind, taste it, hear it, see it. There is something in here. Without my instant editing, questioning. Without the filter of speech or self-consciousness I see there are things inside me. I am not empty.

And my heart beats to my minds rhythm. My mind mends to my hearts desires. There is the future the past and the present flashing past me. My body is limp and willing. It is my favorite places to be...everywhere and nowhere. Where it is all possible and only possible because it is impossible to realize.

That's why it's Never-never Land. My favorite places to be.

Anyone want my job?

Recently some one got sick in our office, in a bad way, and it was blocking a major path way. Normally that wouldn't mean much, but when you got forklifts filled with food that have to go places in a certain way you need the streets clear. As our Exec. Admin came over to charge me with building a new traffic pattern she held up her latex gloved hands dripping in god knows what and asked cheerily: “Anybody want my job?”

While everyone else balked and laughed I could hear my devil self urging me to answer. I had the wicked idea of squaring my eyes with hers and saying in all earnest seriousness: “Yes, yes I do want your job.”

Because the only thing worse than being her is being her under paid backup.

There is some confusion where I work as to what department I work for and what I actually am charged to do. There is also some confusion as to how my name is spelled. There's actually a lot of confusion as to how my name is spelled. I never knew how much drama four little letters could cause. Well...four little non-curse-like letters.

Regardless, for almost a year now I’ve been straddling between three (or more) departments. My official badge labels me Marketing. My official paycheck labels me Purchasing. My official title labels me Procurement and finally my unofficial name in the office labels me as “report girl”. This is partly my fault. When I see something that needs doing I simply go off and do it. I suppose one could call me a swing. Because I am not really assigned to anywhere specific I haven’t been “formally” trained in anything. Usually I’m thrown some sticky problem randomly and I puzzle it out myself until the solution presents itself. Never has anyone sat me down and showed me what I was working with or why I was doing it. Often I simply play a game of guess and check until I have discovered the secret.

That kind of attitude gets you noticed around departments that normally lock themselves away in some obscure corner. I have a feeling that this is the reason why when the higher-ups start looking for cover for vacations and leave my name comes to their lips. This is fine. I have no problem taking over for people who are about to go on their honeymoon. It’s the least I can do. The problem is though, people tend to leave our company for vacation and never come back. That leaves me not as the “cover” for a desk but as the actual desk itself. And my desk is getting very cluttered with a backlog of work.

Which is why I am now giddy with the idea of my own upcoming trip out-of-town.

Or I was until yesterday, when I began to scope out people to take over my basic responsibilities. I felt like I had suddenly morphed into Andrew Speaker. Though, instead of a deadly tuberculi cough I carried product expiration reports. And no one was interested. Once I found one person to cover me, they’d realize they had to use a program they’d never played with before and they’d beg off. When I found someone who wasn’t afraid of the programs they’d be afraid of the math involved in the calculations, and again I was stuck. If one liked the math, they’d be loath to work with DP. If they actually worked in DP they’d be loath to do anything for purchasing.

It’s not as though I was going to leave them blind. I have this recurring nightmare that someday I will wake up with full blown amnesia, forget my name, my age, who I am related too…yet I’ll still know how to drive and I’ll still be expected to knock out a tax category void report. (I never said it was a rational nightmare). Because of this fear I write out lengthy, detailed specific “how-to’s” for each and everything I do. They are mostly guides for me to get my bearings on bad days, but they come in handy when I am trying to show people how to do whatever it is that I do.

And I have come to learn that I am the only person that does what I do. At least here. Yesterday, as I went to my boss for the hundredth time pleading “How badly do you need this report?” I realized that I would never find someone to cover for me, nor were there enough people for me to spread out the love work. Yesterday I not only realized I’m the only one who does what I do, I’m doing what normally takes a team of four people. For the price of one.

So bring on the vomit and blood baby, I’ll take it!

Anyone want my job? (Seriously? For like a week…four days? Four hours? How about my lunch break….? You wouldn’t have to do any of the filing…)

Quarter Century

That's right: 25.

I'm another year older and none the wiser.

But for the first time ever I'm okay with not having it all figured out and planned. I like not knowing where I'm going to be at 25.5, 26, 27. This limbo is feeling pretty good right now. I am getting used to confusion and fear.

I like this place...and will willingly waste my time in it.

Eggshells

I'm standing in my hallway. The first step feels just as before. My heel clicks down on the floor, that reassuring sound of a step. Then my foot descends and I can hear the small cracks and groans of shell breaking. The ball of my foot swivels, grinding the egg shells into the floor, turning them slowly to dust.

And gingerly I step again. The floor is covered with them, my home is filled with them. Eggshells. Delicate white homes long since abandoned. They lay there open, empty, sad and lonely. A path of sharp jags and smooth surfaces. My steps are timid amongst them. I try to fit my steps between them, tread carefully, be silent. Still, they groan under my shoe and crack. Dissolving under my soles, coloring the black with telltale white. They threaten to cut me, then shatter under me. They threaten to bar my way, and break under my need.

The sound is unbearable. Disturbing, disgusting. Each snap makes the skin stand up on my arms. My pulse races. I can hear each little wall crumble and fall, dying a second death. The once comforting home for a baby. The small precious gift. So lovingly warmed, so gently moved. Then so violently destroyed.

I wish I was weightless. Made of air so I could silently pass through my home, escape out the door. Instead every move closer is a move louder. The shells splice open to more jagged edges, more razor sharp obstacles. The tiny sounds of soft shell breaking apart may as well be thunder. Every word is a crack, every idea I voice, every breath I make is the sky opening up and splitting my little peace in two.

And still I'm walking, leaving a trail of fine white power in my wake.

Bad Phone

A girls' best friend is her mother.

A girl's worst enemy...yeah...it's her mother.

My mom and I can be really close. When we're together it's just non-stop jabber. Attached at the hip (and now, as she gets less and less “mobile” we're attached at the elbow) we fall into the comfortable give and take of our relationship. I'm lucky that, as the baby of a family much older than I, I got to be raised much like a single child. I had Mama all to myself for a good portion of my life. We got to be girlfriends as well as parent and child, and that makes us incredibly close.

Too close. While we feed off of each other's joy in being close to one another we also feed off each others depression. It's a genetic thing, I'm sure of it. Like my long legs and my proclivity towards the creative my mother handed me her nearly debilitating depression. She got it from her Mother, who in turn received it from my Great-Grandmother. I'm sure if I went back a few more generations I'd find more women carrying this little demon in their hearts.

And it is a demon. It eats at you. For no reason at all it will surface and you can feel its tiny toes and sharp claws pricking at you. It loves company...and a phone call with my Mother is another chance to connect with it's demon brethren. You can almost hear their voices taking over through our own conversations. My Mother's need to guilt me into going home is almost as strong and my need to keep the demons at bay. I can't let them take over, she can't let me let go.

“Hi...it's me!”

“Hi! How are you doing.”

“Oh I'm okay...can we talk?”

“I'm not okay.”

“What's wrong?”

“I'm sick.”

“You've been sick my whole life.”

“I'm dying.”

“You've been dying as long as I can remember.”

“It hurts.”

“I can't make it better Mama, I can't fix it.”

“I'll never see you again.”

“I hurt too.”

“You're not here.”

“Next summer...next Christmas.”

“It'll be too late.”

And it might be. I can remember years ago when my siblings were planning their weddings my Mother would lament “I need my Mom.” Then I would point out that she was the Mommy, and why did we need more Mommies. She'd shake her head and cry. Grandma wasn't gone, she just wasn't coming.

Apparently keeping each other at bay is also a genetic trait.

But now that I'm older and am facing big grown-up decisions I feel myself start to lament too. I need my Mom. I have things in my head and my heart that I don't think I can decide on without her. I'm not sure if I need her to disapproval so I can, as a teenager, go off and do exactly the opposite. Or if I need her blessing, her “I told you so.” But I know I need something and I can't imagine it coming from anyone but her.

Either to let lose my inner demon and allow havoc and chaos to run rampant, or to swallow it down and make a peace. All I know now is that I'm lost.

And I really need my Mommy.

Brush Up Your..Staging

It took me awhile to notice. For a good long time I figured we were just getting poorer. But now...has anyone noticed that theaters are getting smaller?

Really small.

And it's a problem.

It's not a problem for the audience. Black box theaters (usually called so because they are black and often shaped like boxes) make for amazing theater. There really isn't anything quite as engaging as watching King Lear so close you can feel his tears on your shoes. The kind of give and take you find in intimate theater is palpable. Audience and actor as one. Those black walls have a habit of keeping all the nuance and emotion in tight, you can't help but be engaged with each and every character.

So intimate theater is a good thing.

But it's also a problem...for actors.

There are a few “first rules” of stage presence. Everyone is more important than the one that was most important, but just like with any art form, you internalize them into your “golden rules” and keep them close to your heart.

• Don't turn your back to the audience.

• Project, Project, Project.

• Always cheat. (Cheating meaning to angle yourself only slightly towards the person you are “talking to” on stage. It's probably best not to cheat at cards though...especially when playing with the riggers.)

• Your script is your bible. Read it, love it. Lose it and die.

The rise of more intimate theater has made these little nuggets less important. (Except the script thing.) In a smaller theater you can play small and still make a huge impact. Ironically you probably make a larger impact than you would on a large stage with an audience at least 50 feet away from you. I can remember playing an extremely small theater (a converted flower shop) and having to re-train myself not to do a ¾ turn out towards the audience just to keep my face forward. I was flipping all over like a freaking ballerina till someone pointed out that the audience was literally two feet away from me and would be forgiving of a normal ¼ turn in the proper direction.

In other words...forget the rules and move naturally. Which I did, and apparently so did most other actors.

At a recent audition in a large outdoor, arena based theater I noticed a lot of very well-heeled actors making some very amateur mistakes. Perhaps I noticed these because I myself was panicked for days before the audition that I would forget them. I had no idea if I could project anymore. And if I could would I just sound like I was yelling my lines with no inflection or feeling? Would I turn into the actor I was when I was five and just beginning. That tiny kid who stood on those big stages and was told to “sell it to the man in Russia?” I was scared. Which made the fact that all these other actors were making the same mistakes seem that much more shocking. I literally felt like taking each and every one of them and turning their hips forward. “Look out! Look out!” I heard my theater instructor yell. “Cheat! Cheat! Don't let him upstage you!!!”

When I finally got on that stage it came flooding back. My body stood right where it needed to be and did just what it was supposed too. I felt those words bubble up from my stomach and boom out past the trees. That man in Russia spilled his tea. It was a testament to all those years and years of training and tears that I could easily slip into “big theater mode.” You just need to rely on your knowledge to get you through.

And I did. And I got through. And I got the part.

But I realize that a lot of the other actors, far more experienced in work than I, probably did not train in a big theater at all. How many proscenium arches have you seen in college lately? When was the last time you saw a raked stage? Have you ever seen a raked stage?

Probably not.

And that's okay. Intimate theater is good. It's challenging and hard. It puts the strain on actors and audience alike. There's a lot of work to be done to keep your character real and tangible in a small theater.

But it just doesn't prepare you to learn stage technique. There is no point to those big gestures and large movements. And it's really to the detriment of actors. If you're not training these little tricks of the trade into your body now you'll waste a lot of time re-learning later.

And unfortunately, actors who waste time learning to cheat will cheat an audience out of a well-rehearsed play.