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Why The Wild Things Are

Bedtime Stories & the Places in Between

By Taylor vvestmacottPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
2
photo taken by the author, courtesy of Harper Publishers

Boys are stuck in empty rooms in childhood. Girls are too. And other kinds of people, kids, and things. Today it was a boy.

Max realises that he is lonely and feeling unloved. This realisation evokes in him anger. [...] Max dismisses the Wild Things, sending them to bed without supper, with words lifted almost verbatim from his mother's reprimand earlier in the book.

(Devan, 190)

The boy was sitting on the edge of his bed, which was far too big for him, kicking his legs from side to side.

A harsh lesson: even a KING'S CHAMBER ROOM, if there's no one else inside, and nothing much to do, becomes a THING OF BOREDOM.

The boy wanted his mum's phone but had been banned from it. The boy wanted the TV but that was nailed to the living room. The boy wanted to throw an object at his dad – but his dad was still at work.

He hated to think of all the videos and images, and messages from friends and enemies, the memes and all the rest of it, which he was RIGHT NOW missing out on. He also didn't like to think about the fun his dad would have without him, the eyes, respect, and all that stuff, which opened only in the adults' worlds.

There was a stillness to the room which had perplexed him. There wasn't any ticking clock. There wasn't any anything. He went to a window, no people on the street. There wasn't conversation. No dogs, cats, possums, bats. A bit of rain was dropping.

Then came a kick to the head in the shape of a picture, a picture of his dad who must've been partying or some place else, out to dinner, the cinema, or maybe at the beach. There wasn't any way he'd be at work this late. The boy saw the party and had felt ridiculed because of it. Then he felt ashamed.

Boredom is the experience of being disengaged from the world and stuck in a seemingly endless and dissatisfying present—when bored, our surroundings wither and become barren. Although not all boredom is excruciating, one should not underestimate the potential pain and destruction it can cause.

(Fahlman, et al., 68)

Come on it's bed time.

Dad's not home from work.

Yes but it's getting late.

It's the rule it's YOUR rule I can wait until a story.

The mother said nothing and slammed his bedroom door.

He thought some very naughty words. He jumped around and kicked the carpet. He pulled out all the drawers. He pushed them all back in. Some socks were sticking out. What do you know anyway, he said, and no one had responded.

He waited for ten minutes and ten minutes and ten minutes more.

“And now,” cried Max, “let the wild rumpus start!”

(Sendak, 22)

Despair had fallen into anger. He didn't really want to smash things, although he really did.

The reading-lamp was first, he picked it up. The taste of shattering it malingered in his mouth, malingeringly. But he didn't. He stuck a magnet to the hottest edge, for some reason, and it started to melt. He had liked that it would melt. Then he panicked, pulled the plug.

He tossed his toys around the floor. He banged his head onto wood. He scratched himself, scratching just to scratch.

He was kneeling after that, kneeling by his bookshelf. The boy hated his dad for making him feeling this way. What gave him the right. The boy was choosing a book to destroy. There was an irony in The Giving Tree that he didn't think to touch – not yet adolescent.

He chose his favourite book, which he pretended was his former favourite book, Where The Wild Things Are, because he did not want to be a baby. He gripped it in his tiny pale hands.

Book's for babies.

He took his scissors pink. An act of revenge against the man, but also some smug attempt at an ugly, empty self-satisfation. He took a page and cut its corner off. He did it again. He did it again.

He cut the corners off of every page, right-angle triangles with a two inch hypotenuse – something he did not know to name as such. He feathered corners for the room. Then he threw the book back at the bookshelf, bending many pages.

Settling into the facts the boy wasn't feeling much of all.

It was a tepid confrontation.

He'd endulged in fantasies of such destruction all the time. But they did not pay off. The boy was feeling nothing.

He was not happy to have destroyed his things and he was not sad because of it. The anger had been satiated. But that anger wasn't evaporating in the ways he'd been sure they probably would. Rather, beautiful things were broken now, and nothing had been said.

And then a door had opened.

What've you done here, said his father. Made a mess of the place.

Finally father arrived – they were closer than before. They spoke hello. They hugged each other tight. Then the boy was in his giant bed, beneath the sheets, and smiling. He was speaking to his father. Then he spoke again.

Not thaaat, said the boy. Daaaaad read me something harder.

Oh? Not challenging enough, eh?

No.

Want something harder ey.

Yes, dur, I'm not a baby.

Ok. I'll get you something harder. His father rolled off his bed, still in his suit, and exited the room. He returned. His shoes had been taken off.

He was holding a colossus.

We'll start at chapter four.

Chapter four!

Well you see this front matter is a lot of gobble, it's an old timey beaurocracy and such so none of this is an adventure yet, you see? We'll start at the adventure. Yes?

Yes.

For example, trait boredom uniquely predicts depression and anger over and above several other trait variables including neuroticism, impulsivity, emotional awareness, inattention, behavioural inhibition, and activitation. Thus, while the state of boredom may be an important signal that leads to adaptive behaviour, to date there is no reason to celebrate trait boredom.

(Danckert, et al., 112-3)

His father, who had been reading, continued reading. The sensations were strange, he said, let me try to explain them, when I was a child I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance befell me, and whether it was a reality or a dream I could never, ent-ire-ly settle. The circumstance was this, I had been... up to no good. I think I was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous.

A bug? said the boy.

A chimney sweep, a sweeper, he explained.

Oh!

His father returned to the page and found his place, then skipped it. My mother DRAGGED me by the legs, he said, out of the chimney and packed me off to bed. It was only TWO o'clock in the afternoon, on the 21st of June, which was the loooongest day in the year, in our hemisphere.

Hemi-sphere.

The tops and bottoms sides of the planet. The North... and the South hemisphere.

Yes.

I felt dreadfully, said his father, but there was no help for it. So up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible, so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh I got between the sheets. I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen ent-ire hours must elapse before I could hope for resurrection. Six-TEEN hours in bed! My back had ached to think of it.

Out of nowhere the boy bubbled up, and had began to cry. Hey-champ-what's-wrong! He couldn't reply yet. Oh buddy, man. His father was holding his shoulders. What's up talk to me what happened.

I ruined my book.

You ruined a lot of your stuff by the looks of it.

I ruined Wild Things. I chopped it up.

It wasn't a judgement. Why did you do it?

I don't know.

We can see it in a sec. I want to show you something.

His father left the room again. He was returning with a corpse.

What does it mean to leave behind an army of creatures that do not age? Imagine the frog asking, or maybe the blue eagle reading the news.

(Hooton, 122)

The boy thought the book resembled a whale's bristled teeth. His father thought them bones.

This is my ribcage firmament, my.... midage vertabrate.

Stop it! He hated when he spoke in ways he couldn't understand.

Miss my sentiment?

Stop.

What I'm saying. There's nothing wrong with breaking books. I think it's rather beautiful. Son. It always beats a broken door handle.

He didn't have to wait. Okay.

You know I'm not mad at you?

Yes.

You know that I love you?

Yes.

And you know that I know that you want me to read to you?

...

Yes.

I asked my stepmother pleading at her feet if she would change her mind, I'd do anything, I said, anything but to go back to that room and become silent for my living words. His father started laughing. But, since she was the best and most con-SCIEN-tious of stepmothers, I had to go back to my room. For several hours I lay there BROAD awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes and adventures, and that includes, we can't forget, getting eaten by a great white whale. At last, I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze, and, slowly waking from it, half steeped in dreams, I opened my eyes, and the once sun lit room was wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame. Nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard, but a supernatural hand was placed in mine. My, my arm...

The boy was well asleep.

His father waited a little while, then released the grasp of him.

He bent over to get a closer look at the many scattered triangles. He took two of the triangles the boy had cut. He placed them on the pillow. He smiled precisely. Then went walking for the door.

Dad.

What is it buddy.

I'm not asleep.

You were sleeping no lying.

I'm still sorta sad the book is ruined.

His father stopped, he was holding the door. Light poured from the hallway, framing the scene. You're supposed to be. Then his father chuckled to himself again. You know what my dad told me?

What.

Every book has a story. Then he started laughing, and laughing a lot harder than he probably should've for a joke like that. Goodnight mate.

Goodnight wait dad...

It's very late champ.

I'd. I'd think I'd like the Wild Things.

Sendak's career as an artist also runs parallel to the rise of studying children's literature as a valued enterprise in the acadamy. [...] As I write this essay, Max resides in 11,081 libraries around the globe, from Thailand to Poland, Korea to South Africa.

(Sonheim, 117-8)

--------

Author's note

This piece was writen for the Vocal 2021 'Bedtime Stories' Challenge. It is dedicated to the life and work of Maurice Sendak. We are Wild Things.

As a review and transformation of the original material, the use of Sendak's illustration (in the banner image) is protected under fair use. Herman Melville's work remains in the creative commons. Other works are cited appropriately.

Four original illustrations are the design of the author's collaborator, Olivia Hill. She can be found on instagram: @Oliviahilldesign.

The copies of Moby-Dick photographed by the author are elements of an ongoing art project surrounding the life and works of Herman Melville.

Works cited

  1. Danckert, James, et al. ‘Boredom: What Is It Good For?’ In The Functions of Emotions, edited by Heather C. Lench, 2018, pp. 93-119.
  2. Devan, Karrish. ‘Narrative Matters: Where the While Things Are—a Freudian primer.’ In Child and Adolescent Mental Health, vol. 26, no. 2, 2021, pp 189-190.
  3. Fahlman, Shelley, et al. ‘Development and Validation of the Multidimensional State Boredom Scale.’ In Assessment, vol. 30, 2013, pp. 68-85.
  4. Hooton, Matthew. ‘Because puppets do not age, do not fear gravity, do not abandon those who love them most.’ Southerly, vol. 78, no. 2, 2018, pp. 120–124.
  5. Melville, Herman. Moby-Dick; or, The Whale. 1851.
  6. Sendak, Maurice. Where The Wild Things Are. Harper & Row, NYC. 1963.
  7. Sonheim, Amy. ‘Sendak's Sustainable Art.’ In PMLA, vol. 129, 2014, pp. 116-118

Editions of Moby-Dick pictured:

  • ". Moby-Dick; or, The Whale. Designed by Andrew Hoyem, illustrated by Barry Moser, with notes by James D. Hart. Arion Press edition, republished by University of California Press. 1983.
  • ". Moby Dick. Rock Paper Company, Washington DC. 2014.
  • NB. None of the publishers listed in this work have any affiliation with the author.

    children
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    About the Creator

    Taylor vvestmacott

    Taylor is a screenwriter and novelist who lives and works on Kaurna land.

    https://linktr.ee/taylorvvestmacott

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