"I'M JUST A CITIZEN WITH A KNIFE."

Ever since I spoke with Jeremy in a recent post and included a certain photo, I have been deluged with requests for a follow-up. So I called to talk to him about the matter.

The following, as usual, is a description of a conversation I did document, but did not record. I will use quotation marks to convey the sense that I am using the precise words that Jeremy said. Of course that is not factually correct. It is true, and it is accurate, but it not necessarily letter-of-the-law factual.

Jeremy knows this.

Some have complimented me on my courage in daring to use quotation marks to indicate something I'm paraphrasing, and to be transparent about it. To that, I strongly say:

"I am no hero. Some of you may call me that, and that is your prerogative. Do I think I am a hero? No. Absolutely not. I'm just a little guy standing up in defense of a different way of doing things against hundreds of years of dogma and institutional thinking that has led to syntax authoritarianism. I have merely said 'there is another way.' Does that make me a hero? Some would say so. But I cannot say."

Back to Jeremy. This is the photo in question (see below).

Here's a closer look:

As you can see, this is the photo that lit things up and that I will try and address in the following conversation. Read below for the raw transcript.

___

"Hello,"
he said, answering my call.

"Thank you for answering my call,"
I said.
"I'll make this quick: a lot of people are wanting to know about the knife you've started carrying around, so I need to ask you some questions about it."

"Okay."
he said.

"I'm driving,"
I warned him.
"So I'm not going to give you the best part of my attention because I need to be safe and focus on the right things. But I am documenting this conversation. I'm not recording it, but I am documenting it."

"How are you documenting it?"
he asked.

"In my head,"
I said.
"I will remember everything important fairly accurately. And I'm going to quote you, even when I can't remember your exact words exactly. Agree?"

"Sure."
he shrugged; I could feel his shrug.

"Question one,"
I said aggressively.
"How long have you had this knife?

"Since last Saturday,"
he informed me.
"I found it in a tree."

"Tell the story."
I demanded.

"Well," he said. "I was at the park, and I looked up in a tree, and this knife was hanging down. So I took it and tried to find somewhere I could turn it in, but there wasn't anybody working, and everything was locked, and I didn't what to do with it."

"So you took it,"
I said aggressively.
"You took the knife that did not belong to you."

"Yeah," he said. "I couldn't find anywhere or anyone to turn it into, and there were a lot kids playing there and I didn't want one of them to find it and get hurt."

"Wait a second,"
I said suspiciously.
"Are you telling me that you're a hero? You took the knife because you wanted to do the right thing?

"I wouldn't call myself a hero,"
he said modestly. '
"I'm just a guy who likes to save toddlers' lives."

"I'm just a guy who likes to save toddlers' lives."

"You are a hero."
I said.
"So how do you decide where to wear it?"

"On the right side,"
he thought carefully.
"I've been practicing my fast draw and I'm right-handed. Also, I don't want it to scratch my phone, which I keep in my left pocket."

"I'm just a citizen with a knife."

"Makes sense,"
I said.
"So what is your primary purpose in carrying a knife? Is it a weapon?"

"Thing is,"
he said.
"I'm just a citizen with a knife. It's not a weapon or a tool. It's both. I use it for protecting people and for cutting apples."

"You cut apples with it?"
I asked.

"Well," he said, and I could tell I had touched a small nerve.
"I haven't actually cut any apples with it yet. I don't know who owned it before, and I'm kind of obsessed with hygiene so I don't know if it's clean and I haven't learned how to clean it yet."

"Well,"
I said.
"Would you like a few tips?"

"Yes," he said.

I provided some tips about knife hygiene, cleaning, and etiquette.

Then we moved on.

"So," I pushed him a bit. "What role does your knife play in making a safer world?"

"Thing is,"
he said.
"I'm just a concerned citizen, and a knife is an alternative to a firearm. It's both a tool and a weapon.

"A tool can be a weapon and a weapon can be a tool."

"So you're saying a knife can be both a tool and a weapon?"
I carefully phrased my question.

"Yes,"
he said firmly, the weight of conviction supporting his statement.
"Absolutely. A tool can be a weapon and a weapon can be a tool. I think citizens need know that there are alternatives to firearms."

"Now you have a folding blade knife,"
I said.
"Do you think you'll ever go on Etsy and get a really fancy holster or case for your knife?"

"Probably not for this one,"
he said.
"At some point I may get a fixed blade knife. When I do that, I may go shopping for a really good holster."

"What are your immediate plans for using your new knife,"
I asked.

"Now that it's clean,"
he said.
"I'll probably cut some apples."

"Almost done,"
I said.
"Wondering if you think your knife would be capable of handling a James Franco?"

"What do you mean?"
he asked.

"Like in 127 Hours, the movie, where his arm is trapped in a boulder and he has to amputate it with a multitool, or pliers or something. Do you think your knife would be capable of that? Could you cut through your own flesh with it if need be?"

I could hear him pondering this question thoughtfully over the phone. Finally he responded slowly.
"Yeah...I think it could handle it if need be. If I had to cut off a limb to survive, I think my knife could handle it. Hopefully better than pliers."

"If you were getting mugged by violent muggers on your way back from a movie with your wife and dog,"
I asked.
"and you had to choose between a gun and knife to protect you, which one would you choose?"

He answered without hesitation:

"Dog."

"Thank you,"
I said.
"It can be maddening when people respond to a two-choice question with a third option, but I should have seen that one coming."

"Yeah,"
he said.
"Definitely dog. My knife is great, but not always the best tool - or weapon - in every circumstance. It's like the ocean: it's a powerful force and you have to know how to use it."

"A knife is like the ocean: it's a powerful force and you have to know how to use it."

"You have had so many wonderful quotes during this conversation,"
I said,
"that I don't know which one to end with. So I think I'll go with your last one. Love it."

"Thank you,"
he said.
"I'm going to cut some apples now."

FAILURE IS THE FIRST STEP TOWARD TRYING?

I've been talking to the kids a lot about being prepared.

Simply being prepared. Not just in the easy survivalist way of having blankets and knives and books and art supplies.

In the sense of being mentally prepared to handle stressful situations where you start to panic, and the importance of thinking ahead about how you can respond in as clear-headed a fashion as possible and make the best decision available in that circumstance.

As with many things parenting, there is a wide gap between telling your children how to do something well, and modeling that thing well.

I was at a recent event; an event which led me into the paths of various people. Many I did not know. Some I did know. There were others whose faces I recognized but couldn't bring up a name, and others whose names I had heard but couldn't place with a face.

And then there were the ones whose names and faces I knew, because I try hard to remember those things. But this certain category of person is in the category of People I Know Who Should Probably Know Who I Am, But Don't.

The reason I say this is because she was a former student at a school I had taught classes at for over six years. She had never been in my class, but I knew her name, and greeted her in the hallways, and so forth.

This was from several years ago, and I had seen her occasionally at some youth sports functions and greeted her and her infant child, then a second. My greetings were brushed off, which is mostly fine...

...although acknowledging the presence, and remembering and using the name of someone is a skill, a learnable skill that is always in vogue. If something is always in vogue, it means it's timeless, classic, and should be a founding principle of living life.

I typically remember people's names more than they remember mine. Not always. Sometimes I forget. But I'm able to remember what I do for one reason: because I try. 

Because I try.

Hint: everyone can practice doing so instead of repeatedly using ONE OF THE WORST ONGOING EXCUSES IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. It is this:

Sorry, I'm SO BAD with names. 

There are two things wrong with that.

Number one, if you're bad at something, then you have a choice to either a) get worse or b) get better.

Because nothing stays the same. Everything, nature reminds us, eventually decays. Including skills and relationships. If you don't practice them or work on them, they decay.

They don't stay the same. They get worse. It's kind of like voting: choosing not to vote is still a choice that affects the outcome. Choosing to not stand up at a particular point in the face of injustice is still a choice. Inaction is a choice. If I sound worked up, I am. Doing nothing is a choice. And sometime's that choice is fine. Sometimes it's okay to let things happen around you. To be the chill, cool person who just rolls with whatever vibe. I do that sometimes.

That was a lengthy number one. Basic thing is: if you're bad at something, that means you have the opportunity to become better. And that is your choice. Not something sunk in stone for the rest of your life.

Number two, when most people say that phrase, they're saying it to make a social situation less awkward. But when you say sorry, are you doing it as a one-time or occasional memory lapse? Or are  you saying it preemptively to head off getting called out for not remembering someone in the future, because you have no intention of actually trying any harder in the future.

I don't like that. I still apologize for not remembering people's names. Plenty of times I don't. I apologize for needing to ask, because I would like to be able to a) use their name in whatever brief conversation they have, b) let them know I am trying, and c) get my brain some extra practice in filing and archiving important information. And people's names are important information.

Maybe not every single person you meet. But that's the point: that in refusing to make an ongoing choice to at least try and improve your memory recall with names, you are saying that information is not important. You are not that important.

My sister and I used to joke - in a non-humorous way - about this one guy who had met each of us multiple times, and yet could never remember not only our names, but seemed to have barely any recollection of who we were. This was someone who was in a professional post-grad program, had plenty of friends in the crowd he hung out with, and whose general intelligence and memory seemed to function fine in other ways. So it came down to him making no effort to remember people who didn't seem important to try remembering.

I try to make it easy on people a lot of the time and proactively introduce myself: Hey good to see you, Leonidas! Joseph Long here, been a while! And of course they nod and smile and say of course I remember you! And sometimes they're telling the truth. Point is, regardless of how judgmental I sound above, I cut people slack when they forget when they can at least bring some basic respect and friendliness to the table, give their attention for a short period of time, and be present in whatever short interaction they have. 

It feels good to have people use your name.

It feels good to be remembered.

My dad's always been good about using people's names in greeting and talking with them in both his personal and professional life. My mom too, but Mother's Day weekend is coming up so I'll probably say other good things about her soon and let the old man have some solo props.

My buddy Rachel worked in a library for over 15 years. I saw her over and over greeting patrons by name and the way their faces lit up when she'd make them feel wanted, special, and important by their very presence...and by the fact that she remembered and used their names.

My wife Becca is so good about giving her warm and sincere attention to those she meets, and to a couple groups in particular - children and the elderly. Two populations that frequently get treated, by adults, with condescension, patronization, and often minus the use of their names. It matters to remember. If nothing else to make the effort.

I've heard that Keanu Reeves is super cool to work with and makes sure and learns the names of a lot of the crew. Don't know if that's true or not, but I'd like to think it is. The guy is Neo, he rides motorcycles, he's got another killer trilogy (John Wick), and he's a kind soul who remembers people's names? Can't be true. Hope it is.

So this woman, early 20s, comes up to me with two young ones in tow and informs - or asks? - me:

Hey, aren't you one of the Long brothers?

Of course this is an identity I am proud of; to be identified in the community of any or all of my four brothers is an honorific I accept with pride and enthusiasm. Even when it's minus the dignity of a name...

...except, it bothered me a little more than usual, as I had memories over the last several years of occasionally running into her, going out of my way to be friendly, and always using her name.

Because I remembered.

Because it feels good when people remember your name.

It truly is one of the great steps toward success in any field I would encourage a person to take: practice learning and remembering people's names.

Anyway. I informed her that yes, I am; I am the one called Joseph. The attachment of a name to my identity seemed of less importance to her than the fact that I was a member of the Long Family. Okay.

After accurately informing her that I was, in fact yes, one of the Long brothers, followed by the revealing of my name, an irrelevant fact she quickly discarded, she dived into the follow-up question.

Was it so what's keeping you busy these days?

Was it do you miss teaching? 

Was it so how are your little ones doing?

No.

It was this : Are you on Facebook?

Uhh, 
I fumbled,
Yeah, sometimes I guess. 

So you're not on very much,
she decided quickly for me.
Okay, then I'll need to get your phone number.

My brain was still playing catchup, which is no excuse for how I handled the next thirty seconds.

All of the conversations and preparation and training I've done with our kids about thinking clearly under pressure and preserving your wits in stressful circumstances, et cetera et cetera...

...it all deserted me in that decisive moment of choice over whether to a) panic or b) not panic.

I went with Option A. Panicked. How so?

I gave her my phone number.

She thrust her phone into my hands, and I froze.

Why?

I do not know. I simply do not know. Could I have just asked why do you need my phone number?

Sure. Just like I could also have accurately said actually, we are already Facebook friends and I think that's a good place to keep our friendship for the time being. At the bare minimum until you can correctly recall my name. 

But no. I panicked. It may not have appeared so to anyone looking on. But I did. I take responsibility in this most ridiculous of circumstances for simply not thinking clearly and doing the opposite of what I meant to do. Which was : not hand over my phone number.

Is it a big deal that I did? No, not really. But it's the principle of it. I wasn't thinking, and I got inexplicably flustered and distracted, and did the opposite of what I preach and evangelize about, which is basically along the lines of don't get bullied, flustered, pushed, or pulled into doing something. When someone tries to do so, time is on your side. Simply say no, decline, or find a polite-ish way to not even respond on their timeline. Do it on yours. Not theirs. If they're pushing you for something, don't even respond on their timeline.

That's what telemarketers and aggressive salespeople and really good PTA presidents do: they hound you and hound you and get you flustered and try to convince you that you need to make a decision on whatever it is they want...and you need to make that decision NOW.

No. You don't. And I knew this. I threw it all away, sadly and inadvertently, when I gave up my digits.

Upon being gifted this information she had no right to have, she launched into an ensuing conversation about children, in which I learned that immediately after high school she began having unprotected sex, which was something she acknowledged she could have handled better, as it led to the birth of her first child.

And second child.

And third.

All of which was not received well by her family because of her ongoing health issues and so forth. *disclosure: I know exactly what those health issues are, as she conveyed to me what they are, but as a former CPR-trained medical professional, I am highly-attuned to HIPAA protocols and therefore will not be including any details concerning her sex life and contraception methods, both which I which I know a bit about now.

In the end, there's only one word to describe how I handled this interaction: panic and failure.

I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't.

That's it. I have decided to make this post an abrupt ending. I embedded heavy-handed advice and judgmental observations all throughout, so I'm just gonna quit now.

I panicked.

I did the opposite of what I teach to do.

That makes me a hypocrite.

I acknowledge it, and move forward.

As my brother James says frequently,

Trying is the first step toward failure. 

More failure, here I come. Bring it.

I may get old, I may rust and die someday...but I will not entropy myself into oblivion through non-action.

MILES, MAN, PLAY WHAT AIN'T THERE.

Jeremy told me recently:

"You make me sound much funnier than I am."

It was in reference to a 2013 interview I did with him about Science that recently resurfaced and has been making its way around the web. You just never know.

You can find it here. You will find it more enlightening than an E.L. James novel and possibly less so than A Brief History of Time.

This compliment from Mr. Long meant a great deal, because it is a goal of mine. A partial goal anyway.




In the same way that fiction writers make up stories in order to get to the truth, and musicians leave out notes in order to get to the best ones, and photographers leave out parts of an image in order to draw attention to the most important part...

...I like to frame my conversations and happenings with people, when I write about them later, in such a way that the most interesting and unique bits of both trivial and epic elements are squeezed together, and the rest is dumped behind, and what you have left is a version that is the truth plus or minus a little, but with the spirit intact, the best parts bumped up in the mix, some surprising portions elevated to important status, and...

...the rest left out. I love journalists and journalism, but I ain't one.

Miles Davis said this:

Don't play what's there, play what's not there.

One of my worst and most enduring traits is extrapolating ideas from quotes I like that aren't necessarily intended to work in the way I'm making them work. But Miles dug his own groove, as do I. He'd think I was a nerd. He'd be right. But he'd learn to dig me.

What's the obvious thing you think of in answering a question? Any question. What's the obvious answer. It's called gut instinct, or common sense, or what Jung might call the collective unconscious, where we share archetypes of certain ideas that get kicked around without really thinking about it, but here's the thing, if it's the first thing you're thinking of, then...

...it's probably the first thing everybody else is thinking of too. So if you've got a 12-note chromatic scale in front of you to play and you've got an instrument, you got, I don't know, how many different directions you can go with those twelve notes?

You got an almost-infinite variety, so how do we end up with so much music that sounds the same? That sounds so identical to one another?

We get used to playing the same notes, and looking at the same notes, or more importantly, paying attention to the notes other people are playing around us, and those are the ones we keep going back to. The ones that pop up the fastest and first. They're familiar. They make sense. They sound good.

Somebody like Miles or Charlie come along, bopping and sliding and peckin around for some different notes, some other ways of finding the pretty ones that don't seem to be quite right there. But here's the thing: they are there.

They are. There. They're just not the obvious ones.

Like I said. Great life lesson. Look for the things that ain't obvious. The people that may not be the loudest. The word that may not be the first to leap to mind. The way of approaching an idea or challenge that is a few steps removed from the way everyone else seems to be looking at it.

Common sense can be a good thing. Shortcuts can be a good thing. Finding efficient ways of doing things can be a good thing.

That's all fine.

But when you want to bring something original, something beautiful and different into the world, whether it's a composition or an idea or a painting or whatever, and

whether it's on a massive epic level or a little tiny trivial level,

you gotta be willing to ask yourself:

What can I leave out? 

and

What seems to not be there, but is there, and is getting ignored or underutilized?   (that applies to people, perhaps more than anything else)

He learned the rules, he learned the notes, and then he found different ways of playing them.

Anyone could have. Anyone can. Principle's the same for anything.

Find what's not there. Or doesn't seem to be there.

Play it.

Miles, he was something.

You can be too.

And Jeremy was half right. Yeah, I hope I can help people bring out and highlight the best parts of themselves.

But he's also pretty funny.

I just leave it out when he's not.

BECAUSE, THAT'S WHY (FIVE THOUGHTS ON MEMORIALS AND GRIEVING).

Stick it high. 

Raise your hand if you love going to memorials.

No one? 

No one does. 

But we go. This family goes. Because we will be present. 

Raise your hand if you've ever said "...but I don't know what to say!"

Nobody does. 

But we say something, even if our mouths are silent.

If nothing else, we can give our time and we can bring our presence. 

Just playin'. 

So many people die on Game of Thrones. So many. 

Not gonna turn this into some 'desensitizing effect of violence depiction in pop culture.' Let me say this: 

It's ridiculous to pretend that the way we absorb death in film and television doesn't affect us. 

I am as strong a First Amendment advocate as some are for the Second (let's also be intellectually honest and consistent: you don't get to cherrypick which amendments you support and which ones you don't. Common sense, people. Common sense.). 

Point is, I support free expression and speech-related issues in many incarnations, including often unpleasant ones, and including the right of film and television to portray violence and death in exceptionally prolific and graphic ways. First Amendment ain't a little thing you apply when convenient and yank away when it applies to content you don't like. 

But let's be serious: of course those things desensitize us. Anything you experience over and over desensitizes you. I'm not saying violent content should be banned or censored. I'm saying it's irresponsible and asinine to pretend it doesn't affect us and take some sort of toll on our psyche. 

So what I meant when I said "not gonna turn this into some 'desensitizing effect of violence in pop culture' issue is that I'm going to do exactly that. 

We see death over and over and over, en masse, on screens. And it's often justified and makes us feel good because it's the righteous response to some atrocity we have the right to feel indignant about. So we cheer when violence begats violence and the bad dudes get what's coming. 

But it's all in long shot. It's a comedy cause it's in long shot, like Charlie Chaplin says. It doesn't get tragic until it's up close and you see who's actually getting hurt. 

And that's the thing about memorials: it's an opportunity to hurt together. En masse. To forgo the long shot of death at a distance, whether on a screen or a newspaper, and to experience it close up with those who are truly hurt and to feel the tragedy alongside, if only for a brief period. 

Maybe it's a statement that means only a tiny fraction of something. But I think it's better to do something that may mean something good, even if it's a fraction's fraction, than to take the easy route and do nothing. To make excuses, mostly under the valid banner of "...I don't think ____ cares whether I'm there or not."

We show up. Because our presence matters.

Walter

There are two episodes of television that I will probably return to for comfort at some point when my dad dies. I hope that time is a long, long time off. 

One of them takes place in a later season of the medical comedy Scrubs.

One of them is in a later season of the wonderful and underwatched science fiction show Fringe. 

The latter, especially, is a reminder of the beauty and the pain of having deep, deep relationships that hurt so much to lose. But you wouldn't give up having had them even though it hurts so much. Because they were special, they were beautiful, and they meant something meaningful that you will carry with you always. 

Who woulda thought?

For some reason, I usually feel like listening to Tame Impala after a funeral, memorial, or celebration of life service. 

Someday

Someday, I plan to research (for a short while, probably on Wikipedia) the social trend of moving from "funeral" to "memorial" to "celebration of life." 

I get it. Our choices of words are important. And there are distinctions amongst the three. But sometimes it seems like everything is about a 'a celebration of life' rather than the cold, formal 'funeral,' or slightly-more casual 'memorial service.' In the end, they're all about the same thing: acknowledging the passing of someone from one state to another; from life to death. 

Those little sugary nuts, please

If anyone ever asked my opinion about whether I would prefer to a) have food or b) not have food at a memorial service, I would generally say, 'a' most of the time. 

By 'generally,' I mean 'one hundred percent of the time.'

Don't skimp

Make sure people can hear. It's great to be able to see what people are saying about the deceased, but even more important, it's important to be able to hear what they're saying. 

So do what must be done to get appropriate amplification.

The clock

We all have better things to do.

Of course we do.

Death is not convenient. It often doesn't come at times that fit into our schedule.

But we drop those other things and show our respect by gifting our time.

Time is one of the few things we all have to give. And it's meaningful because there's no shortcuts or way of getting around it.

Until you're dead, you have no choice of whether or not to use your time. You're always using it in some way. It's a little like voting: a non-vote is still a vote, if nothing else for the status quo.

But unlike a vote, your time will be and can be used by only you.* 

If you were looking for the most efficient and effective way of using your time, then you should definitely not go to memorials. There are a thousand more productive ways to spend your time.

If we were robots or even androids, we should definitely just do away with funerals and memorials.

But we are people, and if the relationships we hold are a defining part of what makes us human, then the memorials we choose to attend should be defining reminders of the most beautiful and illogical traits that make us human to begin with.

The fragile and beautiful strength of relationships that are not about productivity or efficiency or logic.

They're about the ways in which we are bound to one another, by blood or friendship or many other ways; all ways that forge meaningful and lasting relationships that inevitably, at some point, will always, always come to an end.

And we can choose to give our time. One more time.

___

*the very fun 2011 Justin Timberlake science-fiction thriller notwithstanding, in which time is very much a tradable commodity. 

Suffer the ?

Children belong at these things. They may not understand exactly what's going on, but it is an opportunity for us to show them, to model for them, what it means to show respect and empathy and how to grieve as a community. 

Although he was referring to entirely different situations (innovation at MIT), I like how Hal Gregersen refers to "constant, generative questioning." Few things are harder to think about, and even more difficult to talk about, than death.

Of course we want to shelter and protect our kids from dealing with pain or tragedy or "adult things," yet I also think it's valuable to begin conversations about grief and empathy early. And death is usually the ultimate catalyst for bringing grief. It sucks. 

Children are good at asking questions, and maybe that's a good thing to have around more when we're dealing with grief and death. Death doesn't make sense. There's no good answers. 

But there's a million questions. Death is a catalyst for talking and trying to understand what it means to really live, the kind of lives we want to live, and the ways in which our lives are connected and impact with others. 

Death is a catalyst for a billion questions. And we should encourage those questions and be okay with not having great answers. Or good answers. Or any answers. Because that's one of the great lies embedded into a lot of formal education: the importance of learning super good answers.

No. The important part is the question; encouraging the questions. It is okay to talk about these things. We don't need to be afraid of having difficult conversations about tough things. And it absolutely, totally, and completely is...

...okay to keep asking questions for which there are not good answers. 

Talk about a great life lesson to get from death. 

Kids are great at figuring out when adults shoo them away from certain topics. There's the Big Two. Politics and religion. But death is the third, I think, possibly followed by sex. Or preceded by. But why?

I don't advocate for dumping 'adult stresses' on kids. But I do advocate for encouraging the asking of questions and a response to those questions that is authentic, open-ended if need be, and respectful of the fact that they simply asked those questions.

Do we want kids to stop asking questions, to stop exploring and discovering and wondering?

Most would say no. 

Our kids don't enjoy memorial services any more than any other kids. They don't get excited about going. But they know it's something we do when we need to, as a family. They know it's a ritual, a part of something bigger than ourselves and outside ourselves that we can contribute to, if only with our presence. 

It's not a bad thing for kids to understand there's pain, there's bad things that happen, and we can run away from those things or we can try to be part of something to make the world better. They might not understand a lot of it, depending on their age and development, but we can help them understand the importance of sharing these rituals together and bringing something important to them...

...ourselves.

So we show up. Because our presence matters. 

FILMS : RUDY AND A PROPOSAL IN FAVOR OF INTENTIONAL ATTENTION.

A few years ago, we watched The Karate Kid with the kids.

Last year, we watched Hoosiers. 

And this weekend, we watched Rudy. 

( image: https://www.collectors.com/autograph/rudy-ruettiger-signed-notre-dame-rudy-movie-poster-8x10-pho/4889367550548704066 )

1984, 1986, 1993. Some good years.

These three films have something in common. Something besides being sports stories or movies about underdogs.

All three are ones I loved as a kid, and was a little afraid to watch later with our children, for fear that I had mis-remembered, and the magic would be gone. Just a good childhood memory from my past that the kids won't understand and that I'll watch with my adult eyes and be unimpressed; tarnishing the beloved recollections of the past.

That's happened. But not with these three. The above three films are ones that I loved when I was younger, and loved possibly even more after seeing them with my own children. 

Beautiful.

Rudy is the 1993 true story retelling of an undersized, underachieving kid who refused to let anyone stomp on his dream of playing football for Notre Dame.

How does everything end up? Watch the movie. Three things though that stand out. I made up an acronym:

ATTENTION

I don't wish to go through life grumbling about "...how good things used to be." What a waste of time. At the same time, it's valuable to look to history and to the past if we really care about learning and growing - learning from what worked, what didn't, and figuring out what we can do better.

Camille Paglia, in her aptly-titled collection of essays Provocations writes about the "...preoccupation with our own modern period." Did she envision or intend for an essay on her problems with modern university campuses and free speech be used as a defense for the beauty of a tiny little sports film? Maybe not. But I couldn't help but note the relationship between a particular character trait of Rudy's and the way in which that particular trait seems more and more archaic. Without wishing for all to return to how it was, I was reminded of some of the ways in which as a society at large, we did...better. Specifically with attention.

As a culture and country, we used to give better attention. Educators and parents and many people love to bemoan the decreasing attention spans of youth today, and they frequently bemoan these things without offering the best thing they can offer:

themselves as model for what it means to be present and to give your attention, your focus to what's happening in the moment and to what is important to you in the future, and to hone in on that with intensity and drive and purpose and stay after it. 

We've been reading and studying Shakespeare this year with the kids. Not his original words, not yet. That'll come. The wonderful Charles & Mary Lamb adaptations early in the 19th century. Written for children.

Written for children. Designed to "...make the stories of Shakespeare's plays familiar to the young." A focus on plot and character, with simple forays into theme and language was a way to introduce young readers to the beauty of the Bard...and ideally provide a gateway to exploring his work in all its complexity and richness.

Here's the thing: they were written for children at the time. Early 1800s. But now you crack open the first pages and compare them to the majority of children's lit written today, and your first impulse is to say...huh? This isn't for children! It's over their heads! The language is weird and those words are too big for them to understand and they won't be able to follow what's happening and...

Here's the thing though. It's not.

It's not.

Our expectations have changed, and our ability to give attention, to model attention, and to teach attention has changed. In perhaps a not-so-positive-way. The net affect the attention dilution has had is in lowering expectations.

When you lower expectations, you lower people's ability to rise and become their best. Children are still capable of understanding, comprehending, and enjoying Shakespeare - including the Lamb siblings' adaptations - but we need to reframe our expectations of what they're capable of and help show them the importance of sticking with something; of giving attention to something because we know they can. And we know that it will bring them joy, satisfaction, and a sense of competence and confidence once they achieve that threshold. 

That's what Rudy did. He set his sights on something difficult, if not impossible, and went after it. And kept his attention on it.

There's a point where some teammates become irate at him for making him look bad in practice because he's going too hard. He's pushing them too hard. Just chill, man. Slow down. Take it easy. it's just practice.

What does he do?

He stands his ground. He does not back down. No. I will not give less than what I'm capable of. If I don't give you everything I have, then I won't be helping you be as prepared as you can be when it's game time. 

He stands his ground and he demands that his teammates give everything. Starting with their attention and focus in every moment they are preparing.

He's not a great student, but it's imperative that he figure out how to get better grades because if he doesn't, his dream will fail and he'll never play football for Notre Dame.

So he gives his attention, his focus, his everything to whatever will help him achieve that dream. He doesn't do one thing one day, and something else the next, and get distracted by this or that.

He gives his attention. And here's one of the things I love about this movie: he doesn't just give his attention in a big sense to pursuing the dream. He gives his attention in all his interactions with others. Parents, professors, priest, coaches, groundskeeper, friends, teammates. He gives his attention in the moment.

And that is a reminder that is timeless.

SINCERITY

I love Rudy's sincerity; his transparency about his dream. He owns it. He doesn't pretend like it's something that he'd like to happen, but if it doesn't, well...no big deal. No. He lets people know it's everything. He cannot understand why anyone would not give everything they had to be part of something important.

He fights hard and he isn't afraid to let people know when something's gotten to him. When he's betrayed in a big way by people close to him, he doesn't hide or try to disguise how it affects him. It hits him hard and he acknowledges it.

Even as he's made fun of, over and over and over by those close to him, he still keeps his relationships with them, even while they're hurting him. He lets them know in spite of their cynicism, their belief in his inevitable failure, he still keeps coming back to let them know: this is still important to me and I'm still going after it.

He doesn't take the sneering, slouching, post-modern tack of "..whatever."

No. He is not a "whatever" guy. He is a "whatever I need to do" fellow.

SUPPORT

“My whole life, people have been telling me what I could do and couldn’t do. I’ve always listed to ’em, believed in what they said. I don’t wanna do that anymore.”

Who's in his corner? Who's fighting for him? Who's saying you can do it!

Uh, it's a small list. Mostly himself and his indomitable, inextinguishable dream.

I asked the kids, as his family mocked him repeatedly, "...is that the kind of support you'd like to be for your family's dreams?"

He pursued his dream mostly alone. He made some friends and built up respect with his teammates and those around him, but he fought alone. And that is so...

...sad.

We all feel alone at some point. Pretty sure of that.

I feel like the biggest hypocrite in the world when I feel like that - and I do sometimes - because if there is someone who can never use the excuse that "I've done it alone," it's me.

(the face of an active dreamer who has been busy dreaming while working)

I've had incredible support my whole life, beginning with my parents, siblings, family. Unlike Rudy.

He went it alone, and eventually...well, watch the movie.

But how sad is that, to have to pursue your dream alone?

I want to be a dream-enabler.

I want to help be a support system for other people and help provide both emotional and tactical support for their focused dreams.

I don't know if I'll ever be on a stage accepting an Academy Award.

But maybe I'll someday be watching and have somebody say:

"...and thank you to Joseph Long, who listened to me, who supported me, and who believed in my dream. Thank you."

That would mean something to me too.

That's something important to me. To provide dream support with everything I've got to those important to me.

CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION (MOST LIKELY IT WOULD JUST BE A SIMPLE TORTURE).

I met with my brother Jeremy (pictured in the Walt Disney t-shirt), earlier and he told me something that he wasn't going to tell me, but did.

He didn't want to have to tell me, but he knew it was the right thing to do and his hand was forced, through something else that occurred via another party that I also cannot talk about. It had nothing to do with me, but it had everything to do with how I would respond to the information he gave me. There was a long list of stipulations given regarding how I would handle the information I was given.

From a technical and legal standpoint, the stipulations were given to someone else and were not originally intended for me. Through a series of happenings I cannot - and will not - detail here, I came to be in possession of this information, and it was important to him that I understand the ramifications of this information getting out anywhere else, and why it was important that it go nowhere else.

After he told me, it all made sense, and it would to you as well if I told you. But I can't. You'd understand if you knew what it was.

Again, I can say nothing about the information, or why I came to know it, or what it means, but it is extremely interesting and shines a light on certain figures and situations I cannot name, and it would completely shatter certain ideas you've had about certain things. For unnamed reasons, I cannot say who the figures are that are involved, or what other individuals also possess this information. Jeremy entrusted me with this information because he knew I know how to keep a secret and would give nothing away about what it is, but trust me, if you had any idea what it was about you would wish you could know, but unfortunately you can't because it would complicate your life to even have a clue.

In many ways, it would be better if you had no idea this information even existed. The fact that you know now is intended to protect all parties involved, including yourself. This way, you can know that you don't know, rather than being unaware of not knowing. If there is ever cause for you to be tortured to get this information, then you can get through it by simply being honest and saying "I don't know! I know there's something I don't know, but I don't know what it is!"

But the thing is, trust me, if you ever find yourself in a life or death situation where somebody is trying to find out this information, it's much better for you that you know there's something you don't know, because it will be much more believable if you're undergoing severe interrogation or torture to acknowledge that there's something about this information that you wish you knew, but that you simply don't, instead of simply screaming over and over again "I don't know what you're talking about!" This way, you can truthfully scream "I know there's something I don't know and I'd tell you if I knew, but I honestly don't!"

At a certain point, they will start believing you because your voice will have the weary ring of truth, if you're still able to talk. When they're done, you will feel better knowing that you did not give anything up, because you couldn't, and the incredible feeling you will have over preserving your non-knowledge will be much more meaningful to you than the fleeting irritation of physical discomfort. 

Except, of course, if that physical discomfort involves having fingernails yanked out or limbs cut off. If that happens, there will probably be some physical pain whose effects don't go away immediately. But that's not likely to happen. Most likely it would just be a simple torture and then you'd be done and free to go on doing whatever you were doing before. If you knew the information I know, and that Jeremy knows, and that other individuals whom I can't divulge know, then the pressure - and physical pain - would be too great and you would likely give up the information and then you would have the psychological trauma of having betrayed the information you were entrusted with.

The fact that you are reading this probably puts you in danger, if - IF - there were parties who were desperate to learn the information Jeremy shared with me. I cannot even confirm or deny whether or not this information would be of interest to parties such as the ones described above.

Sadly yet fortunately, I cannot say whether this information is big information or little information, or whether it's important or trivial, or whether it has anything to do with national security, or if it doesn't. I cannot say any of those things, because that would be saying too much. So if you are approached about divulging this information, simply let what is going to happen, because you honestly do not know anything, and you can be grateful for that.

Also, we talked a bit about the difference in band histories of Kings of Leon versus Arcade Fire, and the one thing I will say is that the information I can't talk about has nothing to do with either of them. I probably shouldn't have even said that.

Enjoy a pleasant evening, and remember to smile, whatever happens, and lock your doors. And be grateful you don't have the information I do.

CONVERSATIONS : DJ DISCUSSES PRIVILEGED INFORMATION.

One of the greatest gifts we can give each other in an age of too much of almost everything is time. Which is why I value some of the relationships I have that dispense with extraneous greetings or prologues on the phone.

I sat in a comfortable chair with my back to the corner and facing the door, like Wyatt Earp from the 1880s or any good law enforcement officer today, writing mindless yet necessary paperwork while listening to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. My phone rang.

I am going to refer to the following individual as DJ in order to preserve its identity. Also, I will refer to this person as "it" in order to further mask the identity.

This is the conversation:

Hey DJ,
I prologued.
Sorry it took me three rings to pick up.

What I'm about to say,
DJ cut me off.
Is privileged information. You can't tell anyone.

Okay,
I said.
I won't tell anyone.

It's privileged.
it said.
You can't.

I know.
I said.
I will not tell anyone besides my children.

No.
DJ said.
You definitely cannot tell them.

Okay,
I said.
I will definitely try not to tell them.

Commit.
it said firmly.
You cannot tell anyone. I am about to tell you privileged information.

Okay.
I said.
I commit. I will tell no one. But I am going to write about it.

How is that protecting my privileged information?
DJ asked.
You can't write about it.

I'm going to.
I said patiently.
It's okay. I'm going to put it on my blog and hardly anyone reads it.

I bet more people,
it said,
read your blog than ___ my ____.

NOTE: I have redacted the above statement because it could and would unmask this individual's identity.

No, I said.
Most of the people who read my blog are in Europe, New York, or Sweden. Hardly anyone in America. So you don't have to worry too much about being unmasked when I write about what you're about to tell me. I'm super excited to write about this privileged information.

Fine.
it said.
But you can't tell anyone.

I won't tell anyone without your okay,
I promised.
But I will definitely write about it.

The privileged information,
DJ said cautiously.
Is that I'm going rock climbing.

You're going rock climbing?
I exclaimed, mostly minus profanity.
That is so great. I wanna go rock climbing.

Yeah.
it said.
I've wanted to for a long time, but it's expensive and I wasn't sure about committing to it. But then an opportunity came up and I emailed someone and now I'm going. This afternoon.

Whoa.
I said.
That is so cool. Remember to wear a harness and use ropes.

I will.
DJ said.
And remember not to tell anyone. It's privileged information.

Out of curiosity,
I said.
I totally get it of course, but exactly why do you wish this to remain privileged information?

Because,
DJ carefully replied,
I don't want people thinking that the only thing I do in life is rock climb.

You're going for the first time this afternoon?
I asked.

Yeah.
it said.
I just don't want people getting the impression that it's my entire life and all I do is rock climb.

Totally get it, DJ.
I said.
That makes sense. Hey, I've got a good feeling you're gonna love it, and can we plan on heading out to the Gorge for some climbing after you've got some gym climbs under your belt and have sprung for a bunch of gear?

I'm buying gear?
it said.

Yeah.
I said.
You're gonna love it and probably get obsessed with it. So after you go today you can buy a bunch of gear and provide me the inexpensive alternative to getting back into climbing I've wanted since college.

You climbed in college, right?
DJ asked.

Yeah...
I took a deep sip of dark coffee as the house door opened and I waited a moment so I wouldn't inadvertently give away privileged information that wasn't mine to give away. Then I continued.
...I used to climb, but I prefer to climb with people who have all the gear and know how to use it. I've found it's the best way.

So you want me to buy the gear so you can start climbing again?
it asked carefully.

Yeah.
I said.
That's about right. You're gonna love it.

I really don't want everyone thinking I spend all of my money and all of my time on rock climbing,
DJ said.

Well,
I thought carefully, and lowered my voice as an old guy in his 50s sat beside me.
That's a risk you'll have to take. It sounds like climbing is pretty important to you and that you're already having trouble focusing on other things. But I'm sure you'll continue to have other interests too.

I haven't even gone yet.
it said.
I might not like it.

Oh, you'll love it.
I assured.
It's gonna be your whole life after you go.

Can you not tell anyone?
DJ said anxiously.
I'd really like for you to treat this as privileged information.

Absolutely.
I said.
This is between me and you and my northern European readers.

We moved on from that to discuss a wide variety of other topics, including which are the only two Radiohead albums appropriate for summer listening (In Rainbows for June, A Moon Shaped Pool for August), my listening plan for November (a deep dive into Radiohead's Amnesiac), which of Radiohead's albums have the best titles overall (also Amnesiac), which artists are deserving of being mentioned in the same paragraph as Radiohead (Glass Animals, for one), how many years apart Kid A and Amnesiac were (one year), and whether King of Limbs is worth repeated listenings (possibly).

Also, I strongly encouraged DJ to give Clap Your Hands Say Yeah a significant listen, beginning with a three-track playlist I will provide when it is ready, and it asked how I felt about Tame Impala's two new songs; a query for which I had no response.

Remember to use the ropes,
I reminded it in closing.
And remember that there's other things in life besides rock climbing.

Okay,
DJ said.
Remember to not tell anyone. Privileged information.

Love you.
I said.

But it had hung up already.




___

photo cred : screen shot from FaceTiming with Jonny Long @Niagara Falls, April 2019

59 HOURS, BUT NOBODY'S COUNTING.

She came along a road. On a dark night. My buddy, Becca's bud, our pal.

Home again.

Briefly.


It is always the beginning of something.
She pulled in on the dark late night, and brought a big hug - I kindly let Becca squeeze her first before shoving my wife aside - and a bigger box of her baked delicacies full of sugar and butter and cinnamon and spices and secret stuff and such to savor over the next 59 hours. And we did. The molasses ginger cookies were sublime and exquisitely textured.


As you like it.
She slumbered for a number of hours that dug deep into the following morning, and I measured carefully the contents of our coffee supply and determined there was enough for a single serving each, and impatiently waited with patience for her to awake, and waited, and waited, and waited, and debated making myself two cups, but the potential of being able to share a cup on a Friday morning with an adult, and historically one of my favourite drinking companions, was strong enough to back me down, so I waited, and waited, and waited - but I stayed busy educating minds with the joys of a Shakespeare comedy, Latin, a breakdown of the U.S. Constitution and genius of James Madison, a refresher on the beauty of the Fibonacci sequence, and the difference between metals and metalloids on the periodic table. And such. And I waited, but not with inaction.


One more cup, or one cup only.
Up. I made the coffee, and it was mediocre, possibly a few notches beneath. This is not a subjective analysis; she observed this accurately, in the deadpan voice I like to think she saves primarily when mocking me, and I do not mind, because she sneaks the lightest trace of affection into the corners of the deadpan and I can tell.


In which a general satisfaction is found. 
She expressed appreciation, once more, for the single cup of, to quote precisely "...mediocre coffee." This was the second conveyance within a nine-minute span whereupon she found occasion to observe the quality of the handmade beverage I made with my hands. A particular glee at the left corner of her mouth accompanied an otherwise straight countenance in delivering this observation for the second time; a glee that was perhaps an enthusiastic rebuttal to a statement I had made before gently setting down her container of black gold:

I,
I said,
am intimidated to be drinking coffee with you, let alone making and serving it to you. 

Why?
she asked, the left corner of her mouth fighting hard to stay down and being utterly defeated.
You shouldn't be.

I can see by your expression,
I replied.
That you know exactly why. You have spent the last ten months being trained in the exotic art of making exceptional coffee and paying attention to subtle variances in external temperature and relative humidity and the exquisite care one must take in preparing a proper cup of coffee, and knowing all that, and knowing that I know that, and knowing that I have dug to the bottom remainder of our stash to prepare...this...it is difficult. 

Oh, I'm sure it will be fine,
she said, her eyes betraying the lie of her words and alighting on the truth of what I had just spoken; a truth which was confirmed by her coupleted statement not ten minutes later.

Thank you for the coffee,
she murmured in the sun, looking up post-sip.
It really is mediocre.

I know.
I said.
You're welcome.

The left corner turned upward ever so higher in either mirth or disgust. It was a difficult tell.


The vanity of time. 
After that she did not initiate a conversation about time and how the reality of time is unchanging, but the social construct we have built around time is so different than what it used to be. We did not have this conversation - I am usually the one who brings up such conversations with her, and then she eagerly jumps in and we repartee and argue, and she may make me feel like an idiot sometimes, but it is generally because she made a relevant point that I did not see coming and should have; importantly, it is rarely, if ever because of the fact that I have brought up a silly conversation to begin with, such as a questioning of the social construct of time and its evolution - devolution - over time.

Our hyperconsciousness over time and constant awareness of the calendar, of obligations and responsibilities and alarms and timers and reasons to never forget to do anything are an horrific example of the wreck that techno-efficiency brings to our lives in the guise of progress. Incandescent bulbs and microwaves and silicon chips are all great inventions on so many levels...but now we get to work later, make food faster, and be connected at all times to a reflective screen that we live so much of our lives on...in the name of efficiency, productivity, and...connectedness.

The persistent melting away of connection in an age of hyper connective potential. Sad. A reminder of the beauty of scarcity, and how having more than you need of something - e.g. the ability to constantly connect - does not mean you will connect better. Or even well.


Of electric sheep.
She also did also not casually integrate Salvador Dali into any of our conversations, although such casual slip-ins have occurred enough times to not be uncommon in our dialogues going back twenty years. Dali was another individual fascinated by time; a fascination symbolized best by his 1931 Surrealist masterpiece The Persistence of Memory, in which pocket watches are melting across a desert  landscape in a nod to the relative nature of time and space.

We did not speak of that, except perhaps in telepathic dreams?


Call me anytime, but not then.
In addition, she did not begin talking of how Dali was often inspired by the landscapes of Catalonia, the autonomous area in the northeast of Spain. I've never been there, but she has been to Spain, and Becca has been to Spain, and my understanding is that Spain, like many hot regions, takes a siesta at midday as a respite from the sun. Later, shops begin reopening and stay open late. As a lifelong American with an interest in other geographies and living, this is fascinating: being on a completely different sort of clock than I'm used to; a clock that is out of sync with the standard we've been on since the Industrial Revolution helped invent the standard work day in which efficiency and production matter most. Anyway,

we did not speak of that, but it would not be strange if we had.


There is a soundtrack to your life and it is not mine. 
Shortly thereafter, she did not shirk or shrink as I pulled out my phone in the midday sun to take a selfie of us; a practice I have been engaging in heavily since 2015. It is difficult to know whether the greater joy is what I feel much later on in looking at the snapshot of a moment frozen, or whether it is the evolution of her reaction in the moment I pull out camera to selfie. A reaction that went from groaning and eyerolling years ago externally to pose-striking deadpan Kim Deal cool with Mediterranean warmth now. Combo killer. It has never been a wasted moment.


Waste a moment. 
She did not scream at the boy, at my son, as he kissed her. As he kissed her six hundred and twenty-two times with snot-bathed cheeks and blue smile targeted at her, she did not waver in returning the aggression in the hot sun. It was love, and she wore a rugged flannel built for wiping toddler-phlegm off cheeks, and she never screamed.


The modern age. 
At a certain point, she tried to steal my mug, my Wonder Woman mug; her fingers grasped the ceramic but not enough to tug from my grasp. I kept it from her and gave her my third favorite mug to drink coffee from. There are immutable laws in the universe: gravity exists, objects in motion stay in motion until a force acts upon them, etc. Also: nobody drinks from my Wonder Woman mug but me. No one. Not even Becca, except once on her birthday because I was being nice. So I could not, did not let her, one of my best buds, drink from it.

But I let her touch it. Interesting thing about immutable laws: they're not always immutable. For example, I was talking with the children earlier this evening about the circumstances in which natural and immutable laws do not work the immutable way they're supposed to. Like around black holes. The gravity that defines a black hole's existence is so powerful that it sucks everything in. Everything. Including light. The area around a black hole is very strange: the immutable laws governing force and motion that seem to apply everywhere in the universe don't apply here. Same with subatomic particles like quarks; the beginning of the insanely cool and insanely in-understandable world of particle physics. How can the same object exist in multiple spaces simultaneously? Physicists, astronomers, geniuses are still trying to figure out how and why sometimes the immutable laws of the natural world don't apply.

I love that. I would rather exist as an exception than a rule; an outlier rather than an indicator. I am happy to surround myself with others who embrace the exceptions to immutable laws. If there's one thing you take away from this paragraph, it's this: yes, you read correctly; I am strongly inferring, if not guaranteeing, that time travel is not only a possibility, it is a certainty and will definitely happen within this century. Though probably after I'm dead.

So I guess if there's two things you take away, it's this: don't touch my Wonder Woman mug. Also, I need to look into the affordability of cryogenics.


Seventeen.
She accepted my invitation to drive into the big city to a big store, where I bought a large bag of coffee, thirteen bananas, and picked up my contacts from the optometrist - which is vastly different from an ophthalmologist - inside this big store. I looked longingly at a diverse assortment of items, such as a kayak, a standup paddleboard, and a small boat. Perhaps in violent reaction to my reactionary longing, she took decisive action and ordered me to deposit a single item in her cart: a flotation device for two, requiring paddles and starting with the letter 'k.'

She bought a kayak, which I thought was the appropriate method to get a kayak if you want one, as opposed to shoplifting. Had she chosen that route, the remainder of the weekend could have had a different flavor. I acceded to her demand; demanding in exchange a second selfie of the day as we stood dour-countenanced in front of three thousand shopping carts.

I bought my bananas and coffee and checked to ensure an appropriate number of children were flailing their infinite elbows within a hundred foot radius as we headed into the parking lot.

A boy in front wiggled and waggled along as he held onto an adult across the concrete walkway, tugging and kissing her leg and losing balance, but kept sure-footed by the firm grasp of a bigger hand over a small. The sun beat down, one was wearing a baseball hat as we climbed in and left the parking lot...

...to drive into another parking lot on a Friday afternoon artery to the highway. Yuck. An hour to go two miles or so. Should I have bought iced coffee previous to this? Life is full of should haves. But we work to eliminate them going forward. So next time. Fortunately I had some emergency music stashed away I was able to put to use, and got a few words of conversation in as the two-year old in the back bantered and played with who had once been my friend, but who had now been transferred over to his dominion. C'est la vie, que sera sera.


Black water.
She then stopped by the grocery with us, which brought a big bill, more yellow berries, and and a rendezvous with our other friend, also known as my wife. The Countess - my wife - and I parted ways with her temporarily and shared a banana in the sunshine.

At this point, there is a break in this narrative's chronology, as she conveyed herself ostensibly for a visit with grandparents; a divergent path which led down physically a separate road from us, but also a divergent path from honesty, as later events led to a somber moment where it was revealed she spurned a grandparental generational chit-chat in favor of a gourmet mid-afternoon lunch with her mother. This was a circumstance outside of my prior knowledge. I do not know what she ordered, though it is unlike me to have not asked.

The hour is late. 
She posed for a shot with her sister before they departed for a show. A concert beginning at a witching hour, a concert which I urged my wife to attend for the joint reasons of:

A) it'll be a fun bit of culture and melody.
B) you'll see your brother up on stage slappin' da bass.
C) you'll make a great memory with your sister that can never be stripped away, save through severe and sudden traumatic retrograde memory loss or genetic-markers leading to extreme dementia and the erratic cleansing of your memory bank; either way it's out of your control, so if all goes well you can use tonight to construct a delightful memory that won't disappear, ideally. But take pictures too.

So they hopped off the porch, rolled away on wheels, giggling and done up, gorgeous and fifty-percent pregnant.  I returned to children, scrounged up enough morsels for their stomachs to survive them through the night, and yelled them into bed before settling with a blanket, my laptop, two notebooks, seven books, and my fave G2 gel pen to make little notes and work on my little book I'm working on in little bits.

Moby remixes swirled in the background, probably too loud, but what can you do? I wasn't going to turn it down in the name of sleeping children. I wrote. Some good things and some mediocre things and I tried some new tricks with a semi-colon, and I reheated a cup of mostly uncaffeinated coffee that was mediocre and befitted the weekend in terms of beverage quality.

The sisters returned post-Cinderella clock, but radiances and attire intact. I had been preparing myself all evening long to back off upon their return. By 'back off,' I mean "not initiate a conversation that would keep one of my favorite conversational partners up into the wee wee hours of the morning. I held firm to that commitment, because I am strong, and watched her crawl into bed, also known as our living room couch, without brushing her teeth. I commented on this because my wife is a hygienist and our relationship is such that I can ask those questions of her at 1am and I helpfully suggested she could borrow our two-year old son's teethbrush.

She declined, and I left with nothing more than a small judgmental look tossed her way. But she was already dreaming.


The hour is early. 
She asked me a question, and I allowed a significant number of time to elapse before responding. Around fifteen hours. Rather than responding, I waited for her eyes to run to slumber twelve feet away. Skipping backwards through time, this is what happened:

I awoke at a premature hour, an hour which could have been used for sleep, but instead was used for the entrance of two sleepy boys joining our bed. Sleepy boys with the bed-sharing habits of a Cirque du Soleil trapeze artist, which is to say they are acrobatic, and the vocal subtleties of Tom Waits, which is to say that the growling, throat clearing, and whistly breathing of bed partners is not the companion of restful early morning slumber.

So I quietly ducked out to a couch and discovered enough light to read through my ragged paperback Sophie's World, a literary trek I have been on for a couple years now and immensely enjoy. It is a Scandinavian novel whose narrative involves following a young girl's mysterious journey into studying the history of philosophy. Thus it is a plot-driven approach to learning about the eras and titans of philosophy throughout history. I typically read it Friday evenings or nights; sometimes a page or two, sometimes 20 or thirty.

I carefully turned the pages in as rustle-less a fashion as possible, knowing from long experience the impact that "quiet" noises can have in distracting one from sleep, such the hypothetical situation of an 11-year old girl choosing your 20-minute power nap time to suddenly take an interest in thumbing through your book collection at the foot of the bed. One rustled page at a time. This is also why I avoided anything more than a millisecond eye contact when she threw off the comforter and trotted across the room and down the adjacent hallway, perhaps to use the toilet, perhaps to do tai chi, perhaps to go crawl in bed with her sister, who was accompanied by the two young men I had sought to escape.

My suspicion of the former was confirmed a short time later when she returned and asked in her passage across the room: "What are you reading?"

followed by a glance at my small journal and pen precariously perched on the arm : "How is the writing?"

There are moments in a person's life where they can clearly see everything in an instant. I have not yet embarked on a near-death experience, although I have broken one ankle and two legs, though both were the same leg at different times, but my understanding is that at the moment of death minus one-second, everything flashes before your eyes. Perhaps this is a novelist's construct that has waded into modern archetypes, or perhaps there is something to it. There is certainly a romantic allure of having the split second before death be filled with a hyper-sped version of your life. I think Walt Whitman would agree.

Again, I have not experienced the nearness of death, aside from some near-near-ish experiences I will tell you about someday, such as the time I saved a prostitute along the Ala Wai Canal from her knife-wielding pimp, but what else I have done is to practice the art of exercising an ability to immediately size up a particular situation in an instant, and in that instant know the right thing to do.

I knew the right thing to do was to ignore her.

Because I knew, based on my instant assessment of posture, gait, head turn, voice modulation, tone, angle of head, amount of eye contact, and inflection at the end of the two questions, that she was simply asking out of misguided responsibility and obligation.

Do I believe she was interested? Yes. But I also knew in this instant that these questions were driven by a motivation other than a deep desire to be up at this hour engaged in conversation. Even if it was me, who is often her able and capable conversational partner and verbal duelist. And I knew if I used the next five seconds to answer, her synapses would move from dormant to alive, against their will, and all other body and brain functions would slowly grind their gears into action, and it would be against her will. And face it: some people are cranky when they don't get enough sleep. I make no inferences. Simply that some people are.

So I ignored her, although I would have swapped ten pages of reading Sophie for five minutes of conversation with her. But I knew it wasn't right, and I was able to smugly peer over my book at the sleepy figure of my friend as she ignored my ignoring and trotted into bed, pulling the comforter up and burying her body underneath, and I knew that I had performed a beautiful and self-sacrificing action. Truly the action of a saint.

The sun broke through the slits around the thirteen-year old blinds hanging over our thirty-year old windows as I polished off several more pages, and she finished her night's nap. When she awoke later, we spoke some words. She had little memory of the encounter.

Yeah, I said, I don't really remember it either.


A time to turn.
At 9.56 am I took three selfies of us holding a small stuffed animal. I wore a white tank top for the occasion.


Impossible request.
For a period of four minutes between 10.02 and 10.06am, she backed out of our driveway, executing one of the greatest 27-point turns seen in my lifetime, in which a turn was never executed, but did, in the end, allow for a successful exit.

The time required to execute this move might have dropped from four minutes to ten seconds had I moved a vehicle or two in order to allow for a clear exit path, but I was heavily involved in the important task of laughing as she made micro-turn adjustments and attempted to extricate her vehicle. In the end she did so.

If I had intervened, she surely would have lost the opportunity to show her capability at executing a 27-point backup maneuver.


Over.
She sat in the pew behind at the memorial service we attended, and I stepped out with our two-year old son who had a soggy diaper and tired eyes, and he finally lolled to sleep on my shoulder, whereupon I returned to the sanctuary and dumped his plumb body across her chest, where he lay splayed upon her bosoms, chest rising and falling and falling and falling deeper into nap and the dreams of a good dream brought to life when he opened his sweaty eyes at long long last and saw in whose arms he lay; a circumstance which led him immediately to begin kissing her with his sweaty face, again and again; an activity which continued for the entirety of her fifty-nine hour stay, if anyone was counting, which they probably weren't, which I was.

Because sometimes to savor the moments, you gotta own up to their scarcity and make em count.

Also, I tried to eat soup while driving.


Homecoming. 
We drove home in silence, save for bottomless sounds of talking, laughing, and music. A child kept her attention for most of the duration, and she gave it with something less than a sullen presence.

There are many people who treat time as a fixed entity, and there are others who invoke Albert Einstein and Salvador Dali in creating elaborate reasons for why time is more of a fluid concept. I could be described as falling into the latter category; however as I watched the minutes tick away, in maddeningly un-fluid fashion, and I swiftly used calculus to determine the timing of making it to my brother's album release show at the scheduled time, I came to the conclusion that there was a discrepancy between the two numbers.

The long version is, if we drove all the way home - 35 minutes past the concert venue - and then drove back, we would most certainly be late to his show.

So my wife, the Countess Becca, spoke the words that John Huss and John Wycliff and Joan of Arc spoke so many times (or perhaps only once, as they were being burned at the stake):

"I'll take care of this."

This is not technically what she said, and probably not what they said either, but it does capture the spirit of what they all meant, which is why I included it in quotation marks, and also to give it more gravitas. I did not take care of it. Becca did, and what she did was this: she dropped us off at the show so we could be there on time and she took the children home, and promised to drive back in, long after bedtime, to pick us up.

A saintly thing, although I can say with delicious knowledge that she may be a heavenly-bodied angel, but she is not a saint, in the best way possible she is not, and is much more interesting and rebellious than one. But what she did was a kind and saintly gesture. She lifted the responsibility and the anxiety and the stress of us potentially missing the show away with her saintly decision and sent us off with a wave as the sun began to set in northwest Portland.

We walked the thirty seconds to the venue. I used eight of those seconds to selfie-video us walking, and looking back at the video, I am deeply irked at myself for not using at least twenty. She wore a jean jacket and was applying lipstick and looked very cool,

and then we crossed the street and entered.

Hearing is weak, listening is strong, so which do we do with music? 
The venue was small and the people were many. Chairs were found and we found ourselves located in a center-front vantage point where we watched two performers - first the lovely duo of Adam Black and Ariel Roxanne Cook (the latter on my fave guitar solo of the year), then the stompin sounds of Jacob Westfall, and finally...

my little brother. Jeremy M. Long, or as he goes by professionally: J.M. Long. A beautiful set with him splitting time between keys and guitar, ink rippling his lithe dense arms as he danced sang and played his way through a falsetto-soaring set of rockers, ballads, and experimental pop gems. My toes tapped and I felt her head bobbing time and my heart leaped when he said "...this one's for my brother Joseph" before launching into People Worry, a track that has both brought and taken away tears in the last month. So good.

We ducked out and found fresh oxygen immediately thereafter; we looped around 300 blocks or so while waiting for Becca to arrive. She spent 275 of them grumbling about not having brought knee socks on a cold night. She was grinning while grumbling so I found it unnecessary to break Anthropologie's window at 11 on a Saturday night in order to get her a pair, which I totally would have done if needed. But again, grinning-while-grumbling. She somehow survived until Becca arrived.


Because it's what I do.
After sliding almost-sleeping Becca over to the passenger seat and giving a brief synopsis of the show, I launched into an appropriate discussion question for the ride home.

So,
I said.
Tell us about this fellow you're with.

She did.

Because I asked.

INTERLUDE:

You can ask me two questions,
I informed her.
Go.

She thought briefly, and then asked two questions. I will only list one of them.

My fave Shakes right now,
I answered her,
is Twelfth Night.

We approached the bottom of our mountain and I knew it was time to play a special song that would bring us home as we pulled in the driveway, which is what happened as the closing strains of Kings of Leon's True Love Ways died out and I cut the engine and I don't know if she thought it was special but I know her and I know that someday she'll realize it was and is.


The morning after. 
There was coffee on the porch, and late birthday gifts given, and sunshine which bothered me because sunshine when I'm sad does not make me happy and I was sad because the clock would not stop ticking and time would not stop moving the wrong way and there was nothing to do to prevent her from leaving.

Again.

And I wanted to grab hold of the stupid little seconds winding their revolutions and slow each one down but they wouldn't stop moving. I gave her a CD, and I gave her sister a CD and I said:

It is the same playlist on each CD. Maybe sometimes you can each listen to it when you're driving and feel connected, or something. They're songs that are special to me.


The 59th. 
I hugged her, a good hug, and other people hugged her, and Becca squeezed her, and then I skulked over at the last minute to sneak the last hug in, and then she left,

and drove along the road.

The wrong way.

Away, way away.

There were some good hours in those fifty-nine, and I think the mountain misses her.

I took my stupid watery eyes inside and angrily ate a ginger molasses cookie. Allergies.


HOME / SISTERS
True Love Way / Kings of Leon
Pretty Voice / Cloud Cult
Ran / Future Islands
Jade / Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
The Vanity of Trying / Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
River of Brakelights / Julian Casablancas
Keep You On My Side / Chvrches
No Widows / The Antlers
Waste a Moment / Kings of Leon
The Modern Age / The Strokes
Seventeen / Sharon Van Etten
Black Water / Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes
Don't Miss It / James Blake
Blood Bank / Bon Iver
Seasons (Waiting On You) / Future Islands
Impossible Request (alt version) / Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
Over / Kings of Leon

I guess it's good to feel even when it doesn't feel good. 

all times are not exact times and all quotes are not exact quotes; for both there is no apology. the truth is still contained within these hybrids of fact and interpretation.