Here Is Today, and, If My Guardian Angel Is a Lot Like Dr. Walter Bishop, I Might Be OK With That

Here is Sunday.

7 am flying monkeys

rehearse on our slumbering heads.

Dawn of the dying weekend:

Jack Johnson & lattes,

maybe hash browns & grits.

Eric Carle memory game maybe,

Becca is Bulls 23.

Floors to lay,

toilets to fix, porches

to finish, windows to

replace, house to

burn and collect insurance on.*

Websites

to wireframe, logos

to design, videos to edit,

title sequences to build,

copy to write.

Evening of family cinema.

Natty Gann, maybe some

Dean Jones or Jerry Lewis,

popcorn, apple slices,

giggling girls, and me.

Prep for Montag; it has crashed here swiftly.

*I jest

Here is Monday.

6 am hungover walrus,

bleary, drag, chug

jar of hot water,

calmly push

'brew.' Chug black lifeblood.

The one day offspring

are not with one of us,

breakneck goodbye as we

race down mountain,

alternating between NPR news

and cheerful Eminem

nihilistic bumpety-thump charisma.

Drop Bride at work, linger as she 

disappears, enjoying the rear view.

Hit up mobile office,whisper thanks

for free WiFi and

complementary coffee refills.

Try not to get distracted with the conversations of strangers.

Occasionally, I butt in, and

unstranger them.

Back to laptop, fingers

Charlie Parker on keys,

Da Vinci Wacoming on tablet,

I like to pretend.

Refill to go, stick on Saul Williams'

Act Iii Scene 2 (Shakespeare) as loud as a bass-less automobile stereo can go.

THE MUSIC STOPS as

I approach the school where

I teach young minds

new things and

encourage them to keep their

minds young.

Two classes,

plus independent study with driven young lady.

Picture-making & taking, ethics in media and

digital production techniques, connecting art & life.

Mercurial relationship between the 

How and 

the Why.

(I lean to the Why, which is why I prefer

The Mentalist over CSI, if we still had telly).

Bell. Zoom. Gone. Whiz up the Interstate,

occasionally venture to passing lane,

mostly get overtaken by F-150s and 250s and 950s

and motorcycles and…

is that a bicycle?

Wow, I gotta start driving dangerously. That's what

Danish babes like,

I hear.

Pick up Bride, sultry hygienist

in dirty scrubs;

pick up wee ones, squeals,

hugs, shrieks, fast supper,

dancing, reading,

wrestling,

bedtime gauntlet,

I invent story, likely involving

parallel story lines with multiple

protagonists in magical realist

mode; me, falling asleep 

while Magdelana prods me:

"Tell it….tell it!"

Off mattress. Down to Dungeon,

where magic happens in the 

witching hours.

Second wind kicks in, flip

machines on, crisp Portland skyline through night window.

Forehead slumping to delete key, snap 

awake, shut down,

Third wind kicks in:

wind down with

Fringe or 1956 Modern European History hardcover

I found somewhere.

****

Here is Tuesday.

7 am water buffalo

pound rhythms on

our weary oasis bed.

Vegan waffles, a

cuppa Joseph, &

Duke Ellington help bring the world to focus,

plus my contacts, without which

I am Stevie Wonder.

Morning in the Dungeon,

emails & briefs,

invoices and all that which 

is not creative, but

which is 60% of the job.

Noise from above.

Daddy, hey Daddy?

I gallop up stairs to:

: find missing toy,

: wipe a poopy rear end,

: read a 'homework assignment,'

: get a refilll,

: kiss my wife,

or such, and I plow ahead

doing work I am sometimes really 

good at,

and sometimes just

sorta good at.

Video, copywriting, 

editing, design

I love it, and frequently 

get to work with

my little brother,

Photographer Jonny L. Long.

Fortune shines; as 

distant from 9-5 as

Andromeda is from Earth.

But it is hard for my mind

to close down, to to turn off,

when the stresses and deadlines

are 17 stairs away;

too available.

Winking blinking lights of

Portland are familiar friend;

climb in bed past Cinderella hour,

start to turn on lamp for quick 20 pages of Agatha Christie,

stopped by Becca's sleepy

Clint Eastwood tone, calm & sharp,

      "Turn that on and

     you're dead,"

     

monotone.

I roll to mattress,

in darkness, trying to think about nothing, finally falling 

to dreams with thoughts of

$30 million for my dream project, a transmedia narrative series

based around a young girl and her ensemble of friends,

including a wolf, a giant, and

a hot air balloon.

Here is Wednesday.

6.15, Mags up to "get ready" with 

Becca in front of mirror,

Johanni's room, wafting

the stench of donkey

carcass from putrefying diaper; he sleeps purely,

comfortable, content in the 

stink of his own body.

He is so cute.

Kitchen, coffee, a kiss.

A Brilliant Little Recipe of Becca's You Might Want to Try for Breakfast.

1. Dump a 3-1 ratio of water and rice into a baking dish. Add a little salt.

2. Put the oven on 175 or so.

3. Go to bed.

4. Wake up in the morning and have hot breakfast. Mix with milk, brown sugar, liquid amines, peaches, peanut butter, and tomato juice, etc.

Note: can use brown rice or steel cut oats also.

Brilliant.

The Wildcard.

Morning worship, usually an Old Testament

Biblical tale involving intrigue, violence, vengeance,

and other children-friendly 

morality narratives. The questions fly; wow,

Game of Thrones is tame after a few pages of Saul & David.

We have a "breakfast conversation"

that centers around a 

particular person or event,

and metastasizes from there.

Recent topics:

    

     Amelia Earheart

     Louis Pasteur

     9.11

     Marie Curie

     Slavery

The questions fly higher, the

answers fumble,

Johannes joins in with 

occasional messy-faced comebacks of monosyllabic 

     "Uh-oh!"

     and

     "Raww!"

To give attention, to give

someone your full attention.

The ultimate respect.

Finger off keyboard,

eyes off iPhone,

mind away from - 

     Aahh! Have to return that email now!

The challenge, to forget

and tuneout, to compartmentalize 

and give myself - and my kids - the gift

of Attention.

Computer-free,

iPhone-free,

television-free

Attention.

Yet still, responsibilities live,

and I cannot turn a blind

eye, and to electronic portal

I race to communicate

and to put out fires

and to respond to those to whom

I must respond and the 

guilt weighs

and

resentment builds

and I hate phones and computers and interconnectivity

and I love them too.

Daddy, you're always

on the computer!"

Mags, I have

ONE EMAIL

I have to send. That's it.

And I tune out those

devilishly angelic 

voices as I craft

an email explaining

the nuances of

copyright vs. trademark

contracts as they relate to graphic design and client ownership of work…

And those squeaky voices refuse

to be subjugated,

the specter of MLK

is strong, they will

    not be silenced,

their voices shriek, 

demanding I exit work

and enter play,

a distinction that 

is less geographic and

more state of mind.

The day moves on,

dancing from sun to moon,

soundtracked with

     Vivaldi,

     Rachmaninov,

     Benny Goodman,

     White Stripes,

     and

     Magdelana's perennial fave,

     folksy punk mom

     Kimya Dawson.

Bake.

Draw.

Paint.

Sew.

Explore.

Hike.

Read.

Clean.

Always conversing, always

the melody of dialogue

I love, 

     Love

conversing with Magdelana.

Her questions, a Gatling onslaught;

my responses a Derringer, dripping

partial answers, afraid her

recognizance of my fallibility

will come too fast.

It's okay; questions aren't

usually about the answer anyway.

Supper

(reaction against "dinner").

The list is short:

     curry

     pasta

     tacos

     potatoes & veggies

     soup & bread

We apron up &

dervish around the

kitchen,

racing up the driveway

when Becca gives the 

5-minute warning from

bottom of mountain.

Rain, snow,

steel, hail,

sun, wind, we are

Pony Express, we are

unstoppable, we will

be there, waiting

when she pulls in,

because it is important, the ritual.

The ritual of

hellos & goodbyes.

Of thank-you's for

a long day of hard

work.

We eat, Charlotte Gainsbourg or Cat

Power drones

quietly, underscoring

loud conversation.

How was your day?

all ask each other.

Terrible, mine was

really really awful,

Magdelana grins seriously.

Build some blocks,

maybe hot hot chocolate,

dance party that we

convince ourselves is

serious exercise.

Pajamas,

brush,

worship,

interminably 

long story (I invent, and try to stay awake to tell).

To the couch with

my beloved,

for post-mod electronic snuggle:

Facebook on iPhones,

opposite ends of couch,

toes touching,

liking each other's 

comments & posts &

everything else &

laughing at ourselves

because certainly every

other person in the

universe must be.

Largely the universe is silent except for us

and Johannes cough-tooting

in his sleep,

and Mags calling,

You're not watching a movie, are you?

Do not watch ANYTHING without me, okay?

Guilt does not overcome the desire for 43 minutes of

genuine old-fashioned snuggling in front of telly,

Bree & Susan & Gabrielle + Lynette &

the Housewives grabbing our

attention with their

selfish lives of kids and family & obligations & saying things that

are completely different

than what they mean.

It is such a treat,

and we both like Lynette and her chaos,

and Teri Hatcher's voice.

Credits roll I wonder if I 

can afford to stay on couch,

and once in a moon I do, 

but duty and deadlines scream

and inevitably I slog to

The Dungeon

and bask in carcinogenic 

blue light. Portland filaments

flickering far away, frogs croaking close.

I remind myself my body

will do better falling asleep

to a book than

alien-filled Fringe.

So I crack open, risking wrath,

and make it three magical pages

into Jorge Borges' Labyrinths

(3rd time),

before nodding off.

Here is Thursday.

A day I will be massively productive,

I will arise 4 am and hit it

so hard; Ali stinging butterfly.

I might even exercise.

And now it is 6.45 and

Becca didn't awake me.

It is her fault,

and I am still so tired

and half-dream of an Hawaiian holiday where

I don't even make it

to the beach; just

watch HBO programming

in the hotel and take

breaks to watch people

frolic in the ocean

(from window)

and the half-dream is

murdered to reality

by the kicks from a Clydesdale,

Are you guys EVER

going to get up?

Angry, I am so angry

at the Clydesdale

and vow I will never

watch a beer commercial

with a horse again

and this Clydesdale is too cute to stay mad 

at so I just kick her back and

yell angrily

and she doesn't buy it, and laughs.

We are up.

Just for something special,

a cuppa Joe.

Check in with Facebook family,

prep for a day abroad,

dress sharp, maybe shave 

but probably not.

Caravan Palace bounce,

maybe Glenn Miller swinging' it.

A thermos a kiss, NPR update,

switch to Saul Williams

Act Iii Scene 2 (Shakespeare) before arriving

at school.

No song that makes me want to

LEAP into action, that goosebumps 

me to want to change the world,

like this, in its vague

call to arms:

I'm not scared of the Truth

Just scared of the lengths

I'll go to fight it.

I tried to hold my tongue son.

I tried to bite it.

Not trying to start a riot,

Or incite it.

Cause Brutus is an honorable man.

Chills.

It arms me to step into class.

Give me a room of students

with vigor, with enthusiasm,

with something to say,

over

the slouched apathy of head-

nodding Stepford Wife classroom.

I love the curiosity of 

childhood; the questioning

of youth; it should

perpetuated, a

foundation for

"adulthood."

My hope is to help them learn to:

think critically.

ask good questions.

creatively problem-solve.

feel, with empathy and look at life from broader perspectives than their own.

find patterns and search for connections between disparate ideas.

look deeper than surface properties, to find beauty in the minutiae & trivialities of life & people

You can interrupt me, I say,

If it is with respect, and

relevant to our discussion.

Discussing, conversation, The

crux of relationships.

Not to just ask for an

answer and get an answer,

but to start a 

CONVERSATION.

I want to be a 

Conversation

Starter,

not

Ender.

How's your day?

- Fine.

It is the surface, people

ask and respond, Devo

automatons.

Conversation, in dialogue

and disagreement, listening,

bantering,

discovering,

observing,

not

judging.

I like my students,

they are curious and

loud.

They disagree with me

sometimes, aloud, and

I am proud of them 

for it

(though their arguments are frequently specious, underdeveloped, and naive, it is the act of

speaking up that is important)

and creating an environment that is

safe for all to speak up

in, an environment I

want for my classroom and our

home.

Drive home

traffic.

I think,

and steering-wheel drum to

Fiery Furnaces or

Neil Young.

Family awaits,

driveway, sweet potato smells,

London Symphony on vinyl.

The evening rituals,

exchanges of stories,

information, accomplishments,

transgressions.

I feel like Walking Dead

sometimes, at this point,

smiling, wrestling,

laughing, tired, wanting

to give my Best, my Best

having got sucked out of the day, but

trying to fake it well.

Will you lay by me tonight

and tell me a story, Daddy?

I love those imps, these chimps,

and their acrobatic mom.

And the city lights refuse

to die, waving across the

river, reaching 'cross state

through Dungeon window.

Here is Friday.

A kiss, a coffee, birth of weekend.

"Pickin' Up Day," my mom would call it.

I stick coins under cupboards, nooks, hidden;

Magdelana sweeps her way

though, looking for treasures

Daddy, I'm going to save my money for

either college or shopping…

…probably shopping.

Groceries, the endless list.

Avocados, tomatoes, tofu, peanut butter…

Automobile score:

Mates of State,

we slow for highway construction;

ghost of youthful 4mph-over

ticket still haunts me.

Day of Reckoning.

Look in the mirror:

what did you do?

what did you accomplish this week?

whatever you didn't do,

it's DONE.

You will step away from it.

Fatalism, a comfort.

What is done is done.

What is, 

is.

I accept the here, the now,

the marching goose-step of Time violently tromping on goals.

What I was going to do.

What I was going to finish.

In some countries, in some

situations, you can (rightfully) be

considered a successful parent

if you get your children to adulthood

ALIVE.

We all have different rubrics to measure ourselves by,

and I do not take lightly the existential

luck-of-draw card I

drew in having the luxury to measure

my

success in terms more

ambitious than simply

"getting them through childhood."

I do not apologize for having lofty goals.

My goal, our goal, is to help our children learn to

set their own goals, and to help them develop the 

self-confidence and curiosity and

other tools necessary to turn dreams into action.

Self-confidence.

Empathy.

Self-awareness.

Enthusiasm.

Ambition,

to pursue

their interests,

and fight for

justice,


and the

desire to construct their own 

unique

identity.

How to never,

EVER

BE 

BORED.

How to stand

your ground with a 

SMILE.

They don't think about these things now;

their minds are on the

curiosities of life,

as they should be.

It's my job, our job to think about them now.

Friday night: opening of Shabbat;

the Jewish Sabbath,

I grew up in a Seventh-day

     Adventist household,

a Christian denomination

frequently associated with:

A. the LDS church (no relation)

B. Vegetarianism, temperance, and general "healthy lifestyle" initiatives

C. observance of the seventh day of the week (Saturday) as a holy day. Judaism refers to it as Shabbat, which I like.

Without sparking an exegetic debate about Emperor Constantine,

evangelical pluralism, or

apocalyptic interpretations of the book of Revelation,

let me strongly throw my support

behind the concept of 

Shabbat.

Shabbat

: a 24-hour period beginning

Friday sundown and ending

Saturday sundown.

: a period to reflect, rest, step away from work, 

responsibilities, and stress in general.

: a chance to say No

to even thinking about the 

projects & deadlines looming overhead.

: an opportunity to close out the 

week with semi-formal family dinner, candles,

Phillip Glass twinkling softly….

a Ritual,

and

a chance for me, post-bedtimes, to lay

on the floor, empty sketchbook & pen,

fill the dim room with Sigur Ros e-bowing, and

write,

like write what I'm writing now, or

maybe read some Borges or Chesterton.

There is a growing movement (even) in the broader secular 

community to observe

a Shabbat,

a day of rest once a week.

It feels so good,

the gift of not

having to head down

to The Dungeon.

No need to argue internally over whether or not I should. 

I just don't. 

By this point in the week,

I'm so excited to

not have to stay up late

that

I stay up extra-late,

resting.

Here is Saturday.

Shabbat.

To really make it special,

make a very special 

pot of dark roast,

or

Americanos, maybe

topped with whipped cream,

in my favorite mug

(Wonder Woman).

Johnny Cash thundering out

two-step 

warnings about beasts and virgins & men coming 'round,

loud,

and we wrestle Nartje and Hanna Anderssen brights

onto kids,

lock up, pull out,

race down mountain,

perhaps to be

on time, which we

consider, sadly, to be

within the -neo-Hawaiian

zone of 'less than 30 minutes late.'

there is a place we have been 

going to worship that

feels like what

Christianity should be

for us.

Welcoming.

Accepting.

A place to get free food and coffee.

It is hard to not be judgmental about some

of the churches we have sampled, so I will 

just not fight it and 

be judgmental.

Maybe they are a good fit for some;

me, I like coffee with my sermon;

I like gypsy mishmash of suits, 

flannel,

& cigarette-stained hands folded in prayer.

Me, vehemently anti-tobacco,

yet somehow, I feel

comfortable in a holy place where

sinners step out for

smokes between songs,

grab a waffle,

on our feet to sing-

a-long

a rousing chorus of

Our God is Stronger,

which is probably not actually the name of it,

electronic bleeps fading out

as Pastor Dan,

gentle motorcycle soul

badass authentic,

kindly, challenging,

lighting a little shining light to

Northwest Portland and

its homeowners and

shopping cart owners and

cross-river visitors

and

religious folks and 

wanderers;

students, and

our children, munching 

on fruit and coloring equipment fanned across chairs.

Filling hearts with music,

stomachs with food,

minds with the challenge

to look after God's people,

all of God's people,

on earth,

before

demanding their blood oath

allegiance to a

heavenly holiday.

Dan George in

Portland,

Geoff Blake-Nelson in

San Francisco,

these are people 

who make me

feel at peace

saying I Am a 

Christian,

who give me strength to balance intellectual rigor with

hopscotches of faith,

who militantly 

love all God's people

in the brutal face of

dogme,

who make Christianity 

more Benny Goodman

and less

John Phillip Sousa,

(all respect to the drumliners).

who make me

comfortable saying to my friends,

to the freaks and

the gamblers,

the kids under construction:

Come around.

Come around. You are wanted.

You are welcome.

God loves you.

And so do we.

Post-tabernacle,

a hike, urban stroller jockeys,

curbjumping,

maybe tofu & potato burritos at Pepino's, 

under five bucks if you're someone who

still has to check menu digits

(we do)

Or parkwalk, or haystack gathering

of personalities in cozy living room,

musical dialogue,

post-church gossip.

Haystack = basically a taco salad with chips.

Dream of a nap, a beautiful nap, curled in

Anthropologie afghan,

both unattainable, except

for that one time,

winter sun winking through window - 

- blasted window! Is the seal leaking on THAT ONE TOO!?

Breathe. Calm. Shabbat.

This is rest, if definition of Rest is

chasing adrenalized hyenas,

parkour,

through vegetation & 

around dog walkers.

It is rest,

mental rest.

Smile.

Home, countdown, sundown, legalities satisfied,

Jerry Lewis with wee ones,

maybe Ides of March later,

snuggled under yellow blanket.

Becca, awake, then out.

Decision tree:

To The Dungeon, 

or,

To Fringe Division,

season 2?

Must rest.

Falling to dreams,

soft sandpaper voice

of Dr. Walter Bishop,

crackpot scientist extraordinaire,

is comforting, gentle,

I imagine my guardian angel is

similar to him,

I hope.

Here is Sunday...

7 am flying monkeys

rehearse on our slumbering heads...