SOME DAYS THE DREAM DEAD, OR HIBERNATING.

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Sometimes Mozart, sometimes Phosphorescent. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. Sometimes strong, sometimes fragile. - - - @phosphorescentmusic #44dads #44music #selfportrait #josephivanlong #solitude There is joy and there is sadness, they are both parts of a whole life to own up to, to acknowledge. And to feel. December the beautiful; the warmest, the coldest month.

A post shared by Joseph Long (@josephivanlong) on Dec 6, 2018 at 6:50pm PST

Some day, some days, the day is heavy,
and the days surrounding that day,

and you pick up a foot, and the other, and move forward, or somewhere,
and try to recall an inspirational meme that reminds you to be grateful for having two feet.

Some days,
the path ahead is paved with a giant screen illuminating the successful dreams you've been a part of helping build for others,

dream-making,

and you don't see your own pixels on that screen,

and the tired,
the discouragement, the dark
overwhelms

the light,

and the memory of having fought hard,
and you're tired of fighting and just have enough left
to keep going and moving a foot, and then another,

and hope that it will be enough
to keep someone else's dreams alive,

for the next day.

PEDESTALS ARE DANGEROUS.

I rarely rewatch things.* Especially television. But I finished rewatching Big Little Lies a few nights ago. This time with Becca. And it held up a second time. HBO's masterful seven-episode series about a murder in an upscale coastal California town touches on so many themes and dynamics that are most notably centered around a group of moms and their relationships with their children and husbands.

Hilarious, disturbing, spellbinding, suspenseful, and killer dialogue. Revolving around women, it also features a supporting cast of men who shine some uncomfortable light on character traits and attitudes indigenous to my gender. Uncomfortable, but also enlightening and entertaining.

The one big suspension of belief that must be taken...I think: parents, talk to and with your children. 

There's an idea running throughout of parents simply accepting that their six-year old children won't tell them something (a key plot point). It's a recurring idea; and unfortunately mirrors a lot of real life these days. The idea that we should be - or it's normal to be - scared of our children; that it's somehow our job to entertain them at all points and to help gain and preserve social status with their peers and that to respect them means that they get to do (almost) whatever they want...an idea that they get from...where?

Yes. Us.

source: www.vanityfair.com

I'm not scared of children. I'm not scared of saying No to children. I respect and dialog with children from the time they're born. I don't and won't talk down to them.

But I will not be cowed or scared of them.

That is the sad reality displayed frequently on BLL. A reality that kids are often running the show and it's our job to be at beck and call, to wait on hand and foot, to quickly forgive their lapses of conscience, character, behavior, and point the finger elsewhere; to put them on a pedestal.

Toys don't belong in glass cases.

And children don't belong on pedestals. 

They're human beings. Human beings with agency. Which means they make mistakes and we help them learn from them and move on. With kindness, with love, with respect.

And human beings, period, don't belong on pedestals.

Becca and I tell our kids, over and over:

You don't need to be perfect. 
Forget perfection. 
We expect two things from you when you're learning or doing something new and challenging:

1. We expect that you will bring your best
2. We expect you to improve in a linear fashion. Steady improvement. 

We help them in encouraging and positive ways...and also constructive and challenging ways. And we give them the gift of knowing that while they're children, we are running the show. We will listen, will answer any and every question the best we can, given that they are asked in respectful and relevant ways, and we will love them with all of our being. All.

So when something comes along that might affect our young child's safety, we do not accept the answer:

"I can't talk about it. I can't tell you. I promised I wouldn't tell."

Nope.

We talk. We hold conversation. We dialogue. Every day. About little, little things, over and over, so when the occasional big and tough conversations come along, we have a pattern and foundation for how to talk.

Endless conversation, endless questions from us to them and them to us and Becca to me and me to her and all of us to each other. We have set a roadmap of neo-Socratic discourse that is our course, for better or for worse.

As they get older, there will be a time for secrets; that is part of breaking away and creating a separate identity.

But ideally, no place for lies. Big or little.

In the meantime, we talk. With each other.

We do the best we can, parents across the world, to keep our children safe. To give them a life that is first of all, has safety and love, and second of all, is filled with curiosity, joy, and a core understanding that they don't exist to be served. Part of their existence is to fill their part of the world with goodness, with love, and with their special skills and talents and interests.

To recognize there is a bigger world out there than their little group of friends and acquaintances and that they have a mandate, as a human being, to help look out for each other.

That should be our aim.

___







*the are approximately two exceptions:
1) the long list of films we have been rewatching over time with our children, as certain ones become age-appropriate and relevant (i.e. no Pulp Fiction...yet),

and

2) rewatching for educational value when I'm working on curriculum and pulling examples from cinema or art for students to learn from,

and

3) rewatching for bonding, for example, a viewing of MacGruber with my brothers,

or

4) certain films just because they're super good for rewatching, such as Hugo.

POEM : WHEN I WAS A KID, KID.

When I was a kid,
I did everything right, I did, I did.
Said proper things almost always,
Like ‘you’re welcome, thank you, and another jelly donut, please.’

When I was a kid, I was so good to be around.
A more delightful child could rarely be found.
That’s how I remember those things
Ah, the rush of memories my childhood brings.

I’m an adult now and way bigger than you
Because I obeyed my parents, I grew, and grew, and grew.
Every time they said do this, do that!
I said of course, I’ll do all my chores, a rat a tat tat!

They’d ask me once to do my choring
And if I recall, never once did I call them boring.
See, as a big person now,
I remember things exactly right,
Like how I used to say perfect prayers beside bedside at night.

Did I do everything a child should do just as it should be?
Whose to say? well, since you’re asking me, I’ll set the truth free.
I probably made mistakes,
Like leaving sharp end facing up on garden rakes

- Poor Grandma, sorry!

But really, the way I remember my days as a child
Is how I did it all perfect, and never ever was wild.
Did I ever do anything wrong?
Maybe twice, but didn’t last very long.

See, I’m super big now, and you’re a still a tiny kid.
So when I tell you all these things that I did.
You’re gonna have to trust me that I was super good at being a little child person,
Like you could be now, except I spoke proper grammar one hunnert percent and hardly ever used cursin.

There wasn’t the gramming of insta post racing
Or the chat snap post making of photo book facing.
Social meed wasn’t around when I was a kid
To share with the world all that I did.

So when I tell you all the true things about me,
Trust me and don’t read my teenage about me diary, you see, you can
Believe me that all I say to you now
Is exactly how I did it right, pretty much exactly almost how.

So when you do something wrong kid, when you misbehave,
When you’re a naughty, imperfect whiny kinda grumbling knave,
Trust me when I say I was the opposite,
I wasn’t like that, totally not, not one little iota or bit.

I managed childhood quite well,
And washed my hair good so I wouldn’t horribly smell.
I never peed on the potty seat
And I volunteered to help mom handgrind the wheat.

I said yes mommy, yes daddy dear,
Shall I clear everyone’s plates, it’s no prob, I’m really quite near!
In fact, shall I hand wash the cups and the delicate dishes,
Are there other chores you need done or tasks your heart wishes?

Dad, I can do four or five loads of laundry,
And mom, should I rewire the track lights, I’ll give you a good deal, how about for you...free!
I jumped in to tackle with both feet
My ego in check and initiative discrete.

Merely doing what needed to be dones
Because I was a child, like you now, daughters and sons
I didn’t grumble or mumble or fret or frown,
I knew those would let mom and dad dreadfully down.

I swept and I mopped and I made dinner for many
And accepted no earnings or pay, not a single bent penny.
I was a kid, and I did what had to be done,
Even the things that weren’t very much fun.

When my parents said ‘mow the yard,’
I said ‘OK, and then can I do another chore that’s even more hard?’
If there was a problem I had,
It was being too obedient a lad.

Children, doesn’t that sound like a fun problem to possess?
To be the best kid around and a little more, not less.
Cause being a kid is following orders exact
I think that’s how I remember what I tried to enact.

Please don’t ask my parents about when I was a kid.
Their memories are not always right about what I didn’t or did.
Just trust me when I say,
‘When I was a kid, I did things so perfect in every way.

Every day.’

Remember to not ask my parents about me.

POEM : I MET A MEAN MAN TODAY.

He just had a look
A look not good
A look like
mean
scowl
rawness.
I tried to smile
but he wouldn’t have it.
He’s mean, man.

Hey mean man,
I smiled again.
This time I got something back,
good!
But then distraction;
a child ran up, a smelly one,
and I forgot about the mean man
and I said hey whatcha want?
to the kid,
and they wanted something, maybe some food, but I was busy so I said wait til your mom’s around she can help you tomorrow,
and next thing I knew the mean man was watching and he didn’t have a good look,
he had a mean face, like a face that
is haggard and wary.
and not to be mean, but he hadn’t shaved in a while and it was not a good look.

I didn’t know for sure how mean he might be until another kid come up.
My knee’s bleeding and it hurts!
he cried.
Okay, we should amputate it,
the man, the mean man said.
Trying to be funny.
Stupid.
How do you amputate a knee?
He smelled a little funny too,
like not funny flower smelly,
but funny bad breath, sweaty armpit stink smelly.
The kind of smell only mean men have.

I glared at him to show I wasn’t afraid.
You can’t back down with the mean ones. Another kid crawled up.
The mean man snarled at him.
I cringed inside, but matched his expression; ya gotta stay strong.
Apparently this babe wanted a book.
The mean man took away the Eric Van Lustbader and gave him an Eric Carle instead.
Mean.
Let kids figure out what literature they like, right?

This dude, he just stands there looking like he trying to look all cool.
Trying to stand tall, but you know he packing extra pounds, probably from all the extra calories you get from being mean.

I try to give him a break.
Maybe he’s tired.
Maybe he’s having a bad day.
Maybe his kids are really horrible.

But no;
I sneak a glance again and I can totally tell. This dude is mean through and through.
Should I hit him and nicen him up?
I lift my fist a skoche.
He does the same.
I relax, ya gotta deescelate the situation sometimes.
He lowers his too.

I gotta leave.
Hain’t gonna be friends with this uncool cat.
I shake my head and turn my back,
a subtle brush off.
Infuriatingly, he steal my move.
Kids yelling for him. Or me? One of us.
Gonna jet. Apparently he does too.

To be mean man’s kid.
Awful. Poor children.
Gotta put it behind me.
I got my own to worry about.

Come on!
I snarl at the children.
We gotta go! What’s taking you so long?
Not gonna deal with the mean man again. See! He’s already rubbing off on me.

No more mean man.
Not gonna see him no more.
Nope.
Not until we get back,
when I pass by the mirror again.

POEM : WEEKEND.

It is morning, an early dawn, a week ahead.
Time to get up,
we gently shake the sleeping creatures.
We leave in sixty.

Two grunts, a groan, some other sounds.
A roll over, blanket pulled high.

Time to get up,
we firmly nudge the slumbering beasts.
We leave in fifty.
A grunt, two groans, some smelly sounds.
The blanket wrapped like mummy arounds.

Time to get up,
we kick the creature beasts, avoiding head.
We leave in forty.
A moan, a sigh, a cry so deep.
A stretch, a vicious stare:
You awake me? Oh, how do you dare?

Stumble through toast and water,
Fall into socks and maybe clean undies too.
We leave five minutes ago, we yell!
Murderous glance we give, with love of course, these kids we’d never sell.
So out the door we races
A weekday conquered, see our victorious faces.

If lucky, we have most children
And some food to eat.
A diaper or two, and of course seventy-two books and some sketch pads.

It is morning, an early dawn.
We roll over sleepily and look at one another with love.
Time to not get up,
we grin.
It’s the weekend, we need not be up til who knows when.
Our eyes close with delight
and savor the delicious slumber of light sleep-in sleep.
All is content,
Where did the stress and worry went?
A time to slow down and relaxes
Not deal with stuff like schedules, finances, and taxes.

TIME TO GET UP!
The beasts viciously assault our sleeping bodies.
WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY?!

MY MOM, A DAY, A DISHWASHER.

Today is my mom's birthday. She is 65. I have never known her to lie about her age or pretend to be anything other than the age she is, and that is inspiring.

I did not see her today. I saw her yesterday. And here is why.

Yesterday was Monday. The day before that was Sunday. Previous to Sunday, it was Saturday, or as we call it, Shabbat.

But it begins back in September of 2017, which is when the remainder of the year was full of promise. Children returned to formal education, the hope of autumn's death was sunny and crisp, and I had mapped out a handful of house projects to finish before winter came.

I was hopeful. Pragmatic and hopeful. A tenuous balance, but a doable one.

Then the floods came. Literally. Due to a sequence (or series) of sad (or unfortunate) happenstances (or events), a flood had literally come. Slowly. Slowly from a leaking aquarium tank. Slowly enough that it should have been caught, and for that, I take full responsibility in pointing the finger at my wife  for not picking up on it. Anyway, this slow flood took out two floors in two rooms - a bathroom and a bedroom. So plans and priorities started changing.

And then it felt like floods of the more metaphoric variety came, slowly and surely, and began erasing the hope that had been there. A slow descent into many things going...differently.

In this case, differently is a word I am using as an example of a euphemism.

Nobody died, we kept our health and friends and each other and made many fine memories and moments, but the hope of improving, one step at a time, parts of our lives that had seemed doable a short time before seemed to be disappearing into the mud.

And then more water after Christmas. A leaking dishwasher refusing to drain. To YouTube I went for tutorials and help from strangers. And from my father-in-law, who loaned me a couple T25 bits and a few hours of a Saturday night for some moral support and company as I laboriously walked through potential problems, removing one piece at a time, cleaning filters, hoses, and lines. Finally got it back together. Felt good. Ran a load. Looking good. Then headed down to work. Non-house work; work I actually get paid for and need to do. To bed at 7.30am. A new day dawns.

And a flooded dishwasher awaits. A flood that has wiped out a portion of the kitchen floor. Soaked, sopping, drenched. Yank the whole appliance out.

Discouragement. Total discouragement. Do I deserve to feel this? No. So many people who live in far worse circumstances and deal with far greater challenges and difficulties.

But this is also our reality; the reality of anyone and everyone who is trying to survive and care for their loved ones. The reality that there are those who have it better, and those who have it worse, and you can recognize and acknowledge and still be discouraged.

I was discouraged. Overwhelmed. One step forward, five steps back. Tired, physically and emotionally. Too discouraged to even complain or talk about it.

My parents came up Saturday night to hang out and watch Schitt's Creek with us. We didn't actually plan that, but it worked out that way, and was fun.

My parents pulled me aside, which I guess they can do occasionally, as they are still my parents, and informed me that:

A) we are getting you a dishwasher
and
B) we are sticking around to help you put it in.

I argued. Not fake argue, as in no, no, let me get my wallet out... but real argue. We'll be fine. I'll get the dishwasher going, it's not the top priority right now, etc.

They listened with bemused expressions and said:

We are getting you a dishwasher. 

I don't know what all they've done for other people. I don't know what all they've done for my siblings. I don't know all they've done for many others. I just know what they've done for me, and it's a lot.

It's one reason why I can never vote for, support, or respect the current President. I understand what it means to be gifted something. To be given something I don't deserve and didn't work for.

I understand what it means to benefit from being lucky. From being given something; something that many people don't have the expectation of receiving. A lot of preachers like to talk about the whole God and grace example, and that's great. That's the big example.

But this is my personal example. I have benefitted my whole life from things I don't deserve. I have tried to live with integrity and kindness, as many people do, but I have not done anything extraordinary to deserve special treatment or to be the recipient of the type of generosity I have experienced over the course of my life.

And here I was again, on the receiving end.

I said yes, and they won.

They headed out to pick one up - our children in tow - and returned hours later. My mom's birthday is today, so they had taken a couple days off work to enjoy...

...to enjoy a relaxing Monday helping install a dishwasher. My dad brought his magical bottomless toolbar of tools that fix anything, and what he didn't have he was able to dig up in our magical bottomless garage of stuff, and together he and I got it in.

As I lay with head cranked under the kitchen sink, catching a glimpse of the rest of our home from this painful vantage point, I thought back ten years to all the times my dad, or my mom, or often both, have helped us.

I thought of the mini-birthday holiday my mom sacrificed the lion's share of in order to help her son get a dishwasher in. I thought of the dollars they sunk into a dishwasher for us. Her birthday week.

Her insistence that this is how she wanted to spend her time.

My to-do list is still long. But sometimes, sometimes...getting that one thing that seems to be a catalyst for discouragement off that list is just what's needed for that little shot of inspiration/adrenaline/hope. Whatever it might be called. It made facing those other items a little more doable.

And what did I do to deserve it?

I am a child. A child of them.

I'll go straight on the nose for a rare minute: I can't help making the bigger parallel, as many of those pastor-people do, to the whole undeserving nature of grace and how it relates to God. How little we deserve, yet how much we can be given.

I'll also go straight political for a sec: when I look at my life and the onslaught of grace, of kindness, of generosity that I have been given, time and time again for no reason other than being born into and being surrounded by people who have exhibited those traits to me, then I think:

I will support leaders and politicians who aren't afraid to recognize and acknowledge those two ideas: grace and luck. The mandate to help each other out and not pretend like we've done so much on our own. What a slap in the face it would be for me to pretend like the successes I've had have come solely - or even primarily - because of my own work ethic and choices.

The great leaders and mentors recognize that we are here to help, to serve, and graciously, gracefully, build hope and build others up.

My parents have exhibited that so many times, and we have a working dishwasher again.

Birthdays. Thank you, mom, for the birthday present. Happy 65. The gifts you have given the world make it a better place every day.

And with our new dishwasher, a cleaner place too.

BEDTIME...NOW WHAT?

At long last...kids in bed, so we finally have some time to ourselves. Time to ourselves to snuggle up on the couch and watch videos on our phones of the now slumbering children and wonder why they went to sleep so early and question whether we should wake them up to do something fun, and hope they nodded off on a pleasant note with us...

Or...we could just watch Patriot.

#flipacoin #childrening #welaughatustoo

ADVICE : PARENTING INFANTS.

The two most valuable things I've learned about parenting infants is:

1) converse with them incessantly, particularly about Kafka and ancient history, regardless of whether you know anything about these subjects or not,

and 2) after you've changed an especially robust diaper, and intend on launching it to the closest garbage receptacle, triple check to make sure it is sealed tightly before flying it through the air.

Plenty more similar advice if you need it.

MARCHING IN MY HOMETOWN.

Honored to march in my little hometown with some of my faves, and in solidarity and support with many others across the country.

Never too young to stand, at least metaphorically. Some people are, quite literally, not able to stand yet. In that case, we can still help each other out.

Also, had a great conversation with the children afterwards about what it means when people driving by wave with their middle finger. One of the fellows next to me said it well:

"It means you just smile even bigger to the next person going past!"

THERE'S ALWAYS THE BRONZE.

MOMMY!!!
one of the children yelled from bed.
I love you! You're my favourite parent!

Good night!
(I calmly shrieked back to this child from a few rooms over; this child was disgruntled at me for any of a thousand reasons, or all.)
I love you, and you're one of my favourite children!

Oh.
(the child trumpeted back with confidence and a distinct lack of sorrow. )
Well, I'm sorry, but you're not one of my favourite parents.

As Kurt Vonnegut might say: and so it goes. Happy day, all.