Where The Wild Things Are Waking Up

It's been a surprisingly good year for movies, despite the general debasement of the American movie-going culture. Between "Up", "The Hurt Locker", "District 9" and Zach Galifanakis' penis, it's been a pretty solid year overall. I mean, who doesn't want a fair dose of Galifanakis' member?(Actually, it wasn't, but whatever).

From the first moment that I heard the Arcade Fire-backed teaser for "Where the Wild Things Are", I was hooked. Desperate to see that movie, knowing that a children's film directed by Spike Jonze couldn't possibly resemble a children's film. Year-long rumors of production troubles and threats of taking the movie out of the director's hands did little to dissuade this notion.

Turns out that it definitely wasn't a children's film. As Jonze insisted, he wasn't interested in making a kids' movie, but rather, "a movie about childhood". He succeeded unlike anything I could've possibly imagined. I have read Sendak's classic dozens of times with Z, and we know it word for word, but I'll admit that I don't hold any undue reverence for the book. It's great, no question, but I never had a "oh god, they can't possibly make a movie of that" reaction. After all, it has the general guts for a movie - the book simply doesn't have a middle. But it has motivation, a beginning and an end. The rest was up to the filmmakers.

Jonze is a filmmaker I generally admire, though haven't loved. "Malcovich" was immensely clever and fun, but "Adaptation" made me frustrated and angry with its navel-gazing obsessions to self-obsessed artists. So I didn't walk in with reverence towards these uber-hipster filmmakers, and spent much of the last few weeks wondering whether or not I could take Z to see it. But that Arcade Fire song... god, it works wondrously in a trailer.

"Wake Up" is nowhere to be found in the movie, but the underlying message of the trade-offs that we make between childhood and adulthood infuses the soul of the film. The confusion that children feel, living in a world of adults and not feeling understood - and not understanding themselves - is something that carries into adulthood, and the characters of the "Wild Things". They are, on the surface, meant to mirror Max's lack of emotional control and understanding, but their very adult voices and relationships gives the subtle sensation that, no matter the age, we don't conquer these feelings and find answers to these questions.

In this way, "Where the Wild Things Are" is really the "Synecdoche, New York" of 2009. The feelings of alienation and confusion, the inability to put a finger on where you fit in, and who loves you, and whether or not those insecurities can and should be trusted... they're endemic to being 9 years old, but it doesn't leave when you're 20, or 30 or probably 60.

Not only is the song amazing, but the lyrics show there's no question they chose it for a clear, definable reason:

Somethin’ filled up
my heart with nothin’,
someone told me not to cry.

But now that I’m older,
my heart’s colder,
and I can see that it’s a lie.

Children wake up,
hold your mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust.

If the children don’t grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We’re just a million little god’s causin rain storms turnin’ every good thing to rust.

The song is an admission that children understand there are complexities to life that they don't necessarily understand, but they know they're there. Just keeping those emotions buried deep does nothing but allows them to cope in a conventionally pre-defined way, but not to really live; eventually you fear that holding them down is what leads to emotionless drones later in life. While Max may not handle this emotions in the way that he necessarily should (he's definitely "wild" in a way that's too dangerous by half), at least he's acknowledging them. And the depiction of how those emotions bubble and surface in "Where the Wild Things Are" is brilliant, haunting and meaningful. Seeing them in Max is one thing, but then seeing them reflected in Max's face as other characters (namely Carol) grapple with them, is truly beautiful and heartbreaking.

And I still don't know if I should let Z see it. But I know that I'll want to have conversations with him about it for years to come. Especially about how the fact that, even as you get older, the confusion, the insecurity and all those other painful feelings don't necessarily go away. No one has it fully figured out.

What kind of parent do you want to be?

I was sitting at the pool, having a rare moment of quiet and solitude. Reading a book about marketing on a Sunday afternoon after a short, relaxing swim.

Two thirty-something guys in wife-beaters with jellyroll bellies stroll up to the pool with a pudgy 6 year old. The boy stares into the deep end of the pool when Mr. Pork-Pie Hat and picks him up from behind and just tosses him into the 8-foot-deep end of the pool. The boy is clearly in the early stages of learning to swim, and struggles to keep his head above water, gulping down glassfuls. Porker #2 casually jumps into the pool, grabs the flailing boy and drags him to the side, where the boy grabs onto the ladder for dear life. Sobs and water spitting out of his mouth.

Mr. Pork-Pie says, "You wanna hang out with the big boys, you gotta swim in the deep end!"

"I don't want to be in the deep part. I'm not ready!" The boy stands there, sobbing, as Pork-Pie takes a picture to "send to your momma", talking about how he's going to turn the kid into a real man. The boy slinks over to the hot tub, as Pork-Pie emails the picture. "That's where the little girls hang out. You a little sissy girl?". The boy doesn't respond, as Pork-Pie takes a swig of his Coors Light.

And so I sit there, considering the divide between developing confidence in our children and getting them ready for the world. Looking at this little boy, fear in his eyes, and not meeting the eyes of these two men, what is he being prepared for in life? He's being taught that uncertainty and trepidation is akin to femininity and worthlessness, and that he shouldn't trust his instincts. This strikes me as the kind of behavior that turns boys aggressive, seeking to compensate for their own fears that they aren't meant to acknowledge.

I think about Zach's fear of swimming, and the little baby steps he makes in this regard, and how he'll climb to the top of a mountain if you let him. He'll run up to a total stranger running an outdoor theater to ask what the name of the next play is. He is aware of his limitations, and deeply cognizant of what he can do. Maybe I wish he could do it all - or would do it all - tapping into that seemingly limitless power the boy has. But I also have to remind myself that he's figuring it all out, and shoving him into the deep end isn't going to make him ready for the world any faster.

I feel that I generally respect this, and am aware of these subtleties, and it's distressing to watching parenting that seems wholly unconcerned with such "sissy" matters.

The Rock Wall

It's not often that a parent feels like they've really got it nailed. That they said the right thing, did the right thing... all those things that are important to create a next generation that's more evolved, more competent than we feel. 

Not that I feel like a fuck up as a parent. On the contrary, I think I'm doing a decent enough job, but it's so easy to hold the mistakes you make against yourself. The times you lose your temper, that you don't put enough effort into storytime, that you express just a little more dissatisfaction than is necessary. These moments add up, and part of parenting is grappling with the question: is it adding up more for your child... or for you?

I'd like to think it's the latter, but you don't know. Because, if it is the latter, maybe moments like today won't make the impact on Z that they had on me.

We had an evening at the park. Me, Z and L. It gives me no end of pleasure just how much Z wants to spend time with L, although there's no question, that brings up certain concerns as well. How much attraction is too much? How much intimacy? What should that relationship be like? As it plays out, it's absolutely wonderful, but I just want to be cognizant that both of them - all of us - are treading in previously uncharted waters (for us, at least). 

Z was climbing a rock wall. Not the typical park rock wall for kids, with its plastic hand and foot-holds, blazing like neon signs for where to step. Rather, this newly designed park (ironically, it's always been known to Z as "New Park") installed a faux-rock climbing wall. With gritty hand-holds and grooves, which really force children to figure things out on their own. 

Z failed to figure it out the first time, getting halfway up before calling plaintively to be helped down. A while later, he climbed to the top, but then realized that was quite a predicament - the pride of accomplishment was replaced by the fear of the unknown. Dad needed to scale his way to the top and one-arm Z down to another father. Crisis averted.

But, Z being Z, the first thing he did was climb right back up. This time, when he got to the top, I warned him not to crab-walk to the same place he got stuck last time. So he didn't. He made it halfway down the other side of the wall, my pride surging, until I needed to lift him off the remaining section. 

But, Z being Z, he wasn't done. Another trip to the top, and this time the allure of the crab-walk was too much for him to resist, even though I specifically told him this would end badly, and that I wasn't going to rescue him. I muttered to L that I knew where this was going, and I wasn't sure what the parenting response should be.

He did it anyway. And, predictably, he got caught exactly where I said he would. His eyes welled with tears, and he asked me to get him down. I told Z that this is exactly what I warned him of, and I couldn't help him. He looked right at me and said, "But you're a hero". If that isn't a moment that both swells and crushes your parenting instincts, I don't know what is. 

So I told him that I couldn't help him. He got himself into this mess, and he had to figure out how to get himself out of it. I helped point out areas that would be easier for him to cope with. He carefully - and oh-so-dangerously - shifted his body weight around, and skittered down an edge that he could easily fall off, but which led him to a slightly lower outpost... only 8 feet high, rather than 10. It was one of those scary parent moments, but one that I knew I couldn't rescue him from (unless things got legitimately dangerous for him), because all I'd be doing is proving that he can call on me for anything... even when he is the one who screwed up. Instead, I was trying to teach him that when you screw up (even in such a self-consciously belligerent way as he had just proven), it's often all on you to figure out how to solve the problem. 

And he did. He made it to the 8 foot outcropping, and... Z being Z, jumped off into the sand.  A perfect landing, incidentally. When he landed, he was clearly proud of himself, but I quickly got down on one knee and said, "Z, tell me... who was the real hero?. He beamed, and said, "I was", and ran off, excited just to be a kid.

The moment probably passed for him, unremarkable and forgotten. For me, it might be a moment that I'll treasure for the rest of my life. 

I Will Not Send You To The Darkness Alone...

"You forget what you want to remember, and remember what you want to forget" - The Man, to his Son, in "The Road"

In all likelihood, there aren't many people around in America that have read as many books as I have. That's not meant to sound arrogant. Rather, it's just math. I used to be paid to read books and screenplays, so over an 8 year period, I probably read 1200-1500 novels. Add in a bunch of Stephen King, Hardy Boys and mystery books as an adolescent, an English degree, a genuine love of reading, etc, and the number rises.... So aside from longtime literary agents, readers and proofreaders, I've probably read books more than most Americans. Then again, that's not a very high bar to cross these days, and whether I've internalized most of those books, or can even remember them, is another story entirely. And not a very good story, sadly.

The downside of doing that kind of work, which I did for so many years, is that I never had time to read books for my own pleasure. The only exception was John Irving novels. Irving's my literary idol, and I'd put everything aside, from food to sleep, to devour his latest books which took him so long to create. Unfortunately, the last couple of books could've used far more time in the womb, because they came out pretty much stillborn. I wonder if he'll be able to climb that artistic mountain again... the last two books fell so, so flat.

But now that I've been out of that career for some time, I'm finally finding the pleasure in reading fiction again. And I just read Cormac McCarthy's, "The Road". Which was perhaps the most devastating reading process I've ever experienced. Or endured, as the case may be. It was an utterly terrible, haunting, transcendent, emotionally wrecking experience.

The book follows an unnamed father and son wandering in a post-apocalyptic America, trying to reach the coast while avoiding dangerous marauders who sporadically dot the countryside - and the Road. Not much happens aside from their search for food, shelter and warmth, and the considerations of their slowly crumbling moral compass in an amoral, empty world.

It's a novel about endurance and morality in a world that's been laid utterly bare, but more than anything, it's a father and son story. About how a father will do anything to keep his son alive, even though he knows there's nothing at the end of the road for them. There is no hope, there is no future.

In the current state of my life, this has a poignant, very real resonance for me. There are times when I feel like me and my son are alone on a road just like that, with no one to turn to or rely on. This thought is, of course, complete hogwash, but in my darkest, solitary moments, it somehow rings true. And every page and passage tore my heart out, with the spare dialogue, the poetic depictions of a world without life, sustenance or possibility.

"I will do what I promised, he whispered. No matter what. I will not send you into the darkness alone."

I don't think I've ever had a passage from a book cause me to spontaneously burst into huge, wracking sobs that wouldn't subside for a number of minutes... at least not until I encountered those words. I was crying so loudly I thought the neighbors would be concerned.

The man says this to his son as he holds him during the cold night, convinced that his boy won't survive until dawn, and I often think of my own son the same way... and yet it is I that needs someone to say those very words to me.

No Bears, oh my!

Took my son on his first camping trip. Since he's only 3 1/2, we kept it close to Los Angeles, winding our way through the Angeles National Forest above La Canada to a gorgeous, mountainous area called Buckhorn. Bear country. Fir and pine trees all over the place, the hillside littered with the carcasses of long living, recently dead redwoods. A stunning place.

Zach was an absolute trooper, helping put up the tent as much as he could, laying out his new dinosaurs in the dirt and doing everything I asked of him. Pleasantly, we met a family of three with their 20 month old up for the whole weekend. Zach became the quick big brother to Jack, who he insisted on calling 'Jack Jack' throughout. He had his first smore, which was like Bubbles' heroin need on "The Wire". Needless to say, he was hooked. After the whole experience, Zach insisted his favorite part of the trip were the marshmallows. Then demanding an answer on his second favorite thing... marshmallows. Requesting insight into his third favorite... marshmallows.

I still think he had a good time, though.

The Buckhorn campground is filled with warnings about bears. They're indigenous to the area, and prevalent, and it's not uncommon for them to raid a camp in search of a free meal. This makes them fairly harmless, because they've been domesticated by the easy access to food. For better or worse, however, we never saw one. Zach couldn't decide if he was happy or sad about that turn of events. Honestly, neither could I.

The entire trip was great, although Zach became painfully aware of the difference between our campground and our neighbors. Zach and his daddy, and Jack and his daddy... and momma. Late at night, Zach sobbed in a way that seemed WAY too mature for his years, saying "A kid should have a daddy AND a momma to take him camping, like Jack!". It broke my heart. Because he's right, and he doesn't have that. If he ever does have it again, it'll be a weird merging of families and people, that one of the real mommas or daddys can't take part in or understand. It broke my heart, and his.

Late that night, I sat around the fire with the parents - two very nice, sweet people - who generously were passing around the pot pipe, and learned that the mom's parents separated when she was 3. Lots of similarities there. But the takeaway was that she admitted that it crippled her relationships with men until very recently in life, and she was probably pushing 42 or so. And she was a counselor and spiritual healer, so not one out of touch with her emotional side. Of course, sometimes it seems the therapists are the most screwed up, but she certainly seemed to be pretty well-balanced.

In the midst of the natural wonder, the starry night, and the wonderful time spent with my son, it was almost as if I could hear bears rustling through the undergrowth.

Oh, DARN IT!

Under the "kids say the darndest things" category.

Recently, my son has been watching his fair share of the Olympics, and in particular, fell in love with womens gymnastics. This is understandable because he, A) takes gymnastics, and B) likes girls. In fact, he'll tell you this frequently. His love of girls has extended to his frequent declaration that he wants to be a girl. When I tell him it's not going to happen - and that he's a wonderful boy who will turn into a wonderful man - he gets all bummed out.

Now, his response is to take the phrase I've learned over recent years to use in frustration - "darn it" - and leverage that to a given situation. Now, I'm not a "darn it" kind of guy. I'm more of a "fuck" and "damn it" kind of guy, but I'm also a good father who's been prepping for the parrot-routine for a couple of years.

So this morning, Zach is watching his morning cartoons as I get ready for work, and playing with the Star Wars figures I pulled out of the closet to share with him earlier this week. Yes, he loves them, but my nostalgia gets kicked into high gear, especially as we play with the out-of-print Creature Cantina my estranged, sometime-to-be-ex wife gave me many years ago in anticipation of the "Phantom Menace's" release. Oh, if only we knew the horrors to come...

Anyway, Zach announces that he doesn't want to go to preschool today, because he wants to "stay at daddy's house and play Star Wars and wear a leotard".

Yes, a leotard.

Zach's been on this leotard kick for the last week, and I found one that Momma wears, and in it he broke into a gigantic smile. Only to follow that up with grumpy sadness that she didn't own a pink one (it's black, incidentally). Now, you're asking yourself - "doesn't he worry that his son is gay?". No, not at all. And if he was gay, that'd be perfectly fine and great. But he's 3, with a well-defined sense of self and inner confidence that prevents any need for him to obsess over pre-determined gender roles. Sure, if he was wearing a leotard to 5th grade gym class, I'd be nervous, but c'mon... The kid's an athletic dynamo, never stops jumping, adores Superheroes and cars, and fart jokes. He also happens to like Strawberry Shortcake and leotards and girls. Bully for him, frankly. If only the rest of us were so unselfconscious and free with ourselves.

Anyway, I told him that A) he had to go to preschool, and B) he can't take his Star Wars figures to preschool, and C) we'll have to wear the leotard another time.

So he spends the whole ride going, "OH DARN IT! I just want to play Star Wars and wear a leotard".

I don't know if I'll ever hear that particular collection of words, in that particular order again. Bless you, Zach...

(I wonder if they make a Star Wars leotard)

Kids Can Be Salieri Too

So I titled my blog after that feeling you can have where you've got it all together, you've got it figured out... and just as fast you can feel awash in the crowd, lost despite it all... the Patron Saint of Mediocrity.

And while Zach is my Mozart, even he has his Salieri moments.

Yesterday was his first soccer practice. 3 1/2 - 5 year old class. Well, Zach's just 3 1/2, and he's never going to be a big kid, so he's probably sized closer to 3. He's also wicked athletic, and he did a good job learning the soccer drills, started trapping the ball on sporadic occasion, etc. Though admittedly he grew restless at times. C'mon... he's three.

But when it came time for a "game", it was another story. The coach picked the two oldest kids to play with, against 12 other kids, and Zach's age and speed was exposed. Coach rolled the ball onto the field, and Zach was the first one to it. And he tapped it, and before he could tap it again, the inevitable swarm of 4 year olds descended, taking the ball like a pack of bees and running in random directions, the ball careening ahead of them. Well, Zach didn't understand the whole notion that you're supposed to take the ball away, and none of the kids could grasp the concept that you're not supposed to take it away from your own teammate, but there you have it.

Zach had a meltdown, sobbing and crying that "I can't get the ball" and "They took it from me". It was so sweet and heartbreaking, because he both didn't understand that basic concept of futball, but that it was also painfully true that he wasn't going to be able to get the ball back - the other kids were too much bigger and faster. Most of the kids averaged between 4-4 1/2 I'd say, and that's a huge divide. Just like Zach's 2 1/2 year old friend Spencer can't physically keep up with Zach, Zach couldn't match their size and speed. He really felt like Salieri.

Coach and I agreed that Zach should move down to the smaller kids class, where he'll be on the flip side of that age divide. Maybe then he'll be the one with the ball... maybe he'll feel like a Mozart.