Where the Wild Things Are.

I have read both positive and negative reviews for it before watching, but I would like to think that I went into the theater with an open mind.

With that said, I'm going to go ahead and say that, above all, it was touching. I won't pretend that it was anything like what I thought it would be, based on my childhood memories of the precious book. At the same time, however, I actually didn't expect that it would be very much like the book or even could be. To be fair, the book was a picture book, complete with a probable total of less than 100 words (some of the pages were just picture pages, no words).

So yes, to the people that complained (quite harshly!) that it was nothing like the book, I'm sorry you felt it was a waste of your time.

I thought, however, that Mr. Jonze really redeemed himself in his dark, yet poignant rendition of the human condition: that in all of us, there is a wild thing, but more importantly, the immutable reality of sadness and loneliness. When one of the wild things (I believe his name was Alexander) timidly asks Max, "Will you keep out all the sadness?" there was a glimpse of the hope we all retain in the childlike crevices of our minds, that yes, it was possible to keep out the bad stuff. Twenty minutes into the "wild rumpus", however, we find that, despite Max's supposed king-like powers, sadness and strife are inevitably a part of who we are. "Happiness isn't always the best way to be happy," says Judith (a downer).

Indeed, although the message may be trite, its delivery was truly a masterpiece of creativity and imagination. As well, the musical score was a beautiful touch to this heart-rending adaptation, and I loved the consistency behind the realization of the book's characters. Those, at least, stayed pretty much on point - exactly as I remembered them!

I had a great time watching this movie. My only, yet fervent complaint is that it should have been made clear that the movie was not for children. I can only imagine the hundreds of little kids that have already been traumatized by its dark and eerie imagery. During some clips, the movie seemed to transcend into the horror category itself.

And I know a thing or two about horror movies - I still run to my bed at night when all the lights are off, and duck under my covers leaving a very small breathe-hole, because I think monsters are chasing me.

True story.

I just spent five minutes laughing at this.

When you open a can of whoop-ass, Chuck Norris jumps out.

Helen Keller's favorite color is Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris was once bitten by a cobra. After five days of excruciating pain, the cobra died.

They once made a Chuck Norris toilet paper, but it wouldn't take shit from nobody.



.....LMAO. (Yes, I am a ten year-old boy. Don't judge.)

Conversation # 72394238948

Only you would understand the title of this post. I really liked that conversation we had the other night!! More to come! And sorry about today (Tuesday). I totally forgot I had a doctor's appointment. )':

I'll make it up to you next Tuesday. PROMISE!

(Oh, and I figured out why the Buddha post was dated August 17th. That was when I started writing it. I just never posted it until recently. Lol.)

A recluse if you will.

That's what I've become. It seems I prefer silence now over conversation, sleep over class, indoors over outdoors. Sigh. Maybe Summer didn't deliver its promises this year or maybe it's just because I'm broke. Either way, I don't like it. I want to be myself again. I've been on hiatus from life for too long.

Words.

I want to take a class on Linguistics.

I'm a Literature major, or so I say (I haven't actually declared it yet), and I have always loved language. It probably has something to do with being bilingual and coming to America at the age of five to learn a completely different language and adopt a completely different culture. It was very difficult being in ESL, and in ESL I stayed for three years as I watched the rest of the kids in my class graduate from the program. Albeit with a heavy accent, I eventually learned the language enough to graduate. Because I didn't have official schooling in Vietnam, however, I was also training to learn Vietnamese at home, and failed miserably at that as well. It was all very counterproductive.

Still, there was always something about sounds and words and language with which I was completely enthralled, and which tugged upon my heartstrings as though a beautiful and delicate melody. As time went on and my grasp of either language strengthened, there was a yearning inside of me to master a language. To be able to utilize language in such a way that would command the attention of everyone around me, and eventually, the world. I entertained the thoughts of various careers in my head: I wanted to be a speechmaker, I wanted to be a columnist, I wanted to be a movie critic and a playwright, I wanted to be a poet, but above all, I wanted to be a writer.

I read Siddhartha in the fifth grade, and the New Testament in the sixth. Writing haikus became my hobby and Poe was a dear friend. I slayed the Jabberwock in my sleep and told the walrus it wasn't quite time yet. I took a dive into Sophie's world only to come tumbling down the rabbit hole, landing in a soft pile of snow in a land called Narnia. It was certainly the best and worst of times as I witnessed Love between Elizabeth and Darcy, tamed the hound of the Baskervilles, but couldn't bring Algernon back or give Pecola her blue eyes -- I cried when the marigold seeds refused to bloom. Literature substantiated my identity, my existence, my ontological status, and gave me a source of solace. Indeed, whenever life seemed to inevitably encroach upon my happiness, a good book or poem was tantamount to chicken noodle soup on a frigid day. Afterward, my thoughts would often linger amongst the text, forming sentences in my head to mimic the different writing styles.

I've come to the conclusion that there are some people that are just naturally good writers. Sometimes, they're born with the ability to easily and adroitly grasp language. Other times, it is their parents that instill a strong sense of literacy in them. Sadly enough, I am none of these. But, I believe that if I keep writing, like, for instance, on a certain blog, I could be a writer one day. And maybe one day, some little girl will be inspired by a book, by the power of language, by the power of words...

I can only dream that those words will be mine.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is one of my favorite poems.


anyone lived in a pretty how town
by e.e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain




How beautiful!

Observation:

As long as you do it honestly, it's really okay to lie.