An adventure in enjoying an imagination

Did I just see “Where the Wild Things Are”? Yes. Had I been anticipating it with every fiber of my being? More than Harry Potter. Do I get sick to my stomach when someone says they wasted their money on it or they won’t see it because of some clouded cynical judgment? Very.

I’m listening to and reading what my friends have to say about this movie and it hurts. Some of them won’t even give it a chance and some of them completely missed the point.

The relationships are so child-like. I had those fights with kids when I was little. When Max ran away I felt the fear of running and running and if you stop you’re in trouble so you just keep going. It’s scary.  Of the huge imagination that literally takes you away.

And for someone to miss it entirely. Are we so “grown up” at this point that we can’t remember anymore what it’s like to have an imagination that isn’t riddled with “clever” dirty jokes? Have our lives truly been that horrible that we are so jaded that we can’t allow ourselves to remember the joy of imagining as a child does?

My life has not been awesome. I’m cynical. I’m bitter, but there are some things I can’t let myself forget about and my child-like imagination is one of them. Friends from high school think this means I’ll just never grow up and be mature.

I think it means exactly the opposite. What good is a parent who stifles a child’s imagination and dreams? What good is a parent who can’t remember what it’s like to travel to grand places in our minds?

Maybe I am too much of a kid still, but I think that’s better than forgetting what it’s like entirely.

The relationships of children are so important. How we interact with our parents, our siblings, our friends they shape how we’ll interact in relationships when they’re even more important. How we’ll interact with each other when all we need are relationships.

How I interacted with Krista Kowatch in elementary school set the course for how we’d interact in high school. And those mistakes, those horrible relational decisions set the course for some of the greatest learning I’ve ever done. And now she’s one of my closest friends.

Learning how to love my mom when I was a kid shaped how very much I love and more over appreciate her now.

Children are important. What they think is important. How they grow is important. And we can’t just discredit that.


Adventure in being just like the rest of the world.

“How’s life?” he asked.
“Boring,” I told him.
“How’s life?” I asked.
“Hectic,” he told me.
“Trade?” I asked.
“Deal?” He asked. “Tomorrow’s Monday so you’ll have class at 10, 1, 3, and 4. You watch ‘Heroes’ at 9 and go to McDonald’s at 11:30.”
“Tomorrow’s Monday so you wake up at noon and let the dog out whenever she wants. You watch ‘NCIS’ with mom. You watch ‘Big Bang Theory’ with dad, but you don’t laugh because he likes to explain it. You apply for jobs…Can I skip ‘Heroes’? I’m behind so I’d like to catch up first.”
“That’s fine. Can I skip applying for jobs?”
“That’s fine. It’s a long week. Go ahead and spread that out.”

Unemployment and a pending B.A. in English make me feel like a pretty worthless human being.

The other day I was with my grandmother, Nana (if you will. or if you won’t). She’s always full of useful employment suggestions. (I’m lying). She said to me, “Ya know, you can always apply at McDonald’s.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and keep applying for the jobs I think I deserve first and I’ll work my way down.”
And then…it turned into “Reality Bites.” I felt just like Winona Rider, only I don’t think I’ve ever stolen anything.
“They’ve got a little retarded boy running the cash register down there. You could do that know problem. Why don’t you go in and apply?”
“Because I’m not retarded, Nana.”

So I spent my Monday driving her around town. We even braved downtown. Even though she hates black people and was stunned that the man that took our bags at Salvation Army was actually “a nice lad.” She has to make a point to say it, because to her it’s a miracle if a black man is nice. As if it mattered. Even Emily Gilmore isn’t racist.

Doing making for “Beauty and the Beast” at Huntington for no pay keeps my mind active, but doesn’t really help me keep living.

Working with Kristen on her new play keeps my memory sharp, but isn’t really paying for anything (quite the opposite really).

I’ve got a stack of headshots of Matthias sitting on my desk because I need to figure out how to turn him into not just any hideous beast. I need to turn him into as much like the animated Beast as I can. Sadly I shall have to make him lose his beard eventually. It’d be helpful for the Beast, but not for the prince.

I need a job. Personal assistant. Production assistant. Office assistant. Companion to the elderly. I don’t think these are typical goals of 20-somethings, but screw you guys! I’m a moron!