On Imagination, Goonies and Going Where the Wild Things Are

It’s rare that a movie intrigues me so much that I contemplate seeing it on the first night it hits theaters. I tend to give a movie a week or so before I settle down with my ridiculously expensive bucket of popcorn. I prefer to let the hype die down. I’d rather let the fanatics see it before I plop down my hard-earned cash.

Where the Wild Things Are has me feeling differently. I may just have to break my own rule and see this one as soon as I possibly can.

Truth be told, I have only the vaguest memories of the book. I’m not one of those people who is waiting with bated breath to see whether or not the movie will crush all of my childhood memories. I haven’t spent the better part of my adulthood imagining this moment. I’m just not that invested.

And yet, I’m really excited to see this movie. There is something about this film that speaks to the little Dr. Sparky that still lives deep down inside of me.

As a child, I was an imaginative little bugger. I didn’t need a lot of toys. I never really enjoyed video games. All that was required for me to be happy was a book and my imagination.

I spent hours roaming our house and backyard pretending to be everything from a pirate to an archeologist to a soap diva on a deserted island to a Goonie. I was He-Man. I was a Smurf. I was Christopher Columbus. I was a wild thing.

As I’ve gotten older, my sense of imagination has certainly lessened. It has not been completely lost, however. I still hold on to that magic I was able to conjure as a child. Sometimes I’m still a Goonie.

It’s that piece of my that still pretends to be exploring a cave with the help of One-Eyed Willie’s map that can’t wait to see Where the Wild Things Are. I can’t wait to loose myself in a good old-fashioned story of imagination. I can’t wait to go on an adventure with Max. I can’t wait to be a little boy all over again.

I can’t wait to find myself where the wild things are.