the first time the book where the wild things are was read to me, i felt nauseous, nostalgic, yet free.
since then, i fell in love with the book–love out of sheer commitment, not out of infatuation.
it is a book that consists of ten sentences yet whose weight and simplicity are beyond epic.
i had goosebumps riding my arms and neck when i first saw the trailer of the film adaptation directed by demi-god spike jonze (of adaptation and being john malkovich—two astounding films that have niches in my hall of fame, too).
and i keep on having goosebumps when thoughts of the book and its characters and its scenes come to my mind every so often. these images rush towards me–when i am riding a tricycle, when i am choosing and hoarding books in a thrift store, when i am finishing up a bowl of Milo chocolate cereal (the closest i can get to having pseudo chocolate frosted sugar bombs courtesy of the universe of calvin and hobbes).
i have been committed to this book for years, and my staunch affinity amazes me.
i am afraid and excited to watch the book’s adaptation. not because it would destroy my images of and regard towards the book. i am afraid to catch myself drowning in the sensation of being overwhelmed, that’s why.
my dream is to someday watch the ballet and opera adaptations of “where the wild things are”. even just by myself. even if i have to cross the ocean to make it to the matinee.
because it’s only with wild things that i feel complete kinship with.
and it’s always nice to come home to a bowl of hot soup just waiting for you.