I finally watched most of the second to last Wolverine movie. Full disclosure: I hate about 99% of the Marvel universe. I hated the XMen movies. I was not impressed by the standalone Wolverine movie with Liev Schreiber, (which pissed me off, as Liev Schreiber and Hugh Jackman battling half naked is the shit my fantasies are made of), so I skipped Wolverine Goes to Japan.
And I was warned when I brought it up the other day. After two tearful, deeply emotional viewings of Logan, I said, “Hey, you know what I haven’t watched?” And the guy who knows me better than anyone – with whom I bonded on our first drunken night together over Wolverine and how completely unworthy Marvel was of having such a badass – looked at me and said, “Don’t do it. You’ll regret it.”
I regret it.
How was that movie made by the same people who made Logan? Logan broke my heart. The writing and the acting were superb. It fucking destroyed me. 16 year old me was in love with Wolverine. (I hated Jean Grey for years, well beyond acceptable time limits for a grown up.) Watching him die was awful. And especially watching him die when he looked so good. I know he was beat to hell, but the grey in the hair, the beard, the suit, the weariness, the ache, taking care of the ailing Charles – pressed all of my buttons. Every. Single. One. Mmm. Yeah.
I’m going to have to see it again to get Wolverine Goes to Japan out of my head. Hiroyuki Sanada was under-utilised (as he almost always is), the girl was about two hyperventilating breaths away from passing out, as well as being completely clichéd and useless. Helpless Asian girl needs big gaijin to save her? I’m disappointed. In everyone.
I’ll stop complaining now and go to bed. Maybe I’ll dream of Liev Schreiber and Hugh Jackman half naked, fighting. That will put me in a much better mood.
(About Hiroyuki Sanada – that guy is one of my favourites. He’s got such presence and versatility. Love him.)
I’m dying to go back to Australia. I spent my two week visit in Sydney, never escaping the city. Don’t get me wrong, Sydney is lovely. The green spaces, the water, the Opera House, the flying foxes, the funnel webs that almost killed us — all of it was wonderful. The people were even better than I’d imagined they could be. We spent a night in the Rocks at a little pub, drinking Twohy’s, and singing American pop songs until closing.
But I feel like I should go back. I feel that I could visit Australia every year for the rest of my life and never see the same thing twice. While going to Sydney and saying I’ve been to Australia is technically correct, I don’t feel like it’s true. That’s like saying that you’ve visited New York and have seen America.
One of the things I loved about Australia was how familiar it felt. I was expecting the “foreign country” experience, like when I visited Mexico or Canada. But there was none of that. The accents were a little hard to decipher after a few beers, and they drive on the wrong side of the road, but even the funnel web spiders didn’t feel all that foreign. (I was born and raised in Arizona; everything there wants to kill you too. Shake your shoes out, keep an eye on the ground when hiking, periodically do a web check around the perimeter of your home. Widows, scorpions, Gila monsters, rattlers — dying in the desert isn’t always a hydration issue.)
I’d like to visit Australia this summer, to Melbourne and then to Tasmania. I’ve been doing some research and Tasmania looks amazing. I figure, go big or go home. I’m already home and I’m a little restless. So it’s time to go big.
You can tell me point blank that I’m a narcissist
I’m just needing confirmation that I exist
— “Best Intentions”
This should probably be cut into my headstone. For a long time I denied this, but it’s true. And I think I’m okay with it most days, although if someone else had pointed it out, I’d not be as blasé. I feel silly referring to myself as a “writer” when I haven’t published anything or a “poet” because come on but I definitely need creative outlets. I’m a terrible artist; can’t draw or paint for shit, but I’m still happy if I’m doing something creative, even poorly.
People need to acknowledge and embrace their creativity, whatever that looks like. Art is the core of who we are as humans because we are works of art. Whether you believe we’re a happy accident or that there is a creator of life out there, we’re amazing creatures. Art is primal and embracing the primal, especially in this age of apathetic conformity, is paramount. It’s necessary or we will lose our way, as individuals and as a civilisation.
So I’m a narcissist, and I need confirmation that I exist. So what? I’m not going to be ashamed of that. Knowing that something I’ve created has spoke to another person is not trivial. I’ve made my peace with this.
“Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left?”
— CS Lewis
This is really all that needs to be said. life is a collection of losses, and it is only gathering speed. This is the tension we live with: live life free of fetters and without regret, or live life as if there is something better just over the horizon.
To believe or not believe. To have faith or to be faithless. Does it matter which we choose?