Leaving, Part One

Leaving
A Travelogue, of Sorts

Overture
A prologue, weeks in advance


To be honest, I don't know why I'm writing this. I fully intended to write a travelogue documenting my journey across Canada with two good friends, from the tiny dot labelled Milton (if it is indeed on the map) to the slightly larger one labelled Victoria. Though... maybe it isn't any bigger. In all likelihood, it's merely a trick of my mind; my subconscious making manifest my desire to leave this place. Anyway, I did not intend to begin writing anything at this point. Indeed, why would I? I won't be leaving for almost another month. Until then, I sit, here in this town I have known all my life, and instead of relishing the familiarity, the memories embedded within the bricks and asphalt, the wood and grass, I grow stagnant. I atrophy. I decay.

There was a time when I rejoiced in the sameness, when I was empowered by the knowledge that, come what may, Milton would never change. I've grown up since then. In some ways, it holds true; in some ways, Milton hasn't changed, and probably never will. But in other ways, it has changed nearly to the point of being unrecognizable. The sameness no longer lifts my spirits; the familiarity does not offer any comfort. Instead, these things now instill in me a sense of emptiness. Not sadness, but emptiness. As if the sheer nothingness of this town is a black hole, pulling in everything I have, and everything that I am, until there is nothing left of me.

That is an image I would really like to drive home—that image of nothingness, of there being nothing left—because it truly defines one of my main reasons for leaving. Simply put: I feel as though there is nothing left for me here. I have used up all the resources. I have met all the people that I am likely to meet, and I have experienced everything that I am likely to experience. There is nothing left.

Milton, as much as I know it will always be home, has become to me a prison. Not a prison of iron bars and bare stone, but a prison of the mind. A prison of comfort. You see, it is far too easy to remain here where I am loved, and coast along, comfortable and going nowhere. Too easy to become one of those who are raised here and never leave, content with seeing the same people, having the same conversations, until I pass on from here and am remembered as one who was comfortable, who lived well but took no risks, and thus gained no rewards. Or worse, forgotten; consigned to the far more tangible prison of a Milton Champion obit: three lines of type accompanied by a picture.

Aden Daniel McCarville, July 15th 1989 – whenever.
Died peacefully in his sleep, or whatever.
May he rest in peace.

And that is all. Only my rest would be far from peaceful. To pass on into whatever awaits us after life's journey only being able to say that I was comfortable is not what I intend for myself; my ghost would not rest easy at that. And if there is such a thing as predestination—I try to remain open-minded about such things, even if to me they seem far-fetched—and doing something great with my life isn't my 'destiny', then I will make my own. I will shatter the bonds of fate through sheer stubborn unwillingness to conform, with the ferocity of my rebellion against that which would hold me back.

Though, if you were to ask me, I'd say there's no such thing as destiny, or fate. I'm open to the idea, but I have yet to see evidence that points to anything other than this: our lives are our own. We shape them ourselves, with every action, and every choice. And I plan to shape mine into something great, something wondrous. Something that I can be proud of; that I can look back upon and be glad I chose not to be comfortable.

I know that there are some who doubt this decision, and others still who doubt my motives, my reasons. I wish I knew what to say to placate you, but I honestly don't. If asked, I would not be able to look you in the eye and say that this is definitely the right decision, that BC is where I belong in the world. But I can tell you with all certainty that Milton, where many come and far fewer leave, the boneyard of so many dreams, and mine if I allow it, is not my place either. I hope that is enough. It certainly is for me.

I realize that these words I have written may shine too harsh a light upon this town I was raised in, or its inhabitants, or my very life. But I hope you—whoever you may be, reading this—realize that this song I've begun to sing is not a requiem for a better life; there is no discord in these notes. Instead, think of this as a prelude to new beginnings, to a search for a place to belong. A foreword before the true story begins.

Think of this as an overture to an opera of living.

"Oooh, Shiny!" -- Why Avatar is an Overrated Piece of Shit, and Why You're Stupid For Liking It

There's a pretty solid chance that you've seen Avatar by now. According to statistics, every single person on Earth and three-quarters of the animal population have subjected themselves to it, and are now fellating the shit out of it as if it were Jesus Christ himself come down from Heaven to bequeath us with spunk-flavoured salvation. As you may have guessed from the rather inflammatory title of this review, I am not one such person, easily swayed by fancy 3D effects and glowing flora. Yes, Avatar is a very pretty movie, and yes the world of Pandora is rather well-realized. But is it a good movie? No. Does it deserve to be making the ten million billion dollars per day that it seems to be making now? Hell no. Does it deserve to exist in the same storytelling medium as such classics as Gran Torino, No Country for Old Men, Citizen Kane, or Big Black Bootiez 2 and 5? Fuck no. Here's why.

The Story

The Last Samurai in space. No, seriously. Think about it:

In The Last Samurai, Nathan Algren, a former soldier who is now an alcoholic, is given another chance and a job training the Imperial Japanese Army so they can clear out the Samurai people, who refuse to accept the Emperor's Westernization policy. During his first battle, Algren is captured, and taken to the Samurai home, where he is instructed in their culture, their skills, and their way of life. Gradually, he realizes that he feels more at home with the Samurai than he ever did with his own people, and when the Imperial Army attacks, Algren fights to defend the people he has come to love. He miraculously survives a Gatling gun onslaught.

In Avatar, Jake Sully, a former marine who is now a paraplegic, is given another chance and a job gathering intel for a corporate/military mining entity so they can clear out the Na'vi people, who refuse to get the fuck out of the way so we can bulldoze their shit. During his first research / recon expedition, Jake is separated from his team, and taken to the Na'vi home, where he is instructed in their culture, their skills, and their way of life. Gradually, he realizes that he feels more at home with the Na'vi than he ever did with his own people, and when the humans attack, Jake fights to defend the people he has come to love. He miraculously survives riding unprotected on a dragon-beast's back into a hail of machine gun fire, and a fucking knife fight with a fucking big-ass robot. Seriously.

Now, I realize, pretty much every movie ever shares similarities with other ones. But why Avatar makes my blood boil is that it seems every single major plot point is ripped straight from another movie. Even the movie's one saving grace as far as originality is concerned--the idea of people mentally transferred into a surrogate body (see what I did there?)--has been done before, although less often. (Hint: it was done in Surrogates, among others that I cannot recall at the moment.)

The Characters

Where they aren't downright annoying, they're cliché. We've got such original gems as "Stuck-Up Scientist Who Insults Marine's Intellect"; "Wise-Cracking, Smart-Talking Aircraft Pilot"; "Nerdy Guy Who is Jealous of Marine's Success, Since Marine Has Inferior Training, Experience, and Skills"; "Corporate President Who Doesn't Care About Anything but Profit"; "Gruff, Battle-Scarred, Foul-Mouthed Army Commander Dude"... need I go on?

Even the acting can't save these shittily-constructed cardboard-cutouts. It's not that it's necessarily poor... but it's almost aggressively average. All of the actors do a thoroughly meh-worthy job. Like I said, not horrible, necessarily, but am I wrong for wanting and, damn it, expecting better than average for such an over-hyped movie? Shit no.

The Presentation

Avatar is a damn pretty movie; I'll give it that. But that seems to be its crutch, the shiny knock-off jewellery that James Cameron continually tries to peddle to us. Cameron attempts to hide the movie's shortcomings under a layer of gloss so thick that it can blind you if you look directly at it. Sure, he allegedly spent a shit-ton of time working out the intricacies of all the flora and fauna... but why is it that some of the creatures are basically things we already have on Earth? Example: the "horses" that the Na'vi ride. They are horses, only the head looks like that of a seahorse. And it has two extra legs. He even used regular horse sounds for some of the noises they make. Then we have the cross between an elephant and a hammerhead shark, etc. etc. Sorry, James Cameron, if I wanted to see a bunch of amalgamations of different animals I'd go drop a few tabs of acid.

All in all, the word that best describes Avatar isn't necessarily 'shitty'--though don't get me wrong, I still think it's a piece of shit--it's 'safe.' The acting? Not good, but not horrendously bad. The characters? Familiar enough in an archetypal sense that the average moviegoer won't find fault with them, etc.

In summation: don't watch Avatar. Don't fill James Cameron's pockets more than they already have been; he deserves none of it. If you can't do that, then at least stop telling fucking everybody how it changed your life. Your life has been changed by James Cameron's intense love of the colour blue. Congrats.

Oh, and I almost forgot; the movie's worst offense to mankind:

Sigourney Weaver is Almost Naked at One Point

Not cool, James Cameron. Not fucking cool.

Moving On Up

Hello there my dedicated followers. Long time no talk. Well, I can't really say that. Over the last few months I've been getting a steady supply of comments, for which I am really grateful.

I have been blogging it up at adentheblog.tumblr.com, however I've noticed one very troubling thing: Tumblr apparently doesn't have a comments feature. I know, right? So, I believe I'll be either moving back here permanently, or posting on both blogs at once.

Jesus, the shit I do for my fans.