Today was a good day for adventures with brother.

I spent the day with my ten year-old brother yesterday: supposedly a favour to my mother, but it was too much fun to call it that. We are made from the very same mould- the similarities between the two of us is verging on scary.

We caught the bus and then the city cat to Southbank and had lunch at Viet De Lites- he had satay chicken (so spicy that who I presumed to be the owner of the restaurant, an elderly Vietnamese lady, came over with decanter of water for him at the sight of his frantic mouth-on-fire handflap) and I had my usual, safe and lovely grilled chicken vermicelli.

Further supplies for our adventure were purchsed from The Great Australian Lolly Shop- an old style lolly shop in central South Bank that has had the same snow-blowing Jelly Belly display in the window since I was a tiny child. Nostalgia is my favourite flavour. We bought Sour Worms, Snakes and Racing Cars to accidentally finish eating before the previews for our film even started. Unfortunately, running 30c short, I was fearful that the men in the red-and-white striped shirts were going to force me to sell my soul or my younger sibling as penance for payment. As usual, a lovely woman came to our rescue, and supplied the extra small change. I do love charitable people.

After hours of wandering around, we saw Where The Wild Things Are on the big, big, BIG screen at the Southbank Cinemas. Watching it with R. was like viewing a doppleganger brother on screen, whilst the real boy, not quite so conflicted as yet but clearly aware of much more than a normal child, was sitting in the seat next to me. It was sublimely, furiously, humouressly and bleakly beautfiul: and to be honest, I was surprised by the themes within the film. It seemed to me to be a metaphor for depression, and was inexpressibly dark- but poignant, appropriate and applicable too. So many of the fears of one with depression or and eating disorder, any adult or any human in fact, were touched upon: the fear of being obsolete, being an outsider, being without direction, being like "teeth in a mouth that fall out until you notice that there's such big spaces between the remaining ones". Being alone, being misunderstood, being ignored, being useless, being in charge, being held accountable for things you are ultimately unable to resolve or control. Growing up, growing old, mortality. Never being good enough.

"If you're not a King, then what are you?"
"I guess I'm just Max."
"Well, that's not very much, is it?"

It was as if each of the Wild Things was a facet of a troubled being- parts of Max himself, the previously unspoken, unsaid, closed-off mature and yet incredibly juvenile and dysfunctional mannerisms and coping mechanisms. I say this with particularly irony: one of the wild things was named "K.W."

More than anything else spoken or portrayed by the movie was Max's ultimate question:

"How do I make everyone okay?"

I am scared that like me, my brother will one day feel as if he is obligated to find the answer to this question. That perhaps he too will view himself as the fly in everyone's ointment, an epitomal predicament, not worthy of all that he deserves. The one condolidating thought I can muster from this, though, is that if ever those feelings come creeping into his mind, I will most probably be the first to notice, and the one whom can most relate and help him.