Isolation, Silence & Dysfunctional Fandom.

It's been a week since my surgery.

A long, slow, grinding week, characterized by constant pain, an inability to eat anything more substantial than liquids or pureès, an inability to form anything more than a few words that register above a whisper. I've spent long hours looking at the walls, wrestling with the most basic of decisions - (should I pick up that empty toilet roll tube off the floor so that the dog doesn't chew it - or no?)

I took a photo of the visible part of my throat last night. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to see it and I when I did see it I was sure that I didn't - and I wish I hadn't.

It is raw. It is mutilated. It is green! There is so much putrid slough in there that mere sight of it makes me want to gag. If only I could gag.

In short - I am thoroughly sick of myself.

I'll understand if you choose to vague out now because I know my misery can be interpreted as self indulgent. But I will say that blogging about this experience has gone some way in helping me cope with the situation.

And I will say that on Thursday, I had a slight bump in energy and motivation - enough that I took my dog Sam for a walk to the park and let him off to run around for a bit. Adelaide's parklands near my house are a wonderful open space, safe from traffic and just perfect for burning off some canine energy. Sam was, of course, as pleased as punch. The walk ruined me but I was glad I did it.

I also did some writing on Thursday. Not much - around two thousand words; but they are new words I've committed to a project I've tentatively called Walhalla - one that I've been trying to get going for a little while now. Again, my concentration collapsed after a few hours but, for a time their, it was really nice to just write something - to have some creativity flowing through me. I have only the vaguest idea of where this material will fit into an eventual story. That doesn't matter to me though. These things can be worked out later.

As I predicted, the pointy end of necessary human interaction is beginning to make itself felt and it is not encouraging. Of the few trips I've made to my local grocer this week, I've found them to be understanding without having to divulge the circumstances of my situation. Other places have regarded me with confusion, a latent suspicion and unabashed antipathy. One lady at the chemist the other day when I was trying to mouth the word tramadol, came right out and said, rather incredulously, "You can talk you know!"

A predictable ignorance.

The minute you hope for understanding, human nature comes in and shits all over it.

So I'm avoiding going out unless it's absolutely necessary. Soon, sadly, it is going to be necessary. I'm dreading that.

I think I'm done with pop culture. Looking through my social network feed this week, I've seen a number of spot fires raging around controversies within the Marvel and Star Wars universes and they are just so hack. Something about Captain America being a Nazi now and, shock horror, the forthcoming Rogue One film has to undergo some reshoots - like that never happens.

The pretentiousness of these hyper fans is really difficult to cope with and I feel as though there is an expectation on the part of some of them to engage in a war to justify some sort of defense of an ideology. It's fucking fiction! It's not key to human survival. Their consistent argument is that "my fandom is bigger than your fandom so your opinion has no validity!" I've encountered this personally in just the past week. It is confronting.

It's indicative to me that fandom is essentially broken and that maybe it is time to abandon certain franchises - *cough* Marvel *cough* that have already been twisted up in so many knots, the ability to ret conn them is virtually useless.

Further, I find that fans in my own beloved franchise have hitched themselves to it in sych a way that they have begun identifying themselves as "Star Wars" celebrities. That, because they flaunt their fandom as though it's some kind of penis symbol, they have assumed the right to be intertwined with the universe - almost as if they were in the fucking films themselves. It is annoying. Infuriating even.

I am trying to pay attention to the Federal Election campaign here currently because I like to think of myself as a responsible civic citizen and I want to take my vote seriously. But, I can't make sense of any of the arguments being put forward by the participating political parties. It's becoming lost in confusion and slogans. The only things the nation seems to have been talking about is the economy, superannuation, tax and jobs. Nothing about the arts. Nothing about social justice issues. Nothing about climate. We are a nation obsessed with money and the problems we face as a nation going forward require more than just money to address them.

But then I'm lost again.

Anyway, I have gone off on a major tangent. But it is illustrative of where my mind is at right now. I am unable to focus on anything for more than a short period of time before I am quickly distracted - then disinterested.

And I sit and look out the window.

There's a toilet roll tube on the top of the fence paling.

DFA.

Conversations with Darth or A Family In Two Parts.

When I was around 7 years old, my then 4 year old brother was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma. At the time, I had little understanding of the significance of this illness on him though, over time, it became painfully apparent to me as I watched him grow increasingly ill, lose weight, lose his hair and, very nearly, lose his life.

There was a three year period during the early 80's where my brother's life was characterized by frequent hospital stays, numerous operations, hours and hours of chemotherapy, followed by hours and hours of wretching and vomiting due to the effects of the chemotherapy. For my family, it was a period of extreme emotion, heart break and near soul crushing endurance. As we lived in the country and my brother's medical care, for the most part, was in the City, my parents spent long hours on the road, travelling from rural Victoria to the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne, racking up the kind of miles that would make a long distance truck driver blush.

For me, it had been decided that I would stay home, rather be carted along to the City. My parents didn't want to disrupt my schooling and I guess they needed to focus on my brother without having to worry about me. So it was that I spent a lot of that time with my grandparents - both sets - and my Aunty Ronda, who had me come stay with her family, my cousins, who were about the same age.

Despite their efforts to make my life as uncomplicated as possible, it was a lonely time for me. With all of the attention being so focused on my brother, inevitably, I came to feel left out of my own family. I remember many nights of crying myself to sleep, not understanding why I couldn't be with my Mum and Dad and brother.

It's strange, the things we cling to in order to cope. 

My Star Wars fandom is something that is known to many as being kind of legendary and of course during the early 1980's, we were in the midst of the classic Star Wars era, between The Empire Strikes Back & Return of the Jedi. Christmas 1980, was perhaps one of the most memorable Christmases for me. That year, I got no less than four classic figures under the tree - Artoo Deetoo, Han Solo in Hoth Gear, the Snowtrooper and Darth Vader. Along with those I got the Yoda hand puppet (which I still own) and a generic lights and sounds star ship that I dubbed the Millennium Falcon, even though it looked nothing like that ship. My brother was all He Man and the Masters of the Universe - which were great figures in themselves and we had countless cross franchise battles in our bedroom.

Then the diagnosis came. 

I remember I had a bag that was always packed with clothing and toiletries, ready to go at a moments notice, given the unpredictable progression of my brother's cancer and the intense schedule my parents were required to keep with his treatment. And, along with that bag, I always made sure that my four Star Wars figures and Yoda puppet were ready to go as well. They had become my companions - my proxy family - and I came to rely on them more than anyone as those days and weeks and months passed by. Whether I was at my Nana and Pa's or my Nana and Poppy's or Aunty Ronda's, they would be on my pillow at night, I tuck them in and I'd invariably talk to them. 

Especially Darth. 

At one point, there was a very real prospect that my brother was going to die. His treatment wasn't working. The doctors thought they had discovered secondaries in his chest and there was a period of urgency where he had to undergo multiple, simultaneous surgeries. I don't remember how I was given the news but, somehow I had to digest the likelihood that my brother wasn't going to come home. 

I talked to Darth Vader about it. I don't even remember if I spoke specifically about it or whether it was more an esoteric conversation about life in general - but I do know that in those darkest of hours, that 3 & 3/4 inch Darth Vader was there for me more than anyone else. This guy, the darkest Sith Lord in the galaxy, and only he knew how I was feeling because he was the only one I felt I could talk to. I so feared losing my brother. I hated not being with my family. I hated being alone and no one listening to me.

Fuck cancer.

My brother survived and he got better and he came home. The trips to Melbourne tapered off and my family returned to some semblance of normal. Eventually, he was in remission and had won the greatest battle of his young life. I never forgot my conversations with Darth though. Nor did I forget how he helped me at a really dark time in my childhood. 

That's the thing about Star Wars. It has given me so much beyond the enjoyment it offered on the cinema screen. In some ways, it was the family I needed, when I was far from my own.

DFA.