The Big Font

The Big Font.

My Big Font perspective of reality earned it's name from the simple fact that my last optical examination revealed I had enlarged nerve endings some place in the immediate orbit of my eyeballs.  Ah! Ha! I thought at last I may have found an audience for this writing caper.  That's you. Who ever you may be in this increasingly blurred out world. You are a kindred squinter and I suspect you are here to read some scrolls of text that you can actually see. As well as considerably impairing my vision the enlarged nerve endings have provided a valuable insight into the intricate workings of life as a disabled person in the  'Modern world'.  At the tender age of seventeen the best part of my life was stolen away from me by a hit and run driver and these are the days, late in life where the past catches up in the form of extreme pain.  If you are relating to these words from personal experience then I have  successfully hobbled to the place I had hoped to be.  Ok! lets get right to it. When I said whoever you may be I wasn't just talking to those with poor eye sight. I was reaching out to the rest of you as well. I think you can see what I mean. 

Christ only knows how more disabled individuals than myself get along in the world.  Iv'e had a lower back problem since my bike smash but about three months ago I was hit with a debilitating bout of sciatica all the way down my bad leg which is with me still. It has me bed ridden for the most part and I use crutches to attempt any kind of mobility.  Up until about a fortnight ago I was still able to ride my  pushbike to the shops, but the pain became so acute that I was unable to continue.  An assortment of local doctors have put me on a variety of strong pain killers and now for three hours at  most I can engage in car assisted activities.  Today is the first opportunity I have had in ages to sit at a computer in relative, drug assisted comfort and tap out a few thoughts and feelings. Right at the point where the pain was transitioning from severe to critical I was evicted from my place of residence and forced to take an upstairs room in a hotel.  I had been living in a small tent under the old wooden landing of some steps that went up to the main entrance of a flood stilted house.  Before I get too caught up in the more current realities I would like to go back to the last day that I was functioning at my normal level of limited, able bodiedness.  It was in Brunswick Heads as I was leaving the last available camping spot the area had to offer.  One day earlier the Council Rangers had left a warning notice pinned to the zipper on my tent advising me that I would receive a two thousand dollar fine should I not leave immediately. 

My most attainable option was an offer that had recently been extended to me by a crew member from the early days, to occupy a caravan situated on his property.  It sits about fifteen miles away  in the hills behind Mullumbimbi.  There was a significant sense of apprehension nipping at my brain as I loaded up the car trailer with my belongings and my number one concern was the fact I was leaving a mostly flat and pushbike friendly environment for a life in the muddy slopes of the hinterland.  As winter set in my normal repertoire of aches and pains became more noticeable as I attempted to seal the rusted out old caravan from biting drafts and wind chills.  The end result saw canvas and plastic tarps hanging all around my bed roll with just enough room to spare for a small coffee table and a fan heater.  On about the third day after my arrival on the property my body really started letting me know that it was a mistake to leave the coastal flat lands. 

My lower back and hips felt like they were going to buckle and collapse at any moment and I copped the worst electrical sciatica spasms down the left side that I had ever experienced.  The event that first caused me to become bed ridden was when I was attempting to slip on an undersized gum boot and I sprained a calf muscle in my bad leg.  For the last few years as I have banged around in the great outdoors, moving between Northern Rivers townships I have favored the local Gp's who were happy to prescribe panadine fort, one of the stronger pain killers you can get.  Popping the pills morning and night for two days finaly allowed me to stand upright with the aid of a walking stick. I was able to potter around the caravan getting things done but my hardest task was getting my garbage to the communal bins about a hundred meters away down a sloping track. On almost every occasion when I was disposing of rubbish at the bins I heard absolutely insane ranting and raving coming from a small hut further down in the valley. I was later to find out that it wasn't  some poor individual being held captive and tortured, it was the resident 'spirit release therapist' doing his morning work out.  The term long time friend was appropriate prior to John assisting me to move onto his property, but after my time there was over his title had been reduced to that of an old acquaintance, to be avoided at all costs.  The person I had first met more than thirty years ago was a happy go lucky member of the local surf crew, but that person exists no more.  In his place a grumpy, embittered and delusional old wanker has emerged into being and it had me feeling trapped and vulnerable. I had first assumed that I was moving into a New Age'ish community populated by caring, sharing, earth people.  No such luck.  Always fatal to assume. I was to soon find out that most of the the thirty or so tenants on the property were people John had merely recruited from the local newspapers.  They looked it too.

I made up a sign with a large felt pen and it read 'Ride needed to town please'.  The lousy mongrels drove straight past me as I sat in pain and discomfort in a camper chair holding up the sign.  I managed to score a couple of rides into Mullumbimbi with my deadshit landlord but any attempts to arrange a return trip to the property were met with “Hitchhike ya lazy bastard”.  He soon made it clear that he thought I was being a 'wimp' and I should be 'more resilient', to which I could only conclude he believed I was putting it all on.  Once sufficiently stocked up with food supplies, booze, pot and other incidentals the base survival necessities became less critical and I was able to move on to some kind of physio therapy.  There was an uninhabited tin shack sitting on  some reasonably flat ground beside the caravan and it had a small porch constructed of wooden beams.  In a series of drug assisted work bursts I managed to suspend my pushbike from the beams with lengths of rope and it served me well as an alternative exercise bike.  Starting out real easy at first I did twenty spins of the wheel each day until I was able to increase it to fifty.  From there I went to one hundred and all the while I was monitoring my levels of pain in relation to my drug input. Eventually I was doing a thousand or more  pedal revolutions each day without any significant increase in the sciatica.