As a child, the galaxy far, far, away seemed within reach. I still remember being paralyzed with an influx of emotions that blasted me into the realm of space and time — as I received the frequency of the present. I was this lucky kid that happened to be born in a country that created the most fascinating and mind-altering legal drug that anyone could indulge in.
Star Wars was the beginning and the beginning of all things that shaped my imagination and gave me the lust for the unfathomable because in my small mind — the stars waging wars for dominion gave the impression that life won’t always fare well — but as long as you have a little fight left in you — the odds could be converted.
And then the droids.
C-3PO and R2-D2. Cool names. Cool droids. I love them both! C-3PO always seemed like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He’s not built to internalize chaos as well as his trusted companion. He’s the one with the manners and the common sense to want to evacuate the premises whenever shit hits the fan.
R2-D2 however, was my favorite.
Small in stature but mighty in deliverance — his mission was to be the brains of the operation while also maintaining a sense of decorum around his nerve-wrecking friend with the gold-plated interface who tries to steal the show but fails — every time.
R2-D2 was real and now he’s in the land of make-believe because life ends and even though he’s not human — in the fundamental ways — he was very much made from flesh and blood.
The actor who embodied this immaculate machine for decades recently succumbed to the consequences of life and death. He is currently encased in the journey of the latter and the results leave me withered with disbelief.
Kenny Baker was in his mid-eighties, and he was a gem for putting in the work to fool me and others like me — into believing that droids live forever — when in fact — they die.
I never considered what would happen if R2-D2 were to be outed as a robot with a human at the controls — relying on the same model of charger as it pertains to the longitude of our run on this planet.
We are now dwelling in what I would imagine could possibly rival the ingrained halls of The Death Star. Everything transpiring echoes the hollowed cries of victims and would-be victims who don’t have access to a rescue team that can give the power of lightning speed a thorough race.
The demise of R2-D2 won’t re-direct the War of the Stars past their imminent due dates — Hollywood never fails to cover up the fuck ups.
But, for me, the story is over. There is no way to recover the magical spell that befell me when I realized that I could fall in love with an overgrown computer system with the ability to code in a way that matched my gorgeously erratic wirings.
Farewell, my brilliantly conceived character from my favorite saga ever! Your timing is surprisingly impeccable — given the current state of affairs. Maybe in death — we can reconfigure the language of survival that you generously provide — in case of an emergency.
Hopefully I will sleep deep enough to retrieve it. If not, screenplays don’t scare me.