The newspaper called me home again today. Called me home with thoughts of euthanasia, memories of being sixteen. Called me home with recollections of newspaper headlines about crayons and police cells. Recollections of chief ministers on TV making innappropriate comments about teenagers and power lines.

It wasn't my country but it looked like it. Looked like the place that I smell when I close my eyes. And the photos. I don't even know if those people exist. The ABC has so many file photos of smiling snotty nosed children that I can't tell them apart anymore.

This is not my country anymore. My heart grows heavy and I'm making phone calls across the country to try and find someone who understands how fucked up this is. How betrayed I feel. Someone to engage with me on an emotional level.

I turn to the bottle. Like I always do.

Like I always will in a country where the only things that spill are tears and beer and blacks, ethnics and queers and nothing but nothing can stand in the way of progress.

I lost something today.

This is not my country any more.

I just wrote a journal entry. It took me almost an hour. Then it disappered into the ether and now, now I'm really fucked off.

Writing always gets the worst of me. She's like my long suffering wife that I beat when I'm drunk. Then I cover her in make up and take her to parties. It's a wonder that she still puts out.

I prowl the airport looking for the wankers who always try and sign me up for a visa card. I want someone to give me a reason to abuse them. I want to three years old again. Then I could scream until I shit my pants and someone smiling, would powder my ass.

I'm not necessaerily an aggressive person; I've never struck another person in anger (despite been flogged more than once). People mistake this combination of passion and frustration for a tantrum. I get so lost in translation that sometimes I fail to understand myself.

My life is a series of delays and detours. This is my latest mystery flight. While families purchase getaways, my mind is escaping. I will not be a parking lot. In the words of leonard cohen; I refuse the universal alibi.

This week has become layers of meetings and face paints. I try to overlay structure onto a swirling mess of ideas. I dream of an organised world so I can blow it apart and use the stones to skip over the water.

Jesus was wrong. We are not bread and wine. We are whisky and places to sleep. We are hangovers with broken egos feigning arrogance and the will to survive. We arrive at dawn, pushing eyelids over the horizon and calling it day. I call it a day and wind up delerious staring at stars.

I could curl up in this departure lounge forever. Miss my plane, my cat and the point. Sneak onto other aircraft to check if I'm invisable. Start throwing punches just so I could be touched. This blog was meant to be about things that shouldn't have happened. This blog is another one of those things.