This is my story!  (Rrun away! Run away now!)

Seriously. I mean it. Run Away. Like, now. Screaming if necessary

I was born in Whyalla, South Australia on the 10th of February 1981 - a fairly unremarkable date in the history of the world, at least according to wikipedia.

As February is in the middle of summer , I imagine it was probably sunny , quite possibly hot - but most certainly a Tuesday.

In Australia, Tuesday is best known as the day occurring precisely between Monday and Wednesday.

I quite like Tuesdays.

The Spaniards however, happen to believe that Tuesday is a particularly unlucky day, as referenced by the proverb: ‘En martes, ni te cases ni te embarques’ or ‘on Tuesday, neither get married nor begin a journey."  

Based on a rough estimate, approximately 1/7th of the current spanish population was born on a Tuesday. To protect Spain's cultural integrity, those born on a Tuesday are forced by the government to take up residence in a series of interconnected, subterranean broom closets and prevented by law from moving more than five centimetres in any given direction.

However, despite popular belief, the nationalist dictator Francisco Paulino Hermenegildo Teódulo Franco Bahamonde (otherwise known as ‘franco’ or ‘lardy chops’ to Stalin) was actually born on a Sunday. And If anyone in the history of Spain ever truly deserved to be locked up inside a broom closet from birth, its francisco franco I reckon. .

So ‘En martes, ni te cases ni te embarques’ is probably just a load of old bunk.

Mmm.

Er..anyway...where was I again? Oh yeah - me. Crap. Let's return to the story!

Post birth I stumbled through the eighties and early nighties ninties as a mediocre, albeit personable student at Bevan Crescent Primary school, which was permanently shut down shortly after I left. Something to do with ‘collateral damage’ according to official government sources, but I haven’t the foggiest what/ who the hell they were talking about.  

Whatever it was....it wasn’t my fault....I swear!

Outside of school, my childhood was woooonderful – filled with the love of an adoring family and the pleasures only a big pile of Lego and a modest collection of half-mangled transformers can bring. I was, and still am, extraordinarily privileged to have known such happiness, to be born to such wonderful parents and to have the most wonderful sister and brother anyone could ever hope for.  As such, I have slowly developed something of a complex, relating to a self-perceived failure to live up to the enormous opportunity their love and sacrifice has granted me.

I mean seriously, how lucky am I...out of six billion on this planet, probably 4.9 billion are living in a relative state of poverty. Many of those don't have access to clean water or regular health care and immunisation. I, on the other hand, can read and write - I can have three meals a day if I want. I have a roof over my head, access to a shower, a toilet - public transport and a library to learn from, even a publicly supported higher education system.

Each of us has a responsibility to be great.

And I personally measure greatness in terms of how much we can ultimately do for other people, animals and the environment.

Okay, that’s it for all the mushy stuff. I promise* (*not a binding agreement)

After graduating from year seven and celebrating the death of youth and the birth of idiocy with a pint of multicoloured fruit-cup at the Spencer hotel, I moved on down the road to Stuart High school with my ethical sensibilities tucked under one arm and my inability to spell correctly under the other.

My years at Stuart high rank among my happiest, as I began to hit my stride socially and academically – unfrotunately,  I became so hungry for knowledge and approval/personal identity, that I became embarrassingly suck-up-ish (for the Harry Potter fans, think Hermione Granger, sans the cleverness).

COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT :

I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to both teachers and peers for any and all temporary annoyances during this time.

Cheers big fella.  

WE NOW RETURN TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAMMING

Three years down the track and it was time to swap schools again in order to complete senior high school. The campus was Edward John Eyre - Land of brown bricks, old desks, hot chips, raging hormones and free study periods (but not necessarily in that order).

Failing my mock year ten maths exam by three points only a few months earlier, I should have realised that taking maths A, maths B, maths 1, maths 2, physics and chemistry in year 11 might have been over-reaching just a tad.  Nevertheless, being an idealist with a proven work ethic, I blithely marched along a path of self destruction., the results of which were predictably disastrous. I quickly fell into the waiting clutches of an inexplicable melancholy (something  I now recognise as depression) - an illness that sapped not only my will to work and persevere, but also any Innate hopes of being accomplished, successful or happy ever again.

One day, during the cooler months of July, I was set to quit school forever (which, for my bookish personality at the time, would have been an act of suicidal intent) - but I credit my mum with turning me around and getting me through to fight another day. For all those out there experiencing such times, let me say quietly, but firmly: there is always another day. No matter how dark it gets - and trust me when I say, I've wandered into some pretty dark places during my life.

Anyway, as my final year of school rolled around, life started to pick up again as I cemented a couple of life-long friendships and achieved grades littered with failure…but good enough to get me into university (go figure) which at that time, was my lifelong dream. Exams were sat, bricks were passed, essays marked (no doubt, more kindly than they deserved) - and one day, late December/ early January, I received my South Australian certificate of education. Whoopy!

I finished High School for reals.

A few days later, I was handed an official acceptance letter to study for a Bachelor of Archaeology at Flinders University - which I dutifully accepted - and achieved four years later.

I won’t go into my uni years too much here, suffice to  say they were mostly bloody awful, again blighted by frequent and at times debilitating depressive episodes, which on more than one occassion drove me to (and sometimes over) the edge of earth shattering sadness and despair.  

Depression really is a complete bastard let me tell you.

Anyway, all things considered, I did pretty well at uni really; somehow managing a credit average and even picking up an accommodation scholarship along the way.  A few days after enrolling in a postgraduate honours year however and picking up my bachelors certificate/paper thingie (I missed the actual graduation ceremony because of – yeah, you guessed it, depression/self loathing) my mum was diagnosed with terminal-cancer. It snuck up so fast - has anyone ever heard of 'cancer of the Gall Bladder?' Me either. Very, very rare in this part of the world.

I quickly returned home to be with her, but she died only a month later in the palliative care ward of the Whyalla hospital, not far from where I was born. I was not there when she passed away. I didn't get that final chance to say goodbye.

Complete and utter devastation is, of course, a relative understatement. My mum was like....

I won’t dwell extensively on the subject of love, loss and pangs of everlasting regret here. At least not right now.

In the months that followed, I somehow managed to pick up a part-time job (a kind of government-sponsored traineeship, essentially) working for a local graphic design company producing business cards, flyers and the occasional website. The opportunity gave me loads of useful experience working on some recognisable branding and advertising projects, and I quickly discovered that I quite liked the job. Unfortunately due to the cessation of contracts (ie the government stopped subsidising/ paying my wages) the plug was pulled from the wall and I parted company after a further stretch of voluntary work - only to set up my own graphic design business some months later, which I tentativly called fuzzy Illogic – which, for those who are interested, was intended to be both a play on words and a reference to my..er..’unique’ personality.   

Well, it sounded good at the time.

Since then, I have built up a range of mad skills, created some pretty cool artwork and even produced a free, not-for-profit community newspaper called The Think Tank, which was designed to challenge the politcal status quo, defend the weak and give a voice to the voiceless (or something like that).

I was untill recently, a member of the cuttlefish coast coalition, a group charged with the task of defending the point lowly peninisula from being completely bastarsized by heavy industry.

Unfortunately due to a number of complicated reasons including a personal melt down and some serious ideological disagreements, I decided to step down from my position and pursue independent projects again promoting a more honest point of view.

The year is now 2009 and I have decided that I am quite ready for another adventure. So stay tuned, I'm not finished yet!

This is not the end.