I wanted to see you go. I do not want you to be there.

Dear Kevin Rudd,

I have something I wish to say to you. Not just on behalf of myself, but on the behalf of many people who live on the scrap of land that you have been re-appointed to “lead”. Somewhere around 150,000 of them if we use credible rather than scaremonger estimates.

Ah, Sydney, I have missed you so. But no matter how you try to push me away again, I am not leaving.

So, as I wrote that I would do in the last entry that I completed before I went quiet, I moved back to the place in Australia where I grew up. (This is a totally separate discussion, but do not ever call me Australian. I am autistic. If you do not understand the distinction, please go and read something else.) Western Sydney, or Central Western Sydney as the transit authority and its contractors are calling it nowadays, has always been a puzzle of contradictions. There are problems with it, some of them enormous, but the thing that has made me anxious to return to it since long before I began to experience serious respiration problems remains the same. As bad as it sometimes seems, it is often by a long road the best part of the “commonwealth” of Australia.

This is what our media has come to (aka Alan Jones is an asshole).

The introduction of mass communication after the industrial revolution, like many changes brought about by the industrial revolution, had both good and bad effects. When the radio was the dominant medium, large groups of people could be warned of impending danger, or told of events in the community, all at once with minimal effort. When television was invented, the potential to educate children in the basics of language and mathematics was quickly realised.