For a minute there I lost myself

Well it's another day another kronor, and like most days recently I've felt like I'm in a cage. But I'm trying to tell myself to give myself a break.

Even though I've moved around the world before (twice, actually), I had forgotten one important thing, that favourite quote of mine: "Wherever you go, there you are". But I also had forgotten an even more important thing, who exactly "you" was.

They say if you start over in a new place you can start a new life. This may be true for ex-fugitives, people with a stash of passports in a lock box (I only have two, so my collection isn't very useful) or washed up child actors (that's only according to E! News, that bastion of Birdy and my world view), but I haven't found it to be true. The same mistakes will be made, the same heartaches will follow you, the same regrets to keep you awake at night if you aren't lucky enough to have a friend in the US who can ship sleeping tablets easily purchased over the counter at Walmart.

In my case, my painful Lost in Translation experience of last year has been following me. But I suddenly remembered that even though perhaps Mr Unrequited or various others don't think I'm 'wonderful' or 'beautiful' anymore, it doesn't mean I've changed - they have. And maybe, just maybe, they made the mistake, not me. Maybe in 20 years time they will wonder how different things could have been. Funnily enough, I remembered this while jogging, something I haven't done much since I was 19 and a damn sight skinnier than I am now (not to mention less alcoholic and Scandinavian in my smoking habits), so needless to say I wasn't exactly powering along. Jogging is the new meditation, I swear. I had the iPod cranked up on old Powderfinger songs from home, and lead singer Mr Fanning saideth unto me "I'll just keep kicking at the cracks.. until it all falls in on me...don't panic, don't panic". Suddenly I remembered the old days in Brisvegas, when I used to jog along the main road in Red Hill (with a Discman in those pre-ipod days), past the house of a previous Mr Unrequited who had also suddenly lost interest in me (sources say he is now married, living in Melbourne and apparently dresses like a homeboy from LA, but that is all unconfirmed). I realised I have kicked at the cracks before, I've done all of this before and goddamit, I survived - although whether or not I'm stronger because of it is debatable. And right now, and I say this to anyone who has just moved away - from a place or a person - maybe surviving is all you can do. Even though I don't want to go home, it does remind me at least of the fact I've been down harder roads than this one, or at least, they seemed so at the time. Especially that road in Red Hill. Now you'd hope that I had got somewhere in the last 8 years, but it's hard to see sometimes. Maybe writing it down will help.

Meanwhile I have at least achieved the milestone of my first Swedish crayfish party, although I'm sure that usually you don't have to dress up in 1970s disco attire to participate. It was a pretty surreal experience, ripping the tails off crayfish while singing snaps songs (and, obviously, drinking the snaps!) We were even treated to disco instructional videos from Finland (for those non Scandinavians, I gather that Finland is looked upon as the "Tasmania" of Scandinavia). I have dug one up for your viewing pleasure.

Despite everything, I still haven't mastered the art of budgeting, shopping wisely or eating properly, or falling in love with people who aren't in love with me, but maybe that just means I'm still me. And if it's just me and Mr Fanning on this road, so be it.