I am the terrorist

I'm sitting in New York wearing my Emotional Deflective Helmet. My Aussie friend invented it. It's made out of aluminium foil and apparently if the alfoil is facing the right way you can deflect emotional terrorism, so people who are stuffing around with your mind can't get to you. I made my own helmet, based on the instructions and it looks pretty good. (Matches my eyes) I'm going to start wearing it out and I'm hoping it will start a huge trend and bankroll the revolution.

Where this revolution will start I’m not exactly sure. Perhaps not in my lifetime and at this rate, not in America. People here are so worried about dying that they have chosen to forfeit most of their civil liberties to save the rest of their sorry lives. What they fail to realize is that most of them are dead already. Spiritually, emotionally, politically and sexually, I anticipate that necrophilia will be the next big trend to take off in the burgeoning S&M industry. When you can no longer feel the pain you can always pay some one to remind you with a big whip and a torture rack, that you too are human. For fifty bucks extra they’ll leave marks so that tomorrow you will still have proof of your existence. Hit me baby hit me… just make sure that you don’t really mean it.

Death is a growth industry. It’s expanding as fast as the average American waistline. New terms in psychobabble have been invented just to make the dead feel as though they’re not alone. If you can’t afford the therapist you can just turn on the television and Doctor Phil will save your dead soul. In eight and a half minutes he’ll pull a broken man and wife from their aluminum siding box, stitch their marriage back together and then throw them back into the world. Just in time for a commercial break.

‘Are you feeling sad, depressed…lack lustre? Have you stopped taking interest in your children, in your husband, your life… you’re not alone. There are millions of people just like you.

Not that Australia’s any different. They’re dead too. I know because I left the open wound that was New York last October and came home just in time to watch 70% of Australians vote a government that tortured them for two terms back into power. Which just goes to show if you’ve been dead for long enough you lose all memory of what it felt like to be alive. I ran into an old Aboriginal mate on that election day, and even though in the preceding two terms she’d become homeless heroin addicted and toothless, she managed to get herself to a polling booth to take another stab at life. We spent the rest of the afternoon in the pub fantasizing about what it would be like to have a sense of future again but by the evening’s final count she’d gone off to get another hit and I was left lying on the lounge room floor, staring into an empty carafe hoping that she hadn’t taken my laptop with her.

I hated everyone after that. British backpackers, fat people on trains, people on cell phones, anyone wearing new shoes, construction workers, the guy at the 7-11 They were all suspects. I spent weeks in supermarkets, playing spot the ‘relaxed and comfortable’ and running over the back of their heels with my trolley. None of them bled. But their trolleys were fuller than mine, so I suppose it all evens out in the end. But the worst thing was, that slowly but surely, as I clipped heel after heel after heel with the bent front wheels of my silver trolley, getting meaner and meaner and more accurate with every victim, I knew I was becoming just like them.

Death. It’s a virus. SO I dumped the trolley and pondered my escape. By the time I hit the car park I realized there was no escape. I had two options. A long slow drawn out death in Australia or a quick violent death in America…

I decided to go out like a firecracker. And in seven months, with a little help from my friends, I whipped up a little one woman multi-media show, called Last Night in New York, packed my suitcase and took myself back to America to perform a three-week season in time for the anniversary of Sept 11th...

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