Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

Not even one year old, and the little bloke is a virtuoso on the piano already! Like his brother before him, junior is delighting the masses with his travelling road show.

That said, whereas Henry is a Lisztomaniac - all about passion, brilliance, strength and precision - Ez is all about Chopin. As a Chopin fan, Ezra is less bluster and more nuance and expressive depth: with dissonances, through dissonances, and in dissonances.

Ez is all about the dissonances. Dissonances coming out of his ears.

If you don't believe me, check out the video.

What can and doesn't have to be always, at the end, surrenders to something that has to be.

I love the zoom on my camera. I don't even need a tripod! If you can't guess, this is the moon, as seen from Geilston Bay yesterday morning while waiting at the bus stop.

Yesterday was Bastille Day. I love Bastille Day. My favourite Bastille Day story relates to the initial storming. While many like to think of the brave folk liberating hordes of unjustly held political prisoners (and sawing their heads off the guards to dance about with the heads on poles), they actually found four forgers, two lunatics and one dirty old man.

And a dog.

No wonder they were so angry.

Vive la révolution!

Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

Here is cranky Hanky running laps out the back of Playgroup on Saturday. He's in training for the 2010 Commonwealth Games to be held in Delhi, with an eye on the 100, 200, 400, marathon, long jump, high jump, triple jump, boxing, judo and jelly wrestling.

I think that stands a chance for a medal in the jelly wrestling.

It is easy to be nice, even to an enemy — from lack of character.

Here is a seagull ably keeping guard over a pirate brig down on Elizabeth Street dock. He's a good lad, fit, keen of mind and body, the ideal crew mate really. Quick to action, and has a temper. Oh we've had some scrapes over the years!

There was a nasty incident involving a parrot, a spilled mug of grog and a broken cutlass back in Nombre de Dios that meant that we had to high tail it and lay low over in Port Royal for a couple of months. Jimmy got killed and Javier was flayed by some cannibals.

We can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible.

Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.

For those hanging out of a recent glimpse of the lads, here is Ezra from yesterday afternoon, just after he parachuted from a plane, free fell 3,000 metres, and then crashed through the roof into out kitchen. As you can see from the look on his face, he is enjoying his paratrooper training very much.

I decided not to show the images after he fixed his bayonet and chased Henry around the house.

A work of art?

Following on from Henry's interpretation of Liszt's Années de Pèlerinage - as previously seen on this blog - Ezra joins him for a little duet.

Aside from Ezra's masterful tinkling of the ivories, Henry showcases here a fine tenor. In fact, I dare say that he has inherited his mother's fine signing voice...

Time goes by, reputation increases, ability declines.

Here is an early evening shot of the (former) warehouses down in Salamanca Place.

Have a drabble.

Clive

“I don’t know anything,” he said.

He meant it. He really didn’t know anything, apart from that fact, of course.

This was a problem. It was a problem that affected most aspects of his life, and – eventually – his death.

For example, he would forget about turning off his lights, thus his power bill would be immense most months. He would forget to pay his power bill, and the electricity would duly be shut off. He’d forget that his power was shut off, and the place would get awfully cold during winter.

Naturally, one particularly cold winter, he died of exposure.

To be continued...

It is a very rare thing for a man of talent to succeed by his talent.

Here is Henry back on Good Friday on the lookout for crocodiles. We didn't find any, but it was not through want of trying. I'm not sure whether they are doing freakish genetic experiments involving crocodiles down at the CSIRO laboratories in Salamanca, but I would not be surprised, shadowy government group that they are.

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

Pebbles. Water. Sunlight. I think that's all you need to have something halfway interesting. I took this one down in Salamanca, it's part of the statue/fountain combination dedicated to Abel Tasman and the Mighty Dutch Empire plucky little Koninkrijk der Nederlanden.

Time for Sunday Top Five!

Five Things Better Than The English Cricket Team

1. Henry's toilet nous: we had another poo this morning.


2. Ezra's standing abilities: not much falling over these days.


3. Studly North West Coast swing bowlers: Hilfenhaus is the pick of the bowlers. How the poms wish that they could call up some Tasmanians! (Given that the past two English captains are South African, you wonder why they don't.)


4. West Indian Scab Cricketers: the motley crew of strikebreakers are trouncing Bangladesh, and would no doubt wallop the pride of England (and Wales).


5. Turnips: turnips are better than the English cricket team. Trust me.

Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we have to keep going back and beginning all over again.

Ezra looking positively angelic. Another photo from the stock file. However, I have spent the past day and a half taking photos of the pair of 'em! Some of will have to turn out good 'uns.

What doesn't hurt - is not life; what doesn't pass - is not happiness.

You may have noticed that - children of mine aside - I rarely post photographs with people in them. I'm very shy about photographing the mug punters in the street, onlyI don't know why. So here you go, a standard street side view of Hobartians going about their business!

I'd like to know what you think is going on here? A complex heroin importation scheme? An insurance scam? Ribald commentary on Beyonce's [ahem] assets? Footy tipping gamesmanship? Old school chums? Musings on the whereabouts of Haold Holt?

C'mon people! Give a brother a hand...

True peace is not merely the absence of tension: it is the presence of justice.

Here s the gang quite a few months back now. Henry didn't look like a roadie for the Greatful Dead and Ezra still had a basketball head. Jen pretty much looks the same, however. I myself have a few extra grey hairs.

Pros and Cons of Toddlers Part Six

Pro #5: They're EASY TO BEAT. Henry loves competitive games: hide and seek; chess; Connect Four; Brandings; Catch and Kiss; Scrabble; anything really. Him being a toddler means that I have an unsurpassed win ratio, as he isn't very good.

Con #4: They're TOO EASY TO BEAT. Winning without a challenge is just not fun. Seriously, this evening I had a good half hour of hide and seek, and Henry hid in the same two places over and over. Compounding this poor strategy was a tendency to giggle the whole time, and then shout "I'm here by the drawers" half a second after I start looking for him. He's just rubbish at it. Where's the glory in that kind of victory?

It's not enough that we do our best; sometimes we have to do what's required.

Straight lines are the order of the day today. Here are Hydro Tasmania building, old and new, presented to you in stunning black and white.

In order to bail me out of having to think too hard about today’s post, I’ve embraced the meme and take up the challenge presented to me by Lizabee & Co!

It’s a well known fact that I simply reek of awesomeness. Like Old testament God, people quake and tremble in wonderment at my feet on a daily basis. At least, I think that’s why they quake and tremble at my feet. It could be something to do with Swine Flu.

First though, a definition:

Awesome
Adjective
Causing awe or terror; inspiring wonder or excitement. So impressive or overwhelming as to inspire a strong feeling of admiration or fear.

And now, the list!

Seven things that make ME awesome

1. Charm: like George Clooney on charisma steroids, I have charm oozing from every pore.


2. Intelligence: in terms of intelligence, it’s best to think of me as HAL from 2001, only with higher self esteem and less psychopathic tendencies


3. Looks: dude, have you seen me?


4. Grace: imagine the offspring of Audrey Hepburn when mated with a gazelle (work with me here), that’s how I glide across a ballroom to the swoon of all in attendance.


5. Cool: you know Michael Holding’s voice and Viv Richard’s swagger? Where do you think they learned that then?


6. Character: honesty, respect, integrity, and fairness. I once shot a man for insulting my Mother’s chicken, that is how much I value honour.


7. Modesty: only the most modest of men could possibly compile this list with such honesty, integrity and (not least of all) modesty.

So there we have it, the secret to my success!

If you also are assured of your own awesomeness, please feel free to take the challenge and explain it to the world.

Traditionalists are pessimists about the future and optimists about the past.

Here is Ezra back when he was a little angel, and not the grizzling, snotty, always into cupboards and drawers, toy scattering domestic terrorist that we've been faced with most evenings.

When I die, I would like to go peacefully, in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming in terror like his passengers.

Equal parts Pacman and David Lynch, I like to think of the tail lights of the cars in front as we cross the Tasman Bridge as hungry little ghosts eating the sins of teenagers the world over.

That’s right, it’s Theme Thursday, and we’re talking GHOSTs.

They’re odd birds, ghosts; never happy, always moaning, wailing, dragging chains about and getting ectoplasm on the good curtains. A lot like children in that regard.

I’ve never liked ghosts. Call me spectrally-bigoted, but the notion of some undead soul wandering through my walls while I’m endeavouring to seduce my wife is just plain wrong.

So no, I won’t be signing any of your goody goody, namby pamby, hoity toity, wishy washy, lardy dardy, know it all know nothing do gooders petitions to give ghosts and ghoulies the vote.

No siree.

The only moaning welcome in my house is be either a bit of the other or "if I have to tell you to pick those toys up one more time..."