Reflections upon a birth and FM radio...

In his formative month, Little Henry took a shine to HO FM radio, and listened to it throughout the day for his first three weeks. He loved its mix of classic rock, 80s and 90s nostalgia and modern hits.

In fact, he was born whilst listening to it.

As I was perched on the bed, clutching a thigh and watching the top of a head emerge from indust2’s privates, I reflected on what song would be playing when he was officially born. As I first glimpsed the head, Johnny Farnham was singing “Burn for you”, I crossed my fingers hoping he’d stay in a bit longer (he did). Part of me hoped that “Stairway to heaven” would be strung out long enough for him (it wasn’t), “Take it easy” by the Eagles quickly zipped through, the came “Great southern land”, (which I wouldn’t have minded), but I wished the abysmal “I wish I were a punk rocker” song would have ended more quickly than it did. Regardless, he remained wedged firm through the Beatles “Get back”, Jewel’s “You were meant for me”, John Cougar Mellancamp’s “Hurts so good”, Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” (all of which I would gladly have taken, I must say) as well as The Fine Young Cannibals “Johnny (we’re sorry)”. At this point, the shoulders were coming out and the next track up was going to be the big one…

So who won?

It is great regret that I announce that the great honour of birth song went to the momentously mediocre “Mmm mmm mmm mmmm” by that supergroup, the Crash Test Dummies.

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Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

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In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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