Girl you know it's true

Today's post is no doubt inspired by the challenge once put to Ernest Hemingway that he compose a story in only six words. (For the record Hemingway's response read: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”)

This is a little different, as I am tasked with a "memette" that requires the composition a six-word bio with an accompanying illustration. The idea is not simply to choose six adjectives, but to write a memoir in miniature. The good folk down at Fabulon have broken all of the rules and have tagged everyone who has visited their blog. I quite like their effort (of course) and could easily accept that as my own, but that would be perhaps be poor form (although perhaps true to form!).

So, in the spirit of avoiding to think too much about these things, when it comes to summing up our life in six words, the first things that comes to mind:

"Honestly, I really just don't care."

Why not try one for yourself. Consider it cathartic.

Comments

freefalling said…

Piker!

5 April 2008 at 13:10

Kris McCracken said…

No, I wasn't piking, I mean that sometimes (well quite a lot actually), I find myself talking to people and the inevitably start on about various trials and tribulations, and I can't help but feel deep down that I, well, just don't care.

I think that I'm too tired. Or something.

5 April 2008 at 22:03

Dina said…

"Why not try one for yourself."
Which, a memette or a piece of cat food?
Love that kitty!

6 April 2008 at 06:34

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.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

This will hurt me...

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