The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.

I have already expended quite a few posts on Zimbabwe and the recent turmoil there. I can’t quite express the disappointment that I feel with regards to the latest outcome other than say that I hope that Mugabe gets exactly what is coming to him. Unfortunately, I am familiar with this tune and can see how it will probably pan out.

Thus, I won’t bore you with another tirade, I will link to some sober words of the Political Umpire, who has pretty much said what I would have liked to say (only far more politely that I can manage this fine morning).

For those interested, I am quoting Thomas Jefferson there in the header, but hold little hope that it will happen.

Comments

freefalling said…

We got a letter last week from World Vision to tell us their food distribution to the little kiddies has been suspended because the Zimbabwean government has thrown out all the international aid agencies.
Makes me wanna cry.

23 June 2008 at 18:45

freefalling said…

Oh yeah - and I meant to say, I love that quote.

23 June 2008 at 18:49

Political Umpire said…

Thanks for the link etc Kris. Africans have too often been the victim of the great lie: that a people can somehow be 'free' even if 99% have far less personal freedom than before their 'liberation' ...

23 June 2008 at 20:28

Kris McCracken said…

I think that it is time to spill the blood of this tyrant...

26 June 2008 at 10:51

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog