In the Beginning, the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move

Here is Australia's next top supermodel in action, playing on a wooden fort with a pink pram! The pram is an effective rouse to smuggle as many balls as possible to the throw at anyone silly enough to approach the fort. Plus, the chicks kind of dig the kind of sensitive, new age man who is happy to be seen marching back and forth with a pink pram.

Unsatisfied with my previous post, FF has asked what it is precisely that makes me uncomfortable about young people embracing the love of Jesus with the sort of verve and vigour normally associated with a cat on heat.

Well, I'm not sure if there is a precise reason. Perhaps it just all seems unnatural to me. Someone at death's door I can imagine it, you're hedging your bets, I can understand the logic to that. Some profound trauma? Yeah, the world loses it's bearings, religion can give you a foundation that'll get you through, I see that. Some hot young thang with legs up to here and an arse just thinking about that will keep you warm through long, lonely nights, absolutely! That said, I'd imagine this isn't what they have in mind when they're talking about letting the love of Christ in your heart, however.

A relatively well adjusted, sociable, stable youngster with friends, loving family and future prospects upping and joining the happy clappers is just plain odd to me, I can express it no more eloquently than that. In my (admittedly limited) experience, it has a touch of Invasion of the Body Snatchers about it.

The one example that truly stands out is a young woman that I knew when I lived where I used to live before I live where I live now (a wordsmith, you say?). To my knowledge, she was of limited faith when I knew her in Burnie. By that, I mean that if she had faith, it didn't come up in any conversation with me (just how I like it). Two years down the track (away from home, doing the uni thing), I bump into her again in the park. We stop and have a chat, all very pleasant. Halfway through me complaining about Patti Smith wailing on REM's latest record, out of nowhere she starts shaking. Now, I'm not talking "having a fit" as much as "little dog straining on a poo". So I clear my throat and I ask, "ahhh, are you okay?" and with a broad smile and eyes lit up like a Republican senator spying George Michael entering a public toilet, she tells me "oh I am wonderful, I just felt the love of Christ pulsate through my body!"

"RIIIIIGGGHHHHHHTTTTTTT, I say", looking at my watch and glancing out the corner of my eye hoping to see a pair of fellows in white coats with butterfly nets hiding in the bushes. Now, I could be wrong, I accept that. There is a chance that she could have had Christ's pulsating son-of-God man love all over her, in her, around her (one of the many benefits of an omnipresent being), but at the time I have echoes of cuckoo clocks chiming inside my head.

You see, I don't think that Christ has ever really tried to put any pulsating love (oh err missus) in me. If I'm honest, I don't believe it you see. Yeah, I ascribe to a (broadly) Judeo-Christian moral framework [do unto others, let he without sin, all that jazz], but to my over-educated brain we're all just squishy luck walking around the place trying to get along as best we can. I reckon two blokes should be able to get it on wherever they like, bacon is tasty, and that a woman is just as sexy "in her uncleanliness" as any other time of the month.

If you're raised right in the thick of it? Cool, I get it, fair play to 'ya. Diff'rent stokes for diff'rent folks. If you're choosing it at age seventeen? Hmmm, free country, but I can't help but wonder...

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

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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