A means can be justified only by its end. But the end in its turn needs to be justified.

So here we have an angry little baby in the foreground, and a toddler doing his best Olga Korbut impression in the background. For some reason, Henry seems compelled from some external force to forward roll, forward roll, forward roll! It matters not that there is a baby in front, a box of lego, an innocent father; the only thing that matters is the forward roll.

I sometimes wish that life were that simple for me.

Comments

Jim Klenke said…

At least hes going in the right direction, forward.

19 September 2008 at 12:27

KL said…

I think it has something to do with being young. I used to do those a lot and all those (I don't what they are called) cartwheeling on floor like the gymnasts do, and continued with them till like the age of 9 or 10. Everywhere I see children doing that. Perhaps something to do with our monkey and ape genes :-).

20 September 2008 at 06:31

freefalling said…

Henry might be interested in the variations of a somersault as outlined in Wikipedia.
Personally, I wouldn't mind seeing a photo of him attempting a "Flash Kick" - a back somersault with legs split to represent a 'kick') [not a recognized competition move]

20 September 2008 at 07:14

Kris McCracken said…

Jim, that is a good start.

KL, I was always very bad a cartwheels. It is amazing how little kids do play around exactly like monkeys!

FF, I think that I’ve seen one of them in Fame or Flashdance. Henry does own some leg warmers...

22 September 2008 at 15:38

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. ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

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...

This will hurt me...

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