One must be very naïve or dishonest to imagine that men choose their beliefs independently of their situation.

So I will end this crop of Sydney photos with some water. I quite like walking past this series of fountains and water features. It smells of chlorine, which makes me think of public pools, which makes me think of girls frolicking in swimwear, which I find relaxing.

I need that right now.

I've had poor old Henry hanging off me for two straight days, as he is feeling poorly. It really has to be seen to be believed. The lad is clearly struggling, but he does appear to be embracing his illness with some gusto. It's even generated a new nickname, Dame Judy Dench, as that's who his melodramatic approach to expressing his unease this weekend reminds me of.

Comments

Dina said…

Aww, be well, sweet Henry. And hang in, dear parents of Henry.

30 November 2008 at 21:31

Anonymous said…

Ah that looks like my kind of place.

Hope the drama queen feels better soon!

30 November 2008 at 22:34

Layrayski said…

Aw poor baby. I hope he gets better soon! (I like the association you have for the chlorinated water) =)

1 December 2008 at 02:43

Kris McCracken said…

Dina, he was better this morning, albeit up and running about at 5:30! Jen tells me that he's a bit of a misery now though, he's probably tired though.

Jackie, it is a bit of an oasis amid the chaos. Dame Henry needs one too.

Layrayski, it is not a bad association to have, I will admit!

1 December 2008 at 11:26

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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