How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it?

Here you can see the view westwards from the very bottom of Argyle Street this morning.

It appears that discourtesy, deafness and poor motor skills are all pre-requisites of a Metro bus driver here in Hobart.

Other desirable attributes include morbid obesity, limited mathematical skills, an inability to read the time accurately and a vocabulary that does not extend beyond the range of grunts and guffaws one might expect of a troop or gorillas in the highlands of Rwanda.

Now, far be it from me to cast aspersions on the good folk at Metro Tasmania (can you see how carefully I am choosing my words?), but between you and me – and judging by the sweat stains under the armpits – maybe the gorillas slightly trump them in the hygiene department.

After all, I am not sure who might be willing to pick the nits off an unkempt bus driver...

Bitter, moi?

Comments

Sue said…

Wow, Kris, it sounds like your dealings with a so-called driver of buses may have been akin to my experience this morning with the simple minded, moronic imbeciles I had to speak with at Telstra, concerning a problem that was created six months ago by them. I am ashamed to say that I did lose my cool at one point, but I was quickly made to see the error of my ways when I was then continually made to wait on hold listening to their goddamn awful muzak.

22 January 2009 at 11:55

Kris McCracken said…

Sue, I do believe that these things are sent to try us.

I just try to be polite as possible, or, failing that, not smack the in the mouth.

23 January 2009 at 18:48

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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