Love loves to love love.

Leaning back, he sits as he was taught at primary school, erect and upright. Moulding his spine to the straight-backed, uncomfortable orange chair he appears awkwardly tall.

Looking down at his hands he loudly cracks each knuckle, startling with the left, pinkie finger until he reaches the opposite on his right hand. Forehead glistening in the harsh tube light, he possesses an impersonal face that offers despondency to all who encounter it. His large brown eyes soak in sadness, expressing his reality, even as he tries to smile.

A swollen, crimson nose rises out of the centre of his face to give him a listless appearance. An overly large mouth, lips concealing uneven teeth, together with jawbone and cheekbone extend the face beyond normal length. His pale, wan complexion coupled with a semi-permanent scowl display a quality if not attractive, the actuality of this face reaches at least some degree of uniqueness.

This may be due to the room, the fluorescent lighting, the achromatic setting in which we meet him. Biting his lip, he takes a deep breath; the strain on his face contorting his smile into a grimace as his eyes squint and glaze over. Pushing out his slender left arm he checks his watch for the eighth time in seven minutes.

Drooping forward he rests his bony elbows on his knees, laying head in hands, running long, thin fingers through the greasy mane of hair, leaving it even more untidy then before. It is in this position he observes the waiting room.

Drawn to the young women in the emerald shirt next to him, he focuses. Darkly attractive, she represents everything he desires. Although his first thought is one of her being 'out of his league', their eyes meet so he offers an uneasy smile. She returns this smile but shifts her gaze to the floor. Sensing an opportunity he leans back and adopts a more confident pose. Crossing his legs (left over right as he's been taught), he opens his mouth and makes a proclamation. "I am a poet."

He speaks loudly and clearly, projecting in a way mother would approve. Nodding, he seems pleased with the effort and smiles with sincerity. At first she doesn't know what to say, allowing enough time for the pause to register uneasily. Trying valiantly, she attempts to control her reaction, but her laughter sounds cruel and severe. This only seems to make her more beautiful, and him feeling even worse. Standing up she apologises profusely and saunters away with the elegance he had anticipated. Sustaining his smile he cannot hide embarrassment.

As she escapes from the room he emits a low groan and slumps into his chair, all the while aware he's blushing.

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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