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.

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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