History is an angel falling backward into the future.

I thought that I'd give all the Henry fans out there a treat today and post a photo that Jen took of a four day old ~~humongous monster~~little bloke.

He looks somewhat different now.

Comments

Colette Amelia said…

and with all that hair I bet poor Jen suffered terribly from heartburn!

mine were all pretty bald...and bald until about two.

1 April 2009 at 12:03

yamini said…

See, he is the intellectual sort, right from the beginning. I bet he didnt strike this pose just for the photograph.
He seems to be deep in thought looking at the new world that he joined only four days back.....
Beautiful picture by Jen.

1 April 2009 at 17:46

yamini said…

I almost forgot, please show us some latest pics of Henry. How is the hair on his head now? Hope he left behind the hair cut that he received last time.

1 April 2009 at 17:48

KL said…

From a very early age, Henry is lost in serious thoughts. While thinking, he takes up the usual pose of closed eyes and hands on chin!! Told ya, one day he will be a serious philosopher.

1 April 2009 at 21:42

Kris McCracken said…

Coelette, I believe that she was fine on that score.

Ez had finer, blonder hair, but it is thickening up nicely now.

I'm not sure how I'd cope with bald children. They worry me.

2 April 2009 at 13:28

Kris McCracken said…

Yamini, Henry is all bluster. He needs to work on his concentration.

2 April 2009 at 13:28

Kris McCracken said…

Yamini, also, I hope that the second picture helped get the measure of the man.

2 April 2009 at 13:29

Kris McCracken said…

KL, a philosopher king maybe?

2 April 2009 at 13:29

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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