To say 'we' and mean 'I' is one of the most recondite insults.

Despite the morning fog, you can't keep the bright orange paint of the Aurora Australias under wraps for too long! It is a wonderful sight in the mist, and a pity that it is wasted on a journey into work.

Go on, have a poem.

again

The dissolution of an agreement, and
disassociated from his very being,
Desmond was disgusted.

Disallowed an explanation
and discouraged from discussion,
this distorted his disadvantage.

The discomfort upon discovering
the distasteful details of dishonesty,
Desmond discontinued to care.

Comments

magiceye said…

dramatic daily delight!

25 May 2009 at 15:46

Kris McCracken said…

Magiceye, the fog is both romantic and slightly sinister. I love it!

25 May 2009 at 15:49

Jackie said…

Cool photo, I love taking pics in the fog, though more often than not it's rain here so I don't get the chance very often.

Re your question, I'm actually a Stenhousemuir supporter so am very very very happy today as we won our playoff yesterday (against arch-enemies Cowdungbeath) and will be in the 2nd division next season. Much better (and more interesting) news than the SPL title (yawn). There are a couple of Celtic pubs round the corner from me, so people were looking a bit subdued yesterday, it has to be said.

25 May 2009 at 19:06

jen said…

i like the combination of grey and orange here

25 May 2009 at 20:06

Kris McCracken said…

Jackie, "Stenhousemuir" is one of the great fitba team names. As a Hearts man (family connections), I disdain both Glasgow giants.

26 May 2009 at 13:58

Kris McCracken said…

Jen, YOU'RE ALIVE!

26 May 2009 at 13:58

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. ...

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...

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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