Nothing astonishes men so much as common sense and plain dealing.

I posted a photo last week (early this week?) of Henry exploring the delights of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery. It's not just Henry and fossils that happens there though, as Ez is showing signs of interest in a geological sense.

NO you filthy buggers, G E O L O G I C A L.

ROCKS, not ladies' bits.

Get your minds out of the gutter.

That said, the gutter is the best place to view the stars...

Comments

Miles McClagan said…

I had no idea when I was 7even I could have displayed my corner collection of rocks and bark from my Primary School would be museum worthy...

Well, they would have been if I didn't paint them with poster paints. Good times...

10 September 2009 at 20:18

Roddy said…

That isn't a piece of moon rock the young master Ezra has in his hand is it? Or perhaps a piece of slag from the furnace of E.Z. at Risdon? Maybe even a piece of slag from the fires of Mordor, on the Mountain of Doom.
The young Hobbit seems to have a strong grip on it.
Keep them both keen, keep them both interested in everything.

10 September 2009 at 20:42

yamini said…

You are donwright funny and Ez is, as usual, up and running over with charm and cuteness.

10 September 2009 at 21:07

Roddy said…

Which stars exactly are we viewing in the gutter? Are they high profile or just bit players? Tongue in cheek, tongue in cheek.

11 September 2009 at 19:34

Kris McCracken said…

BAH!

14 September 2009 at 10:21

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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