Even the upper end of the river believes in the ocean.

On Sunday we climbed a mountain. You know that already. The previous Friday, we hit the beach to collect shells (and wrestle sharks). Here's the view of Seven Mile Beach as we relaxed after a marathon Greco-Roman tussle with a Great White with bad breath.

It's hard work being Tasmanian.

On a side note, it should be no surprise that the troops are rallying the Save the Grand Old Dame. Regular readers know of my ~~obsession~~ love and commitment to that princess of Brutalist architecture, 10 Murray Street [click the link to see my treasure trove of photos].

Well, it appears that the groundswell has become a tsunami! Eagle eyed blog commenter Ms Havershom has alerted me to some attempts to avoid catastrophe and save the day (no doubt to atone for breaking Pip's heart, for you Dickens fans out there).

So, wherever you are in the world, you can rally to the cause and send the message that buildings of historical worth did not stop being built in 1890. You can sign the petition here, or even join the Facebook group.

Do the right thing...

Comments

Sue said…

OMG!!! Is that a crocodile on the beach? Did the boys wrestle it into submission? Before or after the tussle with the shark?

10 November 2009 at 22:59

Roddy said…

Looks like firewood to me. Did you drag it home so that the next time I'm down there I can take it home.

11 November 2009 at 04:35

Kris McCracken said…

It has been crocodile weather of late. In the 20s, even!

13 November 2009 at 06:43

Kris McCracken said…

Roddy, it was damp.

13 November 2009 at 06:43

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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