Skip to main content

He had read somewhere that love had been invented in the eleventh century by the troubadours. Why had they not left us with lust?


A pensive Ez considers man's inhumanity to man down on Howrah Beach.
Labels:

Comments

Dina said…
He has a lot to contemplate.
14 December 2009 at 20:02
Roddy said…
You haven't had him reading your thesis already. I would have allowed him to get over his childhood first.
14 December 2009 at 20:30
yamini said…
God Bless Him!!!!
14 December 2009 at 20:41
Roddy said…
For those interested in the post dated December 3.
'Polly', my friend and constant companion left this world on December 8th.
She was 13 years old our time. Approx. 96 years her time.
There is a hole too large to imagine at present.
She suffers no more.
My apologies Kris for using your blog as my obituary space. Roddy.
14 December 2009 at 22:23
Anonymous said…
This is a big world and those beyond offer so much more.
15 December 2009 at 00:01
ratatouille's archives said…
Hi! Kris,
A lot on the plate there Ezra, but least you have a great facial expression!

Roddy said,"For those interested in the post dated December 3.
'Polly', my friend and constant companion left this world on December 8th.
She was 13 years old our time. Approx. 96 years her time."
:-(
I'am so very sorry to hear about that Kris' dad...

Thanks, for sharing the photograph Kris...
DeeDee ;-D
15 December 2009 at 05:47
Tash said…
You sure he is not just wishing for bigger waves? He looks like an up & coming surfer to me - and an adorable one at that.
15 December 2009 at 07:09
Tom said…
life's a beach
15 December 2009 at 11:42
Kris McCracken said…
Thanks all.

Ez was pondering Polly.
18 December 2009 at 09:47
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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...
50 comments
Read more

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. ...
62 comments
Read more

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...
5 comments
Read more