Genius does what it must, and talent does what it can.

Here's Henry some time back, when his hair was more manageable and I didn't need a shutter speed of 1/500 second to get him.

We're gearing up here in anticipation for Ezra's first birthday tomorrow. Word on the street that it is going to be bigger than Ben Hur, the Bicentenary, and the opening of the first McDonalds in Burnie back in 1992.

If you were around Burnie in 1992, you will realise just how big that is.

When I am not desperate, I am worthless.

Sun comes up, sun comes down. It is as simple as that folks.

Here is the sun rise looking eastward over Lindisfarne bay.

Have an old poem of mine, no charge:

Saturday

Some time later I awoke in an unfamiliar room.
Sunlight filtering through the broken venetions,
sneaking through net curtains to caress bare toes.
In the distance, the constant hum of a lawnmower,
on the floor a shirt peeled off only hours earlier.
Rolling onto my back I struggle to remember you.

Credulity is the man's weakness, but the child's strength.

Here is the little bloke holding firm in his stronghold despite all Henry could throw at him. We have spent the last week wargaming, roll playing the battle of Kursk - although Henry utilised a rather unique variation of Alexander's legendary feint at Gaugamela. Ez is no Darius though, and stood his ground repelling well.

It ended in a stalemate and everybody celebrated with soy ice cream (not as bad as it sounds).

On another note, I was stuck reading Dr Suess this evening again (One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish). I would just like to restate how ordinary Suess is. Mediocre - at best - art work; non-existent plot; no character arc; hell, the dude is reaching for a rhyme and feels free to make up words, yet the bugger still can't be bothered to ensure that it scans! Has he even heard of metre?

No, Dr Suess is rubbish! From here on in, we'll be sticking to Henry Miller before bed.

We are the dancing queens...

Yesterday I expressed my fear that Henry and Ezra may drift into the hideous world of amateur theatre, primarily because they both are supremely talented singers, dancers and - most of all - drama queens. Now, I am hoping that their lust for the STAGE is just a STAGE, and that they'll settle down to non-theatrically based activities in the near future.

Until then, we are left with scenes like this...

The United States invariably does the right thing, after having exhausted every other alternative.

A Volkswagen van up a colonial alleyway?

What else were you expecting?

This colonial alleyway happens to be directly underneath my office window, and that VW van was parked there every day for a week. The bloke in charge obviously felt that it was the ideal place to do a spot of angle grinding (Monday); welding (Wednesday); engine tuning (Friday); and jackhammering (Tuesday and Thursday).

I blame his mother.

A precedent embalms a principle.

This is Henry all the way back in Summer. Be careful, he's headed right for you!

You can see him crouched down through some bike racks down outside the Tasmanian Parliament. These bike racks also happen to be the very same bike racks that a heavily pregnant Jennifer a bunch of random terrorist knitting guerillas covered with bike rack warmers.

The bike rack warmers are still there - although struggling - one year from their first appearance. If I can get him down there, I'll see if he still fits.

All the world's a stage. And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. And one man in his time plays many parts

Looking skyward on the corner of Elizabeth Street and Franklin Wharf. That's the sharp edge of the Marine Board Building, a tree and a street sign. I like the colours on this one, very 'cool', very 'early morning'. The locals hate this building, but it is interesting enough to feature on this blog a few times already.

Anyway, enough of buildings pack with bureaucrats, we have a Theme Thursday topic to tackle!

[Cue meandering post.]

I might not have mentioned it already on this blog, but I have two sons. Both of my children are charismatic, engaging fellows with a flair for the dramatic. They share a gift for music; they are blessed with a natural rhythm that permits them both tremendous dancing skills; they have seemingly innate abilities in the field of manipulation persuasion; an enormous egotism confidence; immense physical stamina and strength; yet sensitive, compassionate natures.

This curse These gifts that both share have led me to ponder the likelihood of one (or both) of my lads will end up on the STAGE. Yes, I fear that they are theatrically inclined.

I could cope if the stage that they are destined to is one littered with supermodels, stacks of Marshall amps and big piles of money, but I fear that it might be something far more horrifying: amateur musical theatre.

Amateur musical theatre is a cancer. It infects seemingly healthy, happy people and renders them quivering imbeciles. Chubby teens in spandex hotpants belting out their umpteenth attempt at Summer Nights during the rehearsal process has been responsible for more cases of post traumatic stress disorder than artillery bombardments. How many high school productions of Sweet Charity must the innocent public endure before the horror is stopped? Guys and Dolls, West Side Story, and now this rising leviathan High School Musical [Parts One through twenty]... won’t somebody think of the children?!?!?!

Because it is the children – and their parents, moms and pops the world over – that suffer.

No, it must be stopped, and if that means buying Henry a drumkit and Ezra a Fender Strat with an amp that goes all the way to eleven, then by God I will do it.

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

Not even one year old, and the little bloke is a virtuoso on the piano already! Like his brother before him, junior is delighting the masses with his travelling road show.

That said, whereas Henry is a Lisztomaniac - all about passion, brilliance, strength and precision - Ez is all about Chopin. As a Chopin fan, Ezra is less bluster and more nuance and expressive depth: with dissonances, through dissonances, and in dissonances.

Ez is all about the dissonances. Dissonances coming out of his ears.

If you don't believe me, check out the video.

What can and doesn't have to be always, at the end, surrenders to something that has to be.

I love the zoom on my camera. I don't even need a tripod! If you can't guess, this is the moon, as seen from Geilston Bay yesterday morning while waiting at the bus stop.

Yesterday was Bastille Day. I love Bastille Day. My favourite Bastille Day story relates to the initial storming. While many like to think of the brave folk liberating hordes of unjustly held political prisoners (and sawing their heads off the guards to dance about with the heads on poles), they actually found four forgers, two lunatics and one dirty old man.

And a dog.

No wonder they were so angry.

Vive la révolution!

Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

Here is cranky Hanky running laps out the back of Playgroup on Saturday. He's in training for the 2010 Commonwealth Games to be held in Delhi, with an eye on the 100, 200, 400, marathon, long jump, high jump, triple jump, boxing, judo and jelly wrestling.

I think that stands a chance for a medal in the jelly wrestling.

It is easy to be nice, even to an enemy — from lack of character.

Here is a seagull ably keeping guard over a pirate brig down on Elizabeth Street dock. He's a good lad, fit, keen of mind and body, the ideal crew mate really. Quick to action, and has a temper. Oh we've had some scrapes over the years!

There was a nasty incident involving a parrot, a spilled mug of grog and a broken cutlass back in Nombre de Dios that meant that we had to high tail it and lay low over in Port Royal for a couple of months. Jimmy got killed and Javier was flayed by some cannibals.

We can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible.

Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.

For those hanging out of a recent glimpse of the lads, here is Ezra from yesterday afternoon, just after he parachuted from a plane, free fell 3,000 metres, and then crashed through the roof into out kitchen. As you can see from the look on his face, he is enjoying his paratrooper training very much.

I decided not to show the images after he fixed his bayonet and chased Henry around the house.

A work of art?

Following on from Henry's interpretation of Liszt's Années de Pèlerinage - as previously seen on this blog - Ezra joins him for a little duet.

Aside from Ezra's masterful tinkling of the ivories, Henry showcases here a fine tenor. In fact, I dare say that he has inherited his mother's fine signing voice...

Time goes by, reputation increases, ability declines.

Here is an early evening shot of the (former) warehouses down in Salamanca Place.

Have a drabble.

Clive

“I don’t know anything,” he said.

He meant it. He really didn’t know anything, apart from that fact, of course.

This was a problem. It was a problem that affected most aspects of his life, and – eventually – his death.

For example, he would forget about turning off his lights, thus his power bill would be immense most months. He would forget to pay his power bill, and the electricity would duly be shut off. He’d forget that his power was shut off, and the place would get awfully cold during winter.

Naturally, one particularly cold winter, he died of exposure.

To be continued...

It is a very rare thing for a man of talent to succeed by his talent.

Here is Henry back on Good Friday on the lookout for crocodiles. We didn't find any, but it was not through want of trying. I'm not sure whether they are doing freakish genetic experiments involving crocodiles down at the CSIRO laboratories in Salamanca, but I would not be surprised, shadowy government group that they are.

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

Pebbles. Water. Sunlight. I think that's all you need to have something halfway interesting. I took this one down in Salamanca, it's part of the statue/fountain combination dedicated to Abel Tasman and the Mighty Dutch Empire plucky little Koninkrijk der Nederlanden.

Time for Sunday Top Five!

Five Things Better Than The English Cricket Team

1. Henry's toilet nous: we had another poo this morning.


2. Ezra's standing abilities: not much falling over these days.


3. Studly North West Coast swing bowlers: Hilfenhaus is the pick of the bowlers. How the poms wish that they could call up some Tasmanians! (Given that the past two English captains are South African, you wonder why they don't.)


4. West Indian Scab Cricketers: the motley crew of strikebreakers are trouncing Bangladesh, and would no doubt wallop the pride of England (and Wales).


5. Turnips: turnips are better than the English cricket team. Trust me.