Saturday, September 19, 2009
Equal parts Papunya Tula and Jackson Pollock, my little Hank is becoming quite the artist.
Here he is endeavouring to convey the frighteningly original notion of man's inhumanity to man through a confronting montage of a whale being molested by a vole.
Here are what I think are poplars in the [deep voice required] Valley of Love, the Derwent Valley.
While you are enjoying that discussion, I will be the one trying to find a large rock to crawl under and die.
Yes I am still sick.
Friday, September 18, 2009
As Ezra is rapidly shifting from walking to running, I figured that I better post some of these photos I have stockpiled before he loses all of the chubbiness in his cheeks and becomes a lean, mean,
Here he is hard at work cleaning the floor with his toothbrush.
I've been applying a theory on child-rearing that I like to call United States Marine Corps.
Ah, the wonders of a four day week! Stricken by some kind of mucus producing virus, Henry and I slowly traipse down to the river and lethargically toss some food to a pair of geese. We then shrug our shoulders and look at the swings, then wisely opt to struggle our way back home to watch the clock until it is okay to go for our afternoon nap.
It is a hard life.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
To the swings, boy's! To the swings!
Here is Henry enjoying the swings down in Lindisfarne. He's in the process of trying to get the swing to go all the way over the top of the frame.
One day, Henry.
Despite my change of heart, people appear to have given up on 10 Murray. Similarly, even though there has been some belated effort to save her, she's going to be blown up and knocked down.
Thus, it is with a heavy heart that I concede that this week, Theme Thursday has hit the nail on the head. The consensus of the Tasmanian public is that the imposing princess of late-1960s functionalist architecture, 10 Murray Street, is well an truly OVER THE HILL.
They're knocking her down. Judged as an ugly testament to a period people would like to forget, the elite have conspired to concoct a death warrant for this misunderstood beauty and replace her with [and I am not making this up] a giant television screen. No doubt this television screen will continually remind us that we've always been at war with Eastasia.
Tasmanians are addicted to sandstone it seems. For Hobartions, the entire functionalist movement in architecture should be erased from history! The world over; works of Modern architecture are threatened with abuse, ridicule, neglect, thoughtless alterations, or - heaven forbid - total and utter annihilation with nary a care or concern.
Of course, you have no shortage of alert (but not alarmed) citizens nailing themselves to some squalid humpy rotting away in the back ally to preserve its heritage status, but don’t dare suggest that brutalists are people too. No, poor unappreciated beauties like 10 Murray are criticised for being a) OVER THE HILL, and b) not old enough to warrant saving. Talk about a hard task.
What a dull, uninspired world we shall live in when only tasteful little Georgian terraces are allowed to survive and anything else deemed unfit by a small cabal of elitist effeminate aesthetes is bulldozed to make way for their own narrow vision of what is worth preserving and what is not.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Yes, man is mortal, but that would be only half the trouble. The worst of it is that he's sometimes unexpectedly mortal - there's the trick!
As I have already said, these men are New Man.
Guaranteed 175% better than Old Man, or your money back!
Wall in Battery Point, September 2009.
Look at that wall will you? Just look at that shoddy workmanship. Bloody convicts. No wonder they got sent off to the other end of the world...
Tasmanians are a funny mob when it comes to convicts. You are probably aware that one of the primary reasons for the British settlement of Australia was the establishment of a penal colony far, far away to send their overabundance of criminals. Over the whole period of transportation of convicts, over 165,000 rapists, murderers, handkerchief thieves were dispatched to Australia.
For us Tasmanians, we have an extra-special relationship with these
Eventually, the colonies attracted free settlers (no doubt interested in [ahem] utilising ‘cheap’ convict labour), and Australia evolved to a point that people were sick of the continued arrival the pale, wretched refuse of Mother Britain. Although it received the largest stock of crims, Van Diemen's Land saw the rise of a well-coordinated anti transportation movement, but the novel Victorian – as in Queen of England, not colony – approach to crime and punishment saw sustained overcrowding of British prisons, and the desire to maintain transportation as an effective deterrent. By the late 1840s though, most convicts being sent to Van Diemens Land were designated as "exiles" and were free to work for pay while under sentence.
That said, the transportation of convicts was nearing its end. By 1853, the celebration of fifty years of European settlement coincided with the official end of transportation. Three years after that, and – so it is claimed – to remove the unsavoury connotations with crime associated with its name, Van Diemen's Land was renamed Tasmania. Of course, just because they stopped sending criminals here did not mean that the criminals suddenly went away. Indeed, the last penal settlement in Tasmania – Port Arthur – didn’t close its doors until 1877. Indeed, some of those transported to Tasmania were alive into the twentieth century.
That said; the history of transportation left its mark on Australia, not just English or New Zealand cricket supporters. Now of course, to have a convict in the bloodline is a very fashionable thing, all the cool kids are doing it. If you believe the average punter on the street, the convicts were a bunch of poor little tykes who liked a laugh and were punished for their poverty. It hasn’t always been that way, however. Until well after the Second World War, most Australians felt a sense of shame about the existence of British and Irish convicts, and many did not even attempt to investigate their families' origins, for fear that they could be descended from criminals. The fear of the Convict Stain has ensured that researching family trees is all the more difficult.
This no doubt infuriates the latte sipping set in Bondi, who with no irony whatsoever are green with envy at the prospect of a wretched Paddy washed up on the shores of their past. Just as long as he’s in Hobart, I guess...
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
There is no such thing as conversation. It is an illusion. There are intersecting monologues, that is all.
Look at these poor buggers waiting at the lights, ready to head in to work for another day of soul destroying, mind numbing, blood pressure raising work! And it doesn't even matter that these guys will be working in the waterfront precinct, with lovely views and the chance of seeing seals frolicking during their coffee break. It matters not one jot, because they are disenchanted through the crushing numbness that is paid employment in the year 2009.
One that fine note, here's Tuesday Q and A!
This is an easy one today: do you hate your job?
Monday, September 14, 2009
I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat or a prostitute.
My baby is in a rush to not be a baby any more! When does a baby stop being a baby?
Wait a sec, Henry is still my baby, so maybe [baby] Ez will stay my baby for a while yet...
[Note: I'm not sure whether this photograph indicates that Ezra is really big or Jen is really small.]
The sea birds are taking advantage of the end of the football season and setting in on the Henry Fitzgerald McCracken Recreational Ground. Watch out for the rollers though fellas, cricket is just around the corner!
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The gender tests are in, and unfortunately they have very much confirmed that Henry is indeed, a boy.
His mother is said to be devastated.
And he can keep his medal.
Looking at a tree, what do I see?
Sunday Top Five!
Today I can present my Top Five Pets To Buy Henry For His Third Birthday:
5: one wombat;
4: a breeding pair of fairy penguins;
3: one Siberian tiger;
2: one [male] saltwater crocodile;
1: one [female] Great White Shark.
I'm thinking that it will make for a hell of a party.