An artist is like a woman who can do nothing but love, and who succumbs to every stray male jackass.

Henry received a guitar for Christmas. He fancies himself as a balladeer in the vein of a John B. Sebastian or Richie Havens, but he sounds more like an incredibly drunk Bob Dylan.

I see big things on his horizon.

Comments

yamini said…

He would look gorgeous even when drunk, I'm sure of that.

5 January 2010 at 20:04

Priyanka Khot said…

He is adorable. I hope he plays the guitar throughout the year and ever after. Hope that u enjoy it too and are not too bothered by it.

5 January 2010 at 20:27

Priyanka Khot said…

Happy new year to Jen, Henry, Ezra and especially you!

5 January 2010 at 20:27

Sue said…

He actually looks like an incredibly drunk Bob Dylan here...or an over refreshed Keef! What are you putting in his cookies??????

5 January 2010 at 22:51

Roddy said…

Monsters, Sue. They are biscuits as far as I am concerned. Just like candy! Sweets or lollies! Don't start me on the Americanisation of our English.
Love him tender. Love him true. And once he masters the four stringed version, I have a six stringed guitar for him.
Don't forget Ezra on keyboards and backing vocals.

6 January 2010 at 07:48

ratatouille's archives said…

Hi! Kris,
LOL!!!!
Hang in there Henry, with a little more practice, practice and more practice, etc, etc, etc...I'am quite sure that you will master guitar playing!

Take care!
DeeDee ;-D

6 January 2010 at 08:13

Sue said…

Biscuits there are, Roddy...but cookies when they seemingly have other additives!! Get with the groove, man!

6 January 2010 at 10:25

Kris McCracken said…

Thanks all.

I do believe that cookies are biscuits and biscuits are scones. I'm not sure what scones are.

9 January 2010 at 08:53

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. ...

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...

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...

This will hurt me...

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