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

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

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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