There is no error so monstrous that it fails to find defenders among the ablest men.

There really is never enough time in the day. As the time stamp on this post will attest, time is something in short supply of late!

Yes, yes... Theme Thursday again, and as I walk into walk I can't help but think the sun glinting off the [no doubt solid gold] cross atop St George's Anglican Church [did you know that churches have websites now?] in Battery Point is a SIGN from upon high.

Just what that SIGN signifies, I'm not sure. I suspect that it involves time, or a donkey, or maybe some kind of immaculate conception. One thing that I do know however, is that I don't know.

Not knowing is a kind of knowing.

Perhaps that's the SIGN.

Or significance.

I'll get my coat...

Comments

Roddy said…

It looks silver from where I'm sitting.
Not knowing can be a sign of not really caring.
Unless you are deeply religious then I don't think it really matters.
Bring on eternity. Heaven or Hell, as purgatory is here and now.

25 March 2010 at 15:43

Megan said…

I know for sure I don't know. At least I know SOMETHING for sure.

25 March 2010 at 15:57

anthonynorth said…

Some signs are very subjective, aren't they?

25 March 2010 at 19:40

Brian Miller said…

saw a church sign yesterday that said "LIVE DONKEY AT EASTER!" and i just laughed...

26 March 2010 at 00:47

Betsy Brock said…

A donkey would be for Palm Sunday, right? haha.

26 March 2010 at 10:50

Nanc Twop said…

sign or no,
its looks like a very
interesting church

;-)

26 March 2010 at 11:27

Kris McCracken said…

Thanks all. Last week was quiet!

1 April 2010 at 11:04

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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