Skip to main content

Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.


Some weeks ago, Henry, Ezra, Jen and I all set out on a jaunt down the river estuary in the World Famous Hobart Yellow Water Taxi (you've no doubt heard of it). They picked us up just by our door, took us for a bit of a spin - including under the Tasman Bridge - and dropped us off right in town.


Here are some shot Henry took as we made our way under the Bridge. We had a good day for it weather wise, and the lads took their first foray into earning their sea legs! Antarctica next.


Crossing the bridge this morning - on a bus, overcast and grey - I was struck with three thoughts:
  • Poetic prose as a genre is not really my cup of tea.

  • The current Tasmanian election campaign is the least interesting and inspiring since 1996.

  • I think that I'm burnt out.

  • I'm wondering whether the three are related?

    Comments

    Magpie said…
    Well..maybe the first and third, but I doubt your burnout has anything to do with the election. Maybe your perception of it though. I hate burnout...take a rest.
    Roddy said…
    They live in your head, so are possibly related.
    Find a new direction, if possible, to counter burnout.
    Water taxi would be the way to go.
    A little too expensive though.
    yamini said…
    I like the subtle impressions within these photographs.
    KL said…
    Your house must be at a fantastic location if that taxi can come to your door to pick you all up! Wanna a exchange your house with ours :-)?
    smudgeon said…
    Someone said to me the other day of the current election campaign:

    "They didn't want to know us for the past 3 years, and suddenly they've turned into used-car salesman".

    The quality of this current crop is pretty underwhelming...
    Kris McCracken said…
    Me, the incentives for being a pollie are few and far between!

    All else, thanks!

    Popular posts from this blog

    Mad as hell

    So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot. Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when ...

    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...