Man is a credulous animal, and must believe something; in the absence of good grounds for belief, he will be satisfied with bad ones.

Blossoms in bloom. St Johns Park, New Town. October 2010.

As Friday Book Club rolls around, and I’m nearly done with Nobel Prize winning Hungarian Imre Kertész’s exploration of life in a concentration camp Fatelessness. Nearly isn’t enough though, so we’ll save that for next week.

No, the book under discussion today is Former Cold Chisel keyboardist and songwriter Don Walker's first book, Shots.

In clipped prose, Walker conjures up an autobiography quite unlike the norm. More a series of snapshots with a chronological thread, it traces his early life in rural Australia to his time in the Australian music scene. Life in the bush, a crack at uni, boredom in the public service and a struggling muso stuck in ~~Lodi~~ Adelaide. The gap – much to the dismay of some readers – is the period of success. I’m happy to take Walker’s word that we’d be bored by that.

That said, there’s enough wild times on the road, sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll and hard-living Kings Cross if that’s what you are after. The vignettes are all evoked in a pared-back but creative and captivating manner.

I enjoyed it, you might enjoy it too. Highly recommended.

Comments

Kris McCracken said…

This was such a nice photo.

17 December 2010 at 15:05

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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