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

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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