Meanings are not determined by situations, but we determine ourselves by the meanings we give to situations.

When you are heading into work for yet another long day, you tend to cling to any bit of beauty you can find. East Derwent Highway, the Lindisfarne/Geilston Bay border. December 2010.

I’ll call this one Thirty-five Words…

Where is your cell phone? Charging

Relationship? Exultant

Your hair? Brown

Work? Policy

Your sister? None

Your favourite thing? Serenity

Your dream last night? Opportunities

Your favourite drink? Coffee

Your dream car? Feet

The room you’re in? Exposed

Your shoes? Sneakers

Your fears? Rational

What do you want to be in 10 years? Relaxed

Who did you hang out with this weekend? Children

What are you not good at? Apologising

Muffin? Savoury

One of your wish list items? Sleep

Where you grew up? Coast

Last thing you did? E-mail

What are you wearing? Clothes

What aren’t you wearing? Watch

Your pet? Absent

Your computer? Serviceable

Your life? Emerging

Your mood? Tired

Missing? Always

What are you thinking about right now? Thighs

Your car? Huh?

Your kitchen? Open

Your summer? Beach

Your favourite colour? Cobalt

Last time you laughed? Morning

Last time you cried? Birth

School? Over

Love? Absolutely!

Comments

Roddy said…

When you do these surveys can you transcribe "cell" to Mobile. Please!

14 December 2010 at 20:27

Kris McCracken said…

Yes.

16 December 2010 at 14:12

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...

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. ...

This will hurt me...

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