He who has laughter on his side has no need of proof.

Ezra re-enacts his birth experience with his mother.

It's all part of the healing process.

As part of the festivities, I give you the week of his birth! [Start at the bottom and scroll up.]

All good art is an indiscretion.

On June 21, 2008, I alerted the world to an outbreak of guerilla knitting. After a period without any action in this war on woolsynthetic rubbish, the textile terrorists have STRUCK AGAIN!

All that I can say is "who are these people?" and "why do they hate our freedom bike racks?"



In celebration of the theme, today's entry into the rolling Saturday Festival of *someone else's* Poetry is probably my favourite poem about knitting (a long list indeed).

Grey Knitting, Katherine Hale

ALL through the country, in the autumn stillness,
A web of grey spreads strangely, rim to rim;
And you may hear the sound of knitting needles,
Incessant, gentle,–dim.

A tiny click of little wooden needles,
Elfin amid the gianthood of war;
Whispers of women, tireless and patient,
Who weave the web afar.

Whispers of women, tireless and patient–
'Foolish, inadequate!' we hear you say;
'Grey wool on fields of hell is out of fashion,'
And yet we weave the web from day to day.

Suppose some soldier dying, gaily dying,
Under the alien skies, in his last hour,
Should listen, in death's prescience so vivid,
And hear a fairy sound bloom like a flower–

I like to think that soldiers, gaily dying
For the white Christ on fields with shame sown deep,
May hear the fairy click of women's needles,
As they fall fast asleep.

Few people have the imagination for reality.

Henry has been in training for the Coolangatta Gold for some time now. We've had in running up and down sand dunes all over the State, just last week we were at Opossum Bay and not only did he break his own record, he managed to wrestle a number of Great Whites in the process!

All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.

One of the differences between beaches in Tasmania's north west (the place of my birth and first eighteen years), and beaches in Tasmania's south east (where I've lived for the past - gulp - fourteen [!] years; is the distinct lack of crabs in the south.

I believe that the fellow photographed - in Wynyard - above is the notorious Cyclograpsus granulosus, other wise known as the Rough Shore Crab. They've earned that name by [allegedly] frequenting the tough bars and clubs in the shore and dock districts of Tasmania, picking fights with sailors and frequenting prostitutes.

Tough talking crustaceans are of course not the only difference between north and south. As a general rule, north west men are a) bigger; b) stronger; c) smarter; d) more attractive; e) more virile; f) wittier; g) more adroit; h) more ebullient; and - not least - i) far more modest.

This odd evolutionary (?) quirk may or may not be related to the crab wrestling required from toddlerhood on.

Nothing helps a bad mood like spreading it around.

You with the bloody camera again!

What?

WHAT?!?

He is dead in this world who has no belief in another.

Here you can see the view from the beach at Opossum Bay looking out over the river estuary towards Mount Wellington. We've been spending an inordinate amount of time at beaches this summer, lounging around, eyeing off the local talent, such as these two burly kayaks fiddling about in the water.

You just want to capture it in a BOTTLE and keep it forever!

Alas, weekends must end and work recommence. Somehow, I need to fuse the two.

Oh, by the by, it is Theme Thursday, and I am wondering if you can guess the theme?

I love mankind; it's people I can't stand.

Eating ice cream in Richmond, whilst wearing an Essendon singlet.

Could anything be finer?

Those who stand for nothing fall for anything.

I have a tendency to look up trees and see what I can find. This tree is in St David's Park. Have I found anything of note?

Apologies for the brevity of late, but it's National Drug Strategy time of year, and I'm whirling like a dervish to get the bugger done.

It's not denial. I'm just selective about the reality I accept.

Sand or no sand, Ezra was going to eat that banana down on Opossum Bay!

Ads that I like: #87

The market is a shifty bugger. There is obviously a limit to one’s ability to sell people stuff. Ultimately, people are going to get to a point where they don’t need anything more. The solution? Create a need!

Now you, me and everybody else may well have gone on for thousands of years never having noticed the subtleties of life. Creases in our brow, different skin textures on our elbows, imprecise smells in our intimate parts...

To a marketer, these aren’t the intangibles that make life, love and the whole shebang. These are opportunities to be exploited!

Have a crease in the corner of your eye?

EVERYBODY IS LOOKING AT YOU! BUY THIS CREAM AND MAKE THEM STOP!

Rough skin to protect the point of your elbow?
YOU HAG! HOW CAN A MAN EVERY LOVE YOU? GET SOME OINTMENT ON THAT!

Smell like a woman?

HOW DARE YOU! YOU MAKE US ALL SICK!

Modern life, it really is wonderful.

Thinking is more interesting than knowing, but less interesting than looking.

Here is an artsy fartsy black and white taken down at Princes Dock in Salamanca. There's a nice mix of cloud and sunlight, and I particularly like how the reflections on the water to the right look like little stars.

I have a poem, one of my own this time:

cake, by Kris McCracken

cake
filled with nuts.

rats!

nuts!

cake
filled with nuts,
worse than

cake
filled with rats.

A whole stack of memories never equal one little hope.

Henry is patiently watching the Emu River in Burnie, waiting for a glimpse of a platypus.

We got there in the end.

Every work of art is an uncommitted crime.

Is it just me that feels a little uneasy when you see a door especially set aside for a dubious role (and labelled as such) in the holding cells that are found underneath Tasmania’s Supreme Court. Look closely.

No, it’s not a BELL.

“Escape door”!?!

In a cell?

It’s political correctness gone mad.

The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil.

Remember that bit where Joe Pesci meets his demise at the end of Casino?

This was kind of like that...

All satire is blind to the forces liberated by decay. Which is why total decay has absorbed the forces of satire.

Life rafts: they come in all shapes and sizes these days! They reckon sixteen people will fit into this one. Sixteen!

Maybe if ten eat the other six...

On that note, here is today's Sunday Top Five: My All Time Top Five [interesting] Maritime Disasters!

5: SS Mont-Blanc

4: MV Wilhelm Gustloff

3: RMS Lusitania

2: Neva

1: Cataraqui