Skip to main content

Despair is the conclusion of fools.


The sand is warm. Calverts Beach, South Arm Peninsula. January 2011.

I am at work and not at the beach. This causes me no end of sorrow. In times of sorrow, I tend to console myself with questions. Today, those questions include:


  1. Where does the law stand when you see an endangered animal eating an endangered plant?


  2. How do sign writers manage when they go on strike? What do they do at their protests?


  3. What did Tim Hardin have against carpenters?


  4. If one is 'expecting the unexpected’, isn’t the unexpected being expected expected? Shouldn’t it be 'expecting the expected’?


  5. Has there ever actually been a ‘civil’ war?


  6. If one synchronised swimmer is drowning, what is the correct protocol for her colleagues?



Correct answers will be rewarded with three hearty cheers and a slap on the back.

Comments

Gemma Wiseman said…
The mind can wander into interesting questions when there is a need to escape pressures of the moment! Love the sense of "nothingness" in these sands! Appealing, unique beauty!
Roddy said…
The sands of time! If nothing else, plenty of sand for a number of time pieces.
A definite legal quandary! Who becomes extinct? Are you able to save both?
Become very vocal!
Carpenters? If I were a plumber? If I were an electrician? Jesus allegedly was a carpenter!
Expecting the expected? It is the uncertainty that is disconcerting.
I think the olden days where they took time out for "TEA", time to clear the fields of the dead and dying and time out for certain holidays would have been more CIVIL.
Look to the coach for guidance.
Kris McCracken said…
GT, we were back there again today. Very windy!

Roddy, no lifelines.

Popular posts from this blog

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.