Every man with a bellyful of the classics is an enemy to the human race.

This is the inner sleeve of the break up album.

We won't mention the foreign avant-garde artiste...

Comments

Julie said…

That codger in the foreground has a touch of Lou Reed about him. The eyes I think ... or it could be the mouth ...

1 January 2011 at 21:09

ratatouille's archives said…

Hi! Kris, Jen, Henry and Ezra...
Happy New Year!
I hope that you, your family, friends and readers...have a very pleasant, very safe, and prosperous...New Year!

Kris...
Two nice things going on...First,the photographs Of Henry and Ezra...and Secondly, the quote.

Thanks, for sharing!
DeeDee ;-D

1 January 2011 at 23:45

Mo said…

They are growing so fast. Love this portrait. They will love this record of their life when they are grown up. Happy 2011

2 January 2011 at 05:07

Roddy said…

Tell them that they can't break up until I have seen them.
Where was the digital camera when you were that age?
Oh yeah, about 30 years into the future.

2 January 2011 at 12:44

Kris McCracken said…

Julie, he's just tired...

DeeDee, and to you and yours!

Mo, 2011 will be a big one!

Roddy, the first true digital camera that recorded images as a computerized file was likely the Fuji DS-1P of 1988.

4 January 2011 at 09:42

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. ...

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...

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...

This will hurt me...

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