Ideology has very little to do with 'consciousness'

Ideology has very little to do with 'consciousness' - it is profoundly unconscious.

The Tessellated Pavement. Eaglehawk Neck, January 2011.

Back at work again for the year, but I don’t want to talk about that. Yesterday we all went on a little road trip down to the in the general direction of the Tasman Peninsula. We didn’t venture too far into the Peninsula, sticking around the isthmus that connects it to mainland Tasmania,
Eaglehawk Neck.

Some nice water above the Tessellated Pavement, Eaglehawk Neck, January 2011.

The isthmus itself is about 400 metres long and 30 metres wide at its narrowest point, and is the natural gateway to the peninsula. The British in the 1830s employed a line of starved and beaten (and consequently very angry) dogs were chained to posts across the neck to warn of any convicts attempting to escape the convict prison at Port Arthur (located further south). The area was also heavily patrolled by soldiers, and the guards' quarters is still there as a handy little museum.

For any convict foolhardy enough to attempt the swim, sharks patrol these waters. I am sure that filled their hearts with some joy. It certainly kept Henry a safe distance from the surf.

Pirates Bay, Eaglehawk Neck, January 2011.

The area is a lovely spot, and features a beautiful and rugged terrain with a number of extraordinary geological formations. These include the Tessellated Pavement; an area of flat rock that looks to be a human construction (see the photos), but is in fact formed by erosion. Also nearby are Tasman's Arch, the Blowhole and the Devil's Kitchen, all striking natural formations that I’ll post pictures of in the next few days.

You know it’s a scenic spot when you upload your photos after getting back from a half-day trip and you’ve somehow managed to take 950 photographs!

Pirates Bay, as seen from the Tessellated Pavement! January 2011.

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.

This will hurt me...

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