As always, the British especially shudder at the latest American vulgarity, and then they embrace it with enthusiasm two years later.

Why is there a lion on the Tasmanian flag? Mount Nelson Signal Station, Mount Nelson. March 2011.

Mount Nelson is a suburb of the city of Hobart, Tasmania, Australia. Its name would suggest that it is located upon a mountain, but you’ve not reckoned with the cunning logic of Tasmanians.

Now, there is no universally accepted definition of a mountain. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a mountain as
a natural elevation of the earth surface rising more or less abruptly from the surrounding level and attaining an altitude which, relatively to the adjacent elevation, is impressive or notable.
Strictly speaking, Mount Nelson is not much of a mountain. Given that Mount Wellington towers over it right next door, I’m not sure it’s visage is either impressive or notable. Indeed, its highest peak is a measly 350 metres above sea level.

The view of South Arm Peninsula and beyond. Mount Nelson Signal Station, Mount Nelson. March 2011.

Mount Nelson was originally named Nelson's Hill – a far more appropriate name – by noted subject of revolts, Captain William Bligh (think mutiny on the Bounty/Rum Rebellion). The Nelson is not THE Nelson though, it actually refers to David Nelson, ~~local brothel keeper and night soil collector~~ chief Botanist of the Bounty mission. The name 'Nelson's Hill' was later altered to Mount Nelson, no doubt to assuage any feelings of inadequacy.

The station itself was used to keep an eye on traffic coming up the Derwent Estuary, and send/receive messages down to Port Arthur (usually relating to the behaviour of one Martin Cash).

the view from within the Signal Station itself. Mount Nelson Signal Station, Mount Nelson. March 2011.

The Signal Station itself is about the size of a (very small) front room you might find in a Victorian terrace house. I’m sure that it must have been quite dull sitting up there in the pre- ~~Internet~~ PC ~~television~~ ~~radio~~ ~~telephone~~ telegraph.

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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