A man is his own easiest dupe, for what he wishes to be true he generally believes to be true.

Melting moments. Hastings Cave, Huon Valley. June 2011.

Now these caves started to form around forty million years ago, but seemed to be unseen until 1917, when forest workers knocked down a bloody great big tree and knocked a great big hole in the ground to reveal an entrance. As usual, they named the bugger after the governor of the time who never bothered to visit.

Mud from the mid-1960s. Hastings Cave, Huon Valley. June 2011.

The cave itself is a decent size with a bit of light. There are a bunch of stairs that can get pretty steep, but Ezra managed to them just fine. Formed in dolomite, this cave is a bit different from the usual limestone around these parts. Despite being the middle of winter, underground is pretty nice, with the temperature a comfortable nine degrees Celsius.

Comments

Roddy said…

It was quite comfortable, but I don't think I could handle the dampness.

13 June 2011 at 16:37

Kris McCracken said…

It was very dry consider the days of rain preceding it.

13 June 2011 at 18:27

Roddy said…

Somehow I think the bearskins would soak up any moisture that may be around. No wonder there are no koala bears in Tasmania.

13 June 2011 at 20:24

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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