Skip to main content

War is the unfolding of miscalculations.


Time. Home, Geilston Bay. July 2011.

1. Who are you?
I am me.

2. What is your biggest goal for this year?
To make it through unscathed.

3. Where do you want to be in 5 years?
Somewhere nice.

4. What stage of life are you in right now?
I am – according to the BBC – currently in the most expensive year of life. Somebody forgot to tell me!

5. Are you more child-like or childish?
Childish.

6. What is the last thing you said out loud?
“It will probably end up snowing all October.”

7. What song comes closest to how you feel about your life right now?
Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey.

8. Does your life tend to get better or worse or does it just stay the same?
At present we are kind of treading water.

9. Does time really heal all wounds?
No, I don’t think that it does.

10. How do you handle a rainy day?
Badly.

11. Do you tend to be aware of what is going on around you?
Acutely so.

12. What is the truest thing that you know?
Anybody who isn’t confused doesn’t really understand the situation.

13. What did you want to be when you grew up?
Somebody.

14. Have you ever been given a second chance?
I think so.

15. Are you more of a giver or a taker?
Probably a giver, but that’s not always as nice as you might think.

16. Do you make your decisions with an open heart/mind?
One does try, but one is only human, after all.

17. Who have you hugged today?
Jen, Ezra and Henry. Henry was being a little bit slippery about it though.

Comments

Roddy said…
Time is of the essence. Time waits for no man. (Woman, child.)

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

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