The poor don't know that their function in life is to exercise our generosity.

Spotted outside The Shipwright Arms. Coleville Street, Battery Point. November 2011.

So I did this Myers-Briggs thing the other day, and it turns out I am a classic INTJ which pegs me at introversion, intuition, thinking and judgment – which is one of the rarest of the sixteen personality types, and accounts for about 1–4% of the population.

Window #1, The Shipwright Arms. Coleville Street, Battery Point. November 2011.

Quite correctly, INTJs are referred to as Masterminds, one of the four types belonging to the temperament called the Rationals. The Meyer-Briggs Foundation define us INTJs as

Have[ing] original minds and great drive for implementing their ideas and achieving their goals. Quickly see patterns in external events and develop long-range explanatory perspectives. When committed, organize a job and carry it through. Skeptical and independent, have high standards of competence and performance – for themselves and others.

Window #2, The Shipwright Arms. Coleville Street, Battery Point. November 2011.

INTJs are analytical beings who eschew leadership roles, although we are prepared to lead if no one else seems up to the task, or if they see a major weakness in the current leadership. We tend to be pragmatic, logical, and creative with a low tolerance for rampant emotionalism. They are not generally susceptible to catchphrases and do not recognise authority based on tradition, rank, or title.

Now, I am usually dubious about these things, but I think that this INTJ thing has nailed me.

Window #3, The Shipwright Arms. Coleville Street, Battery Point. November 2011.

So I put it to you, dear reader; to take this test and tell me in the comments the box within which Jung would have put you. Does it sound like you? Are YOU susceptible to rampant emotionalism?

I'd dearly love to know...

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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