Ingratitude is the essence of vileness.

We need to talk. Errol Flynn Reserve, Sandy Bay. November 2011.

Theme Thursday again and today we are casting our net to try and find an appropriate EVENT.

I considered penning an ode to the fellow who appears to have launched his own Occupy Mayfair Plaza Car Park Toilet protest (fair dinkum, he’s been in there for 45 minutes already), but I’m not sure that it really qualifies as an EVENT until the riot police move in with vicious dogs and capsicum spray).

In the past week or so we’ve had World AIDS Day, World Day of Persons with Disabilities and International Volunteers Day; and immediately looming are Human Rights Day and International Migrants Day. However, as we’re amongst friends we can be frank and admit that these thing lack the pizzazz, zing, zest and a host of other zed words that truly constitutes an EVENT.

The upcoming Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe has EVENT potential, but unless a rabid band of Guadalupens are planning to throw that virgin into a throbbingly angry volcano on live pay-per-view satellite telecast, the world just isn’t interested.

In a similar vein, today is Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which – you know – sounds great in theory, but has nothing to do with the ritual cannibalisation of holy babies that might actually make the six-o’clock news. December 17 offers Wright Brothers Day. I’ve yet to confirm it, but I strongly suspect that this will not involve the re-animated zombie corpses or Orville and Wilbur cage fighting in the University of Dayton Arena. If it doesn’t, consider it a scratching.

No, it seems that if we’re after an EVENT, we will have to dredge up that hoary old bloated concept Christmas. Do you know what I have to say to that?

Bah humbug!

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

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...

This will hurt me...

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