It is always easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them.

Oh Mr Hart… What a mess! Billy Goat Lane, the Battery Point/ Sandy Bay border. January 2012..

Theme Thursday again and I am under the pump to PRODUCE a witty, thoughtful and reflective piece on the topic. Now, I had a fabulous idea in mind that involved more than ten litres of white paint, a world famous landmark and a snappy catchphrase from a 1970s Afro-American centric sitcom [you know, the one that alludes to the composition of nitro-glycerine or ammonium nitrate dispersed in some kind of absorbent medium (you know, wood pulp or such) and an antacid (commonly such as calcium carbonate)].

Unfortunately, with the paint tins weighing be down and me trying to keep reading my book and hitting those stairs [above]...

Well... you can see what happened.

Thus all I have PRODUCEd, all that I have brought to the table today is a great big mess.

Comments

Brian Miller said…

well that is quite the beautiful mess you created...smiles.

19 January 2012 at 15:02

Mrsupole said…

I think it looks more like art than a big mess, it is just in black and white. Just be more careful next time because we do not need any red color flowing down those stairs.

Happy Theme Thursday, thanks for playing.

God bless.

20 January 2012 at 23:36

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

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

This will hurt me...

Search This Blog