The very purpose of existence is to reconcile the glowing opinion we hold of ourselves with the appalling things that other people think about us.

To the memory of Fanny... Rescued headstones, St Davids Park, Hobart. January 2012.

Theme Thursday and we are talking about CHANGE. I could talk about the CHANGE from 2011 into 2012, but aside from the number ‘2’, what has CHANGEd?

No, CHANGE is more subtle than that. CHANGE is inexorable, inevitable and inescapable. Like that boulder in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (only in real life you’d be scraping Indy up with a trowel and sending him home in a jar).

Take the case of the loving memory of Fanny [see picture above].

You can be guaranteed that when they planted poor Fanny in the ground, there was a suitably somber atmosphere with nary a snigger, snicker or titter at the back. Fast-forward 136 years and you write TO THE MEMORY OF FANNY on a wall and you would raise more than a few eyebrows.

All because the meanings of words CHANGE. Words themselves CHANGE. Fanny used to mean one thing, and now it means something quite different.

When it comes to CHANGE it seems that we need to accept CHANGE. There is little point in fighting CHANGE, but some rationale in shaping CHANGE. Nudging CHANGE, influencing CHANGE and choosing which CHANGE to embrace and which to defy.

Whatever the case, fair play to Fanny.

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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