A critic is a man who knows the way but can't drive the car.

Go-to-sleep-forever berries? East Derwent Highway, Geilston Bay. July 2012.

As you know, the Internet is a wonderful place filled with the rich and varied treasures of the world holds (and photos of a grumpy Ezra.) The following are some things that I've had a look at in the last week. I call this: a Compendium of Click-throughs for Monday Morning...

Robert Hughes, the death of a grumpy genius railed in vain against the rise of stupidity

Life has been pathologised to the point that fear is an abnormal anxiety, persistent sadness a mental illness - and psychiatry faces a crisis of legitimacy...

Not on Facebook? What kind of sad sicko are you?

Skip the opening paragraph of this on, the story itself is a cracker. How Poon Lim survived for 133 days at sea, after his ship was torpedoed in 1942. Bludgeoned sharks to death with his water jug; drank seagull blood and generally had a rough time of things...

Do you find 'charisites' annoying? You might like this then...

I have been pondering this very thing myself: the future of work.

One thing that we can deduce from this extensive record of graffiti from Pompeii: the Romans were very rude!

Comments

Kris McCracken said…

Onde estão as pessoas?

13 September 2012 at 13:28

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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