Use the occasion, for it passes swiftly.

Grass will grow. East Derwent Highway, Lindisfarne. August 2012.

As you know, the Internet is a wonderful place filled with the rich and varied treasures of the world holds (and RSS feeds.) 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...

Bare necessity? The public health implications of removing pubic hair.
France faces up to her past.
Allowed itself to be tied to one man's (anti-American) agenda. Overpromised on leaks it never delivered, overhyped ones it did. Cavalier in not redacting dissidents' names. Once seemed a game-changer; now a one-man soap opera... How WikiLeaks Blew It.
It seems quite simple really. How is rape defined in different countries?
It's not about the outcomes... Gillard and Abbott’s ‘race to the top’ to support private schools.
On that: The membrane that surrounds the political debate over school education policy is highly resilient. In this bubble, there are a number of verities, established during the Howard era, when Commonwealth school funding was skewed increasingly towards the private sector. Our leaders in epic fail on education.
Why George Orwell is as relevant today as ever.

Comments

Mrsupole said…

I don't know how that could possibly be grass when it looks totally like a weed to me. Those are some intense click throughs.

God bless.

27 August 2012 at 18:14

Roddy said…

Can you actually call this grass and not just a mixed bag of weeds?
About forty five years ago I remember them pulling a five story building down and within three weeks of being gone the weeds appeared where the basement once was.

27 August 2012 at 20:54

Kris McCracken said…

Grassy grass grass.

7 September 2012 at 12:26

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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