Skip to main content

Love is being stupid together.


There's no mystery. Kirksway Place, Sandy Bay/ Battery Point/Hobart border. October 2012.

Theme Thursday already and today we are talking CEMETERIES. CEMETERIES, you say? CEMETERIES.

A place where the dead are buried. Especially a place that is not attached to a church.

Hmmmmm.

There must be a few of those place around.

CEMETERIES.

In Spring.

CEMETERIES.

Depressing.

Some people like CEMETERIES.

Some people like being whipped while jack russell terriers lick whipped cream from their pierced nipples.

It takes all sorts.

Comments

Susan said…
OUCH!
Very expressive.

For me the visit is museum-like
with a touch of church/temple,
and even with stained glass
if the sky is right.
joanne said…
omg...I write about loving cemeteries in my post...It does take all kinds!
Pratibha said…
Interesting presentation and collection :)
Mrsupole said…
Hi Kris,

And here I am writing about how my house has turned into a type of Cemetery. I guess it does take all kinds. LOL I would much rather visit a cemetery than have a pierced nipple. Oh the germs the dog would get into the piercing, ugh. You always make me laugh with what you write.

Happy theme Thursday and Happy Halloween for the boys. Hope you all have fun and a great weekend.

God bless.
Roddy said…
You know my worn out old joke.
Cemetary, the dead centre of any town.
Meri said…
Love your image.

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

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