We die only once, and for such a long time.

Proud Gull. Boat Harbour. April 2013.

It is another Theme Thursday and today sees a burst of CREATIVITY and a shot little piece that came to me on the walk to work.

I call it Perception.

Quiet Jim was the first of the old gang to die. It came as a bit of a shock to get the invite to his funeral on Facebook. There were five in our gang: me; Quiet Jim (he was the quiet one); Loud Jim (he was the loud one); Big Jim (he was the fat one); and Little Jim (he wasn't very little, but he was much smaller than Big Jim). They just called me ‘Mike’.

It was a surprise to all of us that Quiet Jim was the first to go. He was so, well, quiet. Loud Jim drank too much, got into fights and generally wasn't a very nice person.Big Jim’s diet was terrible, he smoked like a chimney and the mere thought of exercise could send him into apoplexy. Little Jim (who really wasn't little at all) had a taste for bizarre sexual practices. I’m pretty laid back, but as an avid trainspotter am always running the risk when waiting by the railway lines.

No, Quiet Jim was, well, quiet. He never got in any trouble and kept his opinions to himself. He didn't smoke or drink. Nor was there any suggestion that he was into Autoerotic asphyxiation. He didn't even like trains.

Quiet Jim was a great listener. He was measured. Mature. Stoic. Everybody liked Quiet Jim. Therefore it was no surprise that there was a big turnout to the funeral. There were lots of tears and lots of kind words. His friends stressed his bravery. His brother spoke of the inspiration he took for him. His sister concentrated on the hurdles that he overcame. His mother spoke at length about the challenges inherent in having a child who spent his whole life in a permanent vegetative state.

Oh.

I just thought that he was shy.

I was even more shocking than the fact that he died. Then again, I have never been very perceptive.

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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