Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.

Duck feet (from below). Geilston Bay. July 2013.

I'm back on the buses again, which ups the time I have to read. This is always nice.

After The Wall, Jana Hensel: I'm always up for an East German generational memoir, which is Hensel's goal here. What differentiates this one from many of the others is that Hensel reflects on the very last of that generation, those that were at the tail end of their childhood at the fall of the Berlin Wall and whose teenage years coincided with the process of reunification. I'm not certain that this translation helped (it was packed full of jarring Americanisms), but was an interesting-enough reflection. C.

Grendel, John Gardner: A fascinating novel that retells the Anglo-Saxon epic poem Beowulf from the perspective of the monster and - quite successfully - explores (among other things) the nature of good and evil; man's capacity for violence; finding meaning in the world; and the power of literature and myth. I really enjoyed this, and it stands as a great counterpart to the epic poem. B+.

Casino Royale, Ian Fleming: My first ever James Bond book is the first ever James Bond book. The set pieces are effectively tense and well constructed, and Bond is suitably drawn. That said, the intensity of his misogyny has not aged well, and doesn't fit with the heroic nature of the character. Let's be frank, any time the romantic lead posits that sex is at its best when there is a 'touch of rape' present should be a challenge to modern readers. He's also a bit of a prick more generally, to be honest. C+.

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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...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

This will hurt me...

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