“How is it that their government, which is supposed to be their servant, is acting as their master?”

Sloop Rock. Bay of Fires, Tasmania. July 2021.

How Beautiful We Were by Imbolo Mbue

This novel is a suitably bleak exploration of modern African history in the form of a novel. The unnamed country could stand-in for any number of post-colonial regimes that have fallen under the iron fist of a cruel dictator and exploited by foreign oil companies.

The fate of the villagers of Kosawa is heartbreaking, brutally illustrated through the stark choices forced upon them. Mbue beautifully demonstrates the lives of those wishing to preserve their traditional tribal lifestyles and protect their children from the illnesses caused by the environmental degradation caused by an American oil company.

The story arches across a generation, and the echoes of earlier generations abound. Be warned. This is no 'feel good' tale as atrocity is piled upon horror and the consequences of 'standing up for right' is deftly contrasted with those that choose to swim with the current, however debased that might be.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

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If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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

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

This will hurt me...

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