This will hurt me...

A Brave New World. It turns out that he was really a girl, and she was at heart a boy. Naturally, this meant things became complicated reasonably quickly. Rather than get caught up in the “He said, She said” (or, for that matter, the “(S)he said, s He said”), they agreed upon a catch up to clear the air. “What do you want to do?”, He said. “What do you want to do?”, She said. “I need coffee”, She said. He nodded, and she sighed. “I don’t really like the coffee here”, He said. So She took her bag and left.

D'ya think he knows?

The fine art of the handwritten letter shall not die while Henry strides the Earth!

Ezra's first completely unassisted attempt at writing his name is a great success!

Not a word of a lie: Henry wrote every single letter himself.

Henry now is able to write his own name. I think that it is a magnificent achievement. Three cheers for Henry!

This photo was taken some time ago, and tellingly, it reveals that young Henry's cursive script at age 2 already surpasses my own. Well done Henry!

Here is an early evening shot of the (former) warehouses down in Salamanca Place. Have a drabble. Clive “I don’t know anything,” he said. He meant it. He really didn’t know anything, apart from that fact, of course. This was a problem. It was a problem that affected most aspects of his life, and – eventually – his death. For example, he would forget about turning off his lights, thus his power bill would be immense most months. He would forget to pay his power bill, and the electricity would duly be shut off. He’d forget that his power was shut off, and the place would get awfully cold during winter. Naturally, one particularly cold winter, he died of exposure. To be continued...

and i never really knew what was going on but blue lights red lights all around so window open scarper down street wanting all the time find out fuss i never even knew the girl by now i feel sick and taste bile need a drink need a smoke i don't even smoke drinking down the drunken admiral send you all my regards you're so tough you're so hard rain's coming down now sleep's well clear so west is the go go west young man and the lights on cambridge road stretch out and invite how i'd like to stop here right here with someone like you the gulf between the things i want and the things i need but watch out watch out don't trust anyone these days wait and think and think and think nothing of it of course if i were five years young ten years prettier if i was fifteen how things would be different but it's the drink and a longing look longing for that look could it be could it be no up to your old tricks again never to be trusted never be seen never saw always s...

Looking out. Lookunout. Lukunout. Lukunoot. Look a nut! Look an out! Luke an owl. Look leek soup. Loop-de-loop. The loop. The hoop. Circle. Perfect circle. Acquaintances and friends. They don't come in conveniant sizes. Round. Roundabout. Roustabout. How about you? How about me? You and me? about me? Nothing doing. Nothing? Not a stitch. He's a god now. He's dead now. And now. And now. The moment. BECOME. BEING. BECOMING. GONE. Opportunity. Window. Windowless mirror. Image. Image is everything. Anything goes. Going. Going. Gone. Forever. Permanence. Forever. Never. Ever. Together. Two of us. Going. Nowhere. On our own. Own. Possession. Loss. Empty. MT. MG. Racing green. Leaf. Idea. Idea leaf. Imperative. Mission. Plan. Master. Slave. Morality. Ammorality. Herd. Sheep. Flock. Frock. Jesus. Christ. Right. Wrong. Write on. Write off. Right off the planet. Right now. Right then. How about you? You? You? You and me? NEVER! Together. Pieces. Puzzle. Quandry. Quantity. Quality. Qu...

This bit of worn asphalt down near the waterfront has had plenty of work put in to drawing attention to the hazards of a crack in the footpath. Of cousre, one wonders why someone could go to all this effort, but actually avoid fixing it. Personally, it looks like overkill to me (I mean, it's been left untended for at least a month now), but I am sure that the fact it lays right on the pub crawl trail has nothing to do with the effort of looking to avoid potentially litigious drunkards. Not long ago, I discovered the beauty and challenge of the drabble . For the uninitiated, a drabble is a work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length. The purpose of the drabble is brevity, and it is a real test of an author's ability to express [hopefully] interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. As such, it may prove a useful friend to the blogger who remains pressured to find material to continue posting a couple of times a day. So , here's a drabble I whi...

So we went to the beach yesterday. It was a bit overcast, and a bit too cold to swim (unless you're a Great White Shark). That didn't stop Henry demonstrate his superior penmanship in the sand. I got plenty of photos, so expect to be drip fed over the next few days.

I think Henry looks here like a young, beardless Castro with a pencil instead of his cigar. How about a young and angry Norman Mailer? Perhaps a caption competition is in order. Can you tell me what he's saying?

Yeah yeah, more boats. The other morning I spotted this scene and felt compelled to take a photograph. Here is a really short story for you. Footsteps echo on the path outside as another drunken group erupts with laughter. You hear a car door slam and an engine refuse to start. A wailing "Christ, don't do this to me now" and a "Shut the fuck up Darren" seems to blend in together with the faint aroma of the kabab takeaway up the road and the feel of rough edged polyester sheets; so you close your eyes. You think about where you are and where you possibly could be. You're shivering and wonder why it is that you can't get warm. Pressing your face into the pillow, you can still hear the noise of the street. And your mind wanders. You think about her and you think about you. The memories keep you awake. They entice. They tease. They bother your eyes when nights are cold and you know that you'll never sleep again.

I like the shapes that you can get sometimes working with the angles of various buildings. There are three separate buildings here, but one day I'd love to get six in one shot. Last week I posted a little bit of prose that I constructed in a reasonably straightforward manner. As is my wont however, I applied my own theory of surrealistic realism to the piece and rewrote the bugger with that in mind: Leaning back he transforms himself into a chair of dirty orange plastic that smells of neglect. Shattering his hands, the room waits. The light-tube mourning as his face develops for all to see. And expedition of eighty-seven is sent to investigate the mystery of his countenance. They map from east to west, recording all they see: eyeballs dripping sadness, nose launching itself from the landscape for easier access, cavernous mouth overflowing with small, white children standing out of line. This was the last we heard of them as he inhales the room, extracting his head and placing it ...

Here is the vista overlooking Battery Point from the second floor of the McDougal Building. As you can see, it was a bit blue out there that day. I though that after the success of my self portrait last week , I'd try another, this time in words. Me I am hope I am old-school I am expectation I am got I am mother I am goal I am ice I am all business I am can I am everywhere I am insignificant I am plastic I am practice I am mundane I am selflessness I am rock I am automatic I am okay I am need I am not I am taste I am alphabet I am promise I am cat I am interception I am rehearsal I am waiting I am vacation I am death I am desire I am away I am desperation I am joy I am something I am indigenous I am child I am wretched I am heavy I am key I am repression I am head I am father I am why I am folly I am after I am inundation I am illicit I am the I am order I am awake I am saviour I am drum I am touch I am sabotage I am static I am rhythm I am theory I am away I am glide I am destinat...

The big boys court is just up the road from my work, which means that if you walk down that street of a morning, you often see the real nasty characters innocent until proven guilty being loaded from a cage on wheels into a cage around a door (leading to another cage just inside the door, one suspects). I usually have the camera safely tucked away, lest we have some kind of misunderstanding . justice a full Phil meant nothing of it. "a joke, a stupid joke gone wrong" (fuck forgive me look at me don't judge me) to the charge in court (a full six months later) phil could only say "sorry" nothing (quite so dramatic) was intended.

This supermarket trolley was just sitting on Parliament lawn one morning. Just sitting there like the Mary Celeste . No idea how it got there, as the nearest supermarket would be a good few kilometres away by foot (with a ruddy steep hill as well). I liked the mystery of it, so I wrote a poem about it. i did. i never did understand. i did i never ever did understand. understanding understand? never did i did. never. did. under. done. could. maybe. never. i didn't couldn't wouldn't shouldn't. do you understand that i never did. confidence. thing a. our. i did. never. understand.

Leaning back, he sits as he was taught at primary school, erect and upright. Moulding his spine to the straight-backed, uncomfortable orange chair he appears awkwardly tall. Looking down at his hands he loudly cracks each knuckle, startling with the left, pinkie finger until he reaches the opposite on his right hand. Forehead glistening in the harsh tube light, he possesses an impersonal face that offers despondency to all who encounter it. His large brown eyes soak in sadness, expressing his reality, even as he tries to smile. A swollen, crimson nose rises out of the centre of his face to give him a listless appearance. An overly large mouth, lips concealing uneven teeth, together with jawbone and cheekbone extend the face beyond normal length. His pale, wan complexion coupled with a semi-permanent scowl display a quality if not attractive, the actuality of this face reaches at least some degree of uniqueness. This may be due to the room, the fluorescent lighting, the achromatic setti...

Here is an old building down here in Salamanca that now houses luxury apartments, an art gallery, a gym and a hair salon. I'm not sure that the old crowd of convicts, prostitutes, drunken sailors, scallywags, scoundrels, reprobates, degenerates, ne'er-do-wells, rouges and rotters would be welcome around these parts any more. It’s all three hundred dollar sunglasses and designer pooches these days. I have been looking at a report that I am currently working on, and pleasantly note that I am trying to do my best to keep the use of lovely words alive and well in the sterile, mundane and (frankly) pitifully constructed word of public policy. That said, I’m not sure what the insipid automatons of the field make of me talking about ameliorating harm, adroit policy shifts, a conflation of interests, diffuse reasoning, ephemeral outcomes, eschewing simplistic solutions or indeed the preponderance of nebulous ideas set before us. I have a propinquity for beautiful words but t...