(My) Photo of the day, Or Oh if I ever lose my hands, oh if.... I won't have to work no more

I don't care what anyone says, I think that this photo is lovely. I am posting it as a companion piece to the sunrise I posted the other day. Only this time, I am going to call this a ‘moonset’.

It is my firm belief that the moon gets a raw deal from people. The moon is also closely linked to two of my favourite things.

First, many cultures link the monthly cycle of the moon – in contrast to the annual cycle of the sun – to women's menstrual cycles. That’s got to help explain why so many of the mythological lunar deities are ladies. Think Selene, Phoebe, Artemis and Diana.

Second, the words 'lunacy", ‘lunatic’, and ‘loony’ are derived from lunar because of the folk belief in the moon as a cause of periodic insanity. Think about werewolves assumed their shape shifting abilities because of appearence of the full moon.

So the next time that you find yourself accusing your wife of reacting like a rabid werewolf or crazy loon at ‘that time of the month’, you may well be closer to the truth than she might acknowledge!

Comments

Anonymous said…

Fortunately, at 72 (almost) my wife is no longer looney once a month. LOL She would scalp me if she knew I said that.

29 May 2008 at 21:39

freefalling said…

Sailing very close to the wind!

30 May 2008 at 04:53

Kris McCracken said…

Freefalling, as I always say, "If you're not sailing close to the wind, you're not sailing!"

Abe, to be honsest, with the toddler that was breast fed for 15 months and another baby due in 70 days, the monthly visits have been few and far between in our house. It must be something else then...

[He says, siling right into a cyclone.]

30 May 2008 at 08:29

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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