(My) Photo of the day, Or Loneliness is never more cruel than when it is felt in close propinquity with someone who has ceased to communicate

I COULD like to say that I was walking to the bus stop this morning and spotted a running light sabre battle, and that in all of the commotion, this was the best shot that I could get.

Or, I COULD like to say that this photograph seeks to examine the sort of neo-patriarchial imagery in which one is presented with an almost Hobbesean choice: either reject textual rationalism or conclude that (T)ruth may be used to entrench sexist perceptions of society, given that consciousness is equal to truth. In a sense, the dialectic of the pre-cultural paradigm of consensus prevalent in modern portraiture is also evident in other forms of the visual arts. Thus, the nude is dead, long live squiggly lines!

Or, I COULD say that I was twirling like a little fairy-child up the road taking photos of the cars as they went past with a blissful ignorance usually found in toddlers or first year law students.

BUT, the truth is that I was walking up the road, stopped and tried to get a halfway decent shot of some cars at the traffic lights. However, it wasn’t happening, so in a fit of pique, I waved the camera around saying “there, how do you like that!” When I checked all of the photos that I had taken for the morning, I found that I quite liked the result, and decided to share it with the world.

So there you go world, I hope you are having a good day.

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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