I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink. I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink.

I didn't get more than half hour straight sleep last night, so forgive the lack of narrative. I'll let the pictures do the talking instead.

Look at this face. It is the face on an angel.

How could an angel sound like the devil ALL NIGHT LONG is what I want to know.

I shall endevour to post more throughout the day, or at least I shall order the robot to do it.

Comments

Anonymous said…

He's certainly fleshed out a bit. Can we get an update on weight when you have one. I thought he looked like Henry, but now I'm not so sure.

12 August 2008 at 11:28

freefalling said…

I see a quiet, steely determination in that face (could be the clenched fist, too).

12 August 2008 at 15:29

Anonymous said…

Look at that little fist. So adorable.

13 August 2008 at 11:10

Kris McCracken said…

There is still a bit of Henry there, I reckon.

14 August 2008 at 13:51

Neva said…

so sweet! Love the fist....you all are in for quite the ride with this young man!

15 August 2008 at 10:13

FRances said…

Ezra just looks like you as a baby maybe a little bit of jason in him to.

19 August 2008 at 11:52

Kris McCracken said…

He has a nick over the eye now where Henry whacked him one. He looks a right little bruiser.

19 August 2008 at 20:48

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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