A means can be justified only by its end. But the end in its turn needs to be justified.

So here we have an angry little baby in the foreground, and a toddler doing his best Olga Korbut impression in the background. For some reason, Henry seems compelled from some external force to forward roll, forward roll, forward roll! It matters not that there is a baby in front, a box of lego, an innocent father; the only thing that matters is the forward roll.

I sometimes wish that life were that simple for me.

Comments

Jim Klenke said…

At least hes going in the right direction, forward.

19 September 2008 at 12:27

KL said…

I think it has something to do with being young. I used to do those a lot and all those (I don't what they are called) cartwheeling on floor like the gymnasts do, and continued with them till like the age of 9 or 10. Everywhere I see children doing that. Perhaps something to do with our monkey and ape genes :-).

20 September 2008 at 06:31

freefalling said…

Henry might be interested in the variations of a somersault as outlined in Wikipedia.
Personally, I wouldn't mind seeing a photo of him attempting a "Flash Kick" - a back somersault with legs split to represent a 'kick') [not a recognized competition move]

20 September 2008 at 07:14

Kris McCracken said…

Jim, that is a good start.

KL, I was always very bad a cartwheels. It is amazing how little kids do play around exactly like monkeys!

FF, I think that I’ve seen one of them in Fame or Flashdance. Henry does own some leg warmers...

22 September 2008 at 15:38

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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