Compassion is the desire that moves the individual self to widen the scope of its self-concern to embrace the whole of the universal self.

Two (non-cute kiddie related) images today, and it continues my tendency to (either)

Equivocate due to an inexplicable loss of confidence in my ability to judge the merits of a photograph; or
Actively engage my audience into the creative process.

Both photos were taken this morning on my way to work. Not dissimilar to an image that I’ve featured before. Now, I really do like that photograph, but wasn’t satisfied with the reflection of the flag, which kind of ruins the shot. I narrowed down to two favourites from an original batch of nine. Originally, I felt that the image above was the clear winner, as it continues my fascination with getting down low into the shot and utilising a perspective that (wankery alert) “challenges orthodoxy”.

[There are a multitude of examples just in the last two months. Perhaps I feel it might hide the deficiencies of the camera (or its operator!)]

But, I dunno. In the shot below, I know that the colours and detail on the rope and chain are all washed out; but conversely, the reflection is far, far better. I thought about going black and white to minimise the muting of the colour, but then I lose much of what I like of the reflection.

I know that a lot of keen photographers follow this blog (many, if not most, far better than I), and am very much interested in your opinion. Are the flaws in that second shot beyond salvaging? And is the first shot as good as my gut tells me?

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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