This will hurt me...

I've no intention to start a series about power lines, transformers, electricity generation, but am offering you a photograph of the standard Geilston Bay fare. I will concede that it is not quite as romantic and yesterday's Newtown image, but after a couple of beers, a rum and coke, some Barry White, we might be able to generate some kind of heat .

I only play this one every few weeks or so...

A frantic morning saw me zip across the bridge, head up to glorious Newtown, sit for a job interview, zip back down into town for the final walk back to Salamanca. In the rain . In the cold . In a suit . All went well and the future shall hold what she shall hold, far be it from me to second guess providence . Of course, always on the lookout for a snap or two, I was equipped with camera at the ready. This prudence enabled me to take this somewhat interesting photograph of a very green looking Newtown, glowering under the portentous gaze of a mountain shrouded in cloud. [How about that sentence!?!] I myself like the bleakly romantic image of those power pylons with those god-awful brown DHHS buildings that are a decent example of the brutalist architecture seen down this way in the late-1960s. Despite that though, this image for me is kind of pastoral in a way (well, a modern pastoral at least). Perhaps ugly buildings and power pylons are the defining images of modern life, in the s

There are a number of people that I had in mind to sit behind that desk, but chickened out and went with 'generic guy that kind of looks like Tom Cruise'. Similarly, I couldn't get the female character there that I had in mind (who herself nominated Rocky Dennis for the role), so went with Jeanne Garofolo instead. At three episodes, this comic strip gig is already two more than I had envisaged.

I am happy to admit that I don't really get this one. I’ve run through a variety of options, but don’t feel that I am any closer to answering the puzzle. A circle? Too obvious. A parallelogram? It has potential, but too obscure. A fish? A table? A remaindered piece of fabric faded by exposure to sunlight for sustained periods? The choices appear too endless to contemplate. If I disappear down that road trying to solve this conundrum, I’ll not have any time for any thought beyond this thought. Is that what they mean? Some devious plan hatched by modern day anarcho-syndicalists designed to cripple (ostensibly) free thinkers like myself? If I’m spending all of my time thinking about what I need to be thinking outside of, I am thus far less likely to be thinking about how I can prevent the overthrow of all that I hold dear by a bunch of cunning shysters. This thinkin' business is hard work. Answers on a postcard will be most welcome.

I'm kind of getting addicted to this lark!

There are so many alternatives. There is blue, there is black. There is walking, there is running. There is fish, there is door. There seems to be nothing left to the imagination. Occasionally, even though I am so very tired, I find it difficult to sleep at night. Sometimes it is because it is too quiet. Sometimes. Sometimes it is too loud, but sometimes it is too quiet. Sometimes boys (and sometimes girls) ride their skateboards past my house. I have two pairs of trousers that seem somewhat confused; they cannot seem to decide if they would rather be trousers or shorts, so somewhere about the middle they stop. Frankly, this causes me no end of worry. I forget things all the time. Big hats. Big hats don't mean anything to me these days. I remember... blue. Sometimes socks never come back. I have never pretended to understand women. I think that I'll sleep tonight.

With all of these strips and toons that I like and have chosen to feature , I really thought that I should stop copping out and take my first few tentative steps into the craft and try my own hand. Inspired by a bit of banter at Patrea's Pasadena blog , I'd engage in a little self analysis.

I have previously featured Married to the Sea , but I am in the kind of mood to post another one of their comics today. So I have. As is their want, the language is a little fruity, so if you're offended by that sort of thing, look away now ...

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

The always excellent The History Blog this morning alerted me to a really interest project that sets about memorialising the Holocaust through the use of collected mail that offers an incredible, if disturbingly banal hint into the everyday workings of the events in Central and Eastern Europe during World War Two. As I’m always keen to encourage online efforts to present history in new and engaging ways, I’m more than happy to endorse this one. For mine, there is often no better way to emphasise the magnitude of an event than through personal, sometimes mundane, sometimes heart-wrenching, correspondence. The Spungen Family Foundation, through the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Education Center, have put a collection of such documents in viewable pdf form online . Again, it’s well worth a click and browse.

It's been a long, looooooooooonnnnng day, and I am very tired, so I shall offer you this photo of the corner of this sandstone building here in Hobart town. In apology for the lack of (vaguely) amusing banter, here is a poem of mine, which dates somewhere in the vicinity of 1998. Audrey is a Bed Enamoured, Audrey waits. A serene scene; lush with stylish strokes of elegance. And I won't be able to sleep with you waiting stoically on my mind. Comfortably naked shapeless yet with perfect shape. This is what I want Unquestionable assurance: refuge- sanctity in your sanctuary. And hold me now, come to me and I ache Wrapped in gentle arms, the darkness bright, I hope to slide inside you down deeper and deeper Tonight And perhaps I can spend forever here with you.

A week ago know I wrote of wartime propaganda and its role in recruitment drives. Now, I was bold enough then to suggest that the old “ irate guy with a bullet in his head ” approach may not be the wisest or most successful tactic. Here we can see a far more effective approach: question their manhood . The logic here is clear: if they could, girls (dirty, stinkin’ broads!) would get out there and slaughter krauts and japs all day long. Unfortunately, steadfast patriarchal structures limit the opportunities for our feminine friends to get blood on their hands. That leaves it to men . Big, tough, hairy-chested MEN to do the job. What’s that? You don’t wanna kill japs and krauts? What are ya? Some kinda fairy...?

Here we have some fine looking cockatoos grazing at the top of a hill. I wanted to get a photograph of a smaller mob of galahs, but they weren't playing ball. I think that they were playing gin, but maybe that was just the effect of the gin I'd been drinking. You might remember that all through last week I was asking some very important questions, they're still open for for answers, but I will start reflecting upon them soon, so don't miss having your say. So, whether it is your favourite accents , your ideal gang name , thumbs up or thumbs down on flags , the casting couch for the most appropriate movie star , or indeed the tastiest creature on god's green Earth, click on the link and vent your spleen.