Sixty minutes of thinking of any kind is bound to lead to confusion and unhappiness.

For various reasons (most long since forgotten), I have spent a great deal of time engaged in situations where there has been a lot of talking about thinking about thinking about reading about thinking about thinking.

The thing that strikes me most is that – underneath the discourse – if all we are doing is thinking about thinking, are we actually thinking? Or does, perhaps, thinking about thinking equate to a form of intellectual masturbation, pleasurable, entertaining (for a time), but in all probability not honing our skills in any useful manner?

Moreover, if we think too much about thinking, might we not affect our ability to think? If it does, is this effect to enhance our thinking, or might it actually degrade our ability to think?

Now, I’m not suggesting that we all just at once stop reflecting critically upon the processes that underlie and inform the way that we go about our thinking (or even our thinking about our thinking).

Maybe my beef is not with thinking about thinking. Maybe it is with the talking about thinking about thinking, rather than the actual thinking (about thinking) itself.

Wait a second; I think that I’ve just started talking about thinking about thinking.

Bugger!

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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