To live is to feel oneself lost.

Ah, the wonders of a four day week! Stricken by some kind of mucus producing virus, Henry and I slowly traipse down to the river and lethargically toss some food to a pair of geese. We then shrug our shoulders and look at the swings, then wisely opt to struggle our way back home to watch the clock until it is okay to go for our afternoon nap.

It is a hard life.

Comments

Roddy said…

It's a good thing that you have Henry to keep you active otherwise who knows what you would be like. I take it that Ezra was sleeping.
Four day week? Oh to be one of the idle few.

18 September 2009 at 12:57

jerrypuke said…

I hope it doesnt upset you but i just stole that quote (to live is to feel oneself lost). So true...
Enjoyed the picture and the anecdote too.

18 September 2009 at 14:03

yamini said…

Lovely picture and a beautiful quote. I am going to steal it too :-))

How are you and Henry now?

18 September 2009 at 14:19

Emmanuel.K.Bensah II said…

father and child-bonding is so critical, but, please, "hard life"--watching a clock?;-))

19 September 2009 at 03:35

Kris McCracken said…

Thanks all. Emmanuel, Australians don't know real hardship, by and large. We've had a good run.

28 September 2009 at 11:39

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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