Here we have a ferry coming into Sullivan's Cove from the Eastern Shore. Henry and I are currently discussing plans to launch into our own adventure on the high seas, but haven't quite decided on how big a boat we should start off with. After seeing Jaws , we are erring on bigger .
Man, our place at the moment is just like that Kevin Costner movie Il Postino , you know, the one with the post-apocalyptic dystopian word of Chilean poets in exile and Italian communists infiltrating the postal service. So, yeah, here is Ez getting in the mail.
Things are looking up in Mawson Place ! [Thank you, I'll be here all week...] This one has a slight 2001: A Space Odyssey vibe to it, only without a bunch of randy monkeys carrying on. One imagines that Friday and Saturday nights more closely resemble that particular scene. Here is a poem: I She argued that I - as in me - must be mistaken . Knowing myself - the I in the equation - I doubted it. Far more likely - reckoned me - is that she has erred. Nobody is perfect, she says. However I must be close .
Just to correct a vicious, vindictive hate campaign in the comments, while today is indeed my birthday, it is number thirty-two , not the forty proposed by the privately-educated (and thus spiritually and emotionally crippled) forty-something Hallam. As noted this time last year , 1977 was the year of my birth, not the far inferior 1969. So, to celebrate me having eight years up my sleeve until the dreaded forty, here is a photo of myself, a battered fit and broken down healthy old young man with two little rapscallions in either arms and a duck just behind as I shift past Brian Epstein, Bruce Lee, Mama Cass Elliot, Karen Carpenter and Keith Moon in the years spent alive column.
The answer blowin' in the wind , Mr Zimmerman, but where is the question? A celebratory Theme Thursday today where I eschew cheap laughs and steer clear of matters flatus and share with you a photo of a windy Salamanca summer's day. Today I advance the bold hypothesis that Mr Zimmerman may well have caterwauled that "the answer, my friend, is leaves ". Can you guess the theme yet? That's right, it's WIND . So I was thinking Zimmerman's track, and was thinking what it was all about. Some poseurs posit that the song is nothing more (or less) than a series of rhetorical questions about peace, war, and freedom. The notion that the answer "blowin' in the wind" is merely a metaphor for the supreme "unknowableness" [the Germans will have a word for this] of such questions. I beg to differ. In order, the answers are: Eight. One. Trick question, the answer is never. Approximately fifteen million. Männer werden nie frei sein, bis er
Showcasing the excellent zoom on my camera, this snap was taken laying flat on my back underneath a very tall tree. The leaf in question was very near to the top, a good seven or so metres away. I quite like this one. Here is a poem based upon an unfortunate experience that I had just last Sunday evening... To find a poo To find a poo is a shock. "Whose poo are you?" Looking hither, looking thither. The culprit remains at large.
In many respects, Henry and Ezra have looked markedly different in each of their first year with us. Henry has always looked older than his age might suggest (the consequence of arrive a good three weeks late?), whereas Ez had more of the 'classic' baby features (basketball head anyone?). Yet as Ez enters into his tenth ( already ?!?) month outside the womb, and as his cheeks are filling out nicely, he is starting to resemble one Henrysaurus Rex , in both looks and temperament!
I appreciate good art, I really do. The problem is that there is surprisingly little of it. While the good stuff does exist, the majority of modern art in Tasmania today is more likely to resemble a junkyard of any old crap with a five hundred word bit of justification sticky-taped up on the wall next to it. Honestly, if bullshitting equates to art, then say hello to Monet! What compounds my distaste, is the fact that most of the bullshitting is all so clichéd and predictable. Man, if all you've got to do is ramble on, at least make it original ! That's why my eye was drawn to this little bugger above. Is it art? It is nestled in what used to be a working port, and features a little plague that someone has managed to work up in their spare time: Of course, the mysterious art critic loses marks for failing to close their quotation marks, an odd capitalisation of the word "foundry" and "bollard", "where" instead of "were", both mi
I thought that I'd share another self portrait with you, this time down near the Supreme Court down here on the Salamanca/Battery Point/Hobart pivot. In the spirit of sharing, I thought that I'd supplement this self-portrait with a brief pen portrait of ten things about me that seem to exist around these here Internets: I have never lost a sock. I hate easily. I love to think about water. I honestly believe that my two lads are the best going around. I would like to eat clouds. I think that women , and not dogs , are a man's best friend. I want for little. The colour blue is my favourite. It's my birthday on Thursday. I try each day to be a little bit better.
Back to the Errol Flynn Reserve in Sandy Bay again, and luck meant that I caught these three birds all engaged in their varied pursuits at the same time within the same shot. Some people don't like seagulls, but I am not one of those. Lesbians or not, I admire these wee beasties for their resilience, force of will, and adaptability. However, don't let me tell you that, renowned twitcher William Leon Dawson firmly hits the nagla in the galva with his summation of the ubiquitous Western Gull: Much that is good and all that is evil has gathered itself up into the Western Gull. He is rather the handsomest of the blue-mantled Laridae , for the depth of colour in the mantle, in sharp contrast with the snowy plumage of back and breast, gives him an appearance of sturdiness and quality which is not easily dispelled by subsequent knowledge of the black heart within. As a scavenger, the Western Gull is impeccable. Wielding the besom of hunger, he and his kind sweep the beaches cle