Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat.

Jen contemplates the meaning of nothingness. Calverts Beach, South Arm Peninsula. March 2011.

Is nothing something?

Is absence presence?

If a void is an empty space and a vacuum is empty of matter is there such thing as a void? Is there such thing as a vacuum? If there is, does that mean that nothing is something?

Is non-existence essential for existence to be?

Is a void raw existence?

Is being being?

If we are nowhere are we anywhere? Anywhere must be somewhere, right?

If we are talking about nothing does that necessarily engender something?

Is a memory something? Is a real memory real? Is a real memory more real than an imagined memory?

Henry has be of absolutely no use at answering any of these questions, and Ezra is barely any better!

Comments

Carola said…

Sand is sand is sand.

1 June 2011 at 18:07

Roddy said…

'Space', is supposedly a void and yet it is full of everything. A vacuum, as demonstrated at school is minus oxygen. Space is a concept. Space is an idea. Space is the beginning and end of everything.

1 June 2011 at 20:32

Kris McCracken said…

Carola, unless it is dirt.

Roddy, actually space is the boundless, three-dimensional extent in which objects and events occur and have relative position and direction.

2 June 2011 at 14:03

Roddy said…

Touche. You have covered space nicely.

2 June 2011 at 15:48

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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