Immature love says: 'I love you because I need you.' Mature love says 'I need you because I love you.'

They only come out at night. Elizabeth Street Pier, looking Northwest towards the mountain. June 2011.

The problem of memory.

When we remember, what is it that we are remembering? Are we remembering it as it is (was), or are we remembering is as we would have liked it to be? Obviously we remember it as we remember it, which is not the same thing as it was (is). So is memory an act of reconstruction? When we reconstruct, we are bound to smooth out the edges, fix the loose seams a little bit. We reconstruct with the benefit/ deficit of hindsight. The 'in-between' bit - our experiences between the initial act, incident or occasion and our reconstruction - must inevitably influence the act of reconstruction.

Hmmmm.

Comments

Roddy said…

Have you had meetings with psychologists of late?
I try to remember the good bits and smooth some of the rough spots.

4 August 2011 at 12:21

Roddy said…

If you are talking about the lights,
then some of them actually come out during the day. It's just a little harder to see them in the light.

5 August 2011 at 18:56

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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