“He was a mighty beast, mightily muscled, and the urge that has made males fight since the dawn of life on earth filled him with the blood-lust and the thirst to slay.”

Sunset. Geilston Bay, January 2021.

The Land That Time Forgot by Edgar Rice Burroughs

The Land That Time Forgot is a pulpy sci-fi/ fantasy romp first published in serialised form in Blue Book Magazine in 1918. As such, I should not have been surprised by the primitive understanding of gender politics or the solitary female character's presentation as quite so feeble.

I was more taken aback by the presentation of the ‘Wobblies’ – the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) – as evil ne'er-do-wells hell-bent on the destruction of all that is good in the world. Now, one might expect such a thing from the vicious Hun (yes, the Germans are all bestial monsters too), but I’ve always liked the IWW. There’s no point in me exploring the implications of

Ho-hum. Given the above, I found this a tedious and simplistic tale that pales in comparison to Jules Verne or H.G. Welles, and the thoughts of Edgar Rice Burroughs on primitive man and the upper and lesser races are best left unexplored. Suffice to say that I’ve not read so many mentions of “feeble-minded Negroid features” in a long time.

Perhaps the chap from the IWW was correct in trying to sabotage our hero all along?

Best avoided.

⭐ 1/2

Comments

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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