Post-industrial societal decay

Picture this: a broken-down wind turbine marooned in a semi-arid, cold South Australian desert, with rain slanting down like a cosmic joke. Once a symbol of innovation and progress, it's now a hulking testament to stalled dreams. And isn't that just the perfect metaphor for the Australian Dream? We were all promised a slice of the pie, a fair go, a home with a bit of a garden, maybe even a white picket fence if you were into that sort of thing. But now it feels like the dream's been yanked out from under us, leaving us all standing around like that useless wind turbine—broken, rusting, and utterly bewildered as the rain pours down.

This disintegration isn't just about the fading hopes of home ownership or a cushy retirement. No, it runs deeper, right to the heart of what once bound us together. Class solidarity, the good old notion that we're all in this together, seems to have crumbled like a sandcastle in a storm. Maybe it's the endless grind of casualisation, or perhaps it's the relentless march of individualism. Whatever the reason, it's as if we've forgotten that there's strength in numbers. It's easier now to see your neighbour as competition rather than a comrade. Without that unity, we're left stranded— much like that turbine — without the collective wind in our sails to push back against the powers that be while Gina Rinehart and Clive Palmer, snouts firmly planted in the trough, laugh all the way to the bank, perched atop their golden toilet seats.

Apologies for the confusing metaphor, but if the Croc fits...

Speaking of the powers that be, let's talk about those men in suits. I don't trust them. Never have. Maybe it's the polished shoes, the perfectly knotted ties, or the way they say "stakeholder" with a straight face. Or maybe it's because their promises sound as hollow as the wind howling through that deserted turbine. They seem to move through life untouched by the grit and grind that the rest of us know so well. While we're left out here in the cold, they're warm and dry, spinning tales of opportunity and meritocracy that feel as broken as our dreams. And as the rain keeps falling, I can't help but think that if anyone's going to fix this mess, it sure as hell won't be them.

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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

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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