Ironic

Earlier this year I read most of Bukowski's 'Ham on Rye. The book was somewhat tattered and water stained. 

It was given to me by a mate who lives in the longgrass, he finds all kinds of interesting books which I am sometimes grateful he shares with me. (Other times not... depends on the book and what condition it's in, books get moldy when left in the scrub in a supermarket shopping bag)

As I came toward the end of the book I discovered the last 16 pages were missing! That was annoying, although if you've read Charles Bukowski's writing, (which, until Ham on Rye I hadn't) you may agree it was also a bit of a relief! Well kind of, he is so full of contradictions and a self deprecating humor, possibly a master of irony, I find myself loving and being repulsed by him at the same time.... much as I suspect he reacted to himself.

This afternoon as I was searching for some important documents in my mess of a draw at work, I found a small pile of yellow and creased pages crammed somewhere between something I was looking for last week and a bunch of stuff I should have thrown out a year ago. The final pages of the book! Hallelujah! 

Started reading and low and behold.... 4 pages were still missing!

 Frigging Bukowski!

 

TYPICAL!

To sea

Bitten by the sea,
fallen into the blue.

A fairly old poster. With thanks to Francis

My mate Francis gave me this poster. (Well it's still at his place but he said I can have it)
I don't know why it appealed to me so much, it just seems to have everything.

Blogging for what?

If anyone checks in on this blog from time to time, I'm sorry to say I've fallen behind in the game of life and have had no inclination to be journaling the finer details of my absurd existence... Yet... here I am wanting feeling like I should post something, it's been a month since I last wrote anything and July could easily pass without me entering a single detail. I have trouble recounting events in order, or even recalling the details of most days, but I usually take a few photos, which are good for jogging my memory. I won't write much, I'm still not interested... As I wandered through the local St Vinnies oppshop I noticed the attendant taking pity on me. I admit I looked pretty shabby. As I drove home I looked in the car's rear view mirror and the phrase which probably defines me came to mind... "You look like nobody owns you". No this is not a declaration of my freedom from conformity or defiance of institutions of rules... Those words have been said to me on many occasions, usually by older ladies who appear to be concerned for my welfare in some way and they are said with pity. The meaning being. "You look as though you have nowhere to live and nobody to look after you." (ergo. You look like shit and you can't even take care of yourself, isn't there anyone who cares enough to feed, dress and groom you?.... You need a carer) Here's the photos.

Kayaking in Darwin (HMAS Darwin at 1 0'clock)

Approaching Warruwi Goulburn Island

Centenary celebrations at Warruwi Goulburn Island

Developing the north (in all the wrong ways)

Last of this season's Rosella's stewed in a pot

Jasper the budgie chick, a friendly fellow

A Bee

Bees are my favorite.

Rubbish warrior and friends rap

So our mate Trevor has finally pulled it together. A small group of musical creatives and Darwin talent dragged some gear out into the scrub to provide musical backup for Trevor's song about the alienating agitation of modern smart phone social media cultural phenomenon
Don't Talk to Me from Rohan Hawthorne on Vimeo.

Scapegoat

Now we cage them on far away islands. Legislated victory for manufactured atonement. Punished for living, Forbidden to die, they pay the price, We live the lie.

 

Scapegoat by William Holman Hunt