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S/V Bluebottle
Inadvertant Art

I like to greet the dusk with a glass of wine in my hand. Tonight a minor treasure in finding a neglected corner of a photo taken for other reasons.

Sometimes you don't realize how interesting a corner of your photograph is. This is named Still Life With Power Point. Basket by Adrienne Godsmark.

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08/20/2011 | Bob Drury

This could be a still life from the 16th century except for the receptacles.
08/22/2011 | Philip Lowe
Joe,Don't know how to get in touch thesedays.
My number is 6225 0110,no email now.Geoff Bland and myself are playing at Vaucluse Gardens on Thursday 25th,2pm.,for the residents entertainment(and our own).If you fancy donating time and talent love to see you there.No pay,just satisfaction.Like the well known Hobart muso said to me,'stick to playing in nursing homes mate,it suits your style'.OUCH.
Joy Such As Was Forgotten

When the shit hits the fan, when the fat lady sings, the sperm hits the egg, the penis the vulva, when all is said and done, the bottom line reached, when the dreamer awakes - millennium 2K, Mayan calendar 2012, end-of-the-world, Armageddon, Peak Oil, when I'm speechless and stopp'd, when the last word has been said - when the world falls silent at last -

Who will be the first to speak?

Not Bush, Thatcher, Obama, Cameron, Gillard. Or Tony Abbott. Not Desmond Tu-Tu. Gadafi. Neither Clapton, Jagger, Lady Gaga nor Bono. No, -no -no!

Nor public figure from the right, neither the left, no "world leader", not hippie guru, nor Oprah, Swarzennegger, Pitt nor Jolie - none of these will have a single word to say!

When the awesome silence descends, the pause will be like the moment the gloriously huge symphony orchestra runs out of written notes and the gap is filled with the memory of all they have just played, and with nothing, pure nothing/everything. It will be like those few white, unprinted pages at the end of the novel, where the plot goes everywhere and nowhere at once, where your mind hinges toward the next thing, and is at once unhinged. Neither past nor future. The nearest thing to this is perhaps: the orgasm. Where is Time, then?

But - the first-time orgasm! For this is the first time the world has thus ceased. Ceased to be. As if it ever was!! As if we ever believed its lies, sucked down its shit, bought its "goods", sang its lonely song. For you, for me, we will never forget this moment, when time, and the world itself, stopped.

What then? Fumbling and stumbling our way out of our drug-induced sleep, we hear the news! The world is done! The tumult and the shouting dies, the captains and the kings depart. A quote from somewhere. Quotes are done. From now on, there'll be only the truly spoken word, if any. No more celebrities, we are all celebrating, celebrated. No more 6 o'clock news, everything is new. No more people in power, haves-and-have-nots, because we have everything, are everything. No more fear, because that's what the world was.

At this moment of returning spring, fingers reach for a ukulele or flute, hands for seeds to plant, for chalk to draw, colours to paint, animals to caress, smiles to smile. Meals are prepared, feet dance, and swimmers dive into clear water. Nothing is impossible, for the gaze is not averted; music leaves its past behind, except for JS Bach and Oscar Petersen. Who can say? Even bodies appear different.

Gratitude comes up and stays awhile. Thankfulness, both specific and diffuse. Gladness, and joy, joy such as was forgotten, and unhoped for. Each one is perceived friend, and welcome. And faith speaks to this as the only future. Look not back.

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A Perennial Happiness

It's 9:15 on the clock. I like the hands spread wide like that, with a come-and-give-me-a-hug stance, or a huge shrug. It's raining slowly, trees dripping, and there's a pearly white mist spread between the trees and behind them too. I think of a Chinese watercolour, the pale grey washes, the fading, barely visible landscape.

I'm not working today. They didn't call me - to go out to a school where teenagers mill around, calling out, dressed in dumb school uniforms not warm enough for the Tasmanian winter, and teachers frowning at their students' behaviour, never good enough. Sweet kids, but tribally bound to a very small range. I accept work at schools where the teachers have almost given up and the kids run the school, because the kids have found a way to break the ancient rule which kept them in rooms until the clock said you-can-go-now, and couldn't even go to the toilet without written permission from the teacher. I am invisible because I have no power, and I spend the time in a profoundly peaceful meditative space and leave when the clock reaches the top. The money's good too.

The mist has thickened now, looking up, it seemed like a film over my eyes, it gives a feel to the distance, trees more faded or washed out the further away they are. I love our shack up the back. We live in a room originally built as a storage space under the concrete slab which floors the metal shed above, used for a storage or workshop. Our humble abode is a single room about 6 metres square. It has no toilet or shower, but has everything else you need - a woodstove which we cook on, a desk with a computer by the window, bookshelves, a double bed, a galley (with 2-burner gas stove) for cooking and washing up, and a sort of lounge room with big puffy dusky pink armchairs that we bought for $7 each, a sofa by the fire and a TV set sitting on my chest of drawers where my T-shirts, socks and underwear wait for me. And a circular table, with non-matching chairs, at which to sit and read and have breakfast. An old refrigerator - some ham, butter, yoghurt, leftovers and white wine in a cask, a filing cabinet, some lamps, a small yellow oak fold-down desk. Oh, yes! - and my piano.

We throw the firewood down from the carport (no car, just stuff) and it bounces off the ground right next to our door. We stack it around the firebox to dry.

I am reading a Harry Bosch novel. Adrienne has gone to work on the bus - unpaid, but, she says, satisfying volunteer work, at the environmentally friendly place called Sustainable Living.

There is an indwelling happiness in me, which is reflected in the good things around me, but not dependent upon them. I could explain it, perhaps, but I'd run into a problem right away. The most politically incorrect ideas are those which extend beyond the body, beyond the mad scrambling human world of blame, not-enough-of-anything-to-go-round, beyond death or time. Adrienne's surname is Godsmark, and because it contains the word God people can't spell it - they write down gobsmacked, God's muck, dog's fart - anything but "God". The nearest we get to it is the O-my-god when slightly shocked. A pity, really. But I think I will stick to the ukulele, which is just right for communication purposes. I'm still happy - it's just that I can't talk about it.

The rain has paused, the sun has come out, sunlight refracting through the countless raindrops held in the webbed trees. Woodsmoke slides away, through the branches ...

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07/29/2011 | Bob Drury
I just read that the rapper Soulja Boy reputedly bought his own corporate jet for 55 million - as a birthday present to himself. 35 mil for the plane and 20 mil for upgrades. Probably less square footage than what you have. Hope he's happy too.
Snow On Chair On Grass In Boat

It's been really cold here on the mountain, with snow some days, and sometimes the snow stays on the ground, and also on the debris, bric-a-brac, cast-offs, leftover stuff - which looks so nice when topped with snow!

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Daydreaming While Washing Up

My new boat ...

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07/06/2011 | Bob Drury
The ukulele is actually a Scandinavian instrument invented in the year one and later introduced to the Hawaiian islanders by the Vikings. The calendrical term BC is actually a corruption of BU, which meant "before uke".
07/16/2011 | Jean-Guy
Saw your blogsite when visiting Lady Bug's. Missed your dulcet tones off Mexico this year. Much cooler season this time. We are home for the summer but we are experiencing a wet one (very rare) this year so far while the rest of Canada is sweltering.
Cheers, mate
SV Gosling
From Me To Uke

The answer I sent to Colin was that the cheap ukuleles, AUD$25-$30, were not worth buying and for around AUD$75 you can get a good one. This one I bought 6 or 7 years ago for $180 - It's a Bruko (with umlaut over the u) tenor uke, made in W. Germany.

This one resides in an old violin case. people always think I'm carrying a machine gun.

Have a look at the uke web site

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Who: Adrienne Godsmark and Joe Blake
Port: Hobart
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