Lost is lost
When I write my life story the bits I leave out, or forget, have disappeared for ever from human history
literature
Glass half empty
An autobiography listing all the things you haven’t done in your life might be just as revealing as one about the things you have done.
Treading lightly
Summer is here, in the middle of Spring, with the first warning of bushfires, and the first moment of almost treading on a snake (a cute baby Black, but hey a snake’s a snake). In winter I stride across the land (though always avoiding ants, and beetles, and spiders). I walk differently in Summer. Slower,
The boys in the backroom
Whenever war is declared, whichever countries are involved, you will find, making the announcement, a clown, backed by his followers – all hard-faced men who intend to do well out of it.
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Time, lord
If an imaginary being was going to step in and save the world before we wreck it he’s left it rather too late
End of the road
Old age is like walking through a Grimm forest in a dark night; branches whip the face; unseen carnivores roar; pits give way underfoot; trees fall with a crack; and somewhere ahead on the path, waiting in the gloom, is the slough of despond
Paper trail
The act of reading books – of feeling weight, texture; of hearing a turning page; the smell of paper and ink; the sight of black type on creamy white paper. Eyes, and hands, and knees, and brain, working together, to recreate the physical process of writing the book. Thoughts turned to words on page turned
Murder of the Nile
Denial was a river in Egypt that dried up as a result of climate change
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Past master
Writing my autobiography lets me rule a line under my past and decide what to do with my life as I approach three quarters of a century
The road taken
I took the road less followed, and found land mines, trolls, bandits, potholes, mud patches, fallen trees, and then my car broke down. Next time my way is the highway.