One of the most gripping and well-written books I’ve read is The Proving Ground by G. Bruce Knecht. It’s about the disastrous events of the 1998 Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, which were brought about by a powerful storm in the Bass Strait.
Bass Strait, Australia
When the Strait puts on such beautiful displays, it’s hard to believe that it can be so treacherous.
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
My top five picks from this week:
Fairy Bower Tidal Pool
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Exquisite Botanical Art – Ho Chi Minh Square
I missed last week’s photo challenge…
..and my 4th blog anniversary.
And because of M-R’s powers of suggestion, I got only as far as selecting three instead of the usual five photos for my list of favourites on the WPC theme.
Just as well I’m not OCD. 🙄
For more entries to this week’s photo challenge, see The Daily Post.
 Five Three standouts from this week
My S-I-L Belinda has an eye for the interesting, the beautiful and the absurd and takes the most wonderful photos.
I love this photo of hers and thought it the perfect match to a poem that I wrote for Gabrielle Bryden’s Close Shaves Week. Thanks, B. 🙂
Photo by Belinda Price-Sinclair
Tank
the neighbour’s dog
has a lot
to say in the morning.
I imagine he entertains
the Vox Dogz with tales
of victorious nocturnal stoushes
with the white cat from across the road:
“A face like a chook’s bum
I tell ya rrrrhahahaharuffruff “
But I’ve seen him run
wide-eyed
at the sight of her.
 (Look, Tilly, no commas! 🙂 )
Sludge has been building in my veins and arteries, the accumulation of sitting for weeks on end – working, studying, watching the entire series of ‘Breaking Bad’…
If you don’t start moving, you’ll have a stroke, and die, or worse: and live.
That nagging inner voice kicked me out of bed this morning to tackle what my husband calls the ‘Three Hill Challenge‘ — a 5km route in our neighbourhood, which includes three hills.
Well, that’s hardly a challenge.
I thought I’d do Hill One only today (don’t want to overdo things, after so much sloth) – it looks like this from the bottom.
I don’t remember it being so steep.
That’s what happens when you don’t exercise – your memory goes.
I prefer the view from the top.
And on the way down 🙂
I skipped Hill Two, but Chrissy Hynde and The Pretenders got me up Hill Three – it’s a deceptive but-wait-there’s-more kind of hill.
I suppose it’s a start.
Have a great weekend, and keep moving. 😀
For more entries to this week’s photo challenge, see The Daily Post.
We’ve had this one before, and I am studying for an exam, so a re-post this week. For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Between
is the breath between
life and death,
the laughter between
the light and hereafter,
the whispers
between love and fractures.
Between
the glass reflections
float words consequential,
some, kind, reverential,
others, profane and mean,
drifting down, unseen,
on matchstick people
and their matchbox lives
us
breathing it in
like asbestos
Take care
with the words
between
——–bb
For more entries to this week’s photo challenge, see The Daily Post.
Ladies of the Wurst Kind
Weekend wine walkabout
lures the alter egos out
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Moon Mosaic
I meet two girlfriends every few weeks in the city for a quick dinner and a movie. On Wednesday night, the weather was unseasonably warm, so it was wonderful out, and the big-faced moon took my breath away, hanging there in the sky, shining its magic over the water.
 ((((((((
Five wonderful works of art from this week’s WPC:
Slooooowly
My top five from this week’s WPC:
Of course, spring is nowhere to be seen right now in the Antipodes, so there aren’t any current suitable subjects, unless one thinks outside the spiral. And I’m (supposed to be) in the depths of a brain-clogging university assignment on business ethics, so am not in much of a lateral thinking mode. I took this one back in December at the Ashcombe Maze and Lavender Gardens on the Mornington Peninsula.
I was born in an era of typewriters, snail-mail letters, no mobile phones, no emails, no personal computers. I still write letters by (untidy) hand and send them through the post. I’ve a treasure trove of letters written to me over a lifetime stashed away in my kist, including a love note from my husband, typed on a typewriter on a phone message note about 25 years ago :-), and a wonderful letter from a stranger regarding my father’s death notice in the newspaper.
And a few years ago, I discovered the many letters and postcards I’d written to my youngest niece over the years after I emigrated adorned the inside of her cupboard doors – she’d kept them all. We both prize what people have taken the time to write with us in mind.
There is one letter, though, that really breaks my heart when I re-read it now. It’s from a boy who grew up in South Africa in the years just after Apartheid officially ended. His name is Freedom and, at the time that he wrote this letter, he was a child without very many worldly possessions at all, but he was loved, and was full of joy and hope. And, as his letter shows, he had a genuine appreciation for so very little. 
Freedom’s mum, widowed early in her marriage, worked beyond hard to give him a good education, and she had high hopes for his future. He is now a young man but, unfortunately, due to some nefarious influences and bad choices, his life isn’t turning out so well.
My 5 picks from this week’s photo challenge at The Daily Post:
We played golf in Canberra this weekend, and this pink galah, in his lofty abode, was our audience on the 6th.
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
9/11 Memorial – NYC
For more entries, see The Daily Post.
Kant’s principle of respect for persons states that we should never use people as means to an end.
Kant obviously had no sense of humour.
This morning inside a train somewhere in Sydney
For more entries to this week’s, last week’s, the week before last’s WPC, see The Daily Post.
Abandoned: the word speaks of the ghosts of things, memories, people, activities, better times, and not a little sadness. A few weeks ago, my husband found this cicada exoskeleton still clinging to our garden fence, after its living contents had taken flight. So perfect in form and function, yet used no more.
Abandoned Cicada Exoskeleton
My five favourite interpretations from this week’s WPC:
Puncta Lucis
(Evokes wonderful images of mad-haired, smoking hacks, clacking away to meet their deadlines.)
On Dragonfly Wings with Buttercup Tea
(Who lived here? Where did they go? Why?)
Chronicles of Illusions
(A star that should have been.)
Picture the Pretty
(The tragic truth of many lives.)
365 Days of Thank You
(Reminds me of my first day of school, around 44 years ago, and the fact that BM tried to kiss me in the sandpit after the parents had left, haha.)
Selfie, Picasso-style
Self Portrait (a re-post)
They say
We know
who we are
in adulthood –
Sister,
not brother,
Wife,
not mother –
A prosaic mosaic,
fragments of a self
But don’t ask me
to complete the picture –
Time has lost
more than a few pieces.
—————————————————————————————————-
For other selfies, see The Daily Post.
Five favourites from this week:
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