Thursday, November 26, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Here's a nice bridge photograph I found a few days ago. Click on it to enlarge. How much has photography changed in my lifetime. One son's first camera is a Canon SLR digital and now he tells me he is thinking of buying an emulsion camera so that he can learn more and develop and print his own pictures. I find that the mouse has mainly replaced buttons and focus rings.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
"The Unquiet Grave" contains two great observations:
"Better to write for yourself and have no public,
than to write for the public and have no self."
"No one can make us hate ourselves like an admirer."
Thursday, November 12, 2009
I was sixteen, or fifteen. I had learned three chords on the guitar and I had just managed to make the right sort of noise out of a trumpet. I had just learned "Freight Train" and listened, but really listened to Mozart for the first time. I was reading Neville Shute and F Scott Fitzgerald, perhaps also Ian Flemming. I had been in love, but it had never been reciprocated. I was a goofy, spotty, wavy haired misfit longing to grow up.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The Battle of Passchendaele, otherwise known as the Third Battle of Ypres, was one of the major battles of World War I, fought by British, ANZAC and Canadian soldiers against the German army near Ypres (Ieper in Flemish) in West Flanders, northwestern Belgium over the control of the village of Passchendaele. As the village is now known as Passendale, the term Passchendaele alone is now used to refer to this battle. The label "Passchendaele" should properly apply only to the battle's later actions in October–November 1917, but has come to be applied also to the entire campaign from July 31. After three months of fierce fighting, the Canadian Corps took Passchendaele on November 6, 1917, ending the battle. Passendale today forms part of the community of Zonnebeke, Belgium.
Photo credit: Imperial War Museum
And on and on until Friday so many, so many years ago. The very word, with its awkward spelling and all, means suffering to Canadians. Now I see a small village obliterated by cordite. In my mind, the earth is drenched in blood.