“That is the one unforgivable sin in any society. Be different and be damned!” ― Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind

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“I am motivated by a passion for nature. Acknowledging the loss of many of our unique wild places and creatures, it has become my objective as a photographer and publisher to inspire others to champion their protection. I believe we inherited a world in balance and we should be ever vigilant in maintaining that balance.”


“Two countries in one continent, with one unknowable future. Reconciliation is a long road for all of us.” KEVIN, KEEFFE – Paddy’s Road


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“What you’ve done becomes the judge of what you’re going to do – especially in other people’s minds. When you’re traveling, you are what you are right there and then. People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road.”   — William Least Heat Moon

“With our splendid harbour, our beautifully situated city, our vast territories, all our varied and inexhaustible natural wealth, if we don’t convert our colony into a great and prosperous nation, it will be a miracle of error for which we shall have to answer as for a gigantic sin. ” SIR HENRY, PARKES

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Last Ferry

Late, inside this windowed room, the moon gone,
the Lade Wakehurst contends in here with each reflected
beam of light – the glass widows of the incandesent
thrown about the dark – and like a ballroom,
swaying from drink and dance, each of the Lady’s
lit windows, arrive, aligned and shipshape,
suspended, see-sawing above my table,
as she travels the triangle between
this room, Manly and the Quay.

By Carol Jenkins

“If I weren’t reasonably placid, I don’t think I could cope with this sort of life. To be a diva, you’ve got to be absolutely like a horse.” DAME JOAN , SUTHERLAND.

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“The horse, with beauty unsurpassed, strength immeasurable and grace unlike any other,
still remains humble enough to carry a man upon his back.”

~ Amber Senti

Little fox, come down from your burrow in the mountains, Hurry along the reed-tracks twisting by the river, Leave the bones white as mist in the valley. Geoffrey Dutton.

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Some say that when the yelping kind [of fox] are old, they become monsters. they wear a dry skull on their heads, clothe themselves with oak leaves, and assume a human guise. These creatures do harm in countless ways. People set fire to the mountains and dig up their burrows, grasping arrows and driving their hounds, thinking if fox kind is eradicated, monstrosity will cease.

They do not know that although foxes can become monsters, they do not necessarily do so. Once in a while one becomes a monster, but they do not all become monsters. …

Some say that those who get old and become monsters are called pi foxes or “spirit” foxes. They look like cats and are black. There are a lot of them in the north. They are probably another variety.

He Bang’e, 1791, in Occasional Records of Conversations at Night

A rose’s rarest essence lives in the thorn. Rumi.

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“The garden talks to me . This is my passion, where my creative energies come alive. Amidst the forest of native plants, grasses, herbs, spring bulbs, brilliant deciduous autumn trees, orchids and roses are emerging in pots and across archways. The garden is ever changing, just like the weather and me. I walk in it, sit in it, marvel at it and drink it in. I dream of what I can do, then I make it happen, bit by bit. And then I walk, sit, marvel and drink it in some more.”

CHRISTINE, LISTER – The Hidden Journe

“If you feel lost, disappointed, hesitant, or weak, return to yourself, to who you are, here and now and when you get there, you will discover yourself, like a lotus flower in full bloom, even in a muddy pond, beautiful and strong.” ― Masaru Emoto, Secret Life of Water.

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“Called the Never-Never, the Maluka loved to say, because they who have lived in it and loved it, Never-Never voluntarily leave it… Others, the unfitted, will tell you that it is so called because they who succeed in getting out or it swear they will Never-Never return to it. But we who have lived it, and loved it, and left it, know that our hearts can Never-Never rest away from it.”

JEANNIE AENEAS, GUNN – We of the Never-Never

To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak. — Indian Proverb

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“We maximise the richness of our lives, we increase the richness of other people’s lives by, in a strange sort of sense, exposing them to more chances, more opportunities, rather than by saying “This is it. The future is predictable. Your future is predictable and this is what you have to do.” The “meaning of life”, in other words, is a kind of dance with chance. “


“He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard,” he muttered. “You don’t understand at all,” said the wizard wearily. “I’m so scared of you my spine has turned to jelly, it’s just that I’m suffering from an overdose of terror right now. I mean, when I’ve got over that then I’ll have time to be decently frightened of you.” ― Terry Pratchett, The Color of Magic.

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“I just sit here and tell the story as though I can’t help it. There’s always something in the day that reminds me, that sets me off all hot and guilty and scared and rambling and wistful, like I am now.”

TIM, WINTON – In the Winter Dark

“Love embraces pain and without minimising it, knows that for the sake of the one loved, it is all worth it. Most parents and all lovers know this.” REVEREND GRAHAM, LONG

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“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.”
Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi

Her fingers moved among barnacles and mussels, blue-black, sharp-edged. Neon red starfish were limp Dalis on the rocks, surrounded by bouquets of stinging anemones and purple bursts of spiny sea urchins. Janet Fitch, “White Oleander”

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‘The Coal Jetty’ by Sinead Morrissey

Twice a day, / whether I’m lucky enough / to catch it or not, // the sea slides out / as far as it can go / and the shore coughs up // its crockery: rocks, mussel banks, beach glass, / the horizontal chimney stacks // of sewer pipes, / crab shells, bike spokes. / As though a floating house // fell out of the clouds / as it passed / the city limits,

Come soon; I warn you, if you delay, you will find me ill. Fatigue and your absence are too much

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Napoleon continues to shower her with compliments in a July letter: “Your tears rob me of reason, and inflame my blood. Believe me it is not in my power to have a single thought which is not of thee, or a wish I could not reveal to thee.” A little clingy.


I have not felt like using for years but that is not everyone’s experience. Recovery doesn’t make you immune from life. After nine years clean I held my dead son in my arms. For the life of me I could not figure out how shooting heroin would bring him back. That wasn’t ok but I am ok. Using doesn’t fix anything.” Damien: 13 years clean, Sydney, Australia

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“For the past 26 years I’ve thought of heroin every day…”

But never thought of using it. It never made anything better, just worse. Look, every junky is always “considering” getting clean. Every junky wants to be clean. Every using junky also wants more heroin. Call it a contradiction call it what you want. But no junky wants the life they have.

James: 26 years clean, Sydney, Australia

Rowing isn’t just one damn stroke after another — it’s the same damn stroke over and over again.


Take care of your health. … Imagine Hercules as oarsman in a rotten boat; what can he do there but by the very force of his stroke expedite the ruin of his craft. Take care of the timbers of your boat. … The formation of right habits is essential to your permanent security. They diminish your chance of falling when assaulted, and they augment your chance of recovery when overthrown.
— John Tyndall

she remembered watching a summer sunset from this very spot. Not so long ago; just a lifetime.” ― Sharon Kay Penman

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“What will happen to the spirit of this ancient dreaming land without the great mobs of kangaroos bounding across the song lines, energizing the land? Will the sunset and dawn mourn the passing of the creatures who danced in their light? “


There in the narrow, mote-filled finger of light, is a blonde so blonde, so blinding, she is a blizzard, a huge spook, and lights up like the sun the audience in its galoshes. She bulges like a deuce coupe. When we see her we say good-bye to Kansas. Lynn Emanuel (b. 1949),

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“The heat is searing and superb. The paddocks surrounding the town are bleached blond. The distant ring-barked gums, mile after mile, wriggle in the heat-waves, and seem to melt like the bristles of a melting hairbrush. The hills turn powder-blue and gauzy. Mirages resembling pools of mica and shallows of crystal water appear at the far ends of streets and roads. Punctually at eleven every burning morning, the cicadas begin to drill the air, to drill themselves also, ceaselessly and relentlessly, to death in one short day after seven long years underground.”

HAL, PORTER – The Watcher on the Cast Iron Balcony