Photography can never grow up if it imitates some other medium. It has to walk alone it has to be itself.” Berenice Abbott on Alone.


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But as in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.

– from “Berenice”

Edgar Allan Poe.

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Some people are still unaware that reality contains unparalleled beauties. The fantastic and unexpected, the ever-changing and renewing is nowhere so exemplified as in real life itself.

To pick a flower is so much more satisfying than just observing it, or photographing it … So in later years, I have grown in my garden as many flowers as possible for children to pick. Anne Scott-James


“Every child is born a naturalist. His eyes are, by nature, open to the glories of the stars, the beauty of the flowers, and the mystery of life.”  
–  R. Search




The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 24 December 1927

1 1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 24 December 1927


I see a lilly on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

John Keats


Golden Wattle

Golden Wattle, fairy stuff
Little balls of yellow fluff
Hear the bees how loud they hum
To say they’re glad that Spring is come

When the stars begin to peep
Then the wattle falls asleep
Like a tired child in bed
It droops its pretty curly head


(Song contributed by Mrs Jenny Sayer, who copied it out of her Headmistress’ Assembly Book (Miss Leslie Bridle) at Sans Souci Public School in 195


Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. : 1909 – 1954), Monday 27 April 1953,

1 1 1 1 1 Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. - 1909 - 1954), Monday 27 April 1953,



A Mother’s Parable by Temple Baily

The young mother set her foot on the path of Life. “Is the way long?” she asked. And her Guide said, “Yes, and the way is hard. And you will be old before you reach the end of it. But the end will be better than the beginning.”

But the young mother was happy, and she would not believe that anything could be better than these years. So she played with her children, and gathered flowers for them along the way, and bathed with them in the streams, and the sun shone on them, and life was good, and the young mother cried, “Nothing will ever be lovelier than this.”

A scarecrow’s talking to the straw that rakes my cinders. “No room in the earth for those we have to bury, no fathoms left for those we have to drown. DAVID ROWBOTHAM


Hit’s laek a thing you wid set apo neaps.

Disparaging remark about someone resembling a scarecrow.

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The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. : 1848 – 1957), Friday 18 July 1952,

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 The Argus (Melbourne, Vic. - 1848 - 1957), Friday 18 July 1952,

Hope is the last thing to leave a human being.

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 tango, the relationship between lead and follower, man and woman, is so intense and all consuming, that there is simply no time for small talk. The last man I danced with, I know more intricately in many ways than his lover: I know that he perspires in a tiny spot above his brow; that when the dance slows and our connection is tight, his breathing almost stops; that when my leg sweeps his, he arches his neck imperceptibly upwards; that when another couple got too close he subconsciously enclosed me in a protective embrace; and that his hand rested so delicately on the flesh of my back. Yet all I know about him are his name and his country of origin. Small talk is a luxury not afforded to us tango addicts.

Anastasia Demaggio

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I’d left the camp, and lost my way,

‘Mid tangled vines and ferns;

And puzzled was which way to take

From out the many turns;


When presently I saw some smoke

Through swamp oaks wreathing up,

And close beside me soon I heard

The yelping of a pup.


A forked stick, two sheets of bark,

A low, small fire in front,

And on the ground there sat a black, –

He’d just returned from hunt.


And on the coals a sumptuous meal –

A ‘possum roasting whole –

Among the ashes two corn cobs,

Which he that morning stole.


I told him I had lost my way,

Was weary, and footsore.

He pointed to a log, and then

Was silent as before.


I questioned him – Why all alone?

Where piccaninny, gin?

He sullen looked, and then replied:

“White fellow bin take him.


And he bin promise gib it me,

Clothes, blanket, and white bread,

Bacca, and rum, and budgery things;

Baal gib it though,” he said.


“And many moons I’ve trabbled bin

With white man long a dray;

But now me going back to tribe;

Baal me now with him stay.


“Almost all gone, blackfellow, now;

Baal plenty kangaroo;

Whitefellow sit down everywhere,

Him take it all land, too.”

He led me on, I’d wandered far,

For now ‘twas almost night,

Then pointing to my camp, he turned,

And soon was lost to sight.


I thought ‘tis late now to begin,

At this the eleventh hour,

Yet still a something might be done

By those who have the power,


For those once owners of the soil,

Neglected thus so long;

I would I had the poet’s gift,

I’d plead their cause in song.

(Kiama Independent, March 28, 1884)


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Once burned by milk you will blow on cold water. Russian.

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Kenneth Slessor

The Night Ride

Gas flaring on the yellow platform; voices running up and down;
Milk-tins in cold dented silver; half-awake I stare,
Pull up the blind, blink out – all sounds are drugged;
the slow blowing of passengers asleep;
engines yawning; water in heavy drips;
Black, sinister travellers, lumbering up the station,
one moment in the window, hooked over bags;
hurrying, unknown faces – boxes with strange labels –
all groping clumsily to mysterious ends,
out of the gaslight, dragged by private Fates,
their echoes die. The dark train shakes and plunges;
bells cry out, the night-ride starts again.
Soon I shall look out into nothing but blackness,
pale, windy fields, the old roar and knock of the rails
melts in dull fury. Pull down the blind. Sleep. Sleep
Nothing but grey, rushing rivers of bush outside.
Gaslight and milk-cans. Of Rapptown I recall nothing else.

shimmering beneath the network of grasses: a phrase like “everything’s place”

Martin Harrison > A PATCH OF GRASS

© 2002, Martin Harrison
From: Summer

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The serene philosophy of the pink rose is steadying.  Its fragrant, delicate petals open fully and are ready
to fall, without regret or disillusion, after only a day in the sun.  It is so every summer.  One can almost
hear their pink, fragrant murmur as they settle down upon the grass: ‘Summer, summer, it will always
be summer.’

Rachel Peden

You lament not the dead, but lament the trouble of making a grave; the way of the ghost is longer than the grave.

(Efik Proverb)

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‘Lose this day loitering, ‘Twill be the same story Tomorrow — and the next more dilatory. Then indecision brings its own delays, and days are lost lamenting over days! Are you earnest? Seize this very minute! What you can do, or dream you can – begin it! Courage has genius, power and magic in it. Only engage, and the mind grows heated. Begin it, and the work will be completed.’

– Goethe




For tomorrow belongs to the people who prepare for it today.


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“Through the heartfelt mercies of our God,
God’s Sunrise will break in upon us,
Shining on those in the darkness,
those sitting in the shadow of death,
Then showing us the way, one foot at a time,
down the path of peace.”

― Luke 1:78-79, The Message

I never forgot my roots in PNG, I just didn’t find time to appreciate my roots”

– David Mead, Gold Coast Titans Rugby league winger

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“When Captain Moresby landed on New Guinea, a medicine-man exorcised the evil spirit in him by magical jugglery with palm leaves and by playing a kind of leapfrog.”

― Elsie Clews Parsons

“You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don’t count. But yesterday is all that does count. What else is there? Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else.”

Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men

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“Gather round me children
There’s a story I’ll tell you,
A story about our heritage
A place where we go for a chew.

This place once looked so different
Mangrove trees and river gums,
An abundance of fishing                                                                                              
I encouraged friends to come.

We’d go fishing for Flathead
With our bottle lines and dough
Trying our skills not to tangle
Our lines but we’d have a go.

As we fished the sun shone
We shared our stories and dreams
Hoping our children would continue
Our tradition and what it means.

The white man thought it was better
Destroying my family’s sacred place
Removing all trees and making it a park
And calling it a “community space”.

How can it be a community space?
When the families have left
The place lonely and uninviting,
It hurts inside my chest.

How can my children learn about
Their culture and family?
The laws of survival, the Dreaming
And becoming more manly.

The white man they say “sorry” yet
I still feel sadness and sorrow
I have let down my ancestors
But yet we’ll still live with it tomorrow.

So listen carefully my children
Don’t be afraid to stand up and fight
Just like what “Eddie Mabo” did
So that all will be right.


“Even the strongest and bravest must sometimes weep. It shows they have a great heart, one that can feel compassion for others.” —Cornflower”

― Brian Jacques, Redwall

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“All the flowers of all the tomorrows are in the seeds of today and yesterday.”

As soon as you sense any lingering or obstruction, all of it is false imagining. Just make your mind clean and free, like space, like a mirror, like the sun in the sky.

Yuan W

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“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Learn from yesterday, live for today, look to tomorrow, rest this afternoon.

― Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown’s Little Book of Wisdom


“Do not train a child to learn by force or harshness; but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be better able to discover with accuracy the peculiar bent of the genius of each.”
― Plato

I love you more than songs can say, but I can’t keep running after yesterday.

― John Mayer, John Mayer – Battle Studies

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Family history

For years you search, persuaded
the blank spaces in the jigsaw
can be filled by pieces
lying on the table.

You comb dictionaries looking
for the word, eight letters,
second one a D, so 7 down fits
in the mortise cut on 12 across.

You twist the cube to make
the green face green, the blue all blue,
but a pesky yellow chip
always turns up in one corner.

At last, you realise
that what you hold is not
a jigsaw, cube or crossword
but a faded photograph –
crinolines and waistcoats –
the heads of him and her,
top right, torn off.

Defeated, you concede
the missing corner long ago
slipped down in the dust
behind a chest of drawers
in a house abandoned.

–Bob Morrow

We view the paths by which our lives descended From the far past down to the present day.

Stephen Edgar.


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

An extreme improbability.

(Sooner can birds be silent in spring, and the crickets in summer.)

"A Dictionary of Foreign Phrases and Classical Quotations, Comprising Idioms, Proverbs, Maxims


North Towards Yesterday
Lyn Reeves

What I remember most are the birds,
their riotous music in the early forest,
the way they call to each other all day
and how, in the evening, their homing flight
feathers the sky with shadows.

"As the old bird sings, so the young ones twitter." German and Danish

"Curiosities in Proverbs: A Collection of Unusual Adages, Maxims, Aphorisms, Phrases and Other …"


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

foto – bellingen markets june 2010 northern new south wales

My days burn with the sun my nights with moon and star, since into myself I took all the living things that are. Judith Wright.



There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.


sites 2c

fotos – moon in ulmarra dec 09.