@whiteswinous
stage 4 incancerated eunuch/Jaguar/Triumph slut/philogynist/marginalien on Kaurna/Peramangk country image by @sandyhorne.bsky.socia
I thought perhaps his secret inamorata, Tungstinious, had swept him off to the Galapagos, where life is much more simple and true . . .
I suspect George Grainger Aldridge prefers a monochrome camel . . .
I spent years tracking down my most influential and encouraging English teacher, Ieva. She came from Victoria almost immediately and we shared a few memorable lunches. Then she died from a long ailment. That was a most valuable and rewarding reunion. Bless you, Ieva! Seek out your teachers.
History: Erecting the giant ice-cream cigarette at the closure of Adelaide's radical restaurant, Possums, in 1985. Proprietors Philip Searle and Barrie Ross mocked all the habits by indulging them deliciously. It was hollow - a bucket of dry ice went in the top, and it smoked til it was devoured.
The winery's shut and gone now, but the Vegemitza at Settlement Wines really was something to remember!
These stromatolites had been washed down the creek across the Willunga Fault to settle in the dam wall by the old Yangarra homestead.
It's easy to get the starlight confused with all the other lights in the Grange restaurant at Magill!
There are profound passages that I loved to read as a back pew kid . . . scary stuff!
My dear friend Big Bob McLean loved big ripe tomatoes. This was our last lunch, at the Roaring Fordies in Angaston. As you might see, the tomatoes were dribblingly delicious! Then, knowing it was coming, Big Bob went off to hospital and died.
Hey there, Alfred E! Did I show you this picture of your grandfather?
Meanwhile, Damien Hirst's $US100m diamonds and platinum skull, For The Love Of God, still sits in somebody's trash . . .
I played this before, but let's do it again: botryoidal magnetite over copper, Kanmantoo mine, South Australia. It needs a bit of a scrub.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel would be delighted! I love his Bristol Line. But here he is with an anchor chain and his hands in his pants . . .
And thank you! It's early winter here. Cold and wet/damp. They're pruning the vines; the last few yellow leaves of vintage are blowing away. Facing another cold patch solo here in the Casa Blanco cottage my poesy tends to wither, but I have life! And my favourite coppice?