Burning an Eternal Flame

 

The Shrine of Remembrance is mounted at the top of Anzac Square.

Loss

Australia woke yesterday to the horrific news that eleven people including eight kids had perished in an infernal house fire in Slacks Creek just south of Brisbane. They were from two families, one Tongan and one Samoan, and spanned three generations. As the day wore on, we heard about the father who had jumped from the upper floor and called to his wife to help their five kids jump onto the mattress he was setting up but she and all five kids were found later in the ruins all huddled together. Members of both communities arrived at the scene and started singing so beautifully in amongst all that agony. It was absolutely heart-breaking.

See and read more here.

Memorial Wall

Sherwood Anglican Cemetery, Sherwood

Traffic Stopping Art (number 38)

"Me and You" by Artist: Jo Murphy & QPASTT

This traffic signal box recently won an award as the "Best Organisation" traffic signal box.

The Queensland Program of Assistance to Survivors of Torture and Trauma (QPASTT) provides flexible and culturally sensitive services to promote the health and wellbeing of people who have been tortured or who have suffered refugee related trauma prior to migrating to Australia. (from their website)

On the Artforce Award Winners website, the box description is:

Young person watching young girl crying (with eyes watching her in background) A young face thinks or says "Me and You we are Australian" A hand (henna) reaches up from the bottom offering a rose to welcome the girl. A friendly man stretches out his arms on his chest it says Welcome Children at bottom hold hands over globe with AU They have an angel in between and are happy The box is unified with the music from the sitar This lifts the scene and the reflection from the musical notes is what lightens the forest (painting).

This post is in memory of Salman Abdirahman Arte, a 13 year old Somali refugee who came to Brisbane nine moths ago and died on Tuesday after being overcome by floodwaters when playing in Bulimba creek with two of his brothers.

299 And Counting

A different type of remembrance for today...

At the start of this year, the Queensland government and police service set the target of the state's annual road death-toll to below 299 in 2009. Unfortunately, according to the police, the number is set to pass 299 in the next few days.

In recognition of this and to try and raise awareness, yesterday 299 people converged in 6 different locations across the state and stood in silence for a minute at 1pm. This photo was taken just after that in King George Square.

Cheers to my colleague Mark Johnstone who went out and took this picture for me while I was at work.

So Who's This Brisbane Bloke, Anyway?

The life and times of Sir Thomas Brisbane in 10 concise and over-simplified bullet points:

*Lived: 1773-1860
*Born: Ayrshire, Scotland
*Went through the ranks in the British Army
*Became govenor of New South Wales
*Sent a scout north in 1823 to find a settlement for convicts
*Et voila! Our beautiful big river flowing into Moreton Bay! Perfecto!
*The settlement was named in his honour
*In 1839 it was opened to free settlement
*Brisbane wasn't around for that as he'd gone back to Scotland in 1825
*He was a keen astronomer, publishing a book of stars and establishing an observatory in Parramatta, Sydney
*Died: Ayrshire, Scotland

Heavens Above!

This is a statue of Konstantin Tsiolkovsky. He's sitting casually out the front of the Planetarium at the bottom of Mt. Coot-tha. He was a Russian rocket scientist who is credited with inspiring those who led Russia into space.
I love his posture with hands in his pockets, gazing upwards.

One More From Toowong...

Angel Monument

Inside the cemetery, angels peer down, having stood in that spot for a century... this one looks like she could do with a seat...

Ghost Town

A friend of mine reckons that at one point there were more dead in Toowong Cemetery than living in the whole of Brisbane. Right now, it is the final resting place for 120,000 people. Somewhat smaller than Brisbane's 2m population but still, the size of a small town or perhaps a really large music festival.

It is a gorgeous place to walk around with some beautiful old and new grave sites on 250 acres of steep hills with plenty of native trees and birds... and it's HAUNTED. And to make it even more scary, they shut the gates at night and give ghost tours wooooooOOOOOOOOOOo!!!!!!!!!

After All This Time

This is taken from the monumental arch on the southern side of Victoria Bridge. The arch is from the previous Victoria Bridge which was demolished in 1969. Around Anzac day time, wreaths of poppies are placed next to it to remember those who fought and died for Australia in the wars. Also there are wreaths of flowers in remembrance of an 11 year old Greek boy, Hector Vasyli, who was killed nearby in 1918 "as a result of a lamentable accident" so the plaque there says. According to Wikipedia it was a traffic accident that happened while he was waving to soldiers returning from the First World War. Anyway... when I stopped by last week, there were flowers and cards aplenty especially from members of Brisbane's strong and vibrant Greek community.

Pride and Glory

They told us this war would never end
so we signed up for the duration;
after all, job security.

There was some surplus left over from the War on Drugs,
and we helped ourselves.
At least, this would provide armor
against the tedium
of waiting forever to be terrorized.

The reading matter we had to pass the time
included pamphlets about the earlier wars,
all worthwhile, all still inconclusive:
on cancer, heart disease, cerebral palsy,
lupus, and hirsutism.

And then, there were the inspirational books:
Coping with Nameless Dread,
How to Fear Practically Everything,
How to Win Enemies & Alienate People,
and other trenchant works.

Finally, we got the full message:
insecurity was our only security.
Shaking in our boots,
and glad to be doing so,
we waited for the other shoe to fall.

By Duane Ackerson

Forward March

What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstruos anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

By Wilfred Owen

ANZAC Day

Now when I was a young man, I carried me pack, and I lived the free life of a rover

From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said son, It's time you stopped rambling, there's work to be done.
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun, and they marched me away to the war.

And the band played Waltzing Matilda, as the ship pulled away from the quay
And amidst all the cheers, the flag-waving and tears, we sailed off for Gallipoli
And how well I remember that terrible day, how our blood stained the sand and the water
And of how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay, we were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk he was waiting, he'd primed himself well. He shower'd us with bullets,
And he rained us with shell. And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played Waltzing Matilda, when we stopped to bury our slain.
We buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs, then we started all over again.
And those that were left, well we tried to survive, in that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks, I kept myself alive, though around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head, and when I woke up in my hospital bed,
And saw what it had done, well I wished I was dead. Never knew there was worse things than dyin'.

For I'll go no more waltzing Matilda, all around the green bush far and free
To hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs-no more waltzing Matilda for me.
So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed, and they shipped us back home to Australia.
The legless, the armless, the blind, the insane, those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay, I looked at the place where me legs used to be.
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me, to grieve, to mourn, and to pity.

But the band played Waltzing Matilda, as they carried us down the gangway.
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, then they turned all their faces away
And so now every April, I sit on me porch, and I watch the parades pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march, reviving old dreams of past glories
And the old men march slowly, old bones stiff and sore. They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, what are they marching for? And I ask myself the same question.

But the band plays Waltzing Matilda, and the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear. Someday no one will march there at all.
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by that billabong, who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?


By Eric Bogle

Happy Australia Day, Digger!

There was a XXXX beer ad on in England several years back which sprang to mind when I took this picture... In the foreground is the Australian Vietnam War Memorial with the two sculpted soldiers looking thirstily towards the FourEx Brewery. I'll probably have a couple of beers today meself - just to sociable, like.