Not an election party

Liz and Dan get hitched.

There was a room full of voters from both sides of politics. The country visitors were committed National Party conservatives. The interstate visitors were rabid Labor supporters.  And the rest of us? Well, some had been directly involved in politics. Many of us had worked in the alternative arts and cultural areas. The bride and groom were unimpressed with the election date interfering with their carefully laid plans. How dare Kevin Rudd spoil their special day!

Doubly spoilt. Distracted guests and a depressing outcome for most. How to cope?

The groom banned TV monitors in the room. Only partially successful given the advent of  the iPhone.Most of us knew the result was a foregone conclusion and avoided even discussing it.

The best man began his speech. "There are many parties making promises today. Some of them outrageous. some modest; many merely thought bubbles rather than commitments. But here we have the real thing. Two people making real commitments with integrity and honesty........................................"

Ahhhhh. If only political parties were less combatant, less driven by the need to accomodate wacky fringe groups, more forward thinking. The Liz and Dan party was grounded and surrounded by true believers. We believed in Dan and Liz. They were making real, long term promises.

Twice the age and twice the girth of yore.

Outside on the bowling green a group of once young men reconnected over a game of barefoot bowls and grappled with bias and left leaning tendencies. These men had been dancing, naked in a few cases, in an old warehouse in West End many years earlier on the occasion of another election event. The demise of the Bjelke-Petersen government.

Inside, the young brigade ignored the election result and danced. Ironically the limbo was their dance of choice, an invention of their parents era. Great ideas never die. The best games are simple. Music and a stick. The best policies are simple, though complex in their implementation. At least Dan and Liz had some that they want to work on.

Not just a trumpet player  

 Tony Abbott and his team will reap what they have sown as will Liz and Dan. In Liz and Dan's case they have spent the past three years in building relationships and looking positively to the future.

The bride goes under

Crying in the front seat

I'm sitting by myself in the seat in the front of the bus. We're crossing the Victoria Bridge, as this bus does every day, and every Monday I'm on board on my way to work.

The trip from Hill End only takes 20 minutes and half of that is filled by conversations with my wife. We have our Monday conversation. "What have you got on today? Busy?" "Could be. The phones usually go mad after the weekend. Everyone's had too much time to think." My wife is a counsellor.

"Sorry about what I said yesterday. I was a bit stressed out. I love you. You know that." I like the adage that one should never let the sun go down on your anger. My version is apologies and reconciliation on the morning bus. At least we're not doing it by mobile phone. Hurling our affections and apologies the length of the vehicle.

She's gone at the half way mark and I pull out my book. I've only got eight pages to go and I'm in a state of suspense. My emotions are on high alert. The woman's lost her child and is in deep mourning. So am I. Her partner's in gaol, charged with kidnapping and perhaps murder. He's written a letter to her to ask for forgiveness, while explaining why he's had to do what he did. She's despatched the letter to the bottom of a drawer. She wants him to suffer. They've lost their daughter forever, but will never be anywhere where she won't be a presence.The river glides below us, a chocholate milkshake flowing silently to the bay.

I read, and as the climax approaches I feel my eyes mist up and then I'm crying. Not sobbing like a drunk, but feeling like a parent. Feeling the loss. Understanding the terrifying choices that any parent faced with loss of a child would feel, and despairing at the thought that they will also lose each other as a result of this horrible situation for which they can blame no one but themselves.

The bus turns into Adelaide Street and crosses the last intersection before my stop. I've still got three pages to read. I could stay on the bus to the Valley and be late for work but I don't, I slip my marker into the book and swipe my GO Card on the machine and step onto the pavement. I usually get a coffee from the outlet at the base of my building but I'm not prepared to sit and sob in front of my favourite barista. I head for the closest coffee shop and order a flat white. There's an almighty din in the background, echoing through the gaps between the multi-story buildings. The BWF are protesting in Ann Street singing songs of protest, telling Premier Newman where he should shove his October public holiday and demanding back their Monday May Day holiday.

My coffee arrives just in time for the last page. There's a death and a reconciliation and hope and, shit, I'm so moved I drink my coffee without sugar, the first time I've done that in years. Some writers just hit the right notes. And this is her first book. I am inspired by this wonderful storytelling and it makes me want to keep writing my novel. Or give up in the face of my mediocrity. And then I'm in the lift to level 10 and I walk in and say "Morning".


The book: "The Light Between Oceans" by M L Stedman. The setting: SouthernWestern Australia , Janus Rock 300 miles west of Albany. A lighthouse.

Laundromat Post punk

The Sunday Best do their Sunday best in the local laundrette in West End, Brisbane today.  Local boys Peter Stewart, singer/songwriter on keyboards and lead guitar. Peter Young on drums, and Trevor Jordan on base (unidentified on dryer).They did a great set of driving post punk original songs to an appreciative audience of about thirty or forty. The laundromat was open for business as usual and a couple of people turned up and went about their washing chores oblivious to the music. The audience was invited to put a gold coin oin the launndry machines to help offset the cost of lost revenue to the owner. Great idea. Great fun. Very loud inside. You're never too old to punk it up.

Santa's workshop - Blokes in sheds making stuff.

Turkeys hung out to dry

You may remember my fascination with creating a weather vane using the much loathed Brush Turkey as my inspiration. Well, I've gone from fascinated to obsessed. This is partly due to the positive response I've had from friends and mates. I've even had a few orders (one willing to pay). So I decided that these would make good presents. I'm up to number 7. All of which happily spin and follow the breeze beautifully. Some of which only a mother (or inventor-bloke) could love.

Now it occurs to me that there are blokes (and possible blokettes) out there doing some amazing things with scraps of timber and lengths of left over pipe and, in my case, wooden spoons and spatulas, held together by string and wire, staples and a spot of glue. Blokes (and b'ettes) in their backyards inventing every manner of useful and useless thing, sometimes to solve a problem, sometimes just for the hell of it. Why, people build whole beach shacks using this technique.

A stampede of feather brained weather vanes

In my case it's clearly not just a whim, but practical. I now have a pretty good indication of the direction of the wind at any time of day simply by looking out my back door (at night I have to revert to using my own senses or turning on the floodlights which is pretty annoying for the neighbours - I'm working on a glow in the dark version! Kidding).

Doesn't everyone need to know where the wind is coming from? My cat certainly has an instinct for shade and breeze and cool spots. It's the same for me. I feel cooler when I can see there's a breeze.

Mother and child

I am interested in any one else who dabbles in the dark arts of creativity in the secrecy of their shed, or under the house, because I reckon it would make a great blog site or, better still, an exhibition at some prestigious social history museum like the one we have here in Brisbane (MOB - Museum of Brisbane).

Send me some photos and I'll post them. I'll also be pitching this idea to the director of MOB. I'll let you know the response.

PS For Christmas my son has offered to get the 'Turkey Brained Weather Vane' registered. I'm not sure what that means and I'm not sure that was the spirit in which the project was initiated but its another bit of fun. And a kind of interesting present. Life is.....

BrushTurkey put to good use

turkey weather vane

 It's summer. The brush turkeys are on the prowl. Breeding profusely and tearing gardens to shreds to make their huge nests.

This is the only good use I have found for these terrorists, though my Uncle Paddy says if you get them young they cook up quite well. Others say that to cook them, boil in water with a rock and they're ready to eat when the rock is tender. Unfortunately they're a protected species.

design inspiration

I've always wanted a wind vane, a weather cock. I love their simplicity and in a strange way I always feel connected with the elements when I watch them.

I've hinted to the family about my secret desire over the years but my requests for a birthday or christmas surprise have always been deemed to be a tad eccentric and fallen on deaf ears.

keeping watch

I've taken matters into my own hands and decided to make one of my own. Google helped, but of even more assistance was the natural qualities of the brush turkey. What a great tail. If only their heads were anywhere near as attractive! They're pin heads of very little brain and spend many hours with their heads stuck in the mound of nest material taking the temperature. Hence functional but ugly.

So I googled and then had a sudden inspiration. After ten years I have designed and made a prototype over the past couple of days. And it works. It behaves just like a turkey - spinning and checking and changing direction in response to the breeze.More rational than the real bird.

Beyond the Boundary

The launch of 'Beyond the Boundary - A Walk through West End's Aboriginal, Greek and Activist History',  went extremely well last Friday evening. Avid Reader Bookshop was packed. 

We began with a 'Welcome to Country' ceremony with didge by Robbie and words from local elder Sam Watson and ended with a song about West End rewritten around the Go Betweens 'Streets of Our Town'. Great stories. Great feedback. Great looking publication. And then.


We conducted a guided walk on the following Sunday - six guides (plus local Greek historian and architect George Kassos) almost outnumbered those on the walk. The guide is written as a story rather than simply a list of 'highlights' of architecture so the walk was lots of fun and allowed locals to chip in with stories of their own.

On the right Tim Quinn points out a quirky local icon, Zapeion, a purpose designed combination of a Greek frontage and a typical 'Queenslander' timber rear. Designed by the Greek owner by way of embracing his new cultural identity.

George Kassos knows a lot about West End and its history and even more about the Greeks in the area. Below, he is introducing us to the key Greek establishments and history as we exit Musgrave Park. Musgrave Park is a place with a history which begins well before white settlement and still regarded by the Aboriginal community as a spiritual place. The Greek Community Centre, Greek Church and significant amount of property owned by the Greek community overlooks the park. So two of the oldest cultures on the planet meet on this site.

It is the site of the annual Greek Panyiri Festival attended by 10s of thousands and of the annual NAIDOC Aboriginal Festival and currently, is also home to a tent embassy of Aboriginal activists demanding recognition of their prior ownership of this land and of this country. The Greek Festival happened only two weeks ago. The police were brought in to relocate the tent embassy. There was a standoff. And finally a compromise.

Our walking guide is nothing if not topical, and since it deals with the Activist history of West End this was a demonstration, in the flesh, of the ongoing willingness of the locals to make their voices heard.

The final element of the walk took us to Hellenic House (the subject of a story I wrote about a year ago), a Greek icon of Parthenon proportions. It was once the hub of the Brisbane Greek community. Initially purchased, in the 1920s, as the site for the new Greek Orthodox Church, then, failing this, it became the site of the first Greek child care centre and finally a kafeneio - the men's coffee club, one of which exists in every Greek village. It is still this to this day (with modifications to the men's only rules in this modern era).

For those not familiar with Brisbane and West End, the title 'Beyond the Boundary' refers to West End community's propensity to always push the envelope and demand to be heard on issues of local and broader importance, and also to the fact that in the 1800s a 3 square mile boundary was created around the newly established Brisbane Town from which the Aborigines were excluded after 4pm and on Sundays. The main cross roads of  West End are Boundary Street and Vulture Street (formerly Boundary Street South). This marks the south west border of the Town boundaries. Musgrave Park is within this boundary.

Beyond the Boundary

Launching this Walking Tour of West End Brisbane tonight.  Written by yours truly.

My Coat

Loani had asked me to MC her book-launch. Oh god! Public speaking. A joy. And a reason to have a nervous breakdown. I had two weeks notice. I began with a self hypnotic mantra which was intended to convince myself that if I just allowed time the ideas would come. The toilet was a pretty productive place as was my regular 20 laps of the local pool.

In my mind I was very clever, not to say hilarious, as I churned through the laps; laps turned out to be better than the toilet seat. Thirty minutes meditation on the loo I realised, was not only going to cause some disruption to family habits but to bowl habits as well; I remembered my mother's words: ' get off the toilet Stephen, you'll get piles.'

On lap 68 my plan began to develop. I would tell the story of the Adelaide woman who had knitted thirty of Loani's tea cosy designs and offered them to the local coffee shop where people came just to admire the wacky creations. And order a pot of tea on the side.

I would take the piss out of the self proclaimed 'Queen of the Tea Cosies' by quoting from the comments on her blog left by her acolytes. I would pose the possibility that Loani had, in fact, created a cult, with her as the goddess. There was plenty of material. My 'piece de resistance' would be to demonstrate that not only was most men's first response to a tea cosy one of putting it on their head but I would go one better, I would wear a teapot (and tea cosy) on my head as the final joke.

There was too much chlorine in the pool that week I suspect, because I couldn't figure out how to attach a tea pot to my head so my punchline was dead in the water, as it were.

By now it was the morning of the book launch. The table was littered with things. A couple of tea pots, some double sided tape, a roll of gaffa tape, an akubra hat and a length of cotton cloth. It was a disaster scene. I needed saving from my creative chaos. In stepped my regular saviour in these matters - Mistress A, mother, wife and costume designer, 'wear that dress up coat of yours. Add the tea cosy and it'll look great.' Where's that coat I wondered? Oh yeah. In the spare cupboard with all the other leftovers I am saving for an unknown occasion.

One set of things I've never chucked out is my costume collection from my performance days. I have the black twirly coat, a yellow and black check jacket, my original clown's hat; I even have my original striped circus bloomers from 1983. I can't bear to dump them. They have such memories, such stories to tell.

That evening at Avid Reader Bookshop, my swimming meditation paid off; my script flowed, my jokes hit the mark. Loani was brilliant.

One of my oldest friends asked: 'What show was that coat from?'. 'The Bob Club' says I. 'Remember. When every character was called Bob and the subtitle was "A Few Bob's Short of a Quid". It was a show full of acrobatics, cabaret, music and political satire, I played "Bobby Pin", a punky slapstick character obsessed with supermarket trolleys. 'Yeah. That was one of my favourites' says she. Did she remember the show? My performance? Or just the coat? No matter, it had helped a moment survive the moth eaten remnants of the past.

And so my curly coat goes back into the wardrobe for another possible occasion. It's been 27 years. In another 27 I'll be wearing it to funerals. There's a thought. I'll dictate in my will that I am to be buried in style. In my favourite coat.


For a great account of the meaning of things:
Sarah Toa over at A WineDark Sea has been moving house. She has written a great piece about the dilemna she confronted when faced with the choice of throwing or towing some of her 'icons' she discovered in the process of packing up.

Reminders

I facilitated a sharing of stories at the AGM of my local community organisation last night. I began by noting that, while the January flood had defined the year, it was not the only thing we had all experienced in the past 12 months. I asked people to think about how the flood may have influenced their year. What had they learnt about themselves? About their community?

I didn't want people to re-experience the flood. It was hard enough the first time without doing it all over again in our imaginations. Still, the flood did dominate the conversation.

Two women who had never met before January had ended up working alongside each other for the whole year in a Flood Recovery Centre, 5 months of that as volunteers. They are chalk and cheese and yet now best friends. They met the Queen. One was overcome with excitement; the other, of Scottish heritage, was completely uninterested in Her Majesty. They laugh a lot and finish each others stories.

Norma is 84. She spoke of the good things to come from the flood; the people who had helped; the relatives rallying around. She's moved on. She is still reminded of the experience in strange ways. "Yesterday I wanted to thicken some cream but I couldn't find my eggbeater anywhere." Gone. Thrown out by helpful volunteers in the days after the flood. It's become her convenient excuse for not doing things she doesn't want to do. " Oh I can't, sorry, that got thrown out after the flood."

My neighbours moved in 12 months ago - November 2010. He had a book collection and stored them under his house while he organised shelving upstairs. He lost the lot. They moved out last week, 12 months to the day. I haven't spoken to them since the week of the flood when we delivered some food to them. I guess the thought of a repeat experience was too much to bear.

January will be a strange time for many people.

Bus Bliss

My blog friend Jennifer at Realia has entranced me over the years with her snippets of life observed from the seat on a train or walking along ordinary streets to work. It's so easy to 'not notice'.

I'm on the City Glider bus this morning on a banking errand to the city. The City Glider bus service has a sugar glider as its emblem and, as with any flying possum, they slide past many passengers only picking up at limited stops. It's a prepaid service. You can't get on and pay cash.

The service follows Montague Road, a main thoroughfare through the industrial strip along the river and avoids the local traffic snarl. Half way along the bus pulls up and, though I'm engrossed in my book, I hear a voice from outside the bus say to the driver, 'Can you give me a ride to the supermarket mate?' Pause. 'I hav'n got a ticket or nothin'. Pause. 'Cos it too hot'. I can't hear the driver but can guess at his quiet questions. The passenger's words slur like he's been drinking.

Another pause. The driver says nothing and a midde aged man in a black t-shirt and black jeans carefully climbs aboard. His hair is mussed and his chin is grey stubble. He has the look of one who has seen a lot of hard times. He's not been drinking, just living.

'Thanks mate' he says and sits in the front seat for the one stop ride to Coles, his destination.

As I get off in the city five minutes later I make a point of walking to the front exit to compliment the driver on the good thing he's done for the 'mate'. 'Yeah,' he says, looking a little world weary himself, 'I see him pretty regularly'.

It's a beautiful simple thing this being human; and I offer this to Jennifer in her quest to reach 100 beautiful things in her Toronto life.

Suburban surprises

Went for a drive at lunchtime today to scout some of the elements I'm writing about for the forthcoming 'Walkers Guide to West End'. I needed to check out a couple of buildings built in the 30s as the area's first apartment buildings. One, Carmel Court, is a lovely simple Art Deco place on Vulture Street (I know a little more about Art Deco as a result of researching this project - more about the progress of the project another time).

I took a detour into a dead end street and drove to the end and as always it was the human presence which caught my eye rather than the houses. Buildings have stories and in my view that's what makes them interesting - even the story about why a designer might have chosen to build a modernist Art Deco building in the middle of a suburb of timber colonials. But I digress.

I saw
a man
under a floppy hat
wearing swim trunks
in a green backyard
sitting on a yoga mat
cross legged
straight backed
baking under the burning Brisbane sun

meditating i thought
until he reached out
to touch
the computer screen
resting on the grass
before him.

Photo courtesy of Cara and Brisbane Daily Photo blog.

Hellenic House

I'm part of a group who are developing a series of history walks around my home suburb, West End. Last week a group of us did a dummy run of our next proposed route. As we rounded the final corner Tim (ex Lord Mayor) pointed out a set of soaring Greek columns set high above the footpath. A bit like the Parthenon in Athens (if you have a good imagination and have never seen the real thing). Strange, I thought, I've never noticed that before. 'That's Hellenic House' says Tim. 'I think it's the original Greek Club - before they built the grand one in Edmondstone Street.' I paused and noticed a sign with a list of traditional Greek meals - chicken souvlaki, haloumi, Greek salad and the obligitory Greek coffee. And another handwritten sign declaring Hellenic House OPEN. 'Do they do meals?' I asked Tim, ignoring the information before me. 'Yep' says Tim. 'Pretty simple but good.' Hmmmm, I thought, must give it a go some time.

A week later and it's father's day. My kids are taking me to dinner. My choice. So I've rung Hellenic House (they're not listed in the phone book) and made a booking for a table for four. The sun has set as we park opposite the Parthenon and my son says 'Looks like that place in Athens'. 'The Parthenon.' I add by way of helping him. My daughter says 'What?' 'The Parthenon,. You know, in Athens' he repeats. Nick has a good memory. He had seen it as his bus sped past in 2006 carrying a load of young inebriated Australian on a whirlwind tour of 11 European countries in 15 days.

Hellenic House is lit up like a christmas tree. We climb the concrete steps cut into the rock, alongside the overgrown embankment (just like Athens). There's not a lot of noise inside. I'm expecting it to be packed with Greek dancers circling and bobbing with traditional scarves in their hands while old men play backgammon on the terrace drinking strong black coffee.

We enter the foyer, past a wall decorated with a handful of old notices. There's the list of the committee from 2001 and a faded review from about the same year. Andrea has slowed to a stop and, as I catch up, I see what she sees. An empty hall with a kitchen two thirds way down on the left and an array of bare tables scattered between us and a besser brick wall at the other end. I notice an elderly Greek man with white hair sitting at a side table alone. I enter the space and smile at him and sort of nod. He looks up but shows no interest.

A petite Asian girl appears from nowhere and asks if she can help. Like, 'are you sure you're in the right place?' We inform her, rather unnecessarily, that we have a booking. She smiles and indicates for us to follow her, leading us to a side table close to the open portico (is that a Greek word?) which is set for four. We have been expected. We sit. She leaves and returns to the open kitchen.

I am a little embarrassed as I have talked this place up and now I offer my family the option to leave given that I am fearing that the young Asian girl might also be the cook and, well, there is a certain lack of ambiance despite the Greek music emerging from a very old sound system sitting fully exposed adjacent the entrance.

West End has at least ten Greek cafes, restaurants and clubs and most of them are packed most nights. We've driven past two on the way here and they are bulging with customers. I fear there is something they know that I don't. I've lived in the area for over thirty years and I've never heard of this place. Perhaps there's a reason.

Our Asian waitress returns with some wine glasses and four menus. We glance at them. They are short but have the basic traditional food minus the pasta and the lambs shanks and the stuffed capsicum. It's all food which can be cooked at short notice - souvlaki, grilled octopus , calamari, haloumi cheese and a few things I don't recognise. We decide to stay. The wine has been poured, the initial shock wears off and we proceed with fingers crossed.

Miss Asia has disappeared so I wander inside to order our selection and as I cross the floor I notice a second Greek man sitting outside on the right hand side of the main space drinking a coffee. That makes two Greek men. I join Miss Asia at the counter and give her my list, which she writes down and then asks me to pay on the spot. It's not much of an expert when it comes to restaurants but I'm used to paying as I leave and, as I'm a little bit suss of the likely quality of the food, I'm a little bit taken aback. But being a serious wuss I hand over my $48.00 without complaint. As I do I calculate in my head that we've ordered seven dishes and a soft drink for less than $50.00 so it's hardly a fortune.

Back at the table we chat. Miss Asia brings us the large Greek salad and we are surprised to find it, not only fresh, but very good. Lots of olive oil, good quality olives and fetta cheese, red onions and three large pickled green chillis. I compliment our hostess and ask slyly if she is also doing the cooking. She smiles sweetly and takes me for an idiot. 'Oh no, my boss do that'.

We're beginning to relax and enjoy our own company (we don't have many options). The next plate arrives, then the next in quick succession and each is beautiful. The grilled haloumi and grilled calamari are exquisite. We are all falling in love with the empty Parthenon and wondering why only we are enjoying this experience. I'm feeling priviliged.

As we near the end of our meal Miss Asia returns and, it not being a busy night, we engage her in conversation. 'Are you a student? How long have you been in Australia? Where do you come from? Do you miss home? Is it father's day in Korea? She is happy to chat and her English is remarkably good. In fact she is very appreciative of our interest. 'Most people doan wan to tok' she says. 'Only wan to be serve meal.' She's a real sweetie. She fesses up to being a little lonely living alone so far from home but being far from home is why she came here so...
Andrea is moved and wants to take her home.

We arrived at 7pm and it's now 8pm. We've spent an hour as a family on this little Greek island, far less crowded than the madness of Athens or Corfu (though I've never been there), and only having had to climb a few steps to enter this remnant of the Acropolis. It's been a pleasant surprise as is much of my emerging knowledge of my local community which the history project is revealing to me.

Have the Greeks really been in West End since 300BC? Some claim thay have.

Postscript
I visited Greece once. It was June 1977. Andrea and I arrived there from Istanbul after 6 months crossing Asia beginning in Indonesia and touching down in every country on the way (including Afghanistan and Iran). It was high season and the only accommodation we could get was on the rooftop of a rundown backpackers joint open to the weather (we were young. And poor). It had a view of the Acropolis but we never made it there. Andrea turned yellow and was diagnosed with Hepatitis and the local Greek doctor advised us to flee the country. It was a notifiable disease requiring mandatory hospitalisation. He told us "Leave now or face a worse fate. The local hospital does not have a high standard of medical practice and it's highly likely you will not get out alive." We caught a flight to London the next day.

Stories of loss and survival

Photo courtesy of Cara - Brisbane Daily Photo Blog

Last Friday evening our local bookshop (Avid Reader) hosted a night of storytelling. The West End Making History group invited community members to come along and share their experiences of the recent disaster. It was a simple community building night. I was invited to play MC.

What a great night. We had lined up a range of people ranging from Theo, a Greek born gentleman who had experienced both the 1974 and 2011 floods in West End (where each time his corner shop had gone under) to Bronwyn who told us of having 26 children under 5 in her back yard at one stage (two sets of twins, one pair being their birthday). People simply dropped kids off on their way to help or to survey the damage.

At 80 Theo has single-handedly stripped and relined the walls of his shop. He shared his distress that followed each event, despite having experienced this previously. With great compassion he expressed deep understanding for those who had been hit this time;
Dan O'Neill had lost hundreds of books from his lifetime library collection;
Francesca told of "looting" her friend'sTony's house with the help an extended network of friends while Tony and his family were away in New Zealand unaware of the impending disaster. Strangely, Francesca's kids knew, not only where the spare key was hidden, but also where the private family documents were stashed.
Tim Quinn told of missing out on both floods despite have been born and lived in the suburb his whole life and Bu, from Ache, Indonesia (his story appears earlier in these blogs as "Disaster is relative - Bill and Bu") told of his relief at knowing he had lost no family members and still had a (rather wet) house to live in.

The mostly late 30s to 70s audience all marvelled at the role young people had played in the post flood recovery and 19 year old Verdi shared her simple perspective: there was a need to help, so we just did it.

Local photographer Cara G has captured the night on her brisbane daily photo blog. as well as some great photos of the events as they unfolded in January.

And so the stories ripple on, building connections across the community in ways we can't predict.

My question now is how far to go in collecting these and other stories more formally in an attempt to capture this oral history for the future? Has the rush of initial energy disippated? Is the pain still too fresh in people's minds to see this as a priority?

Drizzling Beauty

Right now I'm sitting at a coffee shop at a footpath (pavement) table enjoying a 'flat white' (latte in a cup not a glass) and a pistachio and caramel slice.

I'm watching the rain drizzling down around me outside Alberto's Shot. I'm looking for beauty. I've found it on this corner.

I'm inspired by Jennifer's challenge on her blog 'Realia'. The rain is soft and comforting. Beauty!

Two weeks ago this street was four inches deep in mud. People with shovels and brooms and lengths of wood were forcing the cappucino coloured slime back towards the river. (Andrew Porfyri's blog has further amazing images from the flood)

In Ontario Jenn tells me it's 20 below. I can't even begin to imagine that, but in beauty terms I am quite besotted with squally, white flecked expanses of water in forgotten harbours under overcast skies. Strangely it's stories set in Newfoundland and other cold climes which entrance me. Perhaps it's a desire for the extreme opposite of Brisbane weather. An alternative to blue skies and scorching sun.

Water - its a wonderful element. There's beauty in harbours and wild oceans, and quiet streams and still lakes in remote places like Dove Lake in Tasmania. And that's just the beginning.

This House VI - Unobstructed View!

'View from my back deck'

When we bought this house in 1994 we were advised by the local Councillor that, while there were 3 or 4 apartment blocks within the immediate area, these were planning abberations and this could never happen again. The new more enlightened planning guidelines would prevent a repetition of this.

I quite like this view. It's nicely framed and gives a sense of perspective to the view and the neighbourhood. (that's the neighbours roof in the foreground - look familiar?)

Unfortunately the local council has just released new 'Draft Planning Guidelines' which propose buildings of between 12 and 30 stories for this 'community on a peninsular'. True, my immediate neighbourhood is listed as protected so it's unlikely one of these monsters will appear next door.
Sadly, the lovely Kurilpa Peninsular community of about 3000 is facing an increase in population of 25,000 over the next 15 years. How Planners imagine that there is a snowflakes chance in hell that this community can retain its character and identity and charm in the face of an onslaught of that size beggars belief.