Of myths and men

Jokes are like myths. They are told and retold with the understanding that factual accuracy is not the issue. The truth of the story is irrelevant to the point of it.  

http://www.academia.ed./2310/Myth_Meaning_and_Merriment_Did_You_Hear_the_One_About_the_Resurrection....

I’ve been contemplating the notion of myths in the past week and a bit.

I have been prompted to research what one has to do to attain the legendary status that merits a Canberra Street being named after one – apart from die.  Is there a Devil’s Advocate to the case for potential candidates or does one just need a good publicist? 

And what of Rolf Harris? Who knows the real story behind the veneer of Aussie boy made good with a wobble board, a paintbrush and a tin to bongo – never mind that he was born a Pom. Do you think the Queen has shrouded his portrait like they used to do in churches in Lent?

At the risk of being labelled un-Australian, I’ve been wondering why it is that many of my friends and a lot of Australians are absolutely in to ANZAC day and I’m really not. It puzzles me.

I guesstimate I’ve taken part in over 50 ANZAC services: marching, representing, witnessing, with revallie and the last post performed by squeaky pimply faced cadets, and tall toned pitch perfect bronzed gods. I’ve heard Wilfred Owen, or part of him, recited; stories of incredible bravery and sheer foolhardiness; watched thousands of wreaths been laid by teetering old ladies, and blithely innocent children. 

Don’t get me wrong. I lament the loss of young men who in their prime are sent off to wars that are sold to them as myths of adventure and altruism. I empathise with the women who lose sons husbands and lovers in nether parts of the world. 

I have no relatives who have fought for their country – history and circumstance intervened for us.

My ANZAC myth was shaped by Dylan as he belted out to the masters of war:

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud.  

Eric Bogle is on my regular play list.

Johnny Turk he was waiting he primed himself well

He showered us with bullets and he rained us with shells

And in five minutes flat he’d blown us all to hell

Nearly blew us right back to Australia. 

I took part in anti-war marches in my adolescents and in more recent times in protests against John Howard’s mythological buy in to the weapons of mass destruction that may eventually see him tried as a war criminal if some have their way. 

I’ve heard all the arguments about the need to defend one’s country, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. I don’t disrespect the sacrifices of unsuspecting youth thrust into the line of fire and left to deal with their post traumatic horrors for the rest of their lives. It’s the decisions and action of the arrogant woremongers whose egotism, self-righteousness and political ends justify wreaking havoc on the lives of so many that is my disgust. 

At the core I am a pacifist. 

And maybe that’s my myth.

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This Week's Art Works

  Maybe if I keep posting these I too will become a legendary Australian artist

Pears. Pastel drawing on paper