Regional Queensland and social media are not standard bedfellows in studies of Australian media use. Yet regional community responses to recent natural disasters on Facebook in particular warrant further investigation. Indeed, while the increasing use of social media by government organisations during disasters and other crises is by now well documented, the comparative surge in community uses — and particularly regional community uses — has received considerably less attention. This article is broadly interested in regional Queensland uses of Facebook during the 2011 Queensland floods, specifically the ‘Toowoomba & Darling Downs Flood Photos & Info Page’ (https://www.facebook.com/TmbaLockyerFloods?fref=ts 10 January 2011). Drawing on an interview with the page's creator, I consider both the speed and apparent efficacy of the page as a tool of grassroots (or unofficial) crisis communication, partly compared with its most obvious official counterpart, the Toowoomba Regional Council's Facebook page. Ultimately, I argue that the ‘Toowoomba & Darling Downs Flood Photos & Info Page’ offers an emphatically more useful model of social media-based crisis communication from which others might draw.

Thea Astley once commented that, ‘everybody is living on a cyclonic edge’, and that many of her characters were ‘always touching on the edges of cyclones’. In Queensland literature, cyclones often appear as tropes of apocalypse: new worlds of person and place are revealed out of the destruction of the old. In Astley's novel A Boat Load of Home Folk (1968), the tempestuous forces of personal cyclones, as well as those of the cyclone destroying the island around them, overtake a group of stranded cruise passengers, and consequently place and person assume unique meanings as the characters try to survive. Although one of her least-known works, A Boat Load of Home Folk is a profound novel of human experience in which Astley uses the elemental cyclone as a trope of apocalypse that is both an instrument of destruction and a catalyst of revelation.

This essay aims to explicate the conditions enabling Hansonism. Politically, it argues that the party's exploitation of cynicism about mainstream politics and deepening economic and social divisions have been enabled by the Howard government's zealous pursuit of neo-liberal politics, its dismantling of Labor's welfare safety net, its wedge politics, its cynical reneging on election promises, and its attacks on the fourth estate, not to mention his endorsement of Hanson's freedom of speech'. In terms of the media, the essay argues that Hansonism's protest vote is based on a ‘plague o’ both your houses'. The allied populist prejudices of several radio talkback hosts have drawn their strength from television's virtual displacement of political debate in its posture as voice of the people, its actual address to viewers as domestic, atomised consumers and the increasing populism of vernacular genres such as lifestyle programs and sitcoms. Examples include the most popular Australian film of the Howard-Hanson era, The Castle.

Repeated ‘boom and bust’ phenomena have characterised the history of Queensland as a colony and state. In terms of infrastructure and cultural institutions, this has led to significant discontinuities: vital strategic centres of colonial power, such as Cooktown, now languish in relative obscurity and the role of their inhabitants as authors and agents of colonialism receives little attention. This study investigates the life of an early inhabitant of Cooktown, E.A.C. Olive, in the context of his location on Australia's northern frontier.

The Queenslander garden is instantly recognisable both by those blessed with a Queensland birthright and by those who are newly arrived or perhaps making a brief visit to the state while on holiday. Since the proclamation of the State of Queensland in 1859 the Queensland domestic garden has undergone various and numerous changes. There have been changes in size, design and preferred plant species. There have been changes in the householder's perception, use and management of the garden. Importantly there has also been change in what constitutes the Queenslander house.

The spaces of our childhood maintain a particularly enduring hold when they cease to exist or are so reconstructed that the previous version is effectively obliterated. Recollections of an early home that no longer exists provide the framework for David Malouf’s celebrated 12 Edmondstone Street. In this article, I juxtapose Malouf’s experiences with recollections of my own family home in Kyogle, coincidentally situated at the other end of the old railway line that began just a couple of hundred metres from Malouf’s childhood dwelling. In addressing both the similarities and differences between Malouf’s and my own example, the discussion will develop around the fact that in contrast to the physical non-existence of the address of 12 Edmonstone Street, my own family home in Kyogle has not been extinguished; instead, it is today a disfigured ‘renovation’ of its former self. Ultimately, 12 Edmondstone Street – a piece of writing whose poetic power and mnemonic resonance go beyond the mortal limits of physical space – will operate as a literary shelter through which the power of memories of former living spaces can be articulated.

Congratulations to the organisers of the ‘Unmasking Whiteness’ conference for their courage in putting on the first ever conference dealing specifically with Whiteness in Australia. It does indeed take courage given that whiteness is, I have found, a disturbing and perturbing topic, not only to white people but also, I believe, to people of colour.

I'd therefore like to preface my paper by stating that I am speaking about my experience only, my life only, my interpretation only. I speak only for myself. I definitely am not speaking on behalf of others, especially other Aboriginal people. I state this up front, for just as whites who question their whiteness are often considered traitors to their race, I have found the same reaction when I have said to certain Aboriginal people who misunderstand my point and my pain: ‘I'd really like to be white, for a change’. Such a statement has been seen as a betrayal and a violation of Aboriginality when in fact it is a cry from the heart which has been ravaged by racism.

Thus should anybody, black or white, be offended by my remarks, I take no responsibility for your interpretation, only for my intention, which is to share rather than to offend. I would also like to say that my paper is not an academic one, for which I make no apologies.

Brisbane is the kind of city that if it did not exist would have to be invented — and indeed it has by many of its writers. Its history of settlement and its political conservatism of the slash, burn and bulldoze variety has urged writers like Sam Watson in his novel The Kadaitcha Sung to depict it as a place of punishment, violence, racism and red-necked parochialism. The same sense of oppression informs David Malouf's mixed nostalgic references to the city as a place of beauty and boredom, a city you can love and hate in Johnno. In similar vein, Jessica Anderson in Tirra Lirra by the River, Angelika Fremd in The Glass Inferno and Janette Turner Hospital in both short stories and novels, depict Brisbane as a place one needs to leave but also a place where epiphanies are possible, and where the past haunts the present with a ferocious insistence. For novelists Rosie Scott, Janette Turner Hospital and Venero Armanno, Brisbane is simultaneously Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. Many writers depict Brisbane as a great place to grow up in but you wouldn't want to live there — unless you are Hugh Lunn. Brisbane has been, and arguably still is by some writers, seen both favourably and unfavourably as a provincial backwater, unsophisticated and straight — still a frontier town in the popular and literary imagination if not in reality, a place where it is likely that you will know somebody who knows somebody you know. This is pointed out repeatedly by John Birmingham, author of the whimsical He Died With a Felafel in his Hand, by way of a distinguishing feature of flat life in Brisbane in contrast to other (Southern) capitals. In Brisbane, Birmingham writes:

The autumn 1944 ‘Ern Malley’ edition of Max Harris's Angry Penguins was a defining moment in Australian cultural history for more than one reason. To add to the exposure of the Malley hoax in June 1944, Harris found himself in August having to defend charges of ‘indecent advertisements’ (Heyward, 184). Harris's partner in publishing Angry Penguins, John Reed, wrote in a letter of 5 September 1944 — the day the trial began in the Adelaide Magistrates Court — that the ‘indictment includes 7 of the Malley poems, all of Max's, the Cowan and Stivens stories and Collinson's poem’ (Reed, 367). The 19-year-old Brisbanite Laurence Collinson had conjured up a typically dramatic moment to announce his entry onto the national cultural stage — stumbling into a bit part in a drama that was both a crucial battle in the war between Australian literary modernists and traditionalists, and a worthy local precursor to Britain's Lady Chatterley trial of 1959.

Stories, anecdotes, and descriptive articles were the earliest publications, following the main wave of colonisation in the 1860s, to bring Queensland north and west of Proserpine to the attention of the national and international community. Such publications were also the main vehicle of an internal mythology: they shaped the identity of the inhabitants, diversified following settlement, and their sense of the region. The late date of settlement compared with south-eastern Australia meant that frontier experience continued both as a lived reality and as mythology well into the twentieth century. The self-containment of the region as actual and exemplary frontier was breached only with the arrival of television and university culture in the 1950s and 1960s.

In 1921, Jack Lindsay wrote from Brisbane of Nietzsche's assertion ‘that the academic virtue is sleep, i.e., narcotisation’. A common academic and non-academic indulgence in remembering Brisbane is the narcotic of Queensland's extreme difference: a state of exceptional boredom and brutality. It is widely assumed that, for most of its history, Queensland was a sleepy backwater; its capital the country town described by a late nineteenth century visitor: ‘Brisbane is quite a pretty town, to be sure, but it bores you to death.’ Dismissive characterisations of Queensland coarsened as a result of Bjelke-Petersen's ascendency. If you were not bored to death by its cultural wastelands, you could be beaten close to it in the boorish badlands patrolled by his pigs. The crazed Dane fed the chooks while watching cranes rise over this animal farm, apparently untouchable in his Elsinore:

Brisbane has been relentlessly cleared since the first British soldiers and convicts set up at Redcliffe and then moved to the site we know as Brisbane today. As in other Australian colonies the new settlers were keen to grow crops and to exploit the timber both as a building material and later as a rich source of export income. While early explorers and botanists recorded the richness of the vegetation most new settlers saw the landscape as a resource to be exploited, not a pristine environment to be treated with respect.

The challenges in the business environment are forcing Australian firms to be innovative in all their efforts to serve customers. Reflecting this need there have been several innovation policy statements both at Federal and State government level aimed at encouraging innovation in Australian industry. In particular, the innovation policy statement launched by the Queensland government in the year 2000 primarily intends building a Smart State through innovation. During the last few decades the Australian government policy on innovation has emphasized support for industry R&D. However industry stakeholders demand a more firm-focused policy of innovation. Government efforts in this direction have been hindered by a lack of a consistent body of knowledge on innovation at the firm level. In particular the Australian literature focusing on firm level antecedents of innovation is limited and fragmented. This study examines the role of learning capabilities in innovation and competitive advantage. Based on a survey of manufacturing firms in Queensland the study finds that both technological and non-technological innovations lead to competitive advantage. The findings contribute to the theory competitive advantage and firm level antecedents of innovation. Implications for firm level innovation strategies and behaviour are discussed. In addition, the findings have important implications for Queensland government's current initiatives to build a Smart State through innovation.

The subject of this paper is music in Queensland, rather than Queensland music. Although we speak readily enough, and unselfconsciously, about Queensland literature or Queensland art, the idea of ‘Queensland music’ (suggesting that there is something distinctive about music composed here) sits uncomfortably to those of us who are not Queensland composers-and even to some who are. I will not be concerned in this paper with distinguishing between the original and the derivative in Queensland musical culture. Rather, I begin from the premise that Queenslanders — like people elsewhere — have developed a unique set of cultural interactions with music, reflecting our particular history and social conditions. In this understanding of music, performance has as much social and cultural significance as composition.

Almost 5,000 Italians were interned in Australia during World War II, a high proportion of them Queensland residents. Internment was a pivotal experience for the Italian community, both locally and nationally, complicating Italian Australians’ sense of belonging to their adopted country. Through an examination of two migrant autobiographical narratives of internment, Osvaldo Bonutto's A Migrant's Story and Peter Dalseno's Sugar, Tears and Eyeties, this article explores the impact of internment on the experience and articulation of cultural and civic belonging to Australian society. It finds that internment was a ‘trial’ or ‘transitional’ phase for these internees’ personal and civic identities, and that the articulation of these identities and sense of belonging is historically contingent, influenced by the shift from assimilation to multiculturalism in settlement ideology, as well as Italian Australians’ changing place in Australian society throughout the twentieth century.

English common law was applied in the New South Wales penal colony when it was founded by Governor Arthur Phillip in 1788. Phillip’s second commission granted him sole authority to appoint coroners and justices of the peace within the colony. The first paid city coroner was appointed in 1810 and only five coroners served the expanding territory of New South Wales by 1821. To relieve the burden on coroners, justices of the peace were authorised to conduct magisterial inquiries as an alternative to inquests. When the Moreton Bay settlement was established, and land was opened up to free settlers, justices were relocated from New South Wales to the far northern colony. Nonetheless, the administration of justice, along with the function of the coroner, was hindered by issues of isolation, geography and poor administration by a government far removed from the evolving settlement. This article is about death investigation and the role of the coroner in Moreton Bay. By examining a number of case studies, it looks at the constraints faced by coroners, deaths due to interracial violence and deaths not investigated. It concludes that not all violent and unexplained deaths were investigated in accordance with coronial law due to a paucity of legally qualified magistrates, the physical limitations of local conditions and the denial of justice to Aborigines as subjects of the Crown.