AKER MAGAZINE .01
ON CRUSHES, CREATIVITY AND THE ART OF STAR
I’m a procrastinator. I‘m a writing-the-essay-at-3am-the-day-it’s-du
depression that ends you up in hospital and loses you friends. T
all. The kind of depression that feels like being buried alive. I rea
room. It all seemed like too much effort. I was young, just out of
life. I was told by mothers, magazines, teachers and TV shows: “
ate about” “you just have to FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!” but
and my dreams were bizarre medleys of skulls and fairies and tin
a t-shirt company on fifty bucks, or one of those driven dudes w
lawyer or primary school teacher. I was kind of a floater. Kind o
eral degrees. I was sad and slow and unmotivated. I was crippled
do before I began it. And so I never really began. I got slower an
and to hard to tackle. I didn’t even leave the house. And then, b wanted to die. So in a big, catastrophic cluster-fuck of a suicide
to live. It was huge and scary and powerful and I didn’t quite kno tory emotions —
A) the newly developed desire to live. Like, really, truly, fully live.
B) the remaining fear of starting any course of action that was
what I was so afraid of. Boredom, maybe? Or normalcy? The
RTING
ue kind of girl. When I was 18 I was swamped by the kind of
The kind of depression that stops you from doing anything at
ached a point where I was completely incapable of leaving my
f school and had no fucking idea what I wanted to so with my
“you can do anything you want” “just do what you’re passion-
t to be honest, I wasn’t really that passionate about anything
ny birds. I wasn’t one of those entrepreneurial kids who starts
who knows at five years old that they want to be a doctor or
of a dreamer. I tired working. I enrolled in and then quit sev-
d by the thought that I had to know exactly what I wanted to
nd slower and then kind of just stopped. It all seemed to big
because I had so little motivation to do anything at all, I just attempt, I scared into myself a thunderously powerful desire
ow what to do with it because now I had two quite contradic-
. And
sn’t “following my dream”. In hindsight, I’m not quite sure
e horror of just-being-average? Anyway, it was crippling.
Her body is a monster. Cow-heavy, she is flesh hel
the strange wet silkiness of eyes and the protection o the travel of blood and the intestines, the pulsing of
of her face after sleep, with its oils and crusted rh
night’s biology. On the TV, she watches a documen
thing real. He pushes himself into silicone, the sym
the mysterious desires of plastic. Held with the intim
sides clean, retouches the lipstick. This is love. On th
through the intricacies of character and plot as the forehead like a stain.
ALYSON MILLER BODIES
ld by an architecture of cartilage, muscle and bone,
of hair, nails and skin. Alien things move inside her, abject shapes and liquids. And there is the curiosity
heum and breath of decay, a grotesque echo of the
ntary about a man who imagines a doll into some-
mmetry of her baby gaze suggesting something about
macy of necks and wrists, he carefully wipes her in-
he couch, he shares his favourite movies, talking her
e bright images from the screen reflect dully on her
In an ocean town, a girl with lips stitched as tight as the fibres woven through with the bite of salt and
and mucosa, she heaves up words that slip back dow
algebra, the townsfolk chase the ones that get loose,
and burying them sea deep. In the main drag, und
bleaches in the sun; the smell of sulfur and a stran
runaways shouting paragraphs and plot endings dow
town square and circled by a silent mob, plucks at h
wolf shapes made by her words, only tightens around
fragments, leaving the smell of burnt paper and a sli
distribute them like a communion, lost fingernails thresholds of their homes as a memory, a warning.
THE GIRL WHO CRIED
s a fist. The thread is worm thick and tarmac black, iron. Inside her mouth, pushing against the palate
wn her throat like eels. In streets as neat as trellis and
, weighting them down in hessian sacks with stones
der neon signs and mannequin stares, a corpse row
nge sweetness. No one speaks, listening only for the
wn alleyways and behind doors. The girl, caged in the
her hair like a penance. But the crowd, tired of the
d the cage. As mute as walls, they disappear her into
ick of dark ink. Scouring, they gather the scraps and
s and whisper thin bones, to be buried under the
JOHAN JAGNERT
C
It starts with boysenberry swirls behind my eyelids. T
nilla. Not that cheap scent that clings to teenage gi
vanilla, tall and slender. Standing upright in a glas
the sound you make in the back of your throat. Alm
looped through my belly ring. Its pointed, pink tip
back. Strong, pale fingers splayed on either side of y
ing it with your lips. I hear it grind across your teet belly button. Spasm. My hips convulse. You pull
Playful. Petulant. Piqued. You pull harder until it t
ied silver ball resting between your lips as you kiss me
CASSANDRA ATHERTON THE FROG
Twirling like curls of paper ribbon. I can smell va-
irls’ wrists, but pure vanilla. Long brown stalks of
ss tumbler. In your very seventies kitchen. I hear
most a growl. Bear. Bare. And then your tongue is
p darting in and out of the silver circle. I arch my
your neck. You nip at the small silver ball. Rotat-
th. A dull clink. You plunge your tongue into my my belly ring with your teeth. Small tugs at first.
tears through the creamy fold of flesh. The blood-
e‌.
...You push the metallic ball into my mouth. It
A miniature eyeball, only heavier, much heavier.
trace a line from my breast bone to my belly and
becomes a river of blood flowing between my br to move but you are too heavy. The small silver
and metal. My belly button becomes a gaping w collects under your nails and stains your hands
and leave. The silver ball shoots from my mout
tops of the trees in your backyard. The corners
self up on your bed, trying not to let the blood t
up without using my hands. And they are cove ach. Fever.
rolls onto my tongue. A heavy pea. A ball bearing.
. The weight of it forces my chin onto my chest. You
d it is red. A red snail trail. A long red ribbon. It
reasts. You drink from me. Red tinged teeth. I try ball begins to grow until I begin to choke on blood
wound at which you pry with your fingers. My blood vermilion. You stare at your hands and then at me
th, through the roof in your bedroom and over the of my mouth are cracked and weeping. I prop my-
trickle onto the icy sheets. I don’t know how to get
ered in blood and clutching at the hole in my stom-
I take you into my mouth and hold you t metallic blue. We fold into eachother, c existence until there is no way to distinguish because I consider you dangerous, you ex and calm breath until we exhaust civility within an other takes over. The balance tips inbetween. Sharp fluorescent lights cut us arms are severed and carelessly heaped to violent rod of blindness. The side of your some of my hair that falls, scattered stam lazy reflection of dull stainless steel I se and perpetually morphing into a thousand moment. The moment, that universe. Nucleu our selves from this violence and close our would unravel from this entanglement slo the other with care before recoiling back i we are allowed to behave like animals. other for the fight. Meeting here each wee that reduces us to an exhausted heap of detergent escaping into the hot, sterile air.
ERIN RITCHE COIN LAUNDRY
there. Outside the air is cold and the night collapsing deep into the certainty of our h which part is me and which is you. And xcite me. We rest with gentle movements and the momentum of one human being s and the power trips till we are suspended to pieces. Your legs, entwined with my the side. My right eye, useless with its r head is sliced cleanly through along with men on the polished concrete floor. In the ee your face, contorted, grotesquely sculpted vulgar details. This is who we are, in this us! If we knew each other we would save eyes. If we could behave as lovers do, we owly and gently, separating one part from into our selves. But we are not lovers, so Struggling for dominance and hating each ek. Hating / Needing / Hating / Needing— mute limbs amongst the grit of powdered
Tim smirks at me as I make an attempt to pick pi
beach sticks to his legs. His bare torso glistens wet in sexual way. This coast trip is the finale, the one last
will no longer be kids at high school, but grown-ups
affairs. He’s moving into a share house close to his u
kid, a kid in Dr Seuss-themed Chuck Taylors playing
At least I don’t have to do another maths test ever a Tim drove us to Bateman’s for the weekend, him there’s something going on between them that they
only fifteen, just a baby. Part of me is glad that it’s T
thug from school. We’ve both known Tim all our live Ariane is still playing in the surf; her bikini is a size
wrinkles of hot pink lycra. She giggles as a wave sla
from her. I am frozen, neatly caught between discre this beach and watch this scene play out for ever.
FACEBOOK: 27TH JANUARY Matilda posted: Fucking seaweed.
ieces of seaweed from my hair. The sand from the
n the dying sunlight. It’s beautiful in an entirely unhurrah before we begin our new lives as adults. We
s with HECS loans who sit in cafés discussing world
university; I’m not moving anywhere. I still feel like a
g at being a real person.
again. and me and my little sister. I can’t help but think aren’t telling me. Part of me is horrified. Ariane is
Tim that she’s chosen and not some dodgy wannabe
es. I can trust him. too big, the small buds on her chest hidden behind
aps her from behind. Tim’s gaze never wanders far
eetly leaving them to it, and wanting to sit here on
Art school is not like high school. The teachers are
conversations with them. Two equals, discussing the Cavanaugh, a grown-up.
There’s this guy in my life drawing class who has t
Dreads. This is what we do, we give each other nick
good at appearing completely chilled out when ever
Maybe it’s an ironic nickname. Maybe I haven’t been
Ned Dreads is a beautiful man. He has this way of l
immobile while he speaks. I think he’s about twenty-
I have to suppress the urge to giggle inappropriatel
hours recording every wrinkle, every curve of the nud
I’m surrounded by beautiful people here. They m
speak beautiful words. We hang out at the Lonsdale
ful people go. They all drink double-shot-skinny-so
chocolates. I’d never touched coffee before I started u
FACEBOOK: 2ND MARCH Matilda posted: Coffee: Red Bull for Grown Ups. friendly, but standoffish. I find myself having adult
e affairs of the art world. It still feels surreal. Matilda
the most amazing red dreadlocks. We call him Ned
knames. They call me Mellow Yellow because I am
rybody else is stressed to the eyeballs. I don’t get it.
n here long enough to understand.
looking right into you, this blue gaze that holds you
-five. I haven’t even had my eighteenth birthday and
ly when we have a male model in class. We spend
de human body. It’s almost clinical in a way.
make beautiful art. They wear beautiful clothes and
e Street Roasters because that’s where all the beauti-
oy lattes. I’m still working on graduating from hot
university. The taste is growing on me, slowly.
Ij
I’m known at work as ‘the Kid with the Headpho
headphones means you know something about good
taste in music is. A lot of Billie Holliday gets played
their faces at the music we play and ask if we have a when you could listen to 50’s Jazz?
Tim likes to tease me about the stuff I’ve discover Doors and I fell in love. I played the record for Tim
in Jim Morrison’s voice. He just laughed and asked m this decade again.
You can discover a lot about people through the m
yesterday and bought Roxette’s The Ballad Hits albu
with the stereo up, singing along. I expect she knows
envy her self-confidence. She does whatever she want
She smiled when she saw me and asked me how I w me about university was right.
FACEBOOK: 19TH MARCH Matilda posted: just found a bunch of songs I wrote when I was 13. This is heavy stuff. ones’. In the world of second hand records, having
d music. The bigger the headphones, the better your
d in the store. The teenagers who come in wrinkle
anything by Rihanna. Why would you buy Rihanna
red at school. Last week someone was playing The but he didn’t get it, couldn’t hear the tragic beauty
me when I was going to start listening to music from
music they buy. An old high school teacher came in
um. I expect she put it in her car and drove home
s all the lyrics. She isn’t that much older than me. I
ts.
was going. I told her that everything she had said to
N I invite Tim out for a coffee at the Roasters.
I don’t get much chance to see him these days. He
enjoying his studies. He shrugs, and then changes th
ment. He wants to know why we’re sitting on milk c five bucks for your latte and sip it whilst sitting on a
cuss topical social issues like boat people and gay m you a sense of solidarity with the social minorities.
Tim looks at the menu, confused. I understand that
the difference between a macchiato and an affogato? come to his rescue and order two chai lattes. Tim sniffs his chai suspiciously as I tell him about
week we have been discussing modernism and post
me to explain. I sense that on some level, he has di
our time together feels forced; like oil and water aw
bowl, never mixing. Tim makes his excuses and stand He hasn’t touched his chai.
FACEBOOK: 30TH APRIL Matilda shared a link: New Zealand MP’s Gay Marriage Speech Goes Viral
e sees more of Ariane than me. I ask him how he is
he subject. He seems uncomfortable in this environ-
crates instead of chairs. I tell him it’s ironic. You pay milk crate. You sit on your milk crate while you dis-
marriage. You sit on your milk crate because it gives
t look. That look was mine not so long ago. What is
? What the hell is so great about soy milk, anyway? I what I’ve been doing at school. I tell him how this
tmodernism. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask
isengaged from the conversation. The remainder of
wkwardly swirling around one another in the same
ds up to leave.
Postmodernism in the visual arts is Postmodernism is defined as
Postmodernists questioned the notion of hierarchy and the prin of ambiguity and interconnectedness (Weston, 2011).
The works of postmodern artists became a vehicle for social com Postmodernist artists were just plain-out weird.
I sit at my tiny desk, sandwiched between a pile of texts on pos
the other. It’s 3am. The combination of the only light in the roo
me lightheaded; gives me a sensation of floating near the ceilin
fan working overtime to keep the machine from overheating. T
over and over to take off into the sky. I switch between the bare
modernism in the visual arts and Facebook’s online messaging p
is not. Tim went offline hours ago. I sent him a message asking h
FACEBOOK: SUNDAY 3:21am Matilda posted: Go away essay. Nobody wants you here. Your mother didn’t want you either.
nciples of organization, preferring instead to explore the nature
mment and protest.
stmodernism on one side and a haphazard tower of records on
om, a little desk lamp, and my fifth cup of instant coffee makes
ng looking down upon myself. My little laptop is whirring; the
The sound echoes inside my head; a tiny jet engine attempting
e bones of a two thousand word essay on the ideologies of post-
program. The topic itself is fascinating. Writing about the topic
how he was going.
He didn’t reply. Ned Dreads is online. He has been there all e editing it since then. It will more than likely stay in the ‘unsent’ I’m not sure which is the most depressing.
Too worked up to sleep; I have been tossing and turning for hou I lie here, the worse things seem.
It’s the curse of the insomniac; that things always seem worse at
Tim told me today that I have changed. I don’t understand. I d
that is what hurts the most. If he’d been angry or sad, it wouldn feels entirely foreign. Unnatural. Lifelong friends aren’t suppose
I wish I could go back to the beach and pretend that these co
were still kids. At the beach, there were no beautiful people with
They say that things always seem better in the light of day. I hop
vening. I typed a message to him at nine o’clock and have been box when I give up and go to bed.
FACEBOOK: MONDAY 23:34PM Matilda posted:
Night.
urs. My bed is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. The longer
t 2am.
don’t feel different. He said it without any emotion, and I think
n’t have hurt so much. The encroaching awkwardness between us
d to feel awkward around each other.
onfusing grown up feelings aren’t really there. At the beach, we
h red dreadlocks and no double-shot-skinny-soy-lattes.
pe that’s true. I guess I’ll find out in the morning.
January evening air, broken by the conical white glow produced by the streetlamps is now coinciding with what has become, strangely, something of a bad habit for me; the feeling of being neither happy nor sad, and being somewhat antsy having suddenly become aware of this fact. The train station’s blacktop is a kind of piss-orangey glow under the electric light’s gaze. I can count maybe five stars total floating in the big black summer sky. Three other prospective travellers populate the platform, each of which has something unique to offer the old analytic perfect storm forever brewing in my hyper-stimulated noggin. To my left is a woman, maybe 34, who is familiar in the sense that she looks like someone I might be tempted to ask do I know you even though I’ve already worked out with scrutiny that I do
not indeed know her and that she is, very much so, a complete stranger. Ten meters to my right an aging businesssuited man sits at the platform bench with his leather briefcase and suit-jacket over his lap, waiting patiently, the hint of a smile on his lips, preparing for his scheduled extraction. His hair’s styled into a glistening white crew cut and he carries a five o’clock shadow (more like seven A.M. fog) upon his wizened skin, and he actually looks pretty handsome for a guy of like sixty I’d guess. The man’s blue and red tie has been loosened and the knot now rests between his pectorals. Further down my right flank is a drunk whom I’ve developed an odd respect and admiration for— his ability to remain upright after what appears to have been an entire bottle of Irish whiskey is frankly astounding and worth a mention. Newport Station is one of those
transit spaces where you’re always seeing people you know, and, has always been so ominously consistent in summoning social acquaintances seemingly from thin air, that when you happen to be there on your own, surrounded by unknowns as I am now, you end up feeling lonesome and friendless because in this kind of place it can seem that the only things authentic and real are yourself, the bodies around you, and the digital-timetable-board type thing. My phone buzzes in my left jean pocket. the only things authentic and real are yourself, the bodies around you, and the digital-timetable-board type thing. My phone buzzes in my left jean pocket. Hello.’ ‘What’s up?’ ‘E.T.A. 15 minutes.’ ‘Have you ever wondered why its called catching the train when kinetically speaking it’s the train that is catching us?’ I hang up.
I am standing behind the painted yellow strip in congruence with Metro guidelines when the train screeches to its tinny halt at the station, hands in pockets, head lowered slightly as though eschewing my somatic obligations to the world. Each traveller gets into a different carriage where they are enveloped by a new set of bodies and voices. ‘Oscar is Mike. E.T.A. 5 minutes tops.’ ‘Roger that, Dickless.’ Walking through the open doorway into the throbbing mass of vibe and fun I immediately take note of that perennial summer party smell; perfumes interloping with colognes, perspiration and cigarette ash tossed in for good measure; marijuana is a strictly outdoors affair. The attendees are entirely collegiate and they appear effortlessly cool while simultaneously attempting (some successfully, others oafishly) to be recognized as intelligently elite or distinguished. It’s as though they’re the love-children of like a jock-type and a geek, which, after exchanging carnal knowledge,
have miraculously mothered and fathered that personae we like to price-tag pretentious. But I don’t mind. Everybody seems a snob to somebody else in one way or another, right from the apex all the ways down to the nadir of the socializing food chain. So chomp chomp chomp you might say. I’ve forgotten whose birthday we are supposed to be celebrating. There are certain girls who dance like smoke out of a candle and there are certain boys who dance like retarded apes. I move past them and step out into the yard where I see Dominic who reaches an arm out as a gesture to come and talk. He hands me a warm Carlton and turns me away from the circle of conversation he’d been involved in. ‘So what do you think?’ ‘Your breath stinks.’ ‘About the trains.’ ‘It’s not clever if that’s what you’re asking.’ ‘Cynic,’ he says.
‘Idiot,’ I say. We turn back to the annular congregation of twenty-somethings and engage in the happy chatter. Dom and I tell jokes to avoid being caught with nothing to say. I take a moment to study the wider social area, a kind of innocent voyeurism, asexual. There is an anemic-looking man at my seven o’clock, joint ajut from his thin white lips. There are a couple of girls across the garden, sitting in deck chairs, leaning forward and toward each other, knees tightly abreast, their bodies together forming a sort of goblet shape, and talking rapidly at each other. The girl on the left, Gracie Kemp or Kent maybe, is someone I’ve seen at other such shindigs and had occasional discussions with, usually by accident or happenstance, due to some imbalance of conventional friendship groups; that is to say, she is a friend of a friend and every time we’ve spoken it has been out of necessity and not choice even though we both quietly enjoy each others company. I think I could probably fall in love with her someday if I needed to.
She notices me staring and cocks her head a little to her left, smiles beautifully and projects a tiny wave from her fingers. I smile back; lips pursed tight, with a slight bob of the head and sip the warm beer, standing here in this yard, this human body, like being okay with not really feeling okay at all.