2013 Peacock by ArtsUnion

Peacock Magazine 2013 An Arts Union Publication

Design Paul Couchman and Hannah Gifford Editors Rob McLeod, Corey Walsh, Hannah Gifford, Harriet Calverley, Lily Sullivan, Michael Morrissey and Toni Woolhead Cover Art Jess Cockerill

Contents 3 President’s Address 3 Note from the Editors 4 My Favourite Units 7 An Introduction to the Student Guild 8 The Search of the Deep 11 Paint Roars; It Doesn’t Drip the Way Sad People’s Eyes Do 13 A Collection of Poetry 15 Act One 19 The Death Sentence 20 Don’t Do Accounting 22 Where Has Our Sporting Culture Taken Us? 24 Differences Between Curtin and UWA 25 On Beauty 27 Graphic Design and Artwork 28 Home 29 On Japanese Aesthetics and the Nuclear Bombing of the City of Nagasaki 30 On Being Drunk in Northbridge 33 Skyscrapers 36 A Short Story 37 Life as a College Student 38 Thank you

President’s Address Emma Brede

“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, and difficulty” - Theodore Roosevelt 2013 has been a challenging year to say the least. We started off between a rock and a hard place with financial debt, a lack of committee members and no handover. Despite all of these obstacles, this year was full of amazing achievements; we sold out our ball, raised over $2000 for charity and ran a brand new fresher orientation event just to name a few. This year was also a year of firsts; first ever arts union regular mailout, first ever careers handbook and first ever welfare guide. I have been incredibly lucky to watch the Arts Union grow so much and cannot express how proud I am of my committee and all we have accomplished. As the 2013 Arts Union President, I have been privileged to work with people who have been fully committed to making the Arts Union reach a new potential, through hard work and dedication. It’s incredible that despite all the trials and tribulations thrown at us this year, we’ve managed to emerge stronger than ever. It has been a privilege to serve as the Arts Union President in the University’s centenary year and we will be leaving behind incredibly big shoes to fill. This year I decided it would be awesome to revitalize the Arts Union student magazine; The Peacock in UWA’s centenary year. The aim behind producing this magazine was to showcase a collection of art student work in a variety of fields. The magazine showcases the talent of the ever discriminated against arts student and it’s something I hope will have a permanent place in the Arts Union’s future. So sit back and enjoy the centenary edition of the Peacock, proudly brought to you by the UWA Arts Union.

Note from the Editors Welcome to the Arts Union 2013 publication, the Peacock! Arts students are, as you probably guessed, quite artsy; and because of this there is a plethora of talent here within our faculty. Whether it be short stories, poetry, or drawings, there is something here for everyone! This year we have had numerous submissions for a whole range of topics, stories and poems and it has been an absolute pleasure to read and publish all the high quality submissions we have received.

My Favourite Units Anthropology can be broadly described as the investigation of humankind and human nature. UWA has a vast array of anthropology units to select from which can compliment almost any degree, or stand as a major on it’s own. The brilliance of anthropology is that even if you only do one first year unit, you learn a basic core principle that can help shape your worldviews about everything around you in your life. This principle is cultural relativism. As the work of anthropology is largely about studying different human cultures and interactions, this principle stands to prevent judgment on a society that is not your own. Essentially this principle is the view that “civilization is not something absolute, but is relative… only so far as our civilization goes” (Franze Boas, 1887). In its most basic form, this means that all beliefs, customs, ethics are relative to an individual within their own social context. This means that when examining a different cultural group that your own, when experiencing a phenomenon of theirs, you do not pass judgment of whether such an act is right or wrong. You instead examine it within the frames of the context and worldview of that particular group. I personally think this principle is fundamental to shaping some of my own current views of the world. To instead of immediately passing judgment from my limited social context upon another group, I can try to examine it from their context. To me this is part of what is missing in Australian society today. To me, this is why misunderstandings occur between different cultural groups. And it is something I believe needs to change. Archaeology as a field is very broad in the topics that you can focus on. The Archaeology department offers students a wide range of units that cover everything from maritime shipwrecks off the West Australian coast to the historical sites over east. Due to this broadness unless you are looking at archaeology as a major you will more than likely not cover many of them but if you are only looking for a couple of really cool units to fill in your timetable then I can offer a few suggestions. If you enjoy looking into the early colonial history of places like Australia and America then I would suggest looking at Historical archaeology as a second year unit. This unit provides you with a look into how the colonies were established and how they operated. If you are more interested in the pathway of human history then I would suggest Neolithic Europe. This unit covers the evolution and the development of the Neolithic age humans and how they spread throughout Europe and the rest of the world to establish the world as it is today. Also, two things you will need to learn before undertaking archaeology is that you will NOT be Indiana Jones and you will NOT dig up any dinosaurs!! Asian Studies (by Emma Brede) Contrary to popular belief, Asian Studies does not require you to just sit around and watch “Asians”. This major offers an amazing exploration into Asian culture, politics and economies. The units vary from offering a deep exploration into one Asian nation alone, or offer on overview of one particular aspect evident of the Asian region. All in all, if you choose Asian Studies as your major, you can be sure to come out with an exceptional understanding of the region. The units are taught by brilliant staff, that consistently go above and beyond to maximize your learning and engagement with the topics.

Another option Asian Studies encourages is the ability to combine this major with an Asian Language major and further your understanding of the regions culture, economies and politics. The assessment structure is, from my personal experience, one of the best put together; with weighting of marks per assignment being appropriate, the assignments being well spread out throughout the year and the amazing effort that goes into exam preparation (most units I took gave a very detailed review lecture at the end of semester and provided a booklet of “hints” of the relevant areas we should focus on for exam study). The variety of texts used throughout the Asian Studies major are very interesting, captivating and easy to read. Readings vary from journal articles and books, to articles written by the staff themselves, a mix of historical and new documentaries and films as well as some fantastic translated pieces. Units focusing on a single Asian region: ASIA2214 Japan in Changing Asia ASIA2217 Shifting Identities in Japan ASIA3001 Indonesian Politics and Culture ASIA3002 Issues in Japanese Society and Culture ASIA3003 Social Issues in Contemporary China Units exploring issues that affect Asia as a region: ASIA1001 Exploring Asian Identities ASIA1002 Creating Asian Modernities ASIA2001 Culture, Society and the State in Asia ASIA2002 Australia and Asia ASIA2004 Popular Culture in Asia The major is structured with the first two units you have to take (ASIA1001 Exploring Asian Identities; ASIA1002 Creating Asian Modernities) being quiet broad units that look at a variety of Asian nations. This enables students to then choose which (if one in particular) nation they will continue to focus their studies on further throughout the degree. This is a great feature of the Asian Studies major, it is incredibly flexible and allows you to choose which units you want to study depending on your personal interests; the only prerequisite units are the two first year units. Choosing Asian Studies as my second major was one of the best decisions I ever made. All the units I took were incredibly interesting and taught fantastically. There was a great mix of readings as well as assessment and by enjoying the context I didn’t find it incredibly challenging. I would encourage everyone to experience at least one Asian Studies unit as I guarantee you will not be bored, disappointed or stressed out at any time. ENGL1401 Meaning and Medium Why take this unit you ask? On my first day of University I went to my first lecture, one in English literature. It was fine, but nothing special and certainly nothing out of my comfort zone. I sat on Reid Lawn in the sun with my friend who narrated his first lecture – “I watched a video of robots having sex” he said. Naturally, I changed my dingy literature unit to the best unit I have studied at UWA. What was then ‘Screen Cultures / Print Cultures’ introduced me to so many awesome things. We analysed TV (Community, True Blood, that silly phenomenon Glee), Cyberpunk novels, Cinema, and wrote Interactive Fiction (it’s like a text-based video game. Swell times). Most importantly, there was indeed a video of robots having sex. Highly recommended.

Psychology is possibly the broadest major available through Arts at UWA. You only have to do two PSYC units in first year so you have plenty of time to make sure it’s what you want to study. You’ll learn about memory, perception, social behaviour, psychological disorders (eye opening) and get opportunities to participate in research. Standout units include PSYC3303 where you’ll learn to apply psychological principles to things like terrorism and climate change. Career paths include Clinical Psychology, Statistics, Software and Instrument design (true story), the list goes on! And yes, you learn to read minds. History, for some it evokes images of dusty old books in libraries nobody visits with inane facts and ideas that remain as outdated as the amount of dust that has formed on their respective vessels. To me… nothing is more fun to me than history – history helps to explain and understand the way things are in the world today, of unbelievably interesting individuals and events that helped shape the current political, social, cultural, technological - even galactic state in which we exist! As long as there is existence, there is history. The events you relive in every detail and in levels of detail not imagined in other areas of study, or other mediums of history study such as high school history. The people you get to meet and the sites, facts and resources you get access to are things that if you enjoy history are unparalleled. The overlapping between different fields of discipline is all important as well – you can see the importance of history in most fields of study today, and often are important parts of developing the future of these fields. It is of such importance that history was one upon a time considered a ‘hard science’, along with physics, mathematics, chemistry and certain aspects of design. As such, I recommend the first year units of New Worlds and Old Empires, as well as Viking, Western Australia and Australian history. If you are looking to study history I also suggest a pair of names, Andrea Gaynor and Andrew Broertjes. If you are looking to enroll in history units, these two should be your beacons. The units they coordinate and run have always been the most fun, the most interesting and the most well structured history units you could possibly undertake. People often say, don’t study history – how boring, stop dwelling on the past. To them I say, it is through understanding history, and making sure the mistakes of the past are not repeated - being the only way forward and that you can even begin to hope to understand the future.

An Introduction to the Student Guild By Harriet Calverley The main purpose of the UWA Student Guild is to represent and support students. The Guild includes an elected president, office bearers and councillors who advocate on the behalf of students on important issues. In 2013, Guild President Cameron Barnes advocated on students behalf to the university and managed to cut library fines by 40%. The Guild also provides assistance with welfare, financial, and academic issues, so if you find yourself struggling before payday (up to $200 interest free loan with 2 months to pay it back, anyone?) or needing anything else, don’t hesitate to go to the Student centre on the first floor of the Guild – they can help with a wide array of student issues. Alternately, have a look at the Arts Union Welfare guide, published in semester one. Getting involved is one of the best things you can do while you’re at UWA. Whether you join in with your faculty society the Arts Union, or get on board with Guild projects, giving back and helping to improve the university experience is a truly rewarding undertaking. Interested in doing things with the Guild? Start by liking the UWA Student Guild page on Facebook to find out about opportunities as they arise. Want to help freshers have the best possible orientation experience? Apply to be a UniMentor or to help out with orientation week. Getting involved with your Faculty Society (Arts Union) is also a great way to be part of things and have a say in what happens, whether it be running social events, dealing with education issues or as an equity representative. Being an active member of your Faculty Society or club is also a great way to work towards being involved in Guild politics and elections. Most candidates are handpicked from Fac-Socs and clubs as the high achievers and passionate, committed students, who are therefore the best people to care about and advocate on behalf of students. They’re the people who can be relied upon to go above and beyond in doing their jobs. Getting involved in the Arts Union and then Guild has been the highlight of my time at UWA so far! Why sit at home in bed reading a textbook when you could be out sitting in Arts Union common room eating a delicious sandwich from the Refectory sandwich bar, chatting and making plans, or helping set up for Guild Ball? A great university experience is all about being a part of things you never dreamed of, mixing with people and accomplishing great things. So get out of bed and go do it!

This was the first year that I ran in the Guild elections and if I had to describe it in only one word, it would be ‘intense’! Campaigning and polling were two weeks consisting of very little sleep and even less uni, but fuelled by cartons of Red Bull and Ylvis’ “The Fox” on repeat, we battled through! Some of my favourite moments were when complete strangers came up to me saying: “I voted for you!”. Similarly, I was amazed by all the support I received from my friends, even those who I hadn’t seen since high school. But the best thing about Guild elections was that I made friends with so many talented, passionate and inspiring UWA students; those who were on my team and those who were not. This sense of friendship and teamwork made Guild elections a fantastic experience and regardless of the outcome, I would do it all again in a heartbeat! -Sam Shipley

The Search of the Deep By Sarah Ison Tarryn climbed the narrow stairs to the deck, the two sizes too big T-shirt fluttering against the tops of her thighs. She stretched and breathed in the air, thick with the scent of salt and seaweed. She leaned over the metal railing, its coolness darting right through the thin shirt and onto her bronzed stomach. The sun was already up from behind the deep blue horizon. It peeked hesitantly over the sea, heaving itself up from beneath the endless blue and reaching its fingers of light across the fleeing white tipped waves. Apart from the promise of a fair and fine day ahead, the glaring orb told her that she had woken early, and that Dan wouldn’t rise for many hours yet. Tarryn stood silently looking over the sea as the catamaran dipped and bobbed, sucking water in beneath its hull before huffing it firmly back out again. She and Dan had sailed for three days, navigating meticulously through the cluster of tiny islands, searching, always searching. Now they’d found their prize, after weeks of planning and calculating they had her. The SS Waratah hovered just beyond their reach, a lost ship which had sunk over a century before and never found, until now. Now she remained beyond their grasp, but only just. One hundred or so feet below their vessel, she waited expectantly. The night before they had celebrated. She and Dan had toasted their success with plastic cups and cheap wine, dangling their feet off the edge of the deck. Dan had hung the heavy blanket across Tarryn’s shoulders, but she shrugged it off despite his insistence that she would catch a cold and be unable to take part in the most important day of their lives. She let him take the half full cup from her hands, staring blankly ahead as he went on muttering about her inability to hold any drink that bubbled like this one, and that a he hadn’t wanted to say anything, but a third glass was definitely pushing her luck. Tarryn let him follow through this speech and conclude that she at least should head below deck and to bed. She didn’t respond for some time, instead just continued staring out at the black slate of sea below her before Dan’s insistent shaking of her arm made her turn around and look up at him. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes as he pulled her up, muttering once more about how it was probably already too late, that she’d now be sick and hung over tomorrow. But Tarryn hardly heard him, with the incessant beating of waves against the ship’s hull resonating in her ears and sounding more than ever like the deliberate beats of an enormous ticking clock. Today it would be done; today the Waratah would be recovered. It was all planned. Prep at midday, dive in the brightness of the early afternoon and unveil the iron giant with just enough time for dinner. Dan had made sure of all this, driven it hard and often into Tarryn’s skull. She had nodded obediently and assured Dan that everything would go according to plan. But at the back of her mind, behind eyes that feigned unwavering loyalty to this plot, lay a persistent whisper, a gnawing curiosity and hunger to discover the lost, and be the first to do so. It was this which held her in her restlessness, which pushed her insistently from her bed and onto the deck this morning. It was pulling her now over the railing as she craned her neck and peered into the impenetrable navy darkness below. The Waratah was waiting, and she was growing impatient, just as Tarryn was. Her eyes darted across the surface of the deep sea, naively hoping for a glimmer, a shadow, anything to sedate the itch she could not repress. There’d be only one way to satisfy the urge gathering in her stomach, and that way was waiting for her in her wetsuit and diving gear.

Air tanks full, goggles strapped tight, Tarryn sat herself on the edge of the pitching boat. Guilt didn’t completely evade her, and she couldn’t help hesitate as she double checked her instruments. A part of her repeated again and again how reckless this was, how insane. It convinced itself that this hadn’t been her intention at all. And yet, the persuading whisper that had put her where she sat now was not unfamiliar. Tarryn was all too aware of the awaiting embrace of the Waratah, of the unseen open arms stretching out to her, gesturing her down to meet the expectant vessel. For weeks now she’d daydreamed of this moment, of finally finding the forgotten ship. However, if she were honest with herself she’d admit that not all of these daydreams included Dan by her side. They would be the first team to find the SS Waratah, but Tarryn would be the first soul of the century to discover her. White foam exploded around her as she let herself fall back into the watery embrace below. Bubbles jumped into existence before her and fled upwards in droves as she dove into the darkness. For some time she moved through silent emptiness, seeing nothing but the rays of the sun reaching meekly through the shifting surface above. Then even these were gone as she dove deeper and deeper. A swarm of silver fish rushed past her right. She barely blinked, instead only registering that she was drawing near to the isolated reef. Sure enough, bright coral became visible through the bleary water. Swaying on jagged rocks, the underwater garden waved its greeting before beckoning her to follow the thick labyrinth further. On any other day the flickers of movement from fish and crab and eel would have deterred her, but not this time. Despite the swarms of fish whose colours seemed to almost glow in the dim half-light of the sea, Tarryn’s eyes had already locked on the shadow faintly outlined up above. The vast SS Waratah stretched out her colossal body to meet Tarryn as she swam eagerly ahead. She hardly even paused as she rushed to reach the metal hull that had been overrun with oyster and coral. The once grand passenger liner was split directly in its centre, her belly ripped open and her front and back sagging to rest on the reef below. Tarryn caught her breath as she hovered towards the towering vessel. Hardly even kicking her fins, she felt almost as if she was being pulled easily into the cavernous womb that gaped wide before her. Fins beating below, Tarryn froze as the gloom enveloped her. A tingling crept up her arms as she entered the vast space. The water here seemed distinctly colder and the shadows strikingly dark. Tarryn shook the uneasiness which gripped her as she hovered within the immense frame of the gaping ship. With the current moving with a faint rhythm around her, Tarryn felt as if the ship were almost breathing. The chamber she’d entered was a banquet hall. The ceiling was arced high above, with the remnants of a once glorious chandelier dangling lifelessly in the stilled water. The grimy teardrops of glass were cracked and shone not at all in the gloom. Like wilting flowers, they held the whisper of beauty which had been, a shadow of something grand and once full of splendour. But time and the sea had pressed their mark upon the dangling pieces of glass, leaving Tarryn to only imagine the light and glamour that had once shone within them. A glance at the oxygen level strapped to her wrist told her that she had little time to let her mind wander if she were to see any more of the ship. She kicked her fins deliberately and let herself be pushed to the doorway to her right. The next chamber she entered was all the more vast than the last. Pillars lined either side of the great ballroom, and curtains hung in tatters on the peeling walls. The deteriorating red fabric fluttered in the chill current, framing windows that reached from ceiling to floor in grand arches. Not a single one of these was intact, instead only jagged shards of glass reaching up from the base of the panes remained. Swimming

forth deeper into the grand hall, Tarryn made out the shadows of fish lingering in the centre of the open space. Squinting, she thought she saw them paired together, two by two throughout the vast, empty ballroom. Their outline was foreign to her and so she swum forwards to see them more clearly. As she approached the hovering shadows, for a moment they weren’t fish at all, but skeletal figures clasped together in their pairs swaying in a demented dance. Tarryn’s heart became like steel, a great weight in her chest that was dragging down to crush her stomach. She blinked through the bubbles that eternally surrounded her and saw…nothing. The figures, the fish, the forms she had seen had deserted the space before her. She spun her head around to investigate the rest of the room, sure the twirling shapes had been more than just mere shadows, but the vast hall was empty. Tarryn swallowed the panic rising to her throat, she breathed fast and heavily. She shouldn’t have come; she should definitely not have come alone. The water seemed almost freezing to her now, and her whole body shook. Suddenly an icy grip clasped around her ankle and shot an arrow of almost sub zero cold up her leg. She yelled out in surprise behind the breathing apparatus and kicked her fins down hard, jerking her body upwards. The muted sound of metal against metal met her ears and she felt a dreadful thud as the heavy tanks strapped to her back met the rusted railing behind. An eruption of bubbles exploded into the space around her and the air that had filled her mouth moments before was replaced with gushing water. Tarryn spluttered as she attempted to close her mouth against the torrent that hit the back of her throat and already begun invading her lungs. All the while her frantic eyes searched the empty space, darted below and above her in a desperate panic to find what had grabbed her. It was only after a few moments of struggling with her gear and succumbing to the scream of panic released by mind and lungs that Tarryn could see: bleary figures twirling in the disturbed murk of the water. Now she was sure they were no fish, they had no fins or scales, and in a moment of horror she was certain she could see hollow faces flash at her as the figures pirouetted in the empty hall. The shadows looming in the deep corners of the hull stretched forward to envelop her. A terrified scream escaped her lips with the last precious bubbles of air following close behind. The darkness continued forwards, etching its way into her vision, blurring the sides of her sight. She felt herself being dragged downwards, deeper into the ship, closer into the midst of the shadowy figures. Her heart beat wildly, her hands scrabbling desperately about her for a hold, an escape, but there was only the black emptiness that now rushed to completely wrap around her. Eyes searched for a way out, for light, but there was none. There was only the enormous ship that closed in on her like an iron coffin. The Waratah closed her embrace around Tarryn, greedily trapping her within her womb, enveloping yet another victim.

Paint Roars; It Doesn’t Drip the Way Sad People’s Eyes Do by Dennis Venning Imagine a paintbrush. It has a long handle that makes your small hand seem smaller, increasing in diameter at the brush end and made of cheap, smooth wood. The bristles are held in place by a plastic ring, coloured and cracked with the sort of crack that knows it is a crack but hasn’t yet done anything about it. The bristles are clumped into odd spikes, feathered with dried paint. No matter how many times the tap is run over it the water is always a faint red, yellow, green, blue. Ten was a good year for me, a marvelous year- the tantrums of toddlery had ended and the tantrums of teenagedom had not yet begun. Dad called me a ‘good guy’ a lot, and I was proud of what adults would say about me as they fumbled for their keys. ‘Lovely, your boy. Doing very well, considering...‘ They would smile without their eyes, the men would ruffle my hair and the women would kiss me on the cheek. Sometimes the men would kiss me on the cheek, too. But I was lonely, so I was looking forward to my birthday. I was looking forward to putting on a white shirt that got more paint splattered and less too small every year. Lily, a few years younger than me, had been receiving all of the attention since the accident, so I was waiting for this special day, this me day- a chance to hold on to love with all of my lanky limbs. I wanted to paint my room like a waterfall. There were two reasons for this. The first: I was a boy, and just as some boys drew massive dinosaurs with crunching teeth and stomping feet, I drew pummeling torrents, great cliffs etched with spray and roaring liquid. There is a point in most children’s growing up that involves coming to terms with the things that can kill you, to death. For boys this thing must be terrible, and it turns out waterfalls can pulverize one’s body parts pretty gruesomely. The second: we had taken a trip to Argentina during the summer, including a river tour of Iguazu. At this time in my life I spent a lot of time not sleeping, so I would lie in bed and see the river and the falls and the boat. I would see the backs of Mum and Dad with their arms crooked around each other. Dad was wearing a polo shirt, the sleeve tightening on some holiday weight. Mum’s hand was on his waist, her fingers idly stroking the side of his rain jacket. Dad was sitting awkwardly, trying to get close to her without toppling the boat. Mum was Mum. Their arms stayed like that for ages and we looked at the rainforest and tried not to get bitten by mosquitos. So I asked Dad if we could do a waterfall. The current paint scheme was a mix of volcanoes and trucks- I hadn’t been able to decide, at the beginning of my ninth year, which one I wanted. He was in the kitchen, scrubbing. ‘Yeah, of course!’ Then I asked Dad if we could paint the wall that my bed looked at so that it was the edge of a waterfall. He was puffing slightly from the exertions of cleaning. ‘Yeah, of course!’ ‘Could we paint the floor to be a river?’ Dad put his hands on his hips and looked at the sink. It was a beautiful karri wood floor. ‘That might be a little tough.’

We started anyway. My room was a rectangle, the bed in the centre, its headboard against the back wall. That was where the painting began. It was up-river, which meant a trail of receding water slowly lost in a mass of bright green jungle. We didn’t have that many colours, so everything was solid and vibrant and big. There were animals punctuating the whole artwork, and these extended round to the two side walls, the banks of the river. We had snakes and monkeys and ocelots. We had birds made of fireworks and frogs made of jellybeans. A few got names- George the spider-monkey swung on my shelf, Leonard the anaconda dangled from a picture frame, and a beautiful hummingbird about to fly out the window was christened Elizabeth by Dad. Some happy natives sat on the shore around fires that made you warm to look at them. I don’t even know if there is a shore along the Amazon, but there was on mine. After the first three walls were completed Dad came up with a solution to the floor painting problem. We could paint the drop sheet! It was a mess, an old bed cover that must have been for a giant. It covered my floor easily, and this slackness was great because it meant that it rippled as you waded across it. There could be no better water substitute! My ten year old self was ecstatic. I’m still ecstatic now. The sheet took a few hours, even with my infinite enthusiasm. We coloured the thing in the backyard, sloshing blue paint at any white spaces we could see. After it was finished we hung it across the back fence, which it covered completely. I went to sleep in Dad’s bed, praying it wouldn’t rain. The next morning I woke up under my own duvet to the smell of dry paint, wafting out of open windows. I froze. I screwed my eyes shut and got out of bed. And I remember- I just wanted this. I wanted it so much. I could feel the dropsheet between my toes and I aimed my nose at the floor and I was trembling. I opened my eyes. We had flooded the house. My heart was exploding as I watched my footsteps through the water, and the last wall was complete, it was perfect, there were plumes of mist that shot up from the edge onto the roof because Dad had painted the roof too, and the side walls were all connected so that the jungle opened up into an infinite infinite sky. The mouth was a thunderclap, megalitres of water flying into millions of pieces and I got dizzy looking at the vastness of rainforest, stretching below for mile after mile after mile. It was so massive and powerful and uncaring that it scared me, and that is exactly what I wanted. I have since seen a lot of real waterfalls- Niagara, Victoria, Kaieteur- and they aren’t as good. This was a waterfall that put all other waterfalls to shame. It was a frozen revelation that we are not alone in the universe, the other things are bigger, and they don’t even care we exist. This waterfall was, and is, my definition of spectacular. I sat on my pillow-boat and looked out at the mouth of the mightiest of nature’s beasts and I felt tears coming to my eyes. ‘DAD!’ He came in; he had been waiting outside because he was an excellent father. He saw my tears and rushed forward, concerned, but soon realised it was joy leaking down my cheeks. Lily, rubbing at sleep, came in too, and we all lay on the bed and looked out over something that was too alive to be made of paint. Then the boat moved forward, and we were over the edge. And I looked down and I saw Mum and I wanted to fall so much, because I knew that falling forever would be just like flying.

A Collection of Poetry By Hugh Manning Ribbed Pleasure, Beach Party Signs still advertising events of two years past  This town is slowly sapping away at hope that needs to last   I bought a condom from the machine in the highway service station bathroom And we had clumsy stilted sex on the golf-course one school afternoon  Afterwards we walked back to my place, clothes thrown all askew  My mother gave us one look over and I’m pretty sure she knew   I see now that’s where it began, the stripping back of childhood’s veil and shield  Marble slowly chipped away til the man who lay beneath was revealed  And though I share a medium with that boy captured in palest stone  I’m less muscular poise, than shitty skin and crooked bone   This inward looking Salem with its public trials and heart of gold  Has both nurtured and crucified, and left at its whims I’d soon grow old  And that’s why I have to leave before it scrubs away everything that’s new  Depart those who’ll stick with petty rivalries and alcoholism through   So that’s it, I’m shooting through, and I need to make it fast  To escape signs still advertising events of two years past 3am

“And when I feel like giving up Like my world is falling down I show up at 3am She’s still up watching Vacation, and I See her pretty face It takes me away to a better place and I know that everything’s gonna be fine” - Blink-182, ‘Josie’ The best is when we’re steeped in all the promise of an evening We both look fucking beautiful in the twilight, leaving step outside your creaky house, admire the city’s silhouette Work out how to arrange our hands ‘round bags and both our cigarettes And I get josie stuck in my head When I come back drunk to your warm bed It’s worst when all is quiet and the anxiety comes creeping in Halfway through a hangover, I don’t have the words for yr chagrin This room of yrs gets stale and cold, its silences unyielding I’m so bad at talking with my eyes but yours are so revealing But I get Josie stuck in my head When I come back drunk to your warm bed

Vauxhall Astra So keep your gaze downcast my friend  Subdue your pride and honour  Implied threats overflow from eyes In every darkened corner   ‘Cause you’ve got a gambit to run  You’ve got to walk this projected street  dismiss the parade of readjusted Ts  ignore your hind-brain’s impulse to retreat   But they can’t challenge you or I  Cause our courage doesn’t exist  on a notional road at three am  Confronted by purely conceptual fists   ‘Cause you’ve got a gambit to run  You’ve got to walk this projected street  A nightmare sculpted from testosterone  And populated by musclebound freaks   And when you’ve run your trial and you get inside  Reinflate, rebuild, of course you never had anything to hide I Was A Teenage Atheist At the tender age of thirteen I became a militant  Oh my weapon was a webcam and my Christ a total cunt  With a minimum of knowledge and ironically more faith  I made videos denouncing God from my chubby dickhead face   Well I could place the blame on Dawkins for leading me astray  But if obnoxiousness weren’t directed so twould have gone another way  But oh I was  A teenage atheist   Brought my crusade to the real world to my Christian education  Tireless rebel, defender of the truth, fighting against indoctrination  In chapel services, head unbowed, in arguments with the preacher  Oh in hindsight I’m impressed by the restraint showed by my teachers   I could point the finger at YouTube for encouraging my vice  But fuckin’ Myspace or Vimeo would have similarly sufficed  Because I was  A teenage atheist   An obnoxious little  Spouting drivel  Shouting spite and spraying spittle   Ignorant skeptic  Words from a septic  Narrowness perfected: teenage atheist

Act One By Leah Vlatko The stage opens on a conventional night club setting, typical in everything from the glowing bar, crowded dance floor and questionable bodily fluid framing the entrance to the bathrooms, which are located on the opposite side of the stage to the bar. It is everything an audience expects from a reasonably occupational health and safety approved, modern night club, and is presented in such a way that everything seems not quite genuine. That is to say, whilst everyone appears to be enjoying themselves, they could just as easily be extras in a mediocre theatre production written by an english major for her assignment, and although the lights and furnishings appear to be aesthetically pleasing, the audience is acutely aware of the cheap showiness of the room. People are wandering to and fro getting progressively less aware of their actions, and progressively less concerned with them. Perhaps they are dancing, perhaps they are chatting, perhaps they are drinking at the bar. It is important now to note the music. In a typical nightclub, perhaps the music masks the true feelings of those present; however in this setting there is complete silence. This is not to say that the actors seem aware of this, and rather they act as though there is music playing the whole time. The only noise available to the audience is the sound of the bartender pouring drinks… BARTENDER: (finishes pouring drinks, which are probably vodka and lemonade)

Now there is no noise available to the audience. Perhaps they would be interesting in hearing the conversation between… FRIEND 1: (hands bartender two twenties) Thanks (to friend) Going out is so expensive FRIEND 2: Worth it though FRIEND 1: Definitely worth it. I need a break so much FRIEND 2: You’ve been working so hard FRIEND 1: Well I need to FRIEND 2: Didn’t you already buy that car you wanted? FRIEND 1: Well yeah but, do you realise how expensive it is to go out?

They laugh at the hauntingly close to home humour of their own making. It is important here also to explain the table that situates itself near the bathroom. It is a grand wooden piece, comfortable in a museum or your pretentious boss’s office. As the play continues it becomes clear that none of the club-goers are aware of its existence, perhaps their own existence, and certainly not the existence of the professionally dressed forty something sitting at the table with sheets of paper sprawled out in front of her. SYLVIA: (rummaging through papers) Oh I’m sure it’s somewhere here (continues to rummage, causing some sheets to fall off table and onto dance floor) I had it a moment ago

As she continues to search for the document she seems to think important, Apricot, a

nervous girl of not quite twenty years enters, donning a peach pink dress that, if it was inclined to speak, would probably offer you tea and biscuits. APRICOT: (hello) SYLVIA: (completely engrossed in her task) APRICOT: Hiya! SYLVIA: (jumps) Oh hello, yes sorry, you startled me (continues rifling through pages) APRICOT: I’m so sorry I just (sorry) did you… did we… (help me out here) the meeting was for today, wasn’t it? SYLVIA: Oh yes of course, yes yes it was, I’m sorry I’ve just been busy with all this- (indicates to table apologetically) APRICOT: No no that’s fine

Both wait for the other to speak SYLVIA: I’m terribly sorry- (searches for name) APRICOT: (with a nervous smile) Apricot SYLVIA: Apricot, but I have been so busy I haven’t had time to- hang on- Apricot-is that your name? Really? APRICOT: My parents really like fruit, they used to own an orchard when they were first married SYLVIA: Really? And now? APRICOT: No, well, no, it’s not really quite as cute after you get divorced SYLVIA: I suppose so APRICOT: Anyway, ISYLVIA: You seem like a Peach APRICOT: A peach? (indicates “round?”) Erm… thanks? I know I’ve been meaning to go to the gym… SYLVIA: No you look like your name is Peach APRICOT: Oh! Yes I see, I uh I get that a lot SYLVIA: Because your parents have lots of peach trees? APRICOT: No I get that I seem like a Peach a lot SYLVIA: Don’t be ridiculous you are in fine form

APRICOT: Thankyou, I don’t even work out SYLVIA: It doesn’t show APRICOT: Thankyou

Having exhausted this line of conversation, they both look as though they may say something, and decide against it. A few heartbeats later, SYLVIA: Anyway where were we? Were you about to ask me for something? APRICOT: Ms AdamsonSYLVIA: Sylvia APRICOT: S-Sylvia. Ever since I was a kid I have been a massive fan of your workSYLVIA: Ah (so you were about to ask me something) APRICOT: All that work with the UN and the books you’ve written and I think you have made such an impact on me and the world, I am so in love with what you have done for this university and when you were in that showSYLVIA: Sorry what did you say? APRICOT: You know that one with the panel and youSYLVIA: No before that- you said I’ve changed the world? APRICOT: Well, undoubtedly, without you thousands of people would still be dying from such a preventable illness SYLVIA: (tasting it in her mouth) Changed the world. APRICOT: Anyway the reason I’m here today is Professor Wright said you were looking for an assistant for some temporary work and I thought I could possibly… SYLVIA: Changed the world. APRICOT: I don’t know if I would be the sort of person you want… SYLVIA: Actually made an impact

Someone in the club throws up on the opposite corner APRICOT: But I am hard working and dedicated… SYLVIA: Helped people

A few friends gather and carry passed out vomiter past Sylvia and Apricot to the bathroom

APRICOT: And I could learn so much from an amazing woman like yourself SYLVIA: I mean, how can I “change the world” when I don’t even know whoAPRICOT: If you would just give me the chance I promise I wouldn’t let you down SYLVIA: What am I even changing except rearranging people in the line for inevitable death

Bartender begins to clean up mess APRICOT & SYLVIA: (together) Anyway APRICOT: I’ll just leave this here (handing resume) and I’ll give you time to think about it, no rush at all becauseSYLVIA: Can you start today? APRICOT: Sorry? SYLVIA: Today? Can you start today? APRICOT: Why, yes, I suppose I could justSYLVIA: Do you know anything about family trees? APRICOT: We had many SYLVIA: No no no, do you, Peach, know much about family history? APRICOT: My name’s Apricot SYLVIA: That’s hardly relevant APRICOT: I’m sorry SYLVIA: Don’t apologise answer my question APRICOT: Well is this in relation to like ancestry et cetera? SYLVIA: We already have one unanswered question I hardly think it appropriate to start making more APRICOT: Yes well I know my mum had her sister give her all the information about ancestry SYLVIA: I’m very interested to find more about mine.

The Death Sentence By Sarah Ison Blood draining, mind numbing, skull cracking fear, I walk down the path, knowing well why I’m here. It’s time to face the music; it’s time to pay my dues, I must obey their orders, and I know I can’t refuse. I feel their eyes upon my back as I continue on, to face no harsher sentence, though I don’t know what I’ve done . My punishment, all the same, is torture and then death, My heart starts pumping loudly and my lungs grow short of breath. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to yell out loud, but this would only make things worse, and so I follow the crowd. The same fate awaits us all once we’re in that room. That cell, that prison, that chamber, which houses our shared doom. I wished I could speak to one of them, whisper comfort to a friend, but this would mean worse pain still, and so I accept my end. ‘Goodbye’ I say, to a world that I hope will miss me dearly, I try to look back on my life, but simply can’t think clearly. I wished for a sweet freedom , from this godforsaken place, I wanted to be home, Content and happy and safe. And yet here I was, moving ever nearer, to my death, my execution, shaking with pure terror. I see my mark, my post, my place amongst the rest I stand silent in my last moments, facing my final test. I’m not sure what comes after, I dared not even wonder, Who knows what I will go through when I will be forced under. I have no idea what to do I don’t even have a plan, All I can think of is ‘hold it together!’ As I sit my WACE exam.

Don’t Do Accounting By Lily Sullivan For my friend, Tim; I hope one day you understand. The scent of hotdog stands, cheap burgers and even cheaper women was overpowering. Morris rolled his shoulders and looked at the ground. Forty-two stories below him it shimmered and swayed like an alluring belly dancer at that club he went to once, or was it twice? He didn’t care to remember. Hop had made him go, Hop could be a laugh sometimes but most of the time he was just a jerk. Morris had fired him after that, said it was to do with budget cuts but everyone knew that wasn’t true. Morris wished someone could fire him but he was the boss, the best of the best and he didn’t feel like handing the company over to that deadbeat Nichols or that bird. What was her name? Adams, that’s it. Besides he didn’t have anything better to do, he’d wasted his life building this company and now he was fat, fifty and alone at the top of a tall building. The tallest building there is, he’d made sure of that when he’d had it designed. Everyone in this city could name the company behind the big building but not one of them could name the man behind the company. Morris had never had a perfect relationship with his mother, but ever since she’d passed on he couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone in the world who would be sad when he died. When Louise was alive, Morris knew in the back of his mind that there would be at least one person to organise and attend a funeral but now he wasn’t sure he would get one. Morris watched the colourful people hurrying to and fro on the ground beneath him and wondered who would be at their funeral, hoards of family and friends all crying and moaning. Morris took a step closer to the edge and looked back at the door to the roof; no-one came up here, especially not on days like this with the wind strong enough to carry a person along. Screams erupted from the top floor and everyone in the offices below turned to look out the windows as Morris Ward fell, plummeting towards the pavement. The cute copier lady sobbed and told the man next to her how she had been going to tell Morris she loved him but now it was too late. The city erected a memorial statue of the once great Morris Ward and no-one had to ask who he was, they all knew him as the head of the company that owned the big building in the city centre. Morris opened his eyes and sighed, he hugged his cigarette to his lips and thought that more realistically no-one in the building would even notice him fall, let alone cry over it. The first person to see him on the street would probably empty his pockets and run and when he arrived at the morgue they would declare him a dead, fat virgin and be done with him. Morris had almost had sex once, with a girl called Cynthia. Cynthia had loved practical jokes, Styx and guys who smoked. Smoking had gone out of fashion now, but so had Morris. When Morris pulled out a cigarette people shot him dirty looks, probably more than he would get if he was a known sex offender. He didn’t mind the looks so much, it was when people said something to him, like that old woman who had told him, ‘Those things’ll kill ya’. That had made him want to hurt someone. Now it didn’t matter if he smoked, there was no-one around to judge him but himself and he had given that up long ago. Morris inhaled deeply and looked at the sky. It was a dark purple, like bruises and welts covering fresh skin.

Sometimes Morris wished he had the courage to hurt someone, but he knew that whatever he did would be unprovoked, he really just wanted to hurt himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that either. He didn’t see the point, much like a lot of things these days. Morris ran his hand through his thinning hair and contemplated what it would be like to slash his wrists or burn himself, but he never did anything or finished anything for that matter. The only reason his company was so successful was because his parents pressured him for twenty five years, until his dad died; liver failure. Morris was a quitter, he quit his medication, he quit feeding his fish, he quit watering his plants, he quit reading books, he quit exercising, he quit everything he had ever started. The only thing he hadn’t quit yet was his job and that was only because he didn’t want that jerk Nichols or that bird Adams sitting in his top floor office. All his life Morris had wished that something extraordinary would happen to him, like it did in books and movies. Lately he had come to realise that his life would never be like that. Nothing interesting had ever happened and, he thought, by the time you realise that you’ve walked straight into Death’s trap, like a mouse that only wanted a bit of cheese. He’d had dreams though, dreams of freedom, fun and adventure, but they were only dreams and dreams are the bait. Dreams are what keep you walking straight into that trap. Morris swayed as the wind pushed and pulled at his clothing and he was again reminded of Cynthia but that was back when he was thinner, younger and had more hair. No-one gave him a second look anymore. Morris stepped up onto the little wall that surrounded the roof of the building and thought about food. Sometimes he wouldn’t eat for a few days because then when he did it would taste so much better than if he’d eaten it straight away. Morris closed his eyes and thought about swimming. He could have been an Olympic swimmer but his mother couldn’t afford the lessons anymore. She’d told him that he should work hard and get rich so that he would never have to stop his children from doing what they loved. Morris lifted up his leg and thought about cars, his first car had been a Vista Cruiser, he had driven Cynthia around in it on the night he almost had sex. Morris stepped off the wall. Back onto the concrete. Morris turned and headed back to the door, he checked his watch; it was nearly one. He would be back again tomorrow and everyday after that, just like he had for the past five and a half years.

Where Has Our Sporting Culture Taken Us? By Tom Beyer When it comes to AFL I’m a Dockers fan, however when I should’ve been lapping up our success this season I instead saw the seemingly unending saga of the Essendon Bombers and their peptides program take much of the attention, and I’m left wondering, should we have been so surprised? Far from an environment of mass participation that revolves around the family, your friends and the local club, there’s been a growing suggestion that Australia has become not so much a sporting nation as a sport watching nation. And from there I feel it’s inevitable that athletes and clubs will go to the extremes of drug use to cheat the system that we’re seeing exposed at this very moment. All around Perth many local sporting clubs are struggling. I belong to a couple and talking to some of the “old timers” I hear about the days fifteen, twenty, or even thirty years ago when almost everyone played a sport or two for fun and to keep fit. You’d all play your game in the underage or feeder grades and then gather round with your mates later in the arvo to watch the firsts. Win or lose you had a good time and there was always next week. The reality of today is that participation rates are down and people tend to revolve around our elite codes, living and dying with the success of the Dockers, Eagles, Glory or Scorchers, and treating the players as Gods. We should acknowledge them as the very talented athletes and often worthy role models that they are, but I feel some friends and acquaintances of mine need reminding they’re both human and fallible. I’m used to seeing my Fremantle Dockers perennially underperform and this exasperates me immensely, but if at the end of the day we’re beaten then to me, that’s that. However I feel as a society, our desire to see our team win has gone too far. Virtually all Australian codes have measures such as a salary cap to keep the playing field relatively even, and strict rules against performance enhancing drugs. I believe the whole point of these measures are so we can enjoy a sporting spectacle without bemoaning an inherent imbalance in the sport, or questioning the authenticity of someone’s performance. However, our desire to win has eroded these ideals to the point that such pressure is heaped upon athletes and clubs, and the reward of fame and being cherished is so enticing that these measures are routinely broken for that prize. In many ways the resources, energy and hope we as a nation pour into the Olympics reflects this dire situation better than most examples. I love seeing an Australian win a gold medal, but I’m also aware our most recent Olympic performance was underwhelming and below expectations, yet the planes didn’t fall out of the sky, nor did the economy crash or hospitals burn down when James Magnussen won a silver rather than a gold medal. We were all disappointed, but nothing more. And as other countries develop more and more sophisticated sporting academies, Australians are setting themselves up for heartbreak if we need to finish in the top few nations at every Olympic Games.

Perhaps we can use this lesson to show that a focus on local, mass participation sports would better serve our society with both physical and mental health benefits to be gained, rather than ignoring our own bodies and backyards to sit in front of the TV. I will always cheer for Australia at the Olympics, just like I will always cheer for the teams I play with. But I’m also willing to accept that if Australia’s best isn’t good enough for a gold medal, I can still enjoy the beauty of the sport, just like I’m willing to accept my hockey team won’t always win a premiership, but I’ll always enjoy playing the game I play. Now the dust has settled on the Essendon saga, I believe they’ve found the culprits have acted reprehensibly and deserve our shame and punishment. If we want to see these scandals blemishing sport come to an end however, instead of just dealing with them as they happen, maybe we need a cultural shift taking some of the attention away from the stadium and back to the local sporting oval?

Differences Between Curtin and UWA Anonymous I did my undergrad at UWA and am now doing postgrad at Curtin (the degree I’m doing is better there, shit happens), so I’d like to share the differences I’ve noticed between the two unis. Prestige: 1 point to UWA. Obviously. UWA is 100 years old now! Your mum probably loves telling her friends that her kid goes to a Go8 uni that is ranked in the top 100 universities in the world. UWA has awesome sandstone buildings, world class researchers, and Winthrop Hall. There are naked statues of old dudes all over the place, and we have peacocks! You don’t get much wankier than peacocks. UWA also wins lots of international awards and acclaim. Curtin just labels itself as “innovative”, and let’s face it, that just means they’re young and stupid, without the rich history UWA has of 54 year old dudes like Winthrop Hackett marrying 17 year old girls to make babies with. Teaching style: 1 point each. Word on the street is that learning at UWA is skewed towards the theoretical realm, whereas Curtin loves to be practical. As someone who has studied at both unis, I can tell you that it’s very true. I spent very little time at UWA considering how my skills would translate into the real world, but that seems to be basically all we learn at Curtin. I don’t think this is necessarily good or bad, it’s just different. Depending on what you want to study it’s probably good to keep that fact in mind. It is worth noting, that the teacher to student ratio is better at Curtin, with years of budget cuts really starting to be noticeable at UWA. The students: -1 point to both. UWA is populated solely by the families of the Golden Triangle. Everyone knows it and the parents of the GT like it that way. But some of us are sick of the insane amounts of wank that comes with that. Curtin… well that’s a mixed bag. You know those jock kids from highschool with suffixes on their nicknames like –y, -o, and –dawg? That’s one half of Curtin, the rest are international students. The infrastructure: 1 point to Curtin. Sorry UWA, Curtin has it here. Their wifi actually works and it’s fast! The only problem is you can’t torrent there - apparently they hate freedom. There are more computers available in the libraries, and their tav menu is awesome, although more expensive. There is also parking everywhere at Curtin, but I suppose that comes from building a university in a field. Clearly these scores mean nothing, so I’m not even going to do the simple mathematics required to add them up. Everyone knows UWA is better, which is why I spend all my time at UWA despite not even going here anymore. I’m certainly not the only one. But either way, make the right choice for you, enjoy where you’re at and don’t judge until you’ve experienced it all.

On Beauty By a First Year Arts Student “You Are Move Beautiful Than You Think” The slogan for the Dove campaign for ‘real beauty’. A campaign lauded by women of Australia and the world for finally stating that a woman doesn’t have to be tall, skinny, and blonde to be ‘beautiful’. A campaign that hugely increased Dove’s product sales. But a campaign that, nonetheless, continued to perpetuate the idea that women need to be pretty, and that this ‘beauty’ is what empowers them. One of the main problems with the Dove ad was that it didn’t seek to widen the standards of beauty. It just showed women that they were closer to the conventional standards of beauty than they thought they were, and placed a huge emphasis on the value of this realization – where women celebrate upon finding out others see their chins thinner or eyes bigger than they perceived them to be. Similar body-positive campaigns are congratulating women for ‘finally’ seeing themselves as beautiful. Whilst of course I support women viewing themselves in a positive way I don’t think being beautiful is something to celebrate (regardless of what ‘beautiful’ may look like) anymore that we would celebrate possessing another positive characteristic, such as empathy or honesty. Yet, a huge emphasis on one ‘successfully’ seeing themselves as beautiful continues to exist, along with the expectation of women being unhappy until such a realization is made. Now, in no way am I arguing that broadening the definition of what we as a society perceive to be ‘beautiful’ is a bad thing, because it absolutely isn’t. Nor am I criticizing women who want to feel good about themselves and who very much benefit from the widening of what society considers beautiful in doing this. If you like putting effort into your appearance and celebrating it – fantastic! However, if you don’t think your appearance needs to be celebrated- similarly fab! What I have a problem with is the idea that these sorts of campaigns place far too high a value on a woman’s aesthetic appearance, and state that the only way to be a confident woman is to be ‘beautiful’. Beauty, like intelligence, courage etc., will always be subjective. But saying women shouldn’t be satisfied until they are beautiful is extraordinarily degrading. It puts women back on a pedestal, with their looks being what ultimately define and empower them. However the truth is, not being beautiful, no matter how broadly and inclusively beauty is defined, does not make you any less of a woman. Nowhere would you see a movement that all men are beautiful - because being considered aesthetically attractive is not as important for the male image. I am not saying that the standards of beauty for men don’t cause harm to people, but in society’s eyes one can still be considered a confident and powerful man without that man considering himself beautiful. Men have enough power not to need to be physically good-looking. But for a woman, our modern society’s view of being considered physically attractive is of paramount importance. Women cannot be ‘empowered’ until they are all considered beautiful, prompting these campaigns to consider women beautiful regardless of their shape or size. Not being physically attractive is considered the be all and end all for women and something that must be remedied. Past (and still prevalent) remedies include all kinds of beauty products and treatments, hairstyles, dieting and the like to fit the social construction of what it is to be ‘beautiful’. Now, we are moving towards stretching the bounds of this construction. While new definitions

of beauty are great in that they reflect more progressive attitudes to issues such as race, people seem to be completely overlooking the fact that it is still a ‘remedy’ aiming to make more and more women fit the ‘beautiful’ mould. By doing this, these campaigns sustain the hugely disproportionate value we place on beauty as a trait, and this is where the problem lies. These campaigns also foster the impression that beauty is the natural state of being for all women, when in fact, for most, this is far from the case and this creates unrealistic beauty standards. Some women are ‘beautiful’ all of the time, some are beautiful some of the time and others not at all. Assuming those who aren’t ever beautiful lack confidence, and have some sort of ‘positivity’ deficit is hugely condescending and would never exist in an argument about how generous or funny someone was. Nobody’s perfect and regardless of how wide society’s standards become, people will never be able to possess every positive trait or characteristic. Beauty is just one of a gargantuan number of positive traits which make people different. It is not of more value than any other trait and the campaigns should not treat it as such. But by saying that all women need to be considered beautiful is saying beauty is more valuable in women than something like intelligence, which is just as subjective a category. And as no comparable campaign for men exists, this movement for ‘equality’ simply endorses the idea women are of most value as some sort of eye candy for men. Perhaps one of the most upsetting things about this beauty culture is that the obsession with being beautiful is almost entirely driven by women. ‘Beautiful’ women set the bar for others to jump over, with huge value placed in the success associated with one being considered ‘beautiful’. We need to fight the attitudes in society which have led to there being such an unequally high value on beauty in women, not upholding them by working to ensure every woman is considered beautiful. You do not have to look good to feel good – happiness comes from accepting who you are, whether society views you as ‘beautiful’ or not. It is only once we accept this and stop pitting ourselves against each other over being considered attractive that women will gain true equality with men in society.

Graphic design by Anasha Flintoff

Drawing by Alex Hamilton

Home By Sanam Goodman It was a night in May, where I think I fell into being dead where I think you stopped touching my fingers and no longer kissed my head. And you visited my grave, brought me tapes and chocolate wrappers from 2008 and I’m sorry that I left you with nothing to do but wait. And I’m as real as you make me and you’re as real as I want you to be but sometimes my blood looks beautiful when it is no longer inside me. I hope that you’re okay now that you can breath without choking on my smell and I’m glad you found your sadness but I hope that you are well. I miss all of your phone calls I miss all of your socks on my kitchen floor I miss the way you sing to me sometimes I hear your hands on my door. One day I will rise from the soil I will dust my heavy thoughts away I will run to the corner of your street and maybe I will be okay. And I know it will take some getting used to to hold onto my detached wrists and I know your bed has pushed me aside and your lips have forgotten my lips. But I think you will see me and you will run to me, skin and bone because sometimes life can grow in the darkest places, and sometimes people look like homes.

On Japanese Aesthetics and the Nuclear Bombing of the City of Nagasaki By Dennis Venning ‘Fat Man’ was a very effective bomb. I’ve recently found myself attracted to the cleanliness of Japanese food, particularly, and life, more generally. There’s a sort of rhythm to the way you can eat sushi or udon, drink a beer (Sapporo is best) and then have green tea, afterwards. Whenever I imagine Japanese food I think of chopping vegetables on a bamboo cutting board—chop chop chop—but now that I think about it, I don’t know which vegetables they are. Did you know that Nagasaki wasn’t the primary target for the bomb? Major Sweeney and his crew on Bockscar, the B-52 bomber that carried ‘Fat Man’, only went there because the weather over Kokura was bad, so they couldn’t aim the bomb properly. I had never even heard of Kokura until I read that! But I had definitely heard of Nagasaki. Anyway, it’s not just the food and the tea that I enjoy. I think that even the sunlight is better over there—simpler, lighter, more natural—don’t you agree? Every time I drink my Genmaicha and eat my nori—with a little soy sauce, but no wasabi—I think about how simple everything is. I find that I am very creative during these periods, and that I can describe things with basic, simple words. If you think of a nice, clean piece of paper, maybe one that you have just taken out of the little tray where you keep your neat stack of white sheafs of paper, lit by the sunlight that comes through your bamboo blinds in the morning—can you imagine that? Then think of a single, clear brushstroke, maybe from a little lacquer-coated brush dipped in a small ink-pot, a single line in a light green, running across the paper, lit up by the sunlight coming in through the blinds. That is what my mind is like at these times—that is why I appreciate the Japanese ‘aesthetic’ (perhaps I should say ‘ethos’), so much. The scientists back in America wanted to know which would do better—a uranium bomb or a plutonium bomb? So they dropped a uranium bomb on Hiroshima and they dropped a plutonium bomb on Nagasaki. That was the other reason they didn’t want to drop ‘Fat Man’ on Nagasaki—the scientists knew that Nagasaki was more spread out and they were worried that the impact of the bomb might be dissipated as the city had grown across hills and valleys. These factors would make it more difficult to compare the results from the two different bombs, so they were hoping to drop the bomb on Kokura instead. But they didn’t, because the weather wasn’t good over Kokura and Bockscar didn’t have enough fuel to go anywhere else because one of the fuel pumps wasn’t working! So they dropped ‘Fat Man’ on Nagasaki—just like that. It’s really a very simple thing, sort of like choosing between whether I want to dip this piece of tuna and cucumber sushi in soy sauce or not. Just like that. Kaboom. One man talked about how his pumpkin field got blown clean, totally empty where there used to be loads and loads of pumpkins, except for a woman’s head in the middle—she had a gold tooth, he said. Just like that! I like the little fish with the red caps that hold the soy sauce I eat my sushi with.

On Being Drunk in Northbridge By Michael Franz There really is something profoundly inhuman at the heart of the idea of a nightclub. The mass commodification of social interaction, compartmentalising our weekend vices to a handful of dark, noisy rooms in the heart of a gluttonous city. Lycanthropic delinquents and back-alley hipsters rub shoulders to the crash of some infernal dubstep, lubricating themselves with a narcotic mix of alcohol, nicotine and sensory overload, as well as the occasional dip into more exotic and altogether carnal substances. The more introspective amongst us might question why we empty our wallets and abuse our bodies for a few brief hours of escape that we’ll fail to remember, save the taste of vomit and ash and the pounding of hangovers like the drums of better angels. Like any social trend, the nightlife scene seems to be one that survives not on its merit, but its sheer momentum, dragging us along for the ride as the expected actions of the young and stupid. Such was the situation I found myself in, strolling up to the entrance of some godforsaken trendy Perth club on a Friday midnight, having miraculously staggered from taking photos of a friend’s gig at that iniquitous hipster hideout ‘The Bird’, and wondering how to circumvent the queue of broken youth to reach the friends I knew awaited inside. I wasn’t supposed to be working that night, but I already had a camera holstered in a nylon bag at my hip, and was just drunk enough to straddle the zone where questionable ideas seem plausible. “Screw it,” said that little voice we spend most of our time ignoring. “The worst the pigs can do is shoot you.” Walking briskly to the front of the line, I flashed my photographer’s pass at a pair of dazed goons, and tried to stroll through the entrance. I’m sure that I would have been stopped, if an old friend of mine, hadn’t been working behind the door, a bouncer at a club I had once worked at, Tom had the gift of being simultaneously the most interesting and tragic person in any room he walked into. He was old school, a rare breed that still believed in the romance of nightlife, some primeval species of ancient reptile that nobody had ever informed had gone extinct long ago. For him, what we did went beyond philosophy or ideals, it was religious in its ecstasy, some bastard homage to an ancient peak that had toppled and would never rise again. He had been born in Manchester in the 70s, the last generation still caught up in the rush of the British nightlife scene. A misspent youth saw him wandering the streets of Leeds and London after dark, banding together with like-minded party goers, confident that they were marking into new and exciting territory. They had come together; those neon savages, and in spite of humble origins, agreed to strike out against the night like some angelic suicide pact. They had stolen death from God, fire from Satan and pissed off the edge of the world. They were giants, striding a world that many claimed to own, but only those chosen handful could ever truly understand. He would have been at home landing in Manhattan, or some trendy European capital, yet somehow, a few short years later, he washed up on the shores of Australia, before a string of dead-end jobs finally found him in Perth, at 2:00am on a freezing Saturday morning, stamping the wrists of drunken teenage girls. Tom remains a man who is secretly very unhappy with the life he finds himself in, watching a generation dropping the torch of ideals that they are handed to carry, while remembering the dreams of ancient youth, born under a lucky star whose light has long since waned and faded forever. In those secret moments, when nobody is looking and with just the right kind of light, you can see that unspeakable melancholia, as he

ponders what sins he committed to deserve his exile to this alien corner of the world. *** Some hours later, as I found myself entering into the first floor bathroom – I ran into my first transaction of the evening, always an interesting experience for those of us unfamiliar with proceedings. Spotting a dealer in a club is an art in itself. At some clubs they teach you the signs of recognition – shady individuals (habitually midtwenties males) loitering in dark corners, often with a hood or some form of censurable head wear as an impromptu disguise – people who from all appearances wish not to be noticed, yet possess a steady stream of friends who come in close for a hug or a handshake, disguising a slipped packet or note. Such thinking however has not fared well in recent years, whose dealers are better at avoiding the clichés of their more languid counterparts. Running illegal businesses under increasing pressure requires them to develop a mixture of cunning intelligence and sheer luck of not getting caught. Ostentatiousness is the key to anonymity, with some sellers going out of their way to being noticeable, wearing items of gaudy clothing - marking themselves and their wares out to prospective clients. The gentleman I encountered wore a $200 Live suit jacket and crimson cravat of the style intended to fulfil the more egotistical desires of the fashion conscious. Spread across the sink for convenience of the buyer’s perusal, ziplocked bags of amphetamines, mass-produced in any number of basement labs ranging from Indonesia to as far away as Mexico, smuggled internationally in between packing crates, sold out of the back of Delis and convenience stores before finally finding their way down the throats of teenage heartthrobs with the promises of only the best quality and a lucid heaven awaiting. Serious users buy domestic. The indication that the buyer was not serious was avidly apparent from his appearance, more terrified than eager, nervously fumbling a handful of sweaty notes, with no idea of what price he should be paying, but hoping to get the experience over with as quickly as possible. I decided to leave rapidly – not for any real fear of illegal activity – no licensed venue will call police attention to themselves unless they absolutely have to. Rather I was still just sober enough to worry that if I was mistaken as a staff member and pointed out later to have seen the exchange, somebody might just decide to take a closer look at my credentials and realise I wasn’t supposed to be there. That’s one of the problems with entering into a nightclub under false pretences – you never really know just how far to push it. Most door staff will give free entry to just about anybody with a lanyard and confidence. Free drinks are trickier, but can be navigated with the busier bartenders. The tipping point is when you start to register with security, no matter how trivial or innocent the interaction is – being noticed is enough to start asking questions. The trick is to walk the line between nonchalance and outright entitlement - no matter how far gone you are, you don’t burn the locals. There eventually comes a point in every night though, when you know that you’ve taken things as far as they’ll go, and you can feel the net closing around you. Paroxysms of fear and nausea hang imminent, and the best option is to cut and run before the hammer drops, leaving you expelling your insides violently into toilets or alleyways, those unlucky bastards who flew too close to the sun, now rendering the most pitifully miserable fucks in all of Christendom. By 4:00am, the surface of reality was already stretched to breaking point, and with those few friends I had managed to follow dissolving away, I chose discretion as the better part of valour, and made my retreat from that fairyland hell-hole.

Stepping onto the side walk, I was lucky enough to see a lone taxi prowling along the bottom on the street like some restless predator. Sticking out my hand in some drunken attempt at what I judged to be an air of easy confidence, I took a moment to compose myself; looking respectable, and not at all like the sort of vile reprobate who would vomit on the floor of a taxi is vital in securing their valued transport services at the end of a serious binge. Mere seconds later however, a hand descended on my shoulder, and I was spun to face some bastard hybrid of drunken bogan and deep-sea angler fish, a man wholly the product of our times, stinking of rancid sweat and cheap whiskey, face split by a grin so wide, it appeared for all the world as though somebody had sought to use razor blades further open the mouth across red gums. “Scuze me mate, y’wouldnna happen t’haf spare ciggie, wudja?” I fumbled into my pocket with trembling fingers, searching for the crucifix I keep on hand for exactly this purpose, yet only managed to procure a silver case, flipped open to reveal a handful of crumpled white cigarettes. The beast squinted its piggish eyes, sniffing contemptuously at my pitiful offering. “Menthol? Nah, fuck’ff mate, yr’right.” As he departed, slouching off into the dark recesses of the world, like some biblical demon, awaiting the unwary to accost and devour, the taxi slid up along the side of the street. Navigating the backstreets, we crept out of the city’s heart, and quietly slipped into the trickle of westbound traffic, crawling away from the city to escape the dawn. The driver, a middle-aged Samoan with spiralling tattoos decorating his forearms glanced across to me, as though deciding whether to attempt conversation at this time of the morning. He put on some light jazz instead.

Skyscrapers By Dennis Venning The cabin sat on the edge of a lake; in the summer months the only way in from the muddy road was a ten minute walk through moss covered bog. Elvira took me up to see it in July, and we squelched along in wellington boots while the rain drizzled down. I kept jumping in puddles near her and laughing at the clouds. Everything was cold and wet and muddy, some insects scurrying for cover while others danced in the undergrowth. Grey sky and all the trees dark green, soaking up the pattering raindrops. The house itself was simple; log walls ensconcing a kitchen and living room, connected by a large opening. An outhouse further up the muddied-green slope the cabin sat on was the only other structure to be seen. The living room housed an old armchair, table, bunkbed and of course a large, comfort-worn fireplace. All four furnishings nestled into separate corners, sleepy old friends so comfortable in each other’s company that they no longer thought of being anywhere else. We closed the door and shook off our raincoats, stomping the mud off our boots. The kitchen had a gas stove, which we put to use immediately for a pot of tea. We started the fire and hung socks to dry, then walked down to the shore and looked out across the lake. It was rippling with rain and capped by a light wind, reflecting the still grey of the sky. The pines across the lake were too far away to be more than a solid mass of dark green in the rain. Everything was dripping green, smelling of earth. I could taste the rain in the air as we huddled against it. There were no other humans in any direction as far as the eye could see. It was so alive and so alone; incredibly desolate and incredibly beautiful. We collected the water from the stream, which numbed my hands. I plunged my head under the running water and came up, cheeks red with cold, electric. We ran back to the cabin, slipping and laughing on roots and mud underfoot. The cabin was so solid, a part of the landscape. It must have been there as long as people had been; we always need something warm to run for when the rain comes down. Elvira shut the door against the cold and I poured the tea. She settled down in the armchair with a large novel, curled up in rugs, her feet tucked into the furrows. I smiled; it was obvious that this was a habit of many years. I wandered through memorabilia on the shelves, blanketed in a thin layer of history and dust, soaking in the warmth of the fireplace. There were yellowing photos of Elvira’s relatives smiling on snowmobiles, her father’s medal for the annual shooting competition that happened here during the spring and little wooden figures carved from fallen branches that were now a part of the earth. As I investigated the windowsills I looked out over the rain and the wind and the trees, and then at Elvira, engaged in her book. We were alone, I thought, in an aloneness that doesn’t exist in cities or suburbs, where men in suits stare up at office buildings as people bristle past them, and new parents stare down from maternity wards and wonder why the world hasn’t stopped. It was then that I found the guestbook. It was a simple thing; two pieces of solid wood flattening old paper clearly added as needed, bound together by leather shoe laces. I leafed through it, the whole thing comfortably heavy. There were many entries over

many years; thankyou’s, goodbyes, apologies, congratulations, sorrow, happiness, jokes, loves, regrets. A chronicle of this place and of all the lives that it had touched, including, now, mine. I came to the end and found my entry, waiting, on ancient, blank pages. It had always been there.

Tea is best in mugs. Paper cups are not for humans. People are sad because of paper cups. If everyone had a heavy white mug full of good tea no one would jump out of skyscrapers anymore, because there wouldn’t be skyscrapers. There would be houses with roofs made of earth, all painted the same colour because the colour of your walls wouldn’t matter. The roofs would come alive. First there would be simple bacteria that crept up from the compost patch, then long, soft grass growing out of seeds blown in from faraway places. Small insects would make desperate leaps from towering elms and eucalypts, some successful, others not. Finally there would be birds who would make complex and colourful nests, carefully concealed between sedges. The rain would pour down on a fully developed ecosystem and families would run home and hide under their breathing, wriggling, singing roofs. It would be beautiful because the supporting beams of the houses would begin to rot and fuse with the living roof, and they would have lots of earthworms inside them that had slowly journeyed further and further down into the soil until they reached the drawing room ceiling. Because of the warmth of the fireplace, the earthworms would retreat, finding solace in the heavy wood of the supporting beam. Mushrooms, after getting word from the beetles (who had spoken to the earthworms on an impromptu visit), would come down too, and begin growing out of the beam upside down, like edible stalactites. And all the people would look up from sitting in their armchairs reading Douglas Adams’ novels and look at the upside down mushrooms growing out of their growing roof and they would all say at the same time ‘I am like those mushrooms.’ It wouldn’t be very loud, just a passing comment, but it would be everyone over the entire world, and ‘those mushrooms’ would travel like a snowball in the places with snow and like a ball of spinifex in the places with sand and it would get louder and louder and louder and louder and louder and louder until the cold words and the hot words met. Then there would be a silence, because all of the growing roofs would absorb the explosion of sound that came out from the meeting of cold words and warm words, which would be like the big bang and like matter and antimatter (which might be the same thing) and also like love. Then all of the houses would shudder just slightly, which would be the burp that came after they swallowed the last word, ‘mushrooms’. But actually then they would shudder again, because when everyone in the world says ‘mushrooms’ at the same time, it becomes the resonant frequency of earthworms. So all of the earthworms would die. It was the earthworms that held up the rotting beams- they were inside them, filling the cracks, gaps and crannies, holding on to one another in earthworm dances, making an unbroken line of earthworms through the length of the beam. So when all the earthworms died, first nothing would happen, since they would all continue to hold onto one another because of rigor mortis.

Then at the end of the day, or the beginning of the day, after the earthworms had been dead for a few hours, they would separate from one another. In the cold places this would be because the cold made them contract. In the warm places it would be because they began to dry out and shrink. All of the people would be getting into bed, or getting out of bed, and they would look up at their growing roofs and smile and snuggle down into the sheets and blankets next to their partner or their child or their partner and their child. They would all be thinking about what they would do today, or tomorrow, about the eggs or muesli or eggs and muesli they would have or had had for breakfast, about the dreams they had when they were younger, the dreams they had now and the dreams they would have in the future. Then there would be one big crack, like the world splitting in two, and the beams would all break and the growing roofs would all fall down on the people all looking up smiling and snuggling into their sheets and into each other. The growing roofs would all be very heavy but actually it would happen so fast that everyone would die instantly from being so surprised, and no one would have time to be scared or happy or angry or sorry. And while the roofs were very heavy, they would also be very courteous, so they would try as hard as they could not to crush anyone too much, and over time they would spread themselves out to cover everything because they would be embarrassed about what had happened. Then, because there were no earthworms, all the people would be perfectly preserved in one layer of growing roof that covered the entire world. Eventually the mushrooms in the growing roofs would grow into new intelligent life, inspired by the memories of spaghetti bolognese and swing sets and jumping in very cold lakes that were left in the soil. The new mushroom based life would slowly develop into beings that would walk and gallop and fly and love over the roofs for thousands of millions of years, some of them much smarter than scientists and some of them much more creative than artists and all of them not knowing why they loved each other so much but doing it anyway. Then they would watch from spaceships shaped like falling leaves as the sun expanded and consumed the perfectly preserved and never discovered seven billion people in the growing roof layer of Earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s history. But everyone does not have a mug of tea, they have paper cups. So we have skyscrapers.

A Short Story By Kim Barker I can’t see. I can’t fucking see. The first words of Sam McKay’s new life. Sam had the curiously bad luck of being one of the freak anomalies in a world of predictability. There was the man who died after tripping over a crinkle of carpet. Or the poor woman who last year lost her life after strolling too close to a javelin practice; the culprit was never found. And then there’s Sam. The one with the horrible timing. Every day at 5 o’clock Sam would take her scotty, Roger, for a walk in the streets around her apartment building. It was a shabby 5 story block that resembled a stack of waffles due to the inconsistent brown hue that was infecting what one can only guess was once a cream exterior. It was the embarrassment of the neighborhood which in the past 10 years had begun to sprout trendy high rise apartment buildings equipped with gyms and spas and other such luxuries. So there she was, preparing to leave for her daily walk. But for whatever reason this day was different. Rather than crossing over to the park on her usual rounds, something possessed Sam to walk down her street skirting the oppressing gaze of the apartment buildings. A few minutes later she could hear the faint whisper of yelling from high above her head but thought nothing of it. Those bellows belonged to a Thomas Peter. Mr Peter, as he preferred, was the owner of the successful chain of funeral directors, Peter’s Funeral Home. He had famously (or so he liked to tell himself) coined the tagline “Rest in Peter’s” that had earned him a lot of business from ads that ran 5pm to 8pm on free to air channels. At that moment Thomas Peter was experiencing a breakdown. Earlier that year, in an effort to revamp his life and make a change, Mr Peter had been experimenting with several different hobbies. He tried his hand at basketball, cooking, climbing, weaving, running, hiking, swimming and dancing, none of which seemed the right fit. His atrocious hand-eye coordination didn’t help matters. Despite these failures, Mr Peter persisted until he found an activity he loved. He wasn’t all that good but he enjoyed it and was determined to master it. That was until, during a practice session he threw his javelin just south of the mark and impaled a passerby. Overcome by guilt and distress for the loss of his hobby, it had been a rough few months for the Peters. His wife, not understanding his sudden evasive behaviour, had thought him unfaithful and had moved out. He felt like a fraud when talking to customers about his sympathies for their loss, as he himself had taken a life but had not had the kahunas to come forward to the family. And so there was Mr Peter, standing on the roof of his building, flipping out. He yelled apologies at the sky and asked for a sign from above that there was a way out of the guilt. When there was no answer, he decided to jump. Sam McKay was only a few minutes away from her lovable stack of waffles when Roger heard the call of nature and decided here was a good enough place to mark his territory. Sam was just thinking about how the line of buildings reminded her of a row of soldiers standing at attention when she heard wailing descend from the sky. She just had time to look up and see Thomas Peter tumbling towards her before he became one with Roger in a firework of gore.

Unfortunately for Sam, Mr Peter wasn’t the only object that fell from the sky at that moment. He had, in his haphazard journey to the ground dislodged a stone which then became lodged in Sam’s head. It was lights out for Sam McKay. Little did she know the bulb was faulty and the power was out for good. In other words, don’t expect any poetic inner eye opening imagery from this story. Sam McKay is blind.

Life as a College Student by Chitra Saraswati Being a fresher at university can be tough! The academic transition from high school to university is intimidating enough, but on top of that you’ve got the social aspects that are extremely different from what you’re used to in high school. This is where living in a residential college really helps – it makes the transition so much easier. My top three reasons as to why you should be living in a residential college are: 1) You don’t need to cook for yourself; 2) it’s so much easier to participate in social activities that are going on around uni; and 3) you’re immersing yourself in a tight-knit community. The first of the many wonderful things about living in college is the catered food (and I’m not only saying this because I’m lazy). If you live in college, there’s no need to worry about going hungry – you can focus all your attention on achieving academic excellence instead of perpetual hunger. Considering the time you’d need to plan and prepare your meals, having catered food is extremely convenient. Then you have the myriad of social activities. It’s so much easier to participate in social events when you’re in college as you know what’s happening, and you’re always updated on the latest social event no matter what. Getting this information is a bit tougher at uni as a fresher; you really have to go for it and be proactive. In college however, you practically have the information shoved down your throat! Best of all though, being in college means that you’re part of a tight-knit community. Your friends are like your family and eventually, college will feel like home. College really enriches the university experience, and I’m really thankful that I got into a residential college. I’ve met some really wonderful people and had the most amazing experiences, so I’d highly recommend freshers (and anyone else) to apply to a residential college!

Thank you The 2013 Peacock wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be what it is without the amazing people who contributed (all 20 of you!). Thank you for your hard work and for making the UWA Arts Union what it is; a collection of arts students that work hard to make the lives of other students better and more enjoyable. Thanks also to all the readers of this publication, we hope you enjoyed it!

Peacock Magazine 2013 Design: Paul Couchman and Hannah Gifford Editors: Rob McLeod, Corey Walsh, Hannah Gifford, Harriet Calverley, Lily Sullivan, Michael Morrissey and Toni Woolhead Cover Art: Jessica Cockerill Contributors (outside 2013 Comittee): Anasha Flintoff, Dennis Vening, Hugh Manning, Kim Barker, Leah Vlatko, Michael Franz, Sanam Goodman, Sarah Ison and two anonymous

2013 Arts Union Committee: President: Emma Brede Education Vice-President: Rob McLeod Social Vice-President: Henry Austin Administration Vice-President: Hannah Gifford Equity Vice-President: Molly Dale Careers Officer: Daniel Kirkby Senior Education: Tom Beyer Senior Education: Toni Woolhead Senior Social: Sofia Tkatchenko Senior Social: Tom Chadwick Senior Equity: Chitra Saraswati Senior Equity: Sean Standen Senior Careers: Corey Walsh Fresher Education: Lily Sullivan Fresher Social: Alex Hamilton Fresher Equity: Harriet Calverley Publicity Officer: Paul Couchman Male Sports Rep: Michael Morrissey Female Sports Rep: Jess Murray