2022 Edition One by Farrago Magazine

E DI T I O N O N E · 20 2 2

It’s brutal out here

‘I t’s br u t a l o u t h er e’

Acknowledgement of Country Content Warning: references to genocide, illness, colonisation As we return to on-campus life, how do we Acknowledge the Traditional Owners? The University sits on the lands of the Wurundjeri Woiwurrung people of the Kulin Nations and on behalf of Farrago and UMSU, I acknowledge them as the Traditional Custodians of this land. I pay my respects to their Elders of the past, present, and any that may be emerging. I also give my thanks to this Country for nourishing me as I live and work on it. The time has come for us to return to some sense of “normal” university life. As we do, we must understand the privilege of that idea causing us to give a sigh of relief. For many Australians, the return to “normal” does not evoke the same reaction. Many who are still at risk of adverse symptoms will not be able to return to the same “normal” as the lucky who can. I am still afraid for our Elders and for Indigenous people across Australia who are at higher risk. One way to Acknowledge and pay your respects to Elders and the Original Inhabitants of this land and all the country, is to wear your mask and continue to social distance. The number of daily cases is still astronomical, and we still have a responsibility to ourselves, our families, and our communities to do what we can. As we head into the third year of COVID-19, what I reflect on is the resilience of my People, of the Wurundjeri, and of all First Nations Australians. My pride is with the Elders and the Ancestors, who have been resolute through unimaginable and unspeakable horrors. As I am writing this, it has only been a week since Invasion Day. I mourn for my People, I mourn for all First Nations’ Ancestors, and I acknowledge that I am privileged to never have needed to understand the grief our Ancestors went through. A grief I can recognise is the feeling of loss associated with not knowing my people, a consequence of the continued colonisation of Australia. Still, I pay my respects to my Elders, my Ancestors, and my Country because although I do not know them, they know that I belong with them. I also take pride in knowing We are still here. I am proud that We will not let people forget this Always Was and Always Will Be Indigenous Land, and Waters, and Skies. I am proud to say this edition of Farrago, and future editions of this magazine and of the Indigenous Department’s Gundui Bunjil, will now be able to use images of the Aboriginal Flag alongside the Torres Strait Islander Flag. I celebrate this fact and am overwhelmed knowing that my flag is finally free. I acknowledge that it is through the continued resistance and protest of Indigenous activists that this change has been able to happen. To finish, I acknowledge the Sovereignty of the Wurundjeri, of myself and of all First Nations People of Australia. We never ceded our Sovereignty and we have always resisted. - Harley Lewis, UMSU Indigenous Office Bearer

CONTENTS 03 04 05

REGULARS Editorial March Calendar Flash Fiction:

Nahean Tanisha Khan & Jade Okey

One Sentence Horror Stories:

08 45

Letters to the Editors For and Against: Timothée Chalamet

UMSU OB Reports Southbank Updates Jack Doughty

NEWS 13 14 16 17

Hannah Winspear-Schillings & Breana Galea

Carmen Chin & Donna Ferdinando

06 09

Divestment for Dummies: An UMSU Enviro Guide

27 28 32 34 40

Chelsea Daniel & Zachary Matthews

News-in-Brief A Goodbye to Union House— Union House Theatre Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Students Demand More Support in Student Life Programs Vanessa Chan

Managing Footy and Full-time Study: Farrago Sits Down with Ellysse Gamble

42 44

Jack McMahon

FODDER 30

Punk’s Vivid History: Everything from ‘80s Rom-Com Inspiration to Christmas Jingles Christina Savopoulos & Carmen Chin

58 59

23 33 49 50 51 55 56 58

Earthworms Izma Haider

arrival

Laura Charlton

Just Relax: Why is it so hard to really take a holiday?

Max Flett

Alice Blunden

Seraphina Nicholls

(White) Girls to the Front: An Abridged History of Riot Grrrl

62 66

Chelsea Rozario

I want change / we’re waiting 67 for change

Nicole Davydova

Beauty is Terror: The Literal Cult Following of Madness

The Party Panacea: Why Hosting a Silent Disco is the Way to Go

Donna Ferdinando

Alex Oswald

S. Fitzgerald

The Myth of Cisyphus. In Conversation with Andrew Commis ACS

Featured Photography

ART 12

CREATIVE

Where self-care meets 60 consumerism: How can we reinvigorate the “self” in self-care?

Aeva Milos Ben Levy Akash Anil Nair Alexandra Richardson

Your guide to combating Test cricket mansplaining

Satire-in-Brief Dear Diary: The PM’s Retrospective Journal

Lauren Scott

PHOTOGRAPHY

Dominique Jones

20 22

“Always was, always will be”: Unpacking decolonisation

Welcome Back Melbourne! Yicheng Xu

Featured Art Ella Cao

10 36

38 46 57

Featured Art

Maleea Hegarty

Photography & Textiles

Liesey Graham and Jade Graham

What is Punk? Aeva Milos

Photo Collage

Christian Theodosiou

Featured Art

Sophie Sjostrom

Featured Art CJ Starc

Bloom

Zoe Keeghan

Illustrated by Claire Hoang

A Lighthouse Max Flett

Through A Window Rattle

Jessica Faulkner

pink cadillac (in memoriam) Aeva Milos

Satan Wears a Bra Chelsea Rozario

Felicide Friday Helena Pantsis

A Screen is Not a Room (But it Might be a Door) Caitlyn Steer

On the Tip of the Tongue Lochlainn Heley

We, the Fleas

Jessica Faulkner

Pay for a Pandemic Kiara Grace

Younger Siblings Mia Pahljina

Linus Tolliday

Patrick Sexton

SATIRE

NONFICTION

COLUMNS

A Day at UniMelb Weiting Chen

A WIP Around the Workshop Magical realism: A genre of defiance Sarah Dornseiff – Creative Literature and Writing Society (C.L.A.W.S.)

Lost in Translation Riley Morgan

The Dreamer Sophia Zikic

Ordinary Phenomena: The Elephant’s Call Helena Pantsis

Hocus-Pocus Recipes and Rituals: How to Summon a Demon Friend Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Murder on the Dancefloor: The Bar Fight Rupert Azzopardi

Filling Up The Static: Hot bread, humidity and Palm Springs’ A Collection of Songs Stella Theocharides

DIY Craft Guide Weiting Chen

EDITORS

COVER

Jack McMahon Marcie Di Bartolomeo Rupert Azzopardi Sarah Dornseiff – Creative Literature and Writing Society (CLAWS) Stella Theocharides

MANAGERS

GRAPHIC COLUMNISTS

Charlotte Waters Jasmine Pierce Joanna Guelas Nishtha Banavalikar Ivan Jeldres Akash Anil Nair Bayley Horne Ben Levy Carmen Chin Christina Savopoulos Emma Xerri Jordan Di Natale Mollie Crompton Samantha Shing Trang Dau

CONTRIBUTORS Aeva Milos Akash Anil Nair Alex Oswald Alexandra Richardson Alice Blunden Ben Levy CJ Starc Caitlyn Steer Carmen Chin Chelsea Daniel Chelsea Rozario Christian Theodosiou Christina Savopoulos Helena Pantsis Izma Haider Jade Graham Jessica Faulkner Kiara Grace Lauren Scott Liesey Graham Linus Tolliday Lochlainn Heley Maleea Hegarty Max Flett Mia Pahljina Nicole Davydova S. Fitzgerald Seraphina Nicholls Sophie Sjostrom Zachary Matthews Zoe Keeghan

COLUMNISTS Donna Ferdinando Helena Pantsis

Riley Morgan Sophia Zikic Weiting Chen

ONLINE COLUMNISTS

Akshana Yapa Abeywardene Chathuni Gunatilake Emma Xerri Ishan Morris-Gray Nina Hughes Zoë Hoffman

SUBEDITORS

Aeva Milos Alexander Thomas Allegra McCormack Ava Nunan Beau Kent Breana Galea Bridget Schwerdt Chelsea Rozario Clem McNabb Daisy Assauw Emma Barrett Frank Tyson George Tyurin Gwynneth Thomas Helen Tran Helena Pantsis Isabella Sweeney Izma Haider Jaz Thiele Joel Duggan Lachlan Kempson Laura Charlton Le Thuy Linh Nguyen Leah Macdonald Livia Kurniawan Mary Hampton Max Dowell Melana Uceda Nalini Jacob-Roussety Nikita Mohar-Williams Nina Adams Pamela Piechowicz

Rico Sulamet Romany Claringbull Rowan Burridge Saanjana Kapoor Sara Vojdani Sarah Pemberton Sophie Lodge Sunnie Habgood Susan Fang Tegan Lyon Thalia Blackney Xiaole Zhan Yoly (Yuzheng) Li Zara Feil Zhiyou Low Zoe Eyles Zoë Hoffman Zoe Keeghan

STAFF WRITERS

Alain Nguyen Animesh Ghimiray Bella Farrelly Crystal Koa Daniel Snowden Emma Barrett Emma Xerri Felix Kimber Georgie Atkins Hannah WinspearSchillings Joel Duggan Joel Keith Kae Girao Laura Quintero Serrano Maggie Slater Maggie Stoner Nalini Jacob-Roussety Nicholas Speed Nicole Bernadette Jalandoni Remy Marshall S. Fitzgerald Sophie Goodin Velentina Boulter

ILLUSTRATORS Amani Nasarudin Amber Jepsen Amber Liang Arielle Vlahiotis Ashlea Banon Ayushmaan Nagar Claire Hoang Casey Boswell

Illustrated by Evan Goulios

Chelsea Rozario Edie Spiers Ella Cao Evan Goulios Grace Reeve Ivan Jeldres Jessica Norton Kira Richards Leilani Leon Manyu Wang Marchella RuscianoBarrow Matilda Lilford Maya Hall Meadow Nguyen Melana Uceda Monica Yu Niamh Corbett Nina Hughes Pamela Piechowicz Riley Morgan Sally Yuan Cathy Chen Weiting Chen Joanne Guo Yicheng Xu Zoe Eyles Zoë Hoffman

GRAPHIC DESIGN

Alexi O’Keefe Anannya Musale Andrea Ann Win Lim Annemarie Potgieter Bao Chau Hoang Christopher Prawira Emilia Weeden Janna Cinta Garciya Dingle Lana Eastaugh Maggie Ung Melana Uceda Phoebe Lee Sabrina Ke Qin Ting Samantha Shing Timothy Willett Vincent Escobal Yicheng Xu

SATIRE TEAM Alexia Shaw Ashley Mamuko Bayley Horne Danqing Zhu Genevieve Byrne Gloria Yu

Madison Barr

SOCIAL MEDIA Crystal Koa Eliza Routley Janna Dingle Madison Barr Mae Horsley Rachel Manning Samantha Shing Tejas Gandhi Trang Dau Vivien Hooper Weiting Chen

PHOTO & VIDEO TEAM Alexandra Richardson Akash Anil Nair Ben Levy Chaital Vasta Chong Jia wen Christian Theodosiou Jashan Deep Singh Joshua Davis Kayra Meric Maddy Cronn Michael Sadeghi Mollie Crompton Suwanthi Elpitiya Acharige Trang Dau Tonia Pan Brighton Wankeaw Yvonne Le Rebecca Vincent Suwanthi Elpitiya Acharige Bayley Horne Chen-Yang Lee James Hunter

This magazine is made from 100% recycled paper. Please recycle this magazine after use. Farrago is the newspaper of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Farrago is published by the General Secretary. The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of UMSU.

Content Warning: gaslighting, gatekeeping, girlbossing

EDITORIAL are exactly the same. No Baby, seasons change but people don’t. Farrago’s back and no better than ever! We punk. progress. So self-reflection. Kind of… subversive of us, no? Maybe even… dare I say… some of the best bright It’s Farrago Edition One and punk is in the air! We’ve lovingly hand selected for you to you, it’s been rough: and spunky pieces this campus has had the pleasure of seeing in years. We won’t lie experiencing weird Jasmine hasn’t slept in weeks, Nishtha is losing touch with reality, Charlotte has been yeah, it really is So stress-induced fever dreams every other night, and Jo has started watching soccer… brutal out here. when it was staunch News is looking very different this year. It’s a sort of coming back to old Farrago, back Age. It’s time for tongueand had a personality that was undeniable. No more Farrago pretending to be The in-cheek, endearing antagonism, and of course, good student journalism. is as rich and dark as The Creative Section looks like: curiosities, creepy crawlies, coming-of-age. Its flavour that look and smell molasses, and it knits together a variety of magical and/or horrific underworlds. Worlds screens become portals the same as ours, except for the fact that women’s hands contort into rattles, laptop ers. to other rooms, and spider-companions nestle comfortably in the throats of movie-go with facts. Call it a new Non-fiction is breaking beyond the typical essay delineating opinions that interweave of the writing. Let’s talk wave of gonzo journalism: a new way of storytelling, with real people at the core takes, ruminate, and about new things through old lenses, old things in new ways. Read about our hottest tell us you disagree kindly. always wowing us with Our illustration and graphic design teams are absolute talented legends who are ly not just by the written their skill and work ethic. This Edition and the ones to come are marked different to do is look. content but by its visuals from a team of pure guns. It’s a new Farrago, all you have hope the punk theme This Edition might be packed with angst and loud songs and cool shoes, but we t: challenging norms, won’t die with it. Because punk is more than an aesthetic. Punk is making a statemen ous with neutrality. breaking boundaries, and committing to ethical journalism, which isn’t always synonym performs the act of Punk is normalising all that’s strange and subversive and gross. Punk is queer, and punk queering. We like to think we’re very punk. of Farrago as Australia’s It’s moments like this, special edition ones, that make me think back to the legacy indisputably oldest student publication. I think back to notable stories, like all the op-eds published in the 1900s debating whether women and students of colour belong on campus, all the way to the early 2000s and their sex columns offering advice on what to do if you’re addicted to your girlfriend’s breast milk. Legacy, what is a legacy? Done right, its probably pissing off all the old fuckers who started this magazine. Live, Laugh, Love, Charlotte, Jasmine, Jo, & Nishtha

Illustration by Evan Goulios

REGULARS MONDAY 1 4

MONDAY 21

WEEK 5

WEEK 3

MONDAY 7

WEEK 4

WEEK 2

WEEK 1

March Calendar

MONDAY 28

WEDNES DAY 0 2

THURS DAY 0 3

FRIDAY 0 4

12 pm Bands, Bevs & BBQ’s 2 pm Clubs Expo 2 pm Recycled Totebag Workshop Enviro Collective

1 pm People of Colour Collective 2 pm Clubs Expo

1 pm Bla(c)k Collective 2 pm Clubs Expo 3:30 pm International Womens’ Day Banner Making 5.30 pm Farrago Online Launch Party

4 pm Welcome Back BBQ (Burnley) 4:30 pm Creative Arts Collective 5 pm Farrago Launch Party 5.30 pm Education Film Screening: ‘Sorry to Bother You’

TUESDAY 08

WEDNES DAY 09

THURS DAY 10

Yoga (Burnley) Southbank BBQ 1 pm Enviro Collective 2 pm Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective

1 pm People of Colour Collective

1pm Education Action Collective 1 pm Bla(c)k Collective 6 pm Arty Party Enviro Justice Collective

1 pm Queer x POC Collective 4:30 pm Creative Arts Collective 6 pm Bike Maintenance Workshop (Burnley) Enviro Film Screening

TUESDAY 1 5

WEDNES DAY 1 6

THURS DAY 17

FRIDAY 18

1 pm Enviro Collective 1 pm POC Activist Collective 2 pm Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective

1 pm Know Your Rights at Work Workshop 1 pm People of Colour Collective

1 pm Education Action Collective 1 pm Bla(c)k Collective Enviro Justice Collective

9 am Breakfast Collective (Burnley) 1 pm Queer x POC Collective 2 pm Queer x Media Collective 4:30 pm Creative Arts Collective 7.30 pm Pottery Night (Burnley)

TUESDAY 22

TUESDAY 01

FRIDAY 11

WEDNES DAY 23

THURS DAY 24

FRIDAY 25

Yoga (Burnley) 1 pm Enviro Collective Southbank BBQ 2 pm Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective

1 pm People of Colour Collective

1 pm Education Action Collective 1 pm Bla(c)k Collective Enviro Justice Collective

1 pm Queer x POC Collective 4:30PM Creative Arts Collective UMSU Contingent to Global Climate Strike

TUESDAY 29

WEDNES DAY 30

THURS DAY 31

1 pm Enviro Collective 1 pm POC Activist Collective 2 pm Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective

1 pm People of Colour Collective

1 pm Education Action Collective 1 pm Bla(c)k Collective Enviro Justice Collective

Illustrated by Marchella Rusciano-Barrow

Prompt: ‘shoes’

Shoeless

Doc Martens

Written by Nahean Tanisha Khan

Written by Jade Okey

Jenny felt like a modern Cinderella. Or, perhaps, a modern Prince Charming, wielding a slightly shabbier glass slipper. Jenny was looking for the owner of the converse sneaker her dog Scully had run off with a couple hours ago. Last week, Scully had taken a tennis ball; the week before that, another shoe. After searching for the rightful owner in the dog days of summer, she was ready to give up, till a soft but warm voice called behind her. The freckled, mousyhaired boy was probably no older than 15. His left foot was bare and muddy.

REGULAS

Flash Fiction

Toes nestle in the warmth of soft socks and tough leather yet to yield to the shape of your feet. The boots will soften eventually, mould into comfort, but today isn’t that day. Unmarked and unbroken, your heavy soles strike the concrete. There is power in boots that make you sink deeper into the ground, make you pay attention to the space you take up with every step. Fallen leaves turn to dust under determined strides, your pace unaffected by the terrain. You can go anywhere, be anything. That is, once the leather gives and your blisters heal.

One-Sentence Horror Stories Content Warning: violence “We know you’re awake,” said the surgeon, as his knife came down. - Hannah Winspear-Schillings In these unprecedented times… - Breana Galea Your latest invoice has been issued. - Breana Galea The canefields are quiet, but only during the day; at night, the shrieking begins. - Breana Galea Dear [Title] [Firstname] [Lastname], I hope this email finds you well. - Breana Galea Wattpad fanfiction; it haunts me. - Breana Galea The planets keep spinning faster. - Breana Galea

Illustrated by Amber Jepsen

UMSU

President | Sophie Nguyen

Hey everyone! Happy 2022! I’m so keen to be your President this year and to see all your faces on campus (and online). I’ve been working on SummerFest planning and I’m super keen to see the events that the UMSU Departments have planned over O-Week and Week 1. I’ve also been getting ready and working behind the scenes on campaigns with other OBs to ensure that students’ welfare and rights are a key priority. Keep an eye out for Summerfest and department events!

General Secretary | Amelia Bright Office was vacant at time of publishing.

Clubs & Societies | Eleanor Cooney Hunt and Benito Di Battista

Hey, we’re Benito (he/him) and Ellie (she/her), and we’re your Clubs & Societies Office Bearers for 2022! We’re currently looking forward to bringing you an online clubs expo in O-Week, and four in-person days on South Lawn during Week 1. It’ll be great to see our beloved clubs thriving on campus again after a tough few years! We’re also bringing our Stop Two concept to life—providing you with an appointment booking system, improved resources to connect you with clubs, and more support for our committees! Feel free to chat to us anytime to get involved!

Creative Arts | Prerna Aggarwal and Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Greetings! We’re Marcie (they/she) and Prerna (she/her) and we’re super-duper excited to be your Creative Arts officers for 2022! We have a plethora of events planned for this year that are sure to knock your socks off! From Arty Party, to our weekly collective, to Tastings, to our grants program, there are endless ways for you to get involved, get creative, and have a marvelous university experience! If you want to have a chat with us, come by our office on the first floor of Union House, or drop us an email at arts@union.unimelb.edu.au!

Education Academic | Ethan Georgeou and Moira Negline

Ed Ac 2022 has kicked off at a breakneck pace. With Student Representative Network applications launched and closed, many meetings with University Chancellery and UMSU Advocacy alike, Misconduct Panel trainings and much more. Keen to be involved in all the action? Make sure you’re following our socials, come to collectives, and keep your eyes out for some Education events (food included!).

Education Public | Benjamin Jarick and Ruby Craven

Hey! We’re so excited to be building some staunch activist campaigns this year with you! If you want to get more involved in activism, we’re the department for you! EdPub stands up for your rights. Come along to our Education Action Collective on Thursdays at 1pm for some fun chats and organising. Or if you’re a rural, regional, or interstate (RRI) student, come to our RRI collective for fun, snacks and games. More details on our FB page, UMSU Education. Can’t wait to meet you soon!

Burnley | Kaitlyn Hammond

Welcome back, Burnley! Are you ready for what is bound to be an excellent year? We have lots in store for you including yoga in the gardens, a pottery class, a bike maintenance workshop, and the return of Burnley trivia! Want to meet some fellow Burnley students for coffee and delightful conversation? Join our brand-new Breakfast Collective happening fortnightly starting the 18 March! Stay up to date with all our amazing activities by following us on Facebook and Instagram: facebook.com/burnleystudentassociation @UMSUburnley

Disabilities | Betty Zhang and Prachi Uppal

We can’t be more excited to start 2022 with a bang for UMSU Disabilities! Keep an eye on our socials and website to sign up for our SummerFest events along with collectives and events galore. Be sure to collect a copy of our beautiful Wellbeing Tracker to check in with your mental and physical health every day and look forward to some awesome giveaways! We are always here to support students living with and/or experiencing disability, including mental health so don’t hesitate to reach out. We wish everyone a safe, healthy, and joyful return to university in person and online!

Indigenous | Brittney Henderson and Harley Lewis

UMSU

The UMSU Indigenous Department has been largely focused on planning our events and campaigns coming up in the next semester. We are excited to be actively involved in the Wominjeka ceremony in Week 1, where Wurundjeri will welcome the University community onto Country into the new semester. We are also preparing for the influx of new Indigenous students in 2022, and are very excited to present them with our welcome packs during their orientation week: Dhumbali. Our autonomous events are likely to be the highlight of our Office Bearer work, with our own publication due to come out towards the end of Semester 1.

People of Colour | Hiba Adam and Kyi Phyu Moe Htet

Hi folks! We are your 2022 PoC OBs and we are so excited for the year ahead of us. Get ready for a year full of wonderful events and your favourite collectives back on the run. Starting with our SummerFest events, we will be having an online stall, a games night and an in-person stall! The department will ensure that our events are accessible and held in COVID-safe manner. So come along to our SummerFest events to meet new and old friends, and while you are there make sure to grab some of our freebies! (hint: KeepCups)

Activities | Bella Henry and Sami Zehir Office was vacant at time of publishing.

Queer | Rook Davis and Rose Power

The Queer Department is planning so much this year! We will be releasing an update video on our ‘No Transphobia in Our Tutes’ campaign from last year and launching a free gender affirming wardrobe for trans and gender diverse students to access in the Queer Space, on top of delivering all the events and collectives you know and love. Notable events coming up during Semester 1 are the Queer People of Faith picnic and a Drag Makeup Seminar run by local drag performer Belial B’Zarr. Look forward to seeing you there!

Southbank | Nina Mountford, Jack Doughty, Alex Birch and Xiaole Zhan

Hey hey! We’ve been busy with our SummerFest plans down at the Southbank campus with performance opportunities, free food, your signature family of UMSU stalls, giveaways and more (did we mention free food?). Look out for our Guide to Student Life on the UMSU website, as well as our new mascot inspired by the (in)famous Andy Warhol banana album cover (it’s a giant walking UMSU purple BANANA, we promise!). We’ll also be having a Week 1 Welcome Party and Queer, Disabilities, POC, and Women’s Collectives throughout Sem 1. Keep your artsy shmartsy eyes and ears peeled (pun intended).

Welfare | Lynne Bian

Hello peeps! My name is Lynne and I am currently in my final year of studying psychology. I hope everyone had a lovely holiday and we’re finally back with tons of exciting Welfare events!! With students returning back to campus, the Welfare Department wants to ensure that each student gets support they need, and most importantly, enjoys their time at uni. Stay tuned for our wonderful Welfare Breakfast and giveaways! As we all know, there would be no Welfare events without the volunteers that support us. Please check the Welfare page and sign up to volunteer with us!

Women | Lauren Scott and Kraanti Agarwal

Hello everyone! Our names are Scottie (she/they) and Kraanti (she/her), and we’re both your Women’s Officers for 2022! It’s been a super busy past couple of months getting ready for the return to campus, but we’re (hopefully) so close to real human interaction again. Catch us at our SummerFest stall, or at our weekly collectives (Women and Enbies, Women and Enbies of Colour). We will also be organising a community event for International Women’s Day, hosting Feminist Workshops run by fellow students, and running collectives with Creative Arts and UMSU International. We can’t wait to meet you all!

Environment | Chelsea Daniel and Zachary Matthews

Heya! We’re Zach and Chelsea and we are your Enviro OBs! So far, we’ve been busy setting ourselves up for a wholesome and jam-packed year. Keep your eyes peeled for our SummerFest events, which are happening both online and in-person, and are guaranteed to be staunch and sustainable. Enviro Collective will be back for this year too, as well as our brand-new Environmental Justice Collective aimed at fostering accessible environmental activism on campus. Finally, we’ve begun the process of rebuilding the divestment movement at uni—flick to page 13 for our article on our explainer about what divestment is and how you can get involved!

REGULARS

Letters to the Editors If you want to write a letter to the editors, email editors@farragomagazine.com Dear Editors, Remember when airplane tickets were like, $50 in March 2020? Coronavirus was a conspiracy theory from deep in the jungle, never to reach us untouchable Western superheroes. Airlines dropped their prices and people laughed at companies’ panicked overreaction, before hopping on a flight to Italy that cost pennies. Do you think that’s where the real global spread of COVID started? Do you think that airlines keeping their cool would have done something to prevent the pandemic from unfolding the way it did? I’m no epidemiologist, sorry. I’m writing from the East coast of the United States, in cold Connecticut on the quiet eve of a massive snowstorm. After twenty months of border closures, price checking ($7000 for a one-way flight?!), and handwringing, the stars finally aligned for me to visit back home. I thought I’d be welcomed by old teachers and parents’ friends like a hometown hero, mothers lining up for Martyr Janvi to kiss their babies. I wanted recognition for having sweated and suffered. I wanted to be told that completing two years of university over a screen confined to a single room meant something, that I wasn’t a crazy prisoner pacing my cell, but Rapunzel blossoming in the solitude of my tower. Instead, I’ve been told I’m so lucky to have lived in perpetual summer for two years (haha, MELBOURNE?); quizzed on cricket facts (I don’t know a thing about upside down baseball); and asked what career prospects my animal sex degree holds (my guess is as good as yours.) How do I tell these people that my knowledge of the city is informed purely by Inner North meme accounts, and that my crowning achievement was seeing Troye Sivan (I think) in the pasta aisle at Carlton Woolies? Don’t get me wrong, I love visiting Connecticut. But I realize now that it’s just that- a visit. I’m passing through and remembering a life that is no longer mine. Life is now Melbourne: weird weather, tough classes, artsy peers, odd celebrity sightings. And Farrago. I’ll be back soon to pick up the party where I left off, as soon as I book this $1500 flight (CRIMINAL!). Love, Janvi<3 Dear Editors, Everything is feeling very slow right now. That weird period between Christmas and New Years, a time for unwillingly reflecting on one’s existence, has been extended by everyone getting covid. And even though discussions are rapid and everyone is buzzing, I feel stagnant. Existential. It’s a different mortal panic than the one my 13 year old brain would manifest after watching Dan & Phil joke about impending doom. It’s a realisation that this is what my world is like at 20, and it’s a far cry from the image I crafted long ago. ‘It gets better,’ say my parents’ friends, ‘life is just starting.’ But it feels like it’s started on the wrong foot. Everyone is getting LinkedIn non-ironically, building up their work experience. First dates are flooded with conversations about the plan for after uni, a subject once limited to chit chat with distant family. I fucking hate it here. Maybe I should feel happier. Maybe I should be more grateful. Instead I’m bored shitless dealing with reality. Regards, someone who is sick of thinking

Illustrated by Claire Hoang

UMSU

Southbank Updates

Written by Jack Doughty, UMSU Southbank Activities Officer

With the excitement of Summerfest and O-Week behind us, studies are well under way at the Southbank campus. As any second- or third- year student will tell you, studying at the VCA is like a full-time job. However, unlike your actual job that you want to leave as soon as possible, there’s reasons to stay on campus after class! Clubs, Collectives, and Evening Social events will be on throughout the semester, all of which are fantastic opportunities to meet and hang out with your fellow students and turn those scary, unfamiliar faces into friends! The Music Students Society and Production Society are a great place to meet people studying the same or similar disciplines, and to bond over how fucked the last tute was or to share your superior music tastes. This year we will be continuing to support the Queer Collective, whilst also introducing Southbank specific meetings of the PoC, Disabilities, and Women’s collectives. These are lovely autonomous spaces to meet fellow students who might not be studying the exact same art form, but who may have a lot of similar experiences. UMSU will be delivering monthly evening social events throughout the semester, with our first being the Welcome Party that happened in Week 1. Keep an eye out on our socials for film screenings, live music, and more! Along with the social opportunities and events, UMSU has restocked our breadbin (both digitally and physically) so come on down to the Southbank student hub to grab some noodles or apply for a $50 grocery voucher on our website. Keep an eye out to see when our next fortnightly (vegan) barbeques are as well, for a quick, free, warm meal on campus! ALSO, by now, we’re hoping you’ve seen the debut of our new mascot. We’ve felt the Southbank campus needed to be represented by something large and anthropomorphic for a while now (haven’t you?), so now one of your lovely Southbank OBs has to gets to walk around in a big purple banana costume. Don’t ask us why, this is just how it is. If you have any questions, queries, or just want to share with us your latest Wordle score, email us here at: southbank@union.unimelb.edu.au and play a wonderful game of roulette to see who answers your email! Or just walk up to one of us on campus, or in our office on the top floor of the library! Feel free to check out our Facebook and Instagram as well, everything we’ve mentioned here and more will be posted there: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/umsusouthbank Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/umsu_southbank/

Illustrated by Kira Richards

COLUMN 10

‘A Day at Unimelb’ by Weiting Chen

COLUMN

Artwork by Yicheng Xu

NEWS

Divestment for Dummies: An UMSU Enviro Guide Written by 2022 UMSU Environment Office Bearers Chelsea Daniel and Zachary Matthews What is divestment? Divestment is a word that has been thrown around a lot in these past few years and can mean different things in different circles with different goals. For the UMSU Environment Department, divestment is the act of withdrawing investments in fossil fuel companies or other corporations that actively harm the environment and contribute to social harm. UMSU Enviro is calling on the University of Melbourne to divest, which means that the University would cease to have any stock or financial investments in any companies engaged in fossil fuels. The ‘fossil fuel companies’ we discuss in divestment are the top 200 listed under the annually updated Underground Carbon 200. The Enviro Department will also be using this as a model to judge companies, similar to other “divestment companies across the globe”. Why is it important? Currently, the University of Melbourne is invested in and has ties to multiple fossil fuel corporations. These companies include ExxonMobil and Saudi Aramco. As reported by Farrago in 2020, these ties don’t just stop at investment. The 2017-2020 Sustainability Plan’s target was to “have divested from, or be in the process of divesting from” any investments “that do not satisfy the requirements of the University’s sustainable investment framework for managing material climate change risk” by 2021.

found in the University of Melbourne’s own Sustainability Community Consultation report. These demands are: 1. 2. 3.

That the University ceases any new investments in fossil fuels, That the University commits to divesting its existing investments from fossil fuels within 5 years, and The University instead invests in companies that have committed to mitigating their impact on climate change

In 2022, the UMSU Environment Department will be relaunching Divest UniMelb. This campaign will aim to pressure the University to achieve the above demands. This campaign will launch the first week of Semester 1, 2022 and will use diverse forms of protest to ensure inclusivity and accessibility in the campaign. UMSU Enviro will also be launching the Environmental Justice Collective, a collective for accessible student involvement within the divestment campaign and other initiatives. Dates and locations will be advertised on our social media platforms. On top of this, regular updates will be announced for protests, workshops and speaker panels relevant to divestment. We are in the process of reigniting Fossil Free UniMelb, a branch off of the fossil-free movement for involvement whose sole focus will be pressuring the University to detach itself from all fossil fuel dealings.

The investment framework includes assessing fund managers is based on six criteria, including “exercising of stewardship responsibilities to mitigate climate change risk”.

Our social media platforms, from the first week of Semester 1, will have a link for the Divest UniMelb petition for students to sign their name to, which will be delivered to the University.

The updated University divestment framework is currently being developed by the University Sustainability Team, with the draft being finalised at the time of writing. This might be released in March 2022; however, the University has not confirmed this.

Divestment is not only necessary to enact change, but also possible. However, it can only be done with student involvement.

At the time of reporting, no divestment has occurred at the University of Melbourne. What can we do? Our divestment demands as a department are mirrored to those of other student-led divestment campaigns around the world. They are also in line with the community demands

Illustrated by Ayushmaan Nagar

You can follow the action and get involved with UMSU Enviro on Facebook (UMSU Environment) and Instagram (@umsuenviro). You can read the entire Divestment for Dummies guide on the Farrago website.

NEWS

Content warning: homophobia, transphobia, police brutality, racism, swearing.

NEWS-IN-BRIEF Australian Open

Footy Comes First: Get Fucked Kanye

The 2022 Australian Open provided blockbuster sports entertainment with back-to-back history-making Finals. The Women’s Finals saw World No. 1 Ngaragu woman Ash Barty come back from 5-1 in straight sets, becoming the first Australian woman to win at the Open in 44 years. Rafael Nadal became the first male tennis player to reach 21 majors after winning from two sets to love in the Men’s Finals the following night. Fan favourites Thanasi Kokkinakis and Nick Kyrgios (‘Special K”) also won the Men’s Doubles—to much enjoyment in the Farrago Office.

Kanye West will be performing in Naarm (Melbourne0 for his Australian tour before the AFL 2022 season begins after being denied Marvel Stadium for his preferred date. According to The Age, Kanye West had requested the AFL move the Round 1 Match between Collingwood and St Kilda at Marvel Stadium to another venue so he could perform there on 18 March. The AFL said no immediately.

Men’s 21/22 Ashes Series

Women’s 21/22 Ashes Series

The 21/22 Men’s Ashes Series saw a great thumping for the English side with an Australian 4-0 triumph. Gulidjan man Scott Boland made his Test debut at the Boxing Day Test, becoming the fourth Indigenous Australian cricketer to play at Test level. Boland bowled 6/7 at the ‘G, winning the Mullagh Medal. Usman Khawaja, the first Australian of Pakistani origin to represent Australia, scored two tons at the Pink Test at the SCG and was named Player of the Match, after years of being left out of the Australian Test side. He was consequently selected for the fifth test at Bellerive Oval, the first time Nipaluna (Hobart) hosted an Ashes Test match.

Australia and England drew after a thrilling finish in the final session of the Women’s Ashes Test at Manuka Oval. The Test match was riddled with failed reviews, dropped balls, and clutch wickets. Debutant leg-spinner Alana King (2-3) and Beth Mooney brought Australia to just one wicket off winning the Ashes in the final 10 overs, with England needing 13 runs to win. The draw came after Kate Cross survived King’s final ball. Cricket commentator and former English cricketer Isa Guha called it “one of the greatest Test matches in Ashes history”.

AFLW 2022 Season The sixth season of the AFLW began on 7 January. As of writing (February), Grand Final favourites Adelaide Crows have gone undefeated and are at the top of the ladder. The AFLW has not gone without COVID-19 interruptions, with the League introducing the ‘Covid Match Rescheduling Guidelines’ to allow a match to be rescheduled if a club could not field a team. The first four rounds saw the Western Bulldogs reschedule two matches due to COVID-19 absences, along with Brisbane, the Gold Coast and Carlton. This will be the last season to be contested by 14 teams, with Essendon, Hawthorn, Port Adelaide and Sydney joining the competition in 2023.

Illustrated by Ivan Jeldres

NEWS-IN-BRIEF NFTs

Hottest 100 The Wiggles

Non-fungible tokens (NFTs) are taking over. NFTs are a form of crypto asset and can be anything digital: music, drawings, tweets. They use unique digital signatures to ensure they are one-of-a-kind. Farrago is not sure why there is so much hype around NFTs. Could someone explain this for us in the next editions?

The Wiggles took the No. 1 spot of triple j’s 2021 Hottest 100. Their song ‘Elephant’—a Tame Impala cover mixed with Wiggles classic ‘Fruit Salad’—became the first Like a Version to reach the top. ‘STAY’ (with Justin Bieber) by Kamilaroi man The Kid LAROI came in at No. 2 with ‘Lots of Nothing’ by Boorloo (Perth) band Spacey Jane at No. 3.

UMSU Resignations

No Police at Pride

Following the resignation of Justin Baré, who served as UMSU CEO for over fifteen years, three student representatives have resigned over the ‘22 summer. Yuvhashni Sugunan Pillai resigned as Welfare Officer, Jennisha Arnanta as General Secretary, and Anisha Bunsee as Activities Officer. Activities Co-Office Bearer Sami Zahir tendered his resignation to be reappointed with another member to the office, in accordance with Section C.69 of the UMSU Constitution. On 4 February, Zahir was appointed as temporary Activities Officer with Bella Henry by the Activities Committee.

An open letter, penned by LGBTQI+ activists Joshua Badge and Frank Gafa, called for Victoria Police to not attend the Midsumma Pride March. This came after the Victorian Pride Lobby found that four in five LGBTQI+ people do not trust Victoria Police. Moreover, the UMSU Queer Department pulled their contingent out of the Pride March in solidarity with queer people of colour as Serco was confirmed to host stalls at the March; Serco is responsible for managing most of Australia’s detention centres.

NEWS

Content warning: homophobia, transphobia, police brutality, racism, swearing.

The Russo-Ukrainian Conflict (as of February) As of writing (February), more than 100,000 Russian troops have amassed near the border with Ukraine. White House National Security Adviser Jake Sullivan said that “any day now” Russia could invade Ukraine. The BBC has reported that US Officials warned that a Russian invasion of Ukraine could result in 50,000 civilian deaths. The White House, however, believes that diplomacy is still an option. Ukraine is not part of NATO and Russia wants to exclude them permanently from NATO; however, the US and its allies have threatened economic sanctions against Russia. The Russo-Ukrainian Conflict goes back to 2014, when Russia annexed Ukraine’s Crimean Peninsula after the Euromaidan protests and removal of then Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych.

Illustrated by Ivan Jeldres

NEWS

A Goodbye to Union House—and a glance into the future for Union House Theatre Written by Marcie Di Bartolomeo For those of you who have been keeping up with the University’s updates, you may be aware of the upcoming Student Precinct that is currently reaching its final stages of construction. Set to replace our ol’ Union House as a central hub of student activity, many spaces will be moving over to the Student Precinct. One of these spaces is the Union House Theatre (UHT), the central hub of co-curricular student theatre at the University. Staffed by passionate industry professionals who are keen to support students in everything performance and production, UHT is involved in the programming of performances, masterclasses, and events that aim to nurture and upskill emerging student theatre-makers. UHT also supports over 20 autonomous Student Theatre Groups (STGs) who program and present their own productions in the Guild and Union Theatres. Providing students with a taste of professional theatremaking since 1969, UHT has been a mainstay in the University’s history, and is still instrumental in the university experience of students. While UHT prepares to make its move later this year, I have caught up with several students and alumni who have been involved in the UHT community. Through them, I hope to shine a light on the stories of some of the students that have been nurtured and supported by UHT. For Eden McLean, a second-year Design student, UHT was the perfect opportunity to “springboard into the university theatre scene” after starting university in 2021. After seeing a callout for UMMTA’s 2021 Sitzprobe—a collection of new musicals—Eden made her presence known in the student theatre scene, getting cast in both Alex Langdon’s it never was a phase, kid and Ethan FrancisD’Amour’s The Scarlet Sun, as well as being chosen as the costume designer for both MUSC and UMMTA’s Semester 2 Main Stage productions of The Addams Family and Titus Andronicus respectively. Despite several of these productions having to be cancelled, postponed, and/or moved online due to COVID-19 restrictions at the time, Eden wrote warmly of her experiences working in student theatre. “While I had done a lot of costume construction throughout my schooling years, this was my first time ever being specifically in-charge of a production’s costuming department,” said Eden. “As an aspiring costume designer who hopes to pursue this field in the future, my involvement with UHT has given me so many opportunities to not only showcase my skills in costume-making, but I’ve also been able to learn so many new skills and develop so many new methods.” The alumni of UHT also have fond memories and lessons from their time that they have carried with them to today.

Corey Koeleman worked on several shows at UHT in 2012, including Zombie! An Apocalyptic Rock Opera. It was during this time where the UHT team mentored and supported him. “I was given the space to make mistakes and find solutions … The team really nurtured my love for theatre and gave me the time and space to play and learn,” said Corey. “It was through Union House Theatre that I gained many valuable contacts that I still have today … I learnt so many skills and realised that no matter what happened the show must always go on.” Corey keeps a current voltage checker from UHT staff members former Production Manager Gus and Head Technician Clynton as a memento of his time working on student productions at UHT and the lessons he learnt along the way. UHT is fondly remembered and known for the support provided by its team to make sure its programs and productions are accessible and inclusive. Oliver Ross, a recent UHT alumni, praises the department for its accessibility and the blending and branching of roles in student theatre. “I love how customisable the opportunities through UHT are—you can specialise, or explore, have a fun break from class or get converted to changing careers,” said Oliver. “With the mixture of creative freedom and support, the barrier for entry is low and the potential is high. “It’s common for writers, directors and actors to have had experience as a technician, designer or manager, and the focus on access and equity carries over long after students graduate.” For Oliver, it was his involvement with UHT that has been instrumental in his development as a creative. “I’ve found that one way or another, the bulk of my work has either branched out from, or come from interest in my work on [UHT] shows,” said Oliver. While saying goodbye to the current UHT spaces in Union House may be saddening for many members of the UHT community both old and new, these snippets of students passionate about theatre-making no doubt provide hope for its future. While we’re saying goodbye to Union House, we’re not saying goodbye to UHT. UHT will have a significant presence in the student precinct, with its performance venues Union Theatre and Guild Theatre making the move to the new Arts and Cultural building. We will still have the memories of everything UHT and its community of passionate people have accomplished, and in the future UHT will continue to nurture and support emerging theatre-makers, regardless of the building they occupy.

Illustrated by Joanne Guo

NEWS

Students Demand More Support in Student Life Programs Written by Vanessa Chan With the prospective return to on-campus life in 2022, students have called for more variety and non-academic elements in the Student Life programs to better support first-year undergraduates. The Melbourne Peer Mentor Program (MPMP) is one of the signature initiatives designed for first-year students, where new students are automatically assigned to a later-year mentor. Under their guidance, they participate in group activities, share experiences, and refer them to relevant support—giving mentees an insight into tertiary education at Melbourne. Since Melbourne has been in and out of lockdown in the past two years, MPMP has become an exclusively online platform for new students to socialise. In 2021, over 7,500 first-year undergraduate students attended the MPMP. However, limited mentoring sessions have been an obstacle to closer friendships. As such, some students feel the program is not living up to its potential. Pavani Athukorala, a former mentee and mentor for the Arts Faculty in 2020, explained how the MPMP helped her overcome loneliness during online studying. “When the University was shut down, MPMP was the way to [meet] new people and [maintain] my social connections in isolation,” said Athukorala. “I think the MPMP is a little unwieldy—too many groups, not enough mentees showing up to justify the number of mentors.” Reflecting on the effectiveness of the MPMP, Athukorala added that the University should “cut back and add more interesting additional events” as peer mentoring alone should not be a “be-all-end-all solution”. Claire Bello, a third-year Bachelor of Science student, hopes the University runs joint events with other mentoring groups to help expand her social network. “Some students may find it difficult to meet other students, especially if their mentoring group [was] not close,” said Bello. “Introducing [new] activities can allow another pathway for students to interact with each other, especially since COVID-19 has made it harder to interact with others.” Future first-year students will experience a different in-person teaching system from the University after two years of online study in high school. International students leaving home for

the first time especially have expressed their need to pick up different skills to address daily issues independently. Stephanie Ma, a Year 11 student from Macau aspiring for the Bachelor of Commerce at the University of Melbourne, suggested that life skills training can increase quality of living in a new city. “[The Student Life programs should include] life skills programs, such as cooking class, teaching students how to iron, or health aid class. The new elements … can improve students’ living standards and prevent them from injuries,” she said. Although the University will optimise the booking system and information delivery to improve the MPMP, University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) President Sophie Nguyen urges the University to “listen to students” and work with UMSU to avoid confusing students about different mentoring programs run by the University and UMSU. “Generally, we hope that the University works collaboratively with UMSU, understanding that a student-led organisation knows what issues impact students,” said Nguyen. “It’s usually best for all students when we don’t have two programs clashing with each other.” In response to this, a University spokesperson insists the University already works with UMSU and peer leaders to deliver their Student Life Initiatives. “The University continues to consult with students and UMSU on the Melbourne Peer Mentoring Program, which has seen a significant increase in participation. Each semester the University works with peer leaders and undertakes extensive student evaluations to inform refinements to the program structure and timing,” said the spokesperson. To restore campus life for new students, the University will also run a series of on-campus events, including a pop-up roller skating rink, food trucks, open-air live music night light projection, and cultural celebrations. Uncertainty over the new COVID-19 variant may discourage students from completing next semester in-person; however, Nguyen guarantees that clubs will run dual-delivery events to ensure all students are connected to campus life. It remains to be seen whether these offshore students will have the same level of engagement in campus life as onshore students during these strange times.

Illustrated by Manyu Wang

Managing footy and full-time study:

NEWS

Farrago sits down with Ellyse Gamble Written by Patrick Sexton

Ellyse Gamble is a key defender at the Western Bulldogs and has recently graduated from Victoria University (VU) with a Bachelor of Education, specialising in Physical Education and Mathematics. Since being picked up in the 2016 AFLW Draft, Ellyse has become a reliable asset in the Doggies’ backline and in 2021 was awarded the AFL Players Association’s Education and Training Excellence Award. Farrago reporter Patrick Sexton sat down with Ellyse to talk about how she managed the commitments of full-time study and footy, as well as what the future looks like for AFLW players studying at a tertiary level as the League looks to expand. Farrago: What made you want to pursue careers in both footy and education?

with their journey, so I think just having those people like that to reach out to was what made it all manageable.

Ellyse: Ever since I started playing footy as a kid, I’ve loved the aspect of having a big team and the friendships you build, and the thought of being able to grow as a footballer whilst the game grew alongside me was a really enticing prospect, which is why I decided to focus on my football.

Farrago: Despite having to maintain the standards of a professional athlete year-round, AFLW players are only being paid as part-time workers in comparison to the lucrative contracts seen in the men’s League. Do you think that as a result of the AFLW’s shorter season and lower pay seen for AFLW players compared to those in the men’s League that there is a greater need for AFLW players to have a job outside of football?

I’ve also always loved school and have always looked up to my teachers, so I always knew I wanted to be that supportive influence for other people, which is why I decided to study teaching. Farrago: How did you go about balancing the commitments of full-time tertiary study with football? Ellyse: I’d be lying if I said it was easy. It’s definitely been challenging at times and even though I’ve just graduated, I don’t think I ever mastered the balance between the two, but I did find ways to cope with the two workloads over the four years of my course. I’ve been lucky to have great support networks around me and I think that’s something that was really important, having people both at the club and at uni who understood my workloads and were able to help me with extensions if it was a busy week of training. I try my best to be a very organised person, which has helped me be on top of everything in terms of training and deadlines for assignments, but like everyone, over the last year, I’ve struggled with learning from home to not get distracted, and would end up staying up late at night to try and get things done, and then would feel the consequences of that at training the next day. So it’s definitely not been easy, but making sure to take a break when needed, and knowing where to seek support when the work starts to pile up, has been crucial for me. In my four years, I’ve been lucky to have the support of the elite athlete sport programs that VU offers. There was one week where I broke my wrist on a Sunday afternoon and had an assessment due, so I was lucky that someone within the program was able to contact my teachers and let them know I’d need an extension, so it was support like that which helped. At the Bulldogs, we also have a career coordinator who helps the girls starting uni

Ellyse: The reality is where AFLW is at the moment, I knew I wanted to study full-time to get my career up and running because you can’t solely rely on an AFLW income at the moment. Comparing myself to some of the boys at the Doggies who are also currently studying at VU, they’ll study their degrees over many years and just do a few subjects at a time, whereas I’ve chosen to study full-time not only because I want to become a teacher as soon as possible, but also because that aspect of job security is more important when footy is only part-time. The part-time nature of AFLW contracts at the moment doesn’t really allow for that job security, which is why we need to have careers outside of football, and that’ll be my next challenge, trying to figure out what my teaching career will look like alongside my football career. Obviously, footy is a part of your life, not your whole life: nobody’s body can hold up to the physical standards of footy forever, which is why the club places such a big focus on both the boys and us girls having careers and a life ready for post-footy, but obviously for us girls it’s a bit more important for us to focus on that aspect throughout our footy career, just due to where the competition is at. You can read the full interview with Ellyse online. She talks about the future of the AFLW, the Bulldogs in the 2022 Season, and tips for balancing studying commitments. Disclaimer: Patrick Sexton is a proud Doggies supporter through and through.

Illustrated by Amber Liang

NEWS

Your guide to combating Test cricket mansplaining Written by Dominique Jones What the fuck is Test cricket and why is it so complicated? Test cricket is the format played in the Ashes Series—that incredibly long show each summer that invades Channel 7’s TV schedule. But beyond the beer snakes and the sculling, the Ashes Series began with an air of Brontë-like morbidity. Whilst England and Australia had been playing Test cricket against each other since 1877, the Ashes Series only began in 1882. After Australia’s first win on English soil, a mock obituary was published by Reginald Shirley Brooks that mourned England’s loss to the tourists. He wrote that the “body of English cricket will be cremated, and the ashes taken to Australia”. In the years to come it would be England’s mission to regain the ashes of a burned bail, symbolically stored in a terracotta urn. And thus, England’s redemption arc began. In the Ashes, there are five matches which can each last for five days. Within each match, four innings are played, which sees teams alternate between batting and bowling. Each day entails approximately ninety overs with an over consisting of six balls. Test cricket is roughly a six-hour affair, allowing viewers plenty of time to determine whether they love or despise it. Five hundred or so balls get bowled and so a deceivingly confusing scoring system is kept. On the left of your screen, you will see a weird equation like ‘2-53.’ The first number represents the wickets taken (i.e. dismissals of batters), whilst the second number represents the number of runs made. Additionally, on the right of your screen appears the bowler’s stats, with the same rule applying as before. In the bowling sphere, there exist two camps—the quicks and the spinners. Quicks are fast bowlers, bowling the ball at paces over 125 kmph with long-striding run-ups. Spin bowlers are the nonchalant cool kids of the cricket world, often becoming cult figures with their incredibly expert flicks of the wrist. Finally, the way to score—something England struggled with in the most recent series—is by running between the wickets and hitting boundaries. The format of Test cricket means that run rates remain quite low per over, with batsmen often blocking rather than scoring. If you’re lucky, however, you might see them running between the wickets when the ball is far enough from the pitch, or even scoring boundaries. When the ball touches the perimeter rope on the ground it is worth four runs, whereas a ball that travels over it is worth six. The 21/22 Men’s Series saw both the return of a fan favourite and the making of one. Usman Khawaja marked his Ashes comeback with two stellar tons at the SCG. On debut, First Nations fast bowler and winner of the Johnny Mullagh Medal, Scott Boland, recorded ‘6-7’ in the MCG Boxing Day Test. In the most recent series, Australia retained the Men’s Ashes with a score of 4-0, much to the delight of Australian cricket enthusiasts. England’s redemption arc will have to wait.

Illustrated by Amani Nasarudin

CW: alcohol, sexual language, sexual harrassment, swearing

SATIRE

SATIRE-IN-BRIEF Written by the Satire Team ScoMo wants to lower drinking age to twelve, following proposal for child forklift operators

Social anxieties on campus increase as students report underwritten dress code creates peer pressure.

“It’s only fair they get treated the same as any other hard-working Australian, which includes the right to Friday knock-offs,” Morrison said. When asked whether asylum seekers and refugees should also have an unrestricted right to work, Morrison claimed his wife Jenny usually deals with that kind of stuff. — MB

Breaking News from Provost: The University of Melbourne to install $60 Kmart air fryers in all student community hubs

“Student 1, Arts, third year: I was wearing an Ariana Grande “Sweetener” concert tee, and people literally stared at me like I was naked. I mean I could be better off walking around naked.” — DZ

A helpful guide to giving off good vibes in your first politics tutorial:

Following results of the wildly anticipated university student experience survey, the University reckons this nouveau bachelor approach will combat students’ lapse in academic motivation amidst trialling times. The University continually strives to cater to its vastly Millennial and increasingly Gen-Z student cohort and strongly holds the belief that this unique move will surely offset students’ cries and pleas for financial and academic compensation. — AM

Come prepared with questions that have no relevance to the lecture but make reference to an obscure political theorist. Mention your 95.4 ATAR and then say “but like ATARs don’t ever matter anymore man”. Use as many French words as possible, especially if you don’t know what they mean! Think “laizzez -faire”, “coup d’etat”, “omelette du fromage”. — GB

“Broke” residential college student heads out for third karaoke sesh this week Apparently, having your rent paid for by your folks is not a foolproof way to avoid destitution. This was discovered by an anonymous residential college student who has just, for the third time this week, paid an obscene amount to sit in front of a janky TV with a four-pixel resolution and sing. He confesses to Farrago that vicariously belting the hit song “I Just Had Sex” with his mates was probably the highlight of the night, given that the karaoke bar does not have seem to have any songs earlier than 2011. Pondering his bank balance of $36.40, he realises that he cannot possibly thrive in these conditions and vaguely wonders if NFTs would curb this reckless spending. — GY

British citizens shocked by Boris Johnson’s lockdown parties. Not shocked that he had them, but shocked that anyone actually showed up. “I’m just amazed that the man has enough friends for a party,” said British citizen Hetty Crumpet. “You’d think one of them would have been kind enough to tell him to find a new hairdresser.” “The man couldn’t even organise Brexit, I can’t imagine how he’d go putting together a menu for everyone’s dietary requirements,” another surprised citizen added. — AS

Illustrated by Edith Spiers

CW: alcohol, sexual language, sexual harrassment, swearing

Written by the Satire Team The Wiggles’ Hottest 100 win inspires Yo Gabba Gabba to release Megan Thee Stallion cover. “Gobble me, swallow me, drip down the side of me,” sings Foofa the pink flower bubble, while Muno the red cyclops grinds suggestively in the background. — AS

“You’re telling me a shrimp fried this rice?” Yes, and they are a victim of wage theft. For too long the shrimp population of Australia has been cast to the side, living under the poverty line. Today we change the narrative, as frying rice is not a skilless position, but the very backbone of this nation’s cuisine... Shrimp rights are human rights. — BH

Male manipulator on Tinder date hides all trace of his vinyl collection Self-proclaimed soft boy Tyler was prepping for a possible new fling, when he spotted his extensive vinyl collection on his shelf. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw it all to the ground and covered it with an old gym towel. “There’s a whole bunch of stuff in there: Weezer, Tame Impala, Radiohead, Brockhampton, Mac DeMarco, if she sees any of it there’s no chance she’ll want to stay the night.” No word on whether it worked, but we did hear him mansplain his date’s entire degree to her so things aren’t looking great. — BH

SATIRE

SATIRE-IN-BRIEF Man Raving About Philip Glass Doesn’t Understand Why You Won’t Get Coffee With Him Music student Jed has been a long-time fan of minimalist composer Philip Glass and it seems as if his life’s mission is to make his superior music taste known to the world and to promote the ingenuity of minimalism. After explaining the nuances of Glass’ contemporary opera to his crush, a classical cello student, he proceeded to ask if she wanted to grab a coffee at Lionel’s, thinking that he must have impressed her with his in-depth and very niche knowledge. She quickly informed him that she would love to, but unfortunately was busy, and left immediately. Jed wonders if he should have specified that he would have paid for both of them. — GY

Student who submitted timetable preferences during their “new year, new me” phase now holding back tears in 8am tute. Despite believing it would prevent her from sleeping in until 12pm every day, the naïve second-year student has already used up all her absences. The early mornings are made far worse by a chirpy as fuck tutor who insists any social issue can be solved by a Foucauldian analysis. “I think I’m just going to just write this subject off, apparently there’s a really good WAM booster next sem,” she said. — MB

Arts major admits that kombucha tastes like dogshit. Jacki Fowler (21) shocked her Anthropology tutorial last week after revealing her true feelings on the gentrified tea. “Look me in the eye and tell me it doesn’t taste like vinegar-flavoured piss,” she exclaimed. “I think I saw mould on the top of one batch. It’s not ‘new age health’, it’s a bioweapon.” Campus security quickly arrived to remove her before she could do any further damage. Jacki is currently being detained in a maximum-security prison, awaiting trial for crimes against artskind. — BH

Student turns home into a makeshift club for friend’s birthday. Since indoor dance floors remain closed, Rosie Nelson took it upon herself to give her friend an authentic clubbing experience in the comfort of her own home. She made her friends wait 15 mins before serving them drinks and charged them $20 each for a Vodka Cruiser. For extra flair, she coated her floorboards in a mysterious sticky substance and filled her bathroom with assorted empty glasses, before donning a men’s button down and grinding uncomfortably close to her guests. “I couldn’t have asked for a better night!” said the birthday girl, all smiles. — AS

Illustrated by Edith Spiers

SATIRE

Dear Diary: The PM’s Retrospective Journal Written by Jack McMahon Dear diary, It has been a big few weeks, my worst New Year’s ever. Firstly, I had to cancel my holiday with Jenny and the girls because so many people were getting COVID (absolute buzzkill!). I just don’t understand what people want from me! I go away when there’s bushfires and they get annoyed at me. I stay here when everyone is contracting the virus and they still get annoyed at me! Talk about a rock and a hard place. Even worse, there are so many people complaining about these things called RATs and at first, I thought they were talking about the rodent plague that swept through rural New South Wales around six months ago now, was it? At that point I was just thinking, why would it be such a bad thing that no one could find any in the whole of Australia?! I was even planning with the marketing team to rebrand myself as The Exterminator. It’s lucky I didn’t because it turns out that people actually wanted RATs. As I said, rock and a hard place. Now I don’t want to bang on about these RATs, but I was shocked to find out that people wanted them for free. Damn communists. Can they not see that I am trying to take a hint from our American pals across the Pacific? After all, my good friend Donald seemed to have no problem with the famous American health system! I don’t talk to the new guy of course, because he doesn’t remember my name, so one has to assume all is going well over there. Then, just as I thought there was no light at the end of the tunnel, Novak Djokovic arrived for the Australian Open. I think it’s played in Victoria? It should probably be called the Victorian Open then, that bloke down there is such a megalomaniac he’d go for it. Novak didn’t follow the rules, and as Jenny tells the girls, rules are rules. Unless you have lots of money, of course, then you can take your case straight to the high courts. That’s what they don’t teach you at school. I got pretty annoyed when the Serbian president, Aleksandar Vučić, accused us of subjecting Novak to torturous conditions. All we did was put him in the same facilities that we have detained asylum seekers in for the last seven years. No one has ever made me aware of any complaints from them, so I think he is being a bit precious. I’ve already asked my friends to make me a second statue for my desk to go next to my “I stopped these” plaque. It will be a statue of Novak and it will say “I stopped this”. Pretty smart, I think. I mean I didn’t really stop him. It was Alex Hawke, but no one will remember that at the polls. That brings me to today, and it’s been such a whirlwind of a day really. All I did was ask the national cabinet to let children drive forklifts… I mean what’s the big deal? They just don’t see the bigger picture. The way I look at it, if our kids can drive forklifts, I am sure that they’ll be able to drive tanks! And guess what I just bought? $3.5 billion worth of tanks and armoured vehicles. I can’t wait until it all falls together in the coming years! We will have our own little child army ready to go. Ball’s in your court Xi. Until next time, PM.

Illustrated by Pamela Piechowicz

Artwork by Ella Cao

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Content Warning: References to racism, colonisation, eugenics, police brutality

“Always was, always will be”: Unpacking decolonisation Written by Lauren Scott It’s hardly a coincidence that I feel compelled to write on decolonisation so shortly after Invasion Day. I feel a deep catharsis in writing this, but also a nervous hesitance in expressing a sentiment that has been met with unexpected opposition. The twentysixth of January is a day of grieving and of recognition that life in so-called Australia, no matter the circumstances of your arrival, is a life built on a people’s genocide. Each summer it is heartening to see increasing support for Indigenous people in the crowds marching down Bourke Street, but a sceptical part of me wonders if many truly understand what they chant for so loudly. As an Indigenous person in an institution that has historically held us in contempt—to put it lightly—it has been difficult to come to terms with the hollow understandings of decolonisation rife in “progressive” circles. In an Australian context, decolonisation should be read as the act of dismantling colonial structures and hierarchies that disenfranchise those from whom this land was stolen. Unfortunately, I rarely see this reflected in the praxis of the student body at the University of Melbourne. Instead, student activists reinforce the settler-colonial project by redirecting the conversation on decolonisation away from the tangible goal of Indigenous sovereignty to a weaker metaphorical understanding which removes themselves as settlers from the equation. With a well-documented history of involvement in eugenic practices and a commitment to settler-colonial knowledge reproduction, the University naturally has a vested interest in maintaining the colonial status quo. However, the student-led movement has also been complicit in promoting an interpretation of decolonisation almost entirely removed from Indigenous sovereignty. I have too often found that broad anti-racism work led by non-Indigenous students becomes the forefront of the “decolonial movement”. While tackling the colony’s deeply-rooted racism is undoubtedly important, I’ve found this to mean that Indigenous people are reduced to an obligatory sidenote, or worse, not even on the agenda. No doubt the unacknowledged limitations of the curated elite student body at the University of Melbourne contribute to this erasure. There is a low number of Indigenous students involved in political activism on campus, a result of a proportionately small population and activism being inaccessible and hostile to us. Despite a reputation for progressive, even radical thought, the university admission process, which typically allows only the most privileged of any subsection entry through the sandstone, ensures it is almost inevitable that any student movement is shaped by the most socioeconomically privileged. It is incredible the hostility that reaffirming Indigenous sovereignty in this environment can receive from those supposedly committed to progressive action. I can’t help feeling that non-Indigenous student activists participating in conversations on decolonisation, regardless of ethnicity or background, are hesitant to recognise how their perspectives are fundamentally shaped by colonial rhetoric. Without acknowledging their role as settlers, they reinforce the continuing project of disenfranchisement. We are presented with the convenient rhetoric of reconciliation, but Indigenous people need more than just acceptance; we need systemic reform. At the heart of any dialogue on this subject must be sovereignty. Any genuine decolonial project will reject capitalist ideological values that rely on systems incompatible with self-determination. A “BLM” caption on social media or a token acknowledgement of country—“living on Wurundjeri land”—will not achieve us land rights, self-determination, or protection from police brutality. The removal of Indigenous sovereignty from the conversation is ignorant and harmful. decolonisation of any institution on stolen land must centre those who were colonised. If this reads as an obvious conclusion, it’s one many student activists seem to struggle with significantly. For many, this is an uncomfortable conversation, but it’s one long overdue. We are not a prop you can drag out whenever you need a few extra progressivity points and shelve when you’re done. If your decolonial praxis on stolen land does not centre Indigenous people, you are doing the movement a disservice. I urge anyone participating in decolonial discourse at the University to consider their positionality in regards to Australian colonisation, because at worst, you’re contributing to our continued disenfranchisement. There is no justice without First Nations justice—and you certainly cannot “decolonise” Australia without us.

Illustrated by Melana Uceda

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Content Warning: Mentions eating disorders, allusions to sexism and misogyny

Where self-care meets consumerism: How can we reinvigorate the “self” in self-care? Written by Alice Blunden “I know what we need!” I blurt out to my friend as I interrupt the string of depressing complaints and worries that pass between us. “A face mask, an expensive glass of wine and a night of Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging.” I desperately seek my friend’s approval, anxiously scanning her head for even the slightest nod so as not to feel guilty for suggesting a night of sheer indulgence discreetly disguised as self-care. “We deserve this, right?” In its simplest form, self-care implies an individualistic and subjective approach to healing. Only we as individuals really know and understand what we need in a particular moment to prioritise our wellbeing. Ironically, however, the self-care practices many of us gravitate towards are endorsed and forced upon us by large corporations selling glib, beautifying processes and grooming us into ideal neoliberal citizens. The proliferation of empowerment techniques (for instance, the intense focus on enhancing self-esteem or one’s career) promotes individual responsibility. However, the problem with this individualised responsibility is that it is often marketed to us as a one-size-fits-all solution to the maladies of our social environments. As a collective, we are more depressed and stressed than ever. We live in an always-on environment, peppered with unreasonable expectations and normalised self-loathing. The solution to this complex social disarray? Well, according to big corporations, dismantling all that is wrong with our society would be much too difficult and fruitless for capitalism’s insatiable greed. The solution, rather, is placed on us, it’s an individual responsibility, a band-aid-like solution; a distraction, a chance for us to feel accomplished after fixing a part of us that was never broken to begin with. The advertising industry plays a sinister role in this illusory and harmful self-care discourse. It has subtly shifted self-care away from meaningful introspection and towards impulsive consumerism. The phrase “treat yourself” is now a capitalist command. It is an insistent reminder that we deserve to consume, we deserve to splurge, we deserve to optimistically pursue external stimuli with the (perhaps naïve) hope of recuperating our internal selves and nourishing our minds. In this sense, self-care has become an elusive façade that justifies our insatiable desire for more. Hyper-individualised self-help discourse is also highly gendered. The outdated and misogynistic notion that a woman belongs chained to domestic duties subtly presents itself in modern conceptions of self-care and self-optimisation. For instance, think of magazine articles like ‘These 5 Household Chores Are As Good As Doing a Full-Blown Cardio Workout’. Here, selfcare is repackaged as self-discipline, a desirable quality that

fuels capitalism’s relentless craving for productivity and a restricted female body. Additionally, there is a tension in our excessively consumerist environment and the way society expects a woman to limit, refine and restrain herself from such indulgences. The mental illness anorexia nervosa embodies this tension. Sufferers of the illness experience a total conquest and control of hunger—limit, refine, restrain—that is entirely antithetical to the gluttonous foundations of our modern consumer system. Here, selfcare discourse directed at the female body becomes a feminised tool of control wherein a well-managed or well “cared-for” self/body represents a successful performance and an effective display of femininity. Self-care was once a basic term used to describe the act of looking after oneself. Today, however, it has become an economic titan. Big corporations insidiously exploit self-care discourse. They harness it tightly into their brawny business belts to sell products and lifestyles that paradoxically estrange us further from our inner selves. “Treat yourself” and buy a face mask to eliminate your pores and enhance your beauty. “Prioritise yourself” and buy a gym membership to shrink your body and take up less space. “Indulge yourself” and buy those new clothes to conceal the increasing fragility of your mind and body. What do all these self-care practices have in common? They promote consumption and the façade of selfimprovement. In other words, self-care represents a mere cog in capitalism’s industrious machine. Its job? Relentless self-optimisation, a distraction from the machine’s deeper technical faults. So how can we redefine self-care so that it is no longer about being the perfect, productive citizen within the confines of capitalism? To truly build an effective self-care apparatus, we must detach ourselves from the external social linkages that bury deep into our minds and bodies like ravenous parasites. We must stop heeding the selfcare prescriptions of corporations and other social entities and start listening to ourselves. We must stop for a moment and embrace the daunting silence that comes with the rebellious act of ignoring society’s endless noise. And in that moment of silence, we can ask ourselves what we really need. We can reclaim the “self” in self-care.

Illustrated by Cathy Chen

Illustrated by Sample Student

Written by Seraphina Nicholls

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Just Relax: Why is it so hard to really take a holiday? Taking a holiday was once a time for a “do-nothing” period of relaxation. Now, it’s time for a “do-something” period of anxious productivity. While the holiday season offers us the annual opportunity to do nothing, the nagging urge remains to do something. We fall victim to mandatory sunrise walks, obligatory gratitude journals, or reading lists that spill over the page. It’s been widely recognised that our day-to-day world valorises productivity and professional efficiency—doomscrolling through a colleague’s LinkedIn is enough to make this point clear. Our digital world, too, encourages a kind of personal and social productivity that includes the continual maintenance of our personal identities and exhibition of our coming-of-age summers. So, with the sometimes-tense holiday season in the rear-view, a closer inspection of “the holiday” (and no, not the movie) is in order. Taking a holiday encourages a new kind of productivity: the productivity of relaxation. Without a to-do list of academic or workplace tasks to fall upon, the contemporary holiday paradigm mandates socially desirable personal fulfilment. Cue the yoga, daily meditation sessions, and the maxed-out social calendar. The point? Self-optimisation. Whether we really want to do these things or not is irrelevant. So long as we don’t face the guilt of incompletion, we can convince ourselves we are still doing alright. For a holiday, it’s a terrible concoction of mental strain not even the ocean sounds can drown out. The urge to fill our holidays with activities we’re told are good for us is a means of mindlessly killing time. But without placing ourselves in the uncomfortable space of doing nothing, we have little hope of achieving the genuine comforts and self-reflection that our guided meditations have tried to achieve in the space of 15 minutes. Instead, this could look like assessing your close personal relationships, picking apart your true wants, or navigating the traits that serve and limit you. If the compulsion to do some yoga after this still bites, know that the stretches may dig a little deeper. A lengthy list of holiday tasks may distract us, and convince us we are relaxing and using our time productively. But it affords little time in the day to sit around and enjoy the scenery. All these empty distractions may catch up to us on one summer morning, as we sleep through our sunrise alarm, and stuck in the quiet of unfilled time, we are struck with the realisation that we have been evading ourselves, our unexamined hang-ups and simmering neuroses. Martin Parr’s famous photographs of New Brighton Beach come to mind when picturing the pressures of recreation. The saturated tableaus show scenes of middle class aspirationals sunburnt with raspberry ice-creams dripping down their fingers. Their faces have expressions that scream “shut up, I’m on holiday for the day” as they find a spot on the concrete to sunbathe because the beach is too crowded. Each frame captures the exhausting quality of being on holiday, one akin to the modern-day experience. While the photographs were taken almost three decades ago, their point stands. Hiding underneath the pressures of relaxation and recreation is the insipid cult of productivity that we encounter in day-to-day life. This productive culture disincentivises us from making the time in the day to do nothing. What I am trying to get at here is the mentalities that encourage fulfilment in the workplace via long hours, holiday internships, or concurrent degrees are the same that drive our wacky summertime ambitions and scheduled moments of selfactualisation. Counterintuitively, the productive impulse neglects the basic patterns of self-care which prioritise meaningful selfreflection and relaxation. While self-care is a buzzword that invites an eye roll, the crux of its basic philosophy is important: to do nice things for yourself that you want to do, without feeling like you owe it to someone. This includes the voice in your head telling you that you ought to be doing more. Ironically, to counter the culture of productivity is to sit and be comfortable with doing nothing for a few hours—or more. When we can finally take a holiday where we do not feel the pressure to do something, we have found a finite moment of modern rebellion. And it’s one we should hold onto with both hands.

Illustrated by Leilani Leon

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Content Warning: Misogyny, racism, swearing

(White) Girls to the Front: An Abridged Written by Chelsea Rozario

‘Riot Grrrl’ emerged in the late ‘90s as a feminist reiteration of the testosterone-drenched punk rock scene. It aimed to provide a space for women in a subculture dominated by men in flannel with Nirvana at the top of the charts and an equally pissed-off Kurt Cobain, coining the prevalence of men in the alternative music scene “cock rock”. In mosh pits, at shows and on stage, women were excluded from the pillars of the subculture. Often seen holding men’s coats and drinks, they received broken noses from being pushed against stages to see their favourite bands. A small group of feminist punks in Olympia, Washington took their assigned role as coat hangers and eye candy into their own hands and promptly dumped it in the trash. Enter the “first” riot grrrl: Kathleen Hanna. Hanna and Tobi Vail, both aspiring musicians, founded a zine called Bikini Kill as an outlet for femme frustrations and a revival of the DIY-ness once intrinsic to punk. This was a big “fuck you” to early ‘90s consumerism, a capitalist music industry, and the men who profited from all of this. These zines were self-published and hinged on vulgarity as a tool of liberating women’s sexuality and their identities within a subculture intent on self-expression. They connected punk women through a shared disdain of misogyny within their subculture, becoming a pillar of newfound third wave feminism. In the second issue of Bikini Kill, Hanna published the Riot Grrrl Manifesto which stated, “BECAUSE we recognize fantasies of Instant Macho Gun Revolution as impractical lies meant to keep us simply dreaming instead of becoming our dreams AND THUS seek to create revolution in our own lives every single day by envisioning and creating alternatives to the bullshit christian capitalist way of doing things.” Potential revolution and feminist overhaul of the punk scene posed the formation of all-girl garage punk bands as a “fuck you” to the male-dominated shows Hanna would find herself at. The band Bikini Kill set the intellectual and musical stage for feminist music, enabling satire as a means of self-empowerment, with Hanna adapting a valley girl accent as its vocalist. Other bands soon followed

and began to overshadow their male counterparts like Bratmobile, Sleater-Kinney and Le Tigre. Riot Grrrl took inspiration from Courtney Love’s kinderwhore aesthetic and used self-sexualisation and perceived innocence to their advantage with new audiences not realising the Riot Grrrl aesthetic itself was satirical. Love, however, was not known for female empowerment, instead making racist generalisations too many times to count throughout her problematic career, prompting Hanna to allegedly punch Love in the face. Riot Grrrl gave no fucks. At a Bikini Kill show, Hanna famously requested “Girls to the front,” which has since become an anthem of sorts within the movement. No one had ever demanded girls mosh like boys, no one had ever intentionally shoved male fans to the back of crowds. The Runaways attempted this in the ‘70s with their song ‘I Wanna Be Where the Boys Are,’ alluding to a desire for the same influence men held within alt music and subcultures but executed this by preaching equality, while Riot Grrrl aimed to dominate. Riot Grrrl transplanted feminist discourse from lecture halls and academic publications to sweaty stages caked in body glitter and littered with ripped fishnets. It became an accessible means of initiating new narratives of inclusive female empowerment. If you were white, middle class, able-bodied and cis, that is. Riot Grrrl was progressive for its time, focusing solely on the needs of women believing they had been marginalised in their subculture, almost contriving this marginalisation to further their respectability within the mainstream. The movement was almost entirely white, with most bands being formed at Ivy League universities. It was famously transphobic, adopting similar rhetoric to J.K. Rowling’s biological essentialist view of gender. Riot Grrrl was not pro-people, it was simply anti-boy. Women of colour in the same scene as Bikini Kill and Bratmobile have said Riot Grrrl was not a space for non-white women. Punk white women were being perceived as martyrs and revolutionaries for writing “slut” on exposed midriffs, a “reclamation” women of colour had no space for as their

Illustrated by Grace Reeve

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History of Riot Grrrl bodies had already been stereotypically labelled by white supremacy. Nonwhite women were an afterthought. Riot Grrrl lacked intersectionality and became a safe-haven for white feminists and white tears. In attempting to carve an oasis of safety and femininity within punk, Riot Grrrl became another aspect of exclusion for the already marginalised. Years after the emergence of Riot Grrrl, Hanna played at Michigan Womyn’s Festival, which outwardly claimed to be for “womyn born womyn”, solidifying the movement’s stance as white, privileged and heteronormative. Hanna has since voiced her support for trans rights via Twitter. Women of colour in today’s punk scenes respect the combat boot in the door left by Riot Grrrl, but acknowledge this was white feminism just dressed in leather. It did not fight for all women and was inherently exclusionary because of this. Many women and femmes in the punk scene searched for representation and instead found handmade zines and gritty lyrics not written for them. Sista Grrrl was an iteration of Riot Grrrl for black women in the scene but failed to become as popular as its white counterpart. Founded by punk enthusiasts and artists, Tamar-kali Brown, Maya Glick, Simi Stone and Honeychild Coleman, Sista Grrrl aimed to carve out an alternative space in the punk feminist revolution, specifically for the demographic overlooked by Riot Grrrl—women of colour. As stated in a Vice article, their movement was rooted in community and solidarity, not the white playfulness of Riot Grrrl: “After all, rock music is black music. While the Sista Grrrls didn’t see themselves in Riot Grrrl or in the men they had been playing with in bands, they saw themselves in each other.” Sista Grrrls were angry but they were not playing. The standard Riot Grrrl had set, and the brand of femininity they had boxed,

sealed and decorated with studs, had no room for black women. The founding Sista Grrrls threw their first “riot” on Valentine’s Day 1997, an inclusive punk show for all women. Riot Grrrl remains inconified and romanticised by alternative white feminists with Hanna still being hailed as one of the first punk feminist icons by legends like Kim Gordon and Joan Jett. White women stroking the egos of other white women. Today, the movement has become slightly more inclusive, taking on its criticisms and faults, alongside the emergence of the MeToo movement, FreeTheNipple and SlutWalk. However, most self-proclaimed Riot Grrrl bands like The Regrettes and White Lung remain predominantly white and appeal to similar audiences. Kathleen Hanna’s now seminal saying, “girls to the front”, was recently co-opted by Melbourne’s very own Amyl and The Sniffers with their 2021 release, ‘Freaks to the Front’. The movement is now mostly discussed in the lecture halls and academic publications it once attempted to disconnect itself from, with Riot Grrrl a blinding example of white feminism. The narrative is still missing the accomplishments of women of colour, with Riot Grrrl continuing to enable their erasure by being one of the only discussed elements of alternative third wave feminism.

Illustrated by Grace Reeve

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Punk’s Vivid History:

Everything from ‘80s Rom-Com Inspiration to Christmas Jingles Written by Christina Savopoulos & Carmen Chin

If we asked the question, “What does punk mean to you?”, what images would spring to your mind? Certain punk bands? Documentary clips which chronicle the history of the punk movement? Or, in years to come, will your answer to the question be this very Farrago edition? As with any music genre, it’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment, song or artist that ignited the punk movement. Filled with demands for independence, overall rebellious attitudes and political overtones, the genre grew alongside its artists as an avenue for authentic creative expression. Since the movement began in the late 1970s, punk has blended into several subgenres and cultures, further blurring the answer to “What makes punk, punk?”. Perhaps, The Clash’s very own Joe Strummer, one of punk’s most pivotal figures, may have worded the answer to this question best: “Punk rock isn’t something you grow out of, punk rock is an attitude, and the essence of that attitude is: ‘give us some truth’.” As we celebrate the vivid history of punk music (and all of its subgenres) and its indelible influence on nearly all facets of pop culture and contemporary music, your very own Radio Fodder Blog managers have compiled our personal picks of the must-hear punk anthems across the decades.

That being said, we should also probably note that they now vote conservative. Talk about anti-climactic. The Clash – ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ (1982) The band’s fifth studio album Combat Rock was known to have been pretty political in nature (‘Straight to Hell’, ‘Know Your Rights’, ‘Sean Flynn,’ to name a few), and while ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ lacked that level of lyrical depth, its imprint on pop culture thereafter is indisputable. “It was just a good rockin’ song, our attempt at writing a classic,” lead singer and songwriter Mick Jones said, affirming that despite its reputation as a rebellious genre, there remains space in punk for lighthearted fare. The Psychedelic Furs – ‘Pretty in Pink’ (1981) The British band dabbled in a symbiosis of classic punk rock and myriads of other influences from genres like funk, electronic and pop, to create some of the most unique sounds in punk. ‘Pretty In Pink’ feels like a prime example of that experimentation.

Carmen’s Picks:

Given The Psychedelic Furs’ tendencies towards alt, genresplicing sounds, it’s no wonder that their cultural influence spread the song like wildfire, eventually going on to become the main inspiration for the ‘80s high-school rom-com Pretty in Pink.

The Ramones – ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ (1976)

Blondie – ‘Heart of Glass’ (1979)

Most will have been acquainted with The Ramones’ incendiary debut single through the end credits of SpiderMan: Homecoming, but its history as New York’s embodiment of punk rock spans all the way to the ‘70s.

Blondie’s inclusion in a list of definitive punk songs is controversial, but hear me out. The Debbie-Harry-led band was part of the original line-up of second wave punk acts who performed at the CBGB dive bar alongside other acts like The Ramones, Patti Smith and so on. Being able to perform at this bar was career-defining.

“We were so unique,” ex-drummer and ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ songwriter Tommy Ramone told Louder. “It’s hard to imagine now, but what we were doing was so different from anything anybody had heard before. It was like we were from another world.”

‘Heart of Glass’ was released as part of their 1978 album Parallel Lines, by which their sound had already mostly morphed into pop-leaning music, but a classic nonetheless.

The Sex Pistols – ‘Anarchy In The UK’ (1976) The arrival of The Sex Pistols’ debut track hit the UK like lightning in 1976, marking a tangible shift in culture thanks to their songs’ controversially political subtext. The title is undoubtedly self-explanatory—its brutish, antiestablishment messages breathed fresh life into the UK’s punk rock music scene, giving a voice to the youth who sought to push against the confines of the system.

Christina’s Picks: Blondie – ‘One Way or Another’ (1978) You’ll notice that Blondie is the only band on this list with a female lead singer—Debbie Harry. Blondie initially started as a duo between Chris Stein and Harry, and after adding a few more band members, ‘Blondie’ was born. Bursting onto the punk scene in 1978, Blondie was iconic for the

Illustrated by Ashlea Banon

The Casanovas – ‘Shake It’ (2002) The Casanovas are Melbourne’s contribution to the punk movement! Formed in 1999, the band of three members drew their inspiration from punk legends like The Ramones. They encompassed the Melbourne punk movement and played local gigs until 2002 when they teamed up with Shane O’Mara and recorded their first EP. Fodder is all about exploring local artists, and if you haven’t heard them yet, The Casanovas are certainly worth a listen. I first heard this song in Mary-Kate and Ashley’s 2004 film New York Minute, and even though that film isn’t exactly in the target punk demographic, it managed to expose new generations to the genre. The Ramones – ‘Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)’ (1989) I don’t have to justify why The Ramones are considered punk—they’re the face of the genre! But this Christmas song from 1989 is one of my favourites to hear during December… and all year round. Dipping their toes into mainstream music, ‘Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)’ doesn’t feature any angelic voices or wishes for Christmas presents— you won’t find a hint of Bing Crosby in this; instead we have

an unforgettable punk spin on the holiday season. David Bowie – ‘Suffragette City’ (1972) I know, I know, Bowie is not technically punk, but I classify this song as proto-punk. Bowie describes ‘Suffragette City’ as a “British view of American street energy”, a political commentary which is characteristic of many punk lyrics.

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sex appeal of their lead singer. Harry broke boundaries for female representation in a male dominated genre and whilst Blondie’s appeal began with Harry’s looks, listeners ultimately stayed for the music.

‘Suffragette City’ appears on Bowie’s album, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, which follows Bowie’s alter ego, Ziggy Stardust who is a rock star sent to earth as a saviour. In adopting a theatrical alter ego, Bowie presents a heightened version of himself and his music to the world. Similarly, punk’s dedication to presenting political commentary through music also means artists display a curated aspect of their mindset to the public. Rancid – ‘Time Bomb’ (1995) ‘Rancid’ can be defined as something which is extremely unpleasant and repugnant. Since punk’s philosophy revolves around an alienation from the mainstream, perhaps viewed as “unpleasant” by the masses, it seems only natural that a band would choose this term as their name. Rancid’s singer/ guitarist Lars Frederiksen asserts that Rancid plays “rebel music”; music outsiders can find solace in, as is seen in ‘Time Bomb’ from their 1995 album ...And Out Come the Wolves. Listen to our playlist on Spotify @radiofodder.

Illustrated by Ashlea Banon

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I want change / We’re waiting for change Хочу перемен / мы ждём перемен Written by Nicole Davydova

After decades of violent cultural repression and economic decline during the Период Застоя, ‘Era of Stagnation’, Gorbachev’s presidency claimed to bring Гласность and Перестройка, ‘Transparency and Reform’, to the Soviet Union. In previous decades, counterculture had relied on Самиздат, underground publications, and Магнитиздат, tape recordings of illicit music. It was on the coattails of these subcultures that he emerged: Kino’s Viktor Tsoi, a singer-songwriter as synonymous with Soviet post-punk as he was with his shaggy black mullet. He took his stage on the cinema screen singing ‘Changes’ in the 1987 film Assa. At the end of the film, Tsoi throws off his coat and scarf to reveal a mesmerising black leather jacket studded with red flowers. He shatters the fourth wall, singing directly to the audience as the credits roll. Thus was born the protest song of the fall of the USSR. Вместо тепла зелень стекла Вместо огня дым Из сетки календаpя выхвачен день Кpасное солнце сгоpает дотла День догоpает с ним Hа пылающий город падает тень

The green glass of a bottle instead of warmth Smoke instead of fire Another day snatched off the calendar The red sun scorches away The day, reduced to ashes Shadows fall across the blazing city

Пеpемен тpебyют наши сеpдца Перемен требуют наши глаза В нашем смехе, и в наших слезах, и в пyльсации вен Пеpемен, мы ждём перемен

Change! Our hearts demand it Change! Our eyes demand it In our laughter, in our tears And in our pulsating veins Change, we’re waiting for change

During Gorbachev’s presidency, there were constant uprisings around the Soviet Union. The Soviet-Afghan war raged on, alcoholism was as prevalent as ever, and the red sun that many people once relied on for warmth, the USSR itself, was burning its people on a trajectory towards its own demise. Электрический свет продолжает наш день И коpобка от спичек пyста Hо на кyхне синим цветком гоpит газ Сигаpеты в pyках, чай на столе Эта схема проста И больше нет ничего—всё находится в нас

Electric light draws out our days And the matchbox is empty But in the kitchen the gas burner glows blue Cigarettes in hand, tea on the table This setup is simple There’s nothing else—everything is inside us

Day after day there were lightbulb shortages, soap shortages, fabric shortages, people queueing for hours to buy milk and bread. These almost apocalyptic scenes, spurred by failures of leaders in power, spur familiar sentiments even now, 36 years later, on the other side of the world. The overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, loneliness and abandonment is a reality many of us can relate to. Пеpемен тpебyют наши сеpдца Перемен требуют наши глаза В нашем смехе, и в наших слезах, и в пyльсации вен Пеpемен, мы ждём перемен

Change! Our hearts demand it Change! Our eyes demand it In our laughter, in our tears and in our pulsating veins Change, we’re waiting for change

We can’t brag about the wisdom in our eyes Or the skillful gestures of our hands We don’t need all that to understand each other Cigarettes in hand, tea on the table That’s how the circle is closed And suddenly we’re afraid of changing anything at all The younger generation may not have had the performative ostentation of the Soviet leaders, but they did have a growing sense of discontent. Viktor Tsoi died at age 28 in a car crash in 1990, one year before the collapse of the Soviet Union and before the start of the extraordinarily difficult ‘90s in Russia. Arguably, this is why his memory is such a powerful and nostalgic one for those who lived in the USSR. Today, his fans proclaim Цой Жив! Tsoi lives! Although he insisted that he did not write Changes as a political anthem, but as one for self-reflection and personal change, the song had already taken on a meaning and life of its own. It has been sung by activists and Putinists alike; even without inherent political alignment, it has certainly become an anthem for change reverberating through multiple generations. Мы не можем похвастаться мудростью глаз И yмелыми жестами pyк Hам не нyжно всё это, чтобы дpyг дpyга понять Сигаpеты в pyках, чай на столе Так замыкается круг И вдруг нам становится страшно что-то менять

Пеpемен тpебyют наши сеpдца Перемен тpебyют наши глаза В нашем смехе, и в наших слезах, и в пyльсации вен Пеpемен, мы ждём перемен

Change! Our hearts demand it Change! Our eyes demand it In our laughter, in our tears and in our pulsating veins Change, we’re waiting for change

Illustrated by Chelsea Rozario

Artwork by Maleea Hegarty

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Content Warning: mentions of murder, descriptions of blood, violence and death, and implications of mental illness

Beauty is Terror: The Literal Cult Following of Madness Written by Donna Ferdinando In true Athenian flair, thus begins our one act play. Act One, Scene One: The New England charm of a Hampshire liberal arts college collides with cheap booze, dead-pan stares and exhausted, apathy-prone college students in the ‘80s. Five students, wannabe Oscar Wildes and Ezra Pounds, style themselves straight out of a dramatic villain costume catalogue. Latin and Greek drip off their tongues, and yet, somehow, they fail to have noticed that man had landed on the moon. If one portrays Ted Bundy-esque tendencies, it is overshadowed, as most flaws are, by his wealth. What, may you ask, is the driving motive that powers our characters’ existences? The successful execution of a bacchanal, complete with fancier booze, togas stitched from dorm bed sheets and chasing a deer through the woods; just your everyday, AllAmerican college pastime. Donna Tartt certainly knew what she was doing when she decided to add a touch of the ancient Greek obsession with madness into The Secret History. Was she dashed with a smattering of this ritual madness herself? We may never know! “Beauty is Terror,” declares the mentor to Tartt’s five student characters, one Professor Julian Morrow; there is beauty in what one considers madness. While he is hardly the best role model to students with the barest impulse control, I find myself agreeing with him: experimentation, and experimentation in madness, is part of human nature. Had I possessed a different sort of freedom, I would have braved the elephants, boars and porcupines to host a bacchanal myself. Alas, common sense dictates that when murder and psychedelic mushrooms are involved, it’s all best avoided. So, we begin our exploration of this most evasive and peculiar of subjects in Greek philosophy. What was madness to our Euripides, Aristotle and Diogenes? Act One, Scene Two: Ancient Greece. The middle of a barren nowhere. Freshly-pressed wine and revels around a fire. As they dance, their movements become wilder, freer, erratic and out of control. We do not know their names. They must, along with their rites, remain secret. One has heard stories about them—these maenads— followers of Dionysus. The playwrights and poets have warned about their ecstatic frenzy and the victims whom they have ripped apart limb from limb. You slink away lest

you disrupt their ritual madness and become another name in another myth. We know what “mania” means: “deranged”, “crazy”, “completely lost it”. Ophelia’s madness was wild and unbridled, and Sylvia Plath’s clinical and cold, yet our view of madness joins hands with sadism, anger and masochism; the eternal and untamed “other”. The Greeks called it theia mania; religious ecstasy or ritual madness, ever-present and ever-ready to be unleashed. The fear is warranted. There is danger when madness turns dark and spills over to flood paved streets. There is a reason one is obsessed with the civility and discipline of one’s citizens. After all, are not wars, murders and rampages momentary breaks away from the grasp of civility? Donna Tartt’s characters certainly seem to think so. It is the minute that one of the five begins to navigate the uncharted bacchanal that the flimsy origami order around them begins to crumple. Now, the Greeks may have possessed questionable behaviour towards women. They may have debated and argued each other to the ground, had egos larger than the Mediterranean, occasionally hung out with a posy of gods and crossed a sea with a ten-thousandman army because one woman had the gall to exercise independence. However, their view on madness—on theia mania—was nothing short of remarkable. A deep dive into Google Scholar and assorted YouTube historians confirmed that, yes, the Greeks recognised madness as dangerous, but simultaneously as something innate within the human psyche that needed to be released on occasion, whether through wine, psychedelics, cults or religious rituals, in regulated measures. The world was a series of balances necessary to be precariously maintained, lest the scales tip over and the world plunge into chaos. Thus, all madness was to be safe, sane and consensual; a release of pent-up energy to prevent negative manifestations of said madness. Of course, what better way to do so than through carefully-controlled communal cults and the guidance of the gods? Dionysus, inventor of the beverage that numbs and distorts the senses, was the inevitable candidate. Think of the urge to dance when your favourite melody creeps under your skin. Think of the soaring religious ecstasy one experiences in religious melodies and rites.

Theia mania was all that, if not more. But what went so wrong with Donna Tartt’s bacchanal? What could possibly have led from harmless experimentation to outright felonies, self-destruction and murder? Act One, Scene Three: Henry Winter overestimates his intelligence. The bacchanal goes wrong and red seeps into the snow. A week later, the red turns into a stream coupled with a sickening crack as one of their own “tumbles” into a ravine. True, the victim is a downright Grade-A leech, but a body is a body. Pride comes before a fall, and hubris is a petty contender. No control, no discipline, no regulation, and Dionysus himself spills over into Henry, wreaking havoc against havoc. His is a cold theia mania: “The night I killed that man… That surge of power and delight… That sudden sense of the richness of the world. Its infinite possibility…” Beauty is Terror, and Terror is Beauty; there is a fine line between the two. In Donna Tartt’s novel, it all manifests in Henry Winter’s sociopathy, Camilla Macaulay’s apathy and Bunny Corcoran’s sadistic hatred masked by a golden boy exterior. In our world, however, it’s the murder in that relatively safe neighbourhood. It’s the

complete and utter disregard for humanity. It’s the lack of empathy and the rising narcissism culminating in that rage issue. Had the Greeks travelled to the twenty-first century, I have no doubt that they would have become missionaries on the gospel of discipline, control and safe, sane, consensual theia mania. Act One, Scene Four: The story draws to its conclusion, and our characters carry on with their lives in a grey amalgamation of meagre happiness, nostalgia and trauma. The mania they experienced as a collective remains in their systems, but they have learned to hide it. As Henry puts it, “I am not dead… I’m only having a bit of trouble with my passport… My movements are restricted. I no longer have the ability to travel as freely as I would like.” An important lesson has been learned, and the Greeks—as with the majority of their philosophies— take the victory lap. Madness is one of those concepts that remains a subject of distrust—partly due to fear, partly due to ignorance. It is, to be frank, one of the few grey forces that drives civilisation forward to its inevitable conclusion, regardless of what that may be. Whether it is for the good or for the worse, however, is a story that even Donna Tartt and her contemporaries have yet to unravel.

Illustrated by Niamh Corbett

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Content Warning: colonisation

A WIP Around the Workshop Magical realism: A genre of defiance

Written by Sarah Dornseiff – Creative Literature and Writing Society (C.L.A.W.S.) When people find out that I write, their inevitable first question

Márquez. While the characters reside in a fictional town called

is: “What do you write?”

Macondo, García Márquez places the story within Colombia and

I dread this question, as warranted as it is. I fear that in trying to

follows seven generations of the Buendía family as they live and

explain myself, I will sound like an excitable six-year-old babbling

die along a timeline that is not strictly linear. That is because

about her imaginary friends that go on adventures with a pirate

magical realism does not typically follow a traditional three-act

king in a boat that sails across the stars.

structure. The past, present and future seem to occur at once,

Granted, I haven’t written that book, or anything much like it, but I do find my inspiration in the whimsical and unreal. And, like

could feasibly exist between the front and back covers of a book.

how the family Madrigal of Disney’s Encanto (2021) cannot help

When magical elements are presented as normal within the

but talk about Bruno, I cannot help but talk about the fact that

world of the narrative, they don’t necessitate explanation. No

yes, I do write.

one reacts to the toddler that spontaneously combusts mid-

A response that satisfies these inquisitive people, myself and the truth is: “I’ll try anything, but I enjoy writing magical realism the most.” For those who don’t know what it is, magical realism sounds close enough to fantasy that they assume an understanding even if they have never heard of the genre before. For me, it offers an

tantrum; they roll their eyes, put out the spot fires before the house burns, and consult with the ghost of their grandmother for the best way to calm him down. In this way, magical or supernatural events become as mundane as stopping by the store to pick up a bottle of milk. Origins and Evolution

express route to vacating the spotlight so I can focus on not

I did not include a reference to Encanto simply because it is an

sweating through my shirt. Yet, by not elaborating on exactly

excellent, topical film about multigenerational trauma with a list

what it is that I write, I have been relegating this fascinating

of certified bops by Lin-Manuel Miranda. I included it because it

genre to little more than “fantasy -djacent” in the eyes of my non-

is one of the most recent examples of Latin American magical

literary peers.

realism in media.

Let’s set the record straight. There is a distinct difference

And yes, the fact that it is Latin American is noteworthy.

between the two.

Magical realism as we know it today developed in Latin

Fantasy or Magical Realism?

America throughout the mid-20th century, despite being first

You know what a fantasy world is. You’re picturing one now. Middle Earth, Narnia, Westeros, The Land of Oz, Neverland, Wonderland, and a boundless number of other lands. They exist independent of the human world and are defined by systems of magic and logic that make sense within their respective fictional contexts.

conceptualised in 1925 by Franz Roh, a German art critic. He referred to the term “magischer realismus” in his book NachExpressionismus: Magischer Realismus (After Expressionism: Magical Realism) to describe a popular style of painting in Germany called “Neue Sachlichkeit” (New Objectivity), which was an alternative to the romanticism of expressionism. The term translates to “magic realism” and was used by Roh to

But what is the context of magical realism?

emphasise the fantastical, strange nature of real-world objects

In short, it’s real.

and phenomena when we observe them closely.

Well, it has a real setting, at least. One that could be discovered on a map of our world. However, within that setting, the strange and magical is considered totally, indisputably normal.

ad infinitum, giving the story a dream-like quality where infinity

When Roh’s book was translated into Spanish in 1927, the genre grew in popularity in South America, and Russian Cuban writer

The most famous example of magical realism is One Hundred

Alejo

Years of Solitude (1967) by Nobel Prize laureate Gabriel García

the concept into what he

Carpentier

Illustrated by Casey Boswell

furthered

You only found a Thaumaturge through a friend, who knew someone,

representative of Latin American literature.

who had a cousin who could give you an address on a little slip of

In 1955, “magical realism” was fully realised by literary critic Angel

paper. No advertising needed, except on commercial notice boards.

Flores, who stated that magical realism combined elements of

“Keeps people from wandering in and swamping the place,” his dad

magic realism and marvellous realism. For reference, Jorge Luis

said.

Borges’s collection of short stories such as The Book of Sand

The only people who came knocking at the door of Ingram

(1975), The Aleph (1949), and A Universal History of Infamy (1935)

Thaumaturgy were those who knew where to look. The rest picked

were and still are considered prime examples of the genre

up their hearts’ desires along with their morning coffee order.

defined by Flores, given that Flores deemed Borges to be the first magical realist author.

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termed “marvellous realism”. This distinction, he felt, was more

Logan warmed his hands with a quick puff of his breath and walked across the way to unchain his bike from the front of Grant’s

Due to the way magical realism subverts the expectations of

workshop. A drop of water plonked on his head from somewhere

linear, realistic storytelling, the emergence of it as a genre could

high above and trickled down the back of his neck, sending a static

be understood as a post-colonial move to resist European

crackle to the tips of his fingers. He shook out his hands with a

realism. Indigenous communities in the Americas drew a less

shower of sparks and pressed his thumbs into the tyres. They were

distinct line between the natural and supernatural than their

sturdy again. The chain was slick with new grease, too. He secured

European counterparts. Therefore, Carpentier argued that it

his cargo to the back tray, swung a leg over the seat onto the peddle,

became a natural vehicle for authors to facilitate a critique of

kicked off and rolled along the cobblestones.

European society and colonial power structures. They achieved it by reflecting their criticisms through extended metaphors and symbolism.

In the jostling motion of delivery, the contents of the crates Logan delivered to his dad’s partner distributors left a trail of magenta light pollution in his wake, shimmering for a moment before dissipating.

In the 21st century, we see a vast array of authors employing the conventions and styles of magical realism, such as Neil Gaiman and Anjali Sachdeva. But enthusiasm for the genre is not shared by all.

It never lingered long enough to distract anyone or land him a fine. If anything, Logan distracted himself. He caught occasional glimpses in the tinted glass of shop windows and ground-level offices as he passed, dodging disembarking tram passengers; a lanky guy

Though magical realism owes many of its defining characteristics

in chinos with a mop of untidy hair squashed beneath a helmet,

to Latin American literature, there is a sentiment among Latin

perched on top of a messenger bike. It gave him a funny feeling,

American writers that their works are pushed into the magical

seeing the streets speed past while he seemed to stay motionless; a

realist genre by publishers and critics when it is not true to the

bright comet on course to nowhere.

essence of their work. In the words of Mexican novelist and essayist Jorge Volpi, it has become “a choke-chain for those writers who [don’t] show any interest in magic”. Writing Magical Realism What I have always found the most appealing about writing the genre is its ability to challenge big genre conventions, which leaves room for conflict in the form of character growth and the testing of faith and relationships. Complex ethical decisions tend to be the focus, rather than external catalysts inciting action. And though the detail of the prose serves to portray reality, it

I feel there will rarely be a time when my writing is not infused with the strange. I write with an ode to Borges, García Márquez, Sachdeva and Gaiman, because I spend all my time looking for the wonder in the mundane. I am a sceptic who wants to believe. So, there you have it. I have finally, truthfully answered the question I most dread. I’m not sure why I am averse to outing myself as a grown adult fascinated by magic. Perhaps the cynic in me assumes that I won’t be taken seriously by other grown adults who don’t have

does not necessarily explain the story’s magical components.

time for magic.

Not understanding the intricacies of the magic preserves the

So be it.

romance of day-to-day life.

Like the authors that came before me, I will continue to speak

To give you an idea of how I go about writing magical realism,

truth to power through the impossible because I concur with the

here is an excerpt from my unpublished manuscript, The

sentiment of Salman Rushdie.

Analogue Apprentice.

True stories don’t tell the whole truth.

The foliage tucked the shopfronts away, only revealing them when passers-by gave them more than a cursory glance. Yet, traffic was steady for the vendors of Dobson’s Lane. Word-of-mouth brought patrons to them all, including his dad’s shop. Especially his dad’s shop.

Illustrated Student IllustratedbybySample Casey Boswell

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‘Lost in Translation’ by Riley Morgan

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‘Lost in Translation’ by Riley Morgan

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The Party Panacea: Why Hosting a Silent Disco is the Way to Go Written by Alex Oswald The tone of Paul Rosenberg’s voice is dreamlike when he recalls the first time he saw a silent disco; with the intensity of a religious zealot, the owner of Party Higher remembers how he was “at Confest, a bush festival in the middle of nowhere, and [he] just loved” the silent disco. When I asked him how he would describe it, he flipped the question back on me: “How would you describe an orgasm?” My first silent disco experience at a friend’s 21st produced a similar sliding doors moment. Previously, I had believed DJs were an unavoidable part of hosting a large birthday party; however, that night convinced me the silent disco—not the DJ—is the answer to every party host’s prayers, as it is a sure-fire way to host a great event, and therefore eases the pressure of hosting. Put simply, a silent disco involves wearing a set of wireless headphones that is connected to three colourcoded channels. According to Josh Parish, owner of Melbourne Silent Disco, the silent disco has grown steadily in popularity since they were first used at music festivals in the 60’s. From Bar Mitzvahs to rowdy 21sts, they provide a unique and novel experience, which can be adapted to suit any demographic. Yet, despite their near-universal applicability, Josh says that “there’s still a fear of the unknown … People don’t know enough about it, so they are sceptical.” Admittedly, when my friend, Jess, first told me about her plans for a silent disco 21st, I had concerns. Whether it was DJ groupthink brainwashing or a lack of imagination, all I could see were issues: won’t it be crazy expensive? Will the experience be worth the risk? Won’t the batteries run out? Blinded by these myths, I feared for the success of my friend’s 21st. But, like the prophets of old, Jess was absolute in her convictions and could not be swayed. She had been to a 21st three years earlier with a silent disco—which she still regards as one of the best she has ever attended— and on that night, she had vowed that her 21st would also have a silent disco. Nonetheless, say you haven’t had a quasi-religious silent disco experience. Putting your rationality cap on, place yourself in the mindset of a host. When tossing up between a DJ or a silent disco, the first consideration in these tough times is likely to be price; here, you need to strike a fine balance between price and quality, which rules out the mate-who-happens-to-be-a-part-time-DJwith-a-soundcloud-no-one-listens-to. So, unless you’re blessed to know an actually decent DJ willing to apply generous mates rates, there’s going to

be a cost. According to Josh, a major silent disco myth is that they cost far more than a DJ. My attempts to find DJ quotes for my fictional event on Oneflare yielded quotes between $350 - 500 for a four-hour DJ set for 50 people, which roughly matches the price of a silent disco; for example, DJ Warehouse quotes $350 for the same number of people—the only difference is that you have the headphones for the entire night. In turn, silent discos are proven to not be an extra financial burden on party hosts. So, if the myth that silent discos are expensive doesn’t hold up, the question then becomes: which option offers a better experience? After all, the whole point of hosting a party is arguably for people to come together and have a good time. Anyone who has been to a DJ event knows that they might play a few great songs in a row. There you are, dancing along; the momentum is building and the vibes are flowing. Then, BAM! Suddenly, an unwanted, bootlegged remix of ‘Good 4 U’ assaults your ears. Immediately, the room deflates like a balloon. The ache in your leg from being on your feet becomes more persistent and less easy to drown out with bad music playing. You become conscious of the coldness of the night and before you know it, you’re on the couch and the dancefloor has cleared. In stark contrast, when you put the silent disco headphones on for the first time and crank the volume up, you are instantly and fully immersed in the sounds of the music. The hours seemingly fly by in minutes

Thanks to the three channels which accompany any silent disco headset, partygoers can listen to one great song after another. This means that when a bad song comes on, you simply flick a switch to another colour and resume dancing along and screaming out lyrics. Plus, there’s an added excitement of the unknown in changing channels. The sense of control I felt in being able to tailor my own experience expunged far exceeded my expectations of the silent disco. Nevertheless, to get this experience, there are some crucial steps that need to be taken, particularly when it comes to playlist strategy. For this, I deferred to Jess, who provided some tips for a successful silent disco: 1. Take a quick survey of the guestlist and identify the different groups that will be in attendance. 2. Based on these groups, gather a selection committee, and organise three themes of song. 3. Delegate committee members to fill playlists with songs (about seven hours’ worth for each is safe). 4. Ensure phones are charged up to keep music flowing for the whole night. For Jess’ event, the three themes on the channels were RnB, pop and old school classics. Getting this part right will ensure the success of your silent disco, and speaking from her own experience, Jess says that the “choice [of songs] meant that [she] didn’t need to worry if people were having a good time or not”. Comparatively, this lack of flexibility is a glaring deficiency in the DJ repertoire, highlighting how one of the great advantages of the silent disco is its ability to

cater for a diverse spectrum of music tastes. Additionally, when it comes to hosting a party, a key pressure put on hosts is getting different social groups to actually socialise and mix. At one stage, you might find yourself on the red channel lost in a sea of blue channel listening fanatics. Finding a fellow red channel to scream-sing ‘Khe Sanh’ with creates an immediate friend for the night—total stranger or not. In this instance, supported by alcohol, silent discos have a hidden power: the absence of out-loud music in the room encourages people to put headphones on and get involved, an incentive which doesn’t exist in a DJ-led event.

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because there is hardly any transition time between songs; it’s just one great song after another, a neverending hedonistic roller coaster where your eyes light up and the words “Oh this song!” continually form on your lips.

The best part is, the night does not have to end at 12:00am. Especially at DJ-run house parties, there is always a threat of noise complaints being filed and the police calling an early end to proceedings. The genius of the silent disco is that it allows you to work around that massive hurdle to party long into the night, with the charge of the headphones lasting at least eight hours. For too long we have been making excuses and settling for the services provided by DJs. Like a toxic partner, we have convinced ourselves that we don’t deserve anything better. Although I had been hoodwinked by certain silent disco myths, my experience has comprehensively shattered them. Through their ability to include everyone, keep the party going and provide a unique experience, the silent disco is the key to solving some of the problems of hosting. An alternative which—now that your DJ blinkers have been removed— you ought to seriously entertain for your next event.

Illustrated Joanne Guo Illustrated byby Joanne Guo

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Content Warning: references to gender dysphoria, references to transphobia, minor mentions of slurs, swearing

The Myth of Cisyphus. Written by S. Fitzgerald

They keep words from children, so I had no name for what I was until puberty had finished with me. This language is narrow, and strains under even a little stretch. We confuse the plural pronoun, confuse it more when we apply it to flesh. For my part, I have a body that doesn’t announce itself: one of those faces that carried adolescence into the third decade, and hair long for a boy but short for a girl. If I were to pass a pair of strangers, I could be Man to one, and Woman to the other. Child to him, Adult to her. Not that I’d hold it against them: words are kept from more than children. First thing about gender: it’s different from sex. Sex is dictated by biology and while it is neither binary nor fully understood, it’s less slippery than gender. Gender is a clusterfuck. There are no known cultures with no concept of gender. The western view sees a binary of masculine and feminine acting as mutual opposites. But what the west views as masculine and feminine changes with each decade, century, village, city, family. Blue was once for daughters, sons wore dresses into battle. Some cultures have more flexibility, but I am not a Hijra from India nor a Native American Two-Spirit. I am neither a woman nor a man, and this is not uncommon. There are a few major theories about what gender is and where it comes from. Essentialism decrees that whatever it is to be a gender is best explained by biology. But when someone refers to their mother/sister/daughter as a woman, they are not saying ‘person with a female chromosome’, they are saying mother/sister/daughter. Pronouns and gendered language are not technical biological terms denoting karyotype, they are part of the everyday language we use to describe each other socially.

On the other hand, social constructivism says one’s gender is created and reflected by the world and people around you. Judith Butler’s performativity theory works within this axiom, viewing gender as the stylised repetition of acts. Not a performance in the way an actor chooses to play a role, but in the way some words do more than communicate. To say I do at a wedding or guilty at a trial is to do more than speak, it is to perform an act that instigates a legal process. Butler believes gender performativity is not a matter of choosing which gender you will be today, it is a reiteration and repetition of the norms through which one is constituted. You do not choose the actions that make up your gender, they are taught to you and enforced. If you are raised as a boy, most likely you will act like a boy. If you are dressed and treated like a girl during childhood, most likely you will dress and behave like a girl during adulthood. The theory also indicates that if you were born a boy but look and behave like a girl, you will be seen as a girl. There are caveats with this one. The term “passing” refers to being perceived as your gender identity, and while not every trans or genderqueer person aspires to pass, it is an important goal for many individuals’ transitions. Beyond your circle of support, family and friends, it is when the cashier views your Performance and asks if that’s cash or card, Ms—and you are a Ms. But is there passing for something not recognised? A performance that isn’t clearly male or female fails. I am a queer, sissy, lesbian, tomboy, rather than something else. Even if you learn the rules to break them, communicate ambiguity, androgyny, the audience must understand the language of the actor. A lone figure stands on a stage, speaking gibberish. The

Illustrated by Riley Student Morgan Illustrated by Sample

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watchers shift uncomfortably. I am neither woman nor man, and this is not uncommon. The Torah and Jewish legal tradition recognise six genders including male and female; the androgynos, who has both male and female characteristics; the tumtum, whose biology is unclear; the aylonit, who identifies as female at birth, but at puberty, develops male characteristics, and the saris, who appears as male at birth, but later takes on more typically female biology. Greek Mythology has Hermaphroditus, the youth with both male and female features. Tiresias, the seer mentioned in Sophocles, Euripides and Ovid, changes from man to woman and back again. I bring this up to argue against the most insidious myth that gender non-conforming identities are a product of our modern culture. They are not. Gender nonconformity is inextricable from queerness as a whole. Across cultures, queerness is removed from the dominant gender binary, as its existence challenges the binary’s supremacy. (Again, the queer, sissy, lesbian, tomboy). Lesbians throughout history have felt estranged from womanhood due to its cultural centring of men. They do not pass many of the rituals associated with their gender, and can slip into a space beside womanhood regardless of their gender identity. The historic terms of Butch and Femme communicate this internal gender practice. Masculine cisgender women, especially lesbians, are misgendered because of their gender presentation all the time. The difference between gender identity and gender expression is something of a particular struggle in our society. If gender is a performance, who dictates the correct delivery of the lines? And what happens when more and more people demand the definitions change? I do not expect to be seen as what I am. I prefer to, of course. But I do not presume that my little existence is anything meaningful in the millennium-long tide of man/ woman, father/mother, husband/wife, sun/moon, light/ dark. We are a people of binaries, and I do not grieve this.

I will never pass as non-binary because you can’t pass as something that is not recognised. This, I think, I do grieve. No matter how I act or dress, change my hair-bodymovements-voice, I will be seen as one or the other. It’s hard to articulate how lonely it is to push a bundle of self up a mountain only to have it tumble down when the cashier calls you young lady. (There! I have given it away! I know you were wondering. Why were you wondering? It’s okay, I know why.) I have been out as non-binary for a while now. Friends ask me how I knew, when their own gender stops fitting right. Younger siblings are encouraged to talk to me. Thirteenyear-olds on the internet message me, asking for help. And I don’t tell them our identity is a hopeless effort, because deep down I don’t really believe it is. I have a friend, an artist, who can look at a colour and know the exact name, when all I will see is red. The architect who built my house could look at the same building as me, and know the people and design movements that caused the curve in the brickwork, the slant of the walls, when at most I could place the decade of its construction. Under some eyes, I will always be a girl. Under other eyes, I may be a boy. Under very few eyes, I may be neither. Whose eyes? A painter could sit me down and show me two identical colours, and then tell me how to spot the blue undertones in one, the green in the other; then I will see the difference. What once was red is now carnelian and carmine. Sisyphus’ boulder is made of obsidian. He could tell you how it feels like silk under his hands, how the afternoon sun lights it from within, if you asked and walked beside him as he pushed.

Illustrated byby Sample Student Illustrated Riley Morgan

NON-FICTION

In Conversation with Andrew Commis ACS Written by Linus Tolliday I recently interviewed Andrew Commis ACS, the cinematographer for Babyteeth and High Ground, two films with startlingly different aesthetics. Commis’s work is defined by these stylistic forks. For every dark, subdued The Daughter, there is a fast-paced, kaleidoscopic Girl Asleep. Over a Zoom stream from my kitchen and Commis’s hotel quarantine with its “shabby connection”, we discussed his filmmaking process throughout his career. Linus: I read you started out in documentaries, which I imagine would be much harder to plan for as a cinematographer. Andrew: I actually started … as an assistant stills photographer. It wasn’t really until I got into [Australian Film Television and Radio School] that I was able to shoot motion picture films. The documentaries kind of came about by default. I’d say The Rocket is as close to a documentary look as I’ve ever done. L: I find The Rocket quite impressionistic, particularly the opening birth scene, where you have such low, vivid red lighting. How did you light that scene? A: I was like, “Well how would this be lit?” You’ve got a lantern or a fire. I was just being honest to the sources. I’m not gonna put lots of fill light in those, I’m not gonna see all the details, because in reality, they’re not gonna be there. I interpreted that with where I put the light and the colour of the light. I guess that’s where those impressionistic ideas come from. Hopefully it looks like we just turned up and all that stuff was already there. But everything’s constructed. Like the encampment they’re forced to live in, that was all built and lit. L: While The Rocket is much more naturalistic than Girl Asleep, both films use such vivid, evocative colours. A: I never underestimate the contribution of a production or costume designer. People go, “That’s beautifully shot.” Actually, it’s beautifully designed and what you’re seeing isn’t just about how it’s shot. For Girl Asleep, that feels completely artificial. That was by design. Colour composition is a huge part of filmmaking. I have huge respect for… [laughs] I mean, I’m wearing black, but I do have a huge respect and love for colour. L: That love for colour also comes through in your short, Boner McPharlin’s Moll, again in production and costume design.

A: Probably less so. That was us rocking up to what was there. Justin [Kurzel] and I had gone out the week before to find the world. It was a hybrid film, part documentary, part fiction. Some are actors playing characters, but some are real people. On a narrative drama, it’s insane how often I find I’m in a documentary again because you’ve constantly got time pressure or the nature of the scene is just alive and you’ve got actors who are ready. And you can’t really repeat this too many times because of the nature of the scene and the energy of the performance. I’ve gotten a lot of different angles before and they’ve left it running as one long take. L: I read that you had a similar experience in Babyteeth. A: We kinda had this high-intensity scene and we had half an hour for it. The day was slipping away and we went on the fly. I was able to do exactly that, knowing that they’d probably put cuts into it, but also maybe not. But it was cut in the end, and I was able to find those frames. I ask about Commis’s most recently released film, High Ground, shot predominantly outdoors in Arnhem Land. He notes some technical decisions: A: I wanted to shoot it very wide and I wanted a huge depth of field; I wanted to see everything in focus, so there’s nothing to hide. I couldn’t even put light stands in sometimes. On his methods for shooting such different skin tones in intense sunlight: A: I’d find pieces of shade, utilise hats, or time of day and the angle of the sun. We discuss shot composition and he mentions the importance of the 1.66:1 aspect ratio in “connecting the land to the sky” in accordance with an important First People’s concept. Moreover, as Lynne Cooke has observed when comparing Tracey Moffatt’s photographic series, Up in the Sky, to classical depictions of the American West, the vistas in the latter act as “a site of the mythic”, building a sense of “alienation”; Cooke’s thesis that “contemporary rewritings present [the Outback] as ineluctably subject to the historicity of representation” can be extended to the boxy aspect ratio of High Ground and the wide-lensed closeness. Commis’s approach to the western genre seems to echo this historicity. A: I was also trying to be very flattering to the land. This is not an uncomfortable environment, it’s a beautiful environment. We meander into aimless chatting. I thank him for his time, and we wish each other luck getting through the present moment.

Illustrated by Amber Liang

REGULARS

For and Against: Timothée Chalamet For

by Carmen Chin On the surface, Timothée Chalamet may look and feel like your regular white boy whose only social activity consists of skateboarding with his bros. When you peel back his many layers, however, it is undeniable: he is for the people. How so, pray tell? We’ll overlook the hackneyed jokes about his statistics rap from high school and the tired “Lil Timmy Tim” pseudonym to look at the lesser known facts. First of all, his music taste is indisputably good: Gorillaz, Lil Uzi Vert and Nicki Minaj to name a few. He covered ‘Roman’s Revenge’ on stage, complete with choreography, back-up dancers and a pink wig. It’s giving thick-ass and whiplash. He even had a YouTube channel with maybe three subscribers, all about his painted mod controllers. Who would we be, if we shunned a chance to support local? Not to mention, his actual profession; Beautiful Boy, Call Me by Your Name (to hell with its predatory subtext, though), Dune. How could you sit through the copious amounts of on-screen chemistry between him and Saoirse Ronan in Little Women and Lady Bird and not enjoy it? Have you ever seen another white man pull off a bowl cut as well as he did in The King? To be fair, nobody can ever be the person for everybody, but to appreciate Timothée Chalamet is to have unquestionably superior taste.

Against

by Donna Ferdinando As they all drone on about this acclaimed lanky-haired connoisseur of, (ahem), sensitively-shaped produce, the logical thought is, “Ah! Yet another poster white boy that looks like the crack-ship forbidden love child of one Sirius Black and Severus Snape. He too, like those before, shall disappear in the international film industry’s torrent.” The years pass. He is everywhere. And so is that damned peach. His resting “emo sad boi” face overshadows the best music Hans Zimmer has ever zimmered. Is that (Good God!) an Oedipal complex you spy between this space teenager and Rebecca Ferguson?! You choose to ignore it. He is the Pete Davidson of Johnny Depps. 2020s Gen Z; straight, edgy, watered-down Kurt Hummel (minus the neck ties). True, his name is featured in Gina Linetti’s vocal warm-ups, but Hollywood is fortunately a fickle beast. You’ve already lost Laurie to him. Are you to lose Johnny Depp’s legacy, that well of childhood nostalgia, to a skinny twig? An angst-ridden Willy Wonka? Impossible! Improbable! Surely, he can’t remain around forever, right? Think about the implications! There are 15 more books about Dune. Turns out, denial is not a good look on you.

Illustrated by Pamela Piechowicz

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‘The Dreamer’ by Sophia Zikic

‘Bloom’

by Zoe Keeghan Digital Illustration

“I was thinking about how Western society encourages constant production and productivity – the expectation that we always bloom. But there’s a reason plants generally don’t flower all year round. 48 This constant demand to bloom has detrimental impacts on both physical and mental health.”

Artwork & Textiles by Liesey Graham and Jade Graham

Artwork by Aeva Milos

Artwork by Christian Theodosiou

Photography by Aeva Milos

Photography by Ben Levy

by Aeva Milos Photography by Akash Anil Nair andPhotography Alexandra Richardson

Artwork by CJ Starc

Artwork by Sophie Sjostrom

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Ordinary Phenomena: The Elephant’s Call Written by Helena Pantsis The invitation comes as a surprise; somehow it always does. You wear the new jacket you got but couldn’t find an occasion for. The weather is bright and cold and raining and green, a glimpse into Melbourne’s four seasons in one day. You haven’t felt the rain for so long. You relish the feeling of it on your skin. It is something ethereal, brandished with the warm relief that comes with breathing in the cool spring breeze. The train brakes to an abrupt stop and you grit your teeth at the rush of wind coloured an industrial rust, making the sound of an elephant braying. It reminds you of the circus, of something wild becoming tamed and one of you, something clumsy and lumbering taught to walk a tightrope so thin. You’re lulled by the utter peace that comes with riding the metro, hand poised on chin as eyes move between buildings, trees, and telephone wire caught in an endless panoramic circle out the window. You are an elephant lumbering down the tracks. In your ears plays the music of early adolescence, the bands you promised to never stop loving and somehow never did. A young woman sits adjacent to you reading a hardcover book, a man in a wheelchair closes his eyes for a kip, and your mother texts you to check in. The gentle swaying of the carriage almost puts you to sleep, eyes resting midway through the first chapter of a new audiobook you’ve started listening to. The reader speaks: I ease the train to a stop and turn on the radio. The tourists pile out and stretch their legs like it’s the end of a road trip. The eerie familiarity of the writing is a reminder of the universality of it all—you are all bound together by a single experience, told a hundred ways yet remaining consistent through that common life thread, an elephant’s trunk. When you arrive at your friend’s house you meet her friends, all people like you, fumbling and awkward and wanting so hard to be liked. You sit around on mismatched chairs, picking at sushi with your fingers, and offering sweets made from home and made to share. You ask questions, get to know everyone, find out where they came from and how they all came to be here today. It’s nice, the ice breaking so easily with the tender steps forward, cracking under your elephant feet, finding people with common interests, common morals, so diverse in who they are but ultimately just like you. You play cards, losing every round, grabbing spoons and calling bullshit. The rain outside comes and goes, a background soundtrack to laughter and chewing, oohing and ahhing, the joy of new and renewed connections; something nostalgic from a time before. Everyone wants to remember you when the day is over, swapping social media handles and pausing to ride the tram back to the station together. There is intimacy in the one-on-one, people willing to give you more time to learn and build upon a new foundation. You ride the train home contented, the feeling of calm washing over you like that which arrives after eating a full meal. From home you can hear the elephants braying in the distance. You know it is only the train, but you imagine it is the elephants anyway.

Illustrated by Meadow Nguyen

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Content Warning: references to death; insects

Earthworms don’t have eyes, but they have light— sensitive receptors in their skin. Especially their front end. If exposed for more than an hour, they can be stunned. She saw not her own reflection, but a tall, empty vase— prickling violet thistle of her mouth humming gold thread of her lie the ferns, green and strong, up to her waist tall as a child wrapped around her leg the long, fuzzy stamen folding into the oily basin her feet, already in wet cement The blackest parts of her eyes grew darker, her petulance moulted and she looked on herself in wonder she had almost died of thirst almost died thirsty At dawn a pile of worms thrashed in the garden, something that could, and would, be solved in the dark light typical of the companionship they kept. Her eyes were very dark, and grey, but at night the coldness leached from them like permafrost like icicles melting from prehistoric caves, abandoning the possibility of killing.

Written by Izma Haider

Illustrated by Zoe Eyles

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arrival written by Laura Charlton now i have moved out for good. farewell fairy bread, farewell forehead kisses, farewell mum’s wedding rings, the gold loop-de-loops they constructed between my shoulder blades, farewell lavender winters. in rushes adulthood with all its dark water. i’ve been trying harder in the city, touching the bark of every tree when i walk outside, searching for a world to grow old with. i’ve been wading knee-deep into poems of lukewarm earnestness and just standing there, while they glide politely around my calves. i’ve been trying to fix my pen grip, which has been wrong since year four, my stubborn fingers. i’ve been used to getting everything right and now here i am on the street with my hands up against the trees, asking to wash their feet, asking if my fingers make logical shapes, is my thumb too fond of the first pointer knuckle? dad sends me a photograph: plovers on excursion in the industrial sector of caringbah. nature arrives astonishingly he says and the birds supernova from the tree i’m venerating, calling to each other across the long hours of the air.

Illustrated by Maya Hall

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Content Warning: references to death; smoking

A Lighthouse Written by Max Flett

I’ve been drowned By my own brother. Tonight He comes from a sailor’s grave With a makeshift lantern. He comes lending money, Ivy-covered, Taking from the water With him a shut-eyed smile And a scalpel blade. He’ll be peering Through a satin slip. He’ll be breathing shallow While I’m burning up both my lungs. He’ll be teaching me How they do it in France. I’ll be nodding, coughing, As if I know nothing at all. Many times I have died before— Once with him beside her When I come into the kitchen She’s telling him He’s beautiful. I stand there watching, Picking the food From between my teeth. Someday, I’ll be a brother. A brother knows both beauty And death to their bones— He created them. Tomorrow He’ll miss his own room, Waking cold to the smell of My hair on his red pillow. Asking himself why Many seasick men, Lovesick men wait wondering If that lantern clings To meet moonlit tides, Or is buried below a hollowed Promise of tomorrow. You’re too much! She’s telling me. You’re just like him on his knees, Glimpsing to find the bathroom light From underneath the door. The light line, it fades into the blue Of her slip when she wakes— When he knocks that door again Handing me back my lightless night With a pillow in his fist.

Illustrated by Zoë Hoffman

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Through A Window Written by Max Flett

While she called From the hulled exhibition, Plucking the skin in whispers Of evanescent promise— I waited for water To roll us over the rocks Into sleep. Sweetness wasn’t alone When it flew out your window, For some dusty sorrow hung soon after. It clung to the walls of this room Where I could Never once rest. I held on until I couldn’t. I held these folders for which Mercy has distant faith— Which he ropes along to an aisle of three. His shoulders weaken without The weight of you and I. He trudges with love and Loves whatever must vanish. There’s no taste more private Than waking cold from No stony sleep, no absence. Waking to the shiver of common day, To the chagrined push And pull in unlit hallways. There is something to say of staying awake When the arms between us aren’t ours— Syndicates and stakeholders Changing from nothing to one, To nothing again. If by now I called you lover I would sink into forgotten snow, I would hide the words that seemed To be, but find them gone Before you could turn to me.

Illustrated by Matilda Lilford

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Content Warning: misogyny, allusions to sexual assault “She was created to be the toy of man, his rattle, and it must jingle in his ears whenever, dismissing reason, he chooses to be amused.” – Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

Rattle

Written by Jessica Faulkner “A ring is a promise,” Evangeline’s mother told her as she sat upon her knee. “Just like baking, when we put the ingredients in a bowl and mix it all together, scoop it into a tin and pop it in the oven. The oven promises to heat it up, make the mixture warm and cosy and turn it into a lovely cake.” Her mother waited for Evangeline to nod her head, her green eyes wide and curious. “Well, it’s just like that, you see?” Evangeline frowned. “What’s just like that?” “Love. Dedication.” She kissed the top of Evangeline’s head. Evangeline looked over into the kitchen, where their oven sat dormant like a sleeping uncle. “I want to play with your rattle, Mummy.” Evangeline’s mother sighed and shook her head. “No, honey. You know Mummy’s rattle is only for Daddy.” Evangeline turned and dragged herself into her room, closing the door. Her mother had never quite realised how strange it was, her daughter sequestering herself away each time she heard the word, ‘no’. It was as if the word carried a foul smell that permeated throughout the house and clung to the drapes and the wallpaper. Evangeline’s mother walked over to their hall cabinet—a small chest of drawers that had belonged to her husband’s family for generations. With her right hand, she opened the top left compartment, taking out her engagement ring and twirling it in her fingers. It was a pity it didn’t fit anymore. The ring really was lovely. A clear emerald nestled between two neat rows of diamonds on a gold band. She lifted her left hand—or what once was her left hand—and held it to the light. At her wrist, the skin smoothed out, her pink flesh slowly mutating into a deep green. The same green as the emerald from her engagement ring. There, her skin hardened and curled in on itself, twisting into the shape of a frog. Its frozen eyes bulged and reminded her somehow of her daughter. She could ring it now. Evangeline would surely not hear, hidden away in her room, and there wasn’t anyone else about to hear her open the frog’s bubble-throat and pull the little toggle that made him go ‘ribbit-ribbit’. Rattle. She imagined herself laughing, cackling. She could see her whole body contorted with a pleasure that did not belong to her. But Evangeline’s mother knew that she would not. The frog would only ever be touched by her husband. That part of her belonged to him. He had carved it as he slid that emerald ring onto her finger and promised to protect her from all the unspeakable monsters of the world. At least it was only a frog, she thought, and not a whole carousel like her sister or an elephant like her friend, Yvette.

Such a small part of her. What did it matter if it was his? * “Does it hurt?” Evangeline asked. She was greeted by her mother’s raised eyebrows. “When he puts the ring on, I mean.” Evangeline’s mother continued brushing her butter-coloured hair and wondered whether it would someday melt in her hands. She looked at the face of the now young woman in the mirror; her muted expression concealed a mind with its own thoughts, wants and desires. “No, it didn’t hurt. Not really.” Evangeline’s mother paused, the hairbrush still in her hand. “Almost as though your body has its own anaesthetic.” Evangeline frowned and then nodded, catching a glimpse of both their reflections in the mirror. Her mother twisted a piece of hair and pinned it back behind her ear. “Stop worrying, Evie. This is a happy day, remember? You’re lucky Freddie’s bought you a diamond. You know they say diamonds bring the purest representation—” “Mum!” Evangeline scoffed. “You know someone in marketing probably made that up because diamonds are more expensive.” Evangeline’s mother sighed and put the brush down. “You want to be happy, don’t you, Evie?” Evangeline did not meet her mother’s eyes, instead inspecting her own reflection. She stood, kissed her mother on the cheek, opened her bedroom door and descended the staircase into the living room. Freddie and her father sat side-by-side on the couch. Freddie smiled but had a look in his eyes that she recognised in her father whenever her mother told him there would be steak at dinner. “Evie.” Freddie rose to his feet as he saw her. Evangeline walked towards him, reminding herself to smile. He held out his hand and waited for her to take it. His skin felt somehow cold and clammy and she imagined, for a moment, her left hand turning into an octopus. She could almost see her fingers multiplying and becoming tentacles, floundering around, cutting off her circulation, before the metal-flesh set itself into place. “Perhaps we could have a moment in the garden?” Freddie asked. Evangeline’s mother had grown wisteria over the gilded iron archway. Freddie’s favourite flower. They stood underneath what Evangeline knew he saw as a blooming symbol of his love. But her mother had planted it, not Freddie. “Give me your hand.”

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She lifted her hand and held it out to him. Freddie reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring. Diamond, just as he’d promised. He pushed the ring onto her finger and released her hand, taking a step back. Funny, Evangeline thought. All this time she had imagined Freddie getting down on one knee. Actually asking me to marry him, she thought. She had pictured the moment just before she answered, wondered what sorts of wild animals would dart across Freddie’s eyes. Only, Evangeline saw none. Perhaps it was better this way. This way, she couldn’t hesitate. She wouldn’t have to try and remember how to form the word ‘yes’ between her lips, as if it were a parlour trick performed with a gun to one’s head. Evangeline stared down at her skin. Waiting. Her heart rattled in its cage. And then, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Awkward glances followed with Freddie checking his watch, shoving his left hand in his pocket, searching for videos of engagement-rattle-changes on his phone, messaging all his married friends, deflowering the wisteria that covered the archway, bulb by blooming bulb. Evangeline just stood there. “The sun’s starting to go down. We can try again tomorrow,” Evangeline said, breaking the silence. She rubbed her right thumb up and down Freddie’s arm. * Evangeline’s mother made roast chicken for dinner. It gleamed in the tray all festive and happy, nestled between potatoes and rosemary. Evangeline’s father and Freddie made neat work of

the carcass, hollowing it out like an old tree. Evangeline and her mother did not touch it. Before the last bite, Evangeline excused herself from the table and retired to her bedroom. By the time Freddie decided to join her, he’d rather enjoyed himself. Evangeline’s parents had brought out the wine glasses and filled them, over and over. When Freddie wandered into the bedroom, he heard Evangeline’s hushed breathing. He climbed into bed and nestled beside her. He could feel her form against his own. Freddie stroked her hair and let the scent of melting butter fill his nose as he drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of a room with a thousand rattles and smiled into the darkness. * Light streamed in through the open window. Freddie yawned, rolled over and reached out, not caring to open his eyes. His fingers stretched on the mattress, searching for Evangeline. He felt something cold. Metal. Freddie opened his eyes and saw, in the otherwise empty bed, a raven. It was carved of iron and perched upon the pillow, so small it could fit in his hand. The tips of its feathers were buttered gold and there was a toggle in the space between its wings, like the space between a woman’s thighs, just begging to be pulled. So, Freddie did. He loved watching the little bird hop and beat its wings up and down, the metal too heavy to fly, stranded here in Freddie’s euphoria. Stuck with him on the pillow or between the sheets of the bed. And all it could do was its purpose. The very thing for which it was made. Rattle.

Illustrated by Meadow Nguyen

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Hocus-Pocus Recipes and Rituals: How to Summon a Demon Friend Written by Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Hello hello! I’m Selena Sparklemoon, your local apothecary and witch.

my best friend Amon’s a demon! And this ritual is mostly safe. Maybe pack some extra salt just in case.

If you were anything like me growing up, you probably struggled at times making friends. As you come of age you may realise you still struggle making friends. And sure, you can choose to focus on pursuing other things (like gardening). But what if you need to bring a friend to a party, or a family reunion? What if you need some pals to keep you safe in the city? It’s hard to make friends; it’s especially hard to make them on short notice.

You can source most of these ingredients from your local market or garden, or a travelling salesperson at any old crossroads. Just don’t close any deals with a handshake— unless you don’t mind your soul being eternally bound to hell and its denizens.

So why bother making friends when you can summon them? Here I’m going to show you some simple tricks of the trade to summoning a demon to the mortal realm. If you feel reluctant to summon denizens of hell, don’t be! I can assure you, demons are very fun, cordial, social individuals. I should know,

You will need the following: • • • • • •

A summoning area A cup of salt. Sodium chloride (NaCl) to be precise Six scented candles. Preferably lavender Chalk. Lots of it (at least one box) A box of matches An offering (depends on the demons, usually a couple boxes of organic dark chocolate will work out fine)

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Start by choosing your summoning area. It can be your attic or basement, a clearing in a deep dark forest, or an abandoned building. You can also choose a cemetery but expect some unexpected guests (like ghosts and ghouls and vampires). 2. Cover your chosen summoning area in a large ring of salt. Make sure there are no gaps. You don’t want your demons getting up to any mischief the minute they appear in the mortal realm—save that chaos for later. 3. Using your chalk, draw a circle within the confines of the salt. Then draw an inverted pentagram in the circle—make it big and expressive so that it looks like you put your heart and soul into it. After all, you’re trying to impress your future demon friends! 4. Place five of your candles at each point of your pentagram. Place the sixth in the centre. 5. Light the candles with a match (the fewer the better, you don’t want to waste too many). Your summoning circle should be glowing now (and smelling faintly of lavender). 6. Place your offering in the centre of the circle, next to the sixth candle. 7. Now recite the words, “Saecula saeculorum, be my friend, be my friend,” over and over, about six times. Say this confidently and with conviction. If you have a particular demon in mind for summoning—such as an old friend you want to see again—picture them in your head while chanting. 8. If you have done steps one through seven correctly, you should see volumes of purple and red light emanate from the centre of the summoning circle. You should then see several demons munching greedily on your offering. 9. At this point, introduce yourself! Get to know them too, and make sure they know not to cause too much chaos while on the mortal plane. The demons you have summoned will be pretty random—unless you concentrated on a particular one while chanting—and this applies to their personalities as well, so keep that in mind! 10. Once you have confirmed that they’re cool and you will be safe in their presence, feel free to break the salt ring and invite them to your social gathering! 11. Once you are done with your social gathering, return them to the summoning circle, rebuild the salt ring, recite the words, “Home sweet home,” and they will return to their ring of hell. You are welcome to avoid this last step and keep them around as long-term friends, but do be warned: after 24 hours the ritual’s protections will have worn off and your demon friends will be free to do whatever they please! That’s something I admittedly did the first time I cast this ritual. And sure, it got me Amon, my best friend—but after one too many destructive adventures in the city square, my coven forced me to finish the ritual and banish them home. I sure do miss them, I wonder if they’re doing okay… That’s all from me for now! Tune in next time where I will reveal a nifty recipe on a perfume that removes brain fog! Buh-bye for now!

Illustrated by Jessica Norton

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pink cadillac (in memoriam) Written by Aeva Milos

car crash simulation straight out of heaven and you, in the driver’s seat (Jesus take the wheel!) i’m obsessed with elvis and she’s speeding a pink cadillac down marinated suburbia feet dusty with indecision her hair whipping my thighs black-clad Patti with a white dove hangs rosary beads from rear-view mirrors at what point does a painted line down the middle make a road? me, the attention-hungry hitchhiker turning a thumb down for no more rides i trace lines along forearms paving new roads, a route 66 with grass growing through the seam humming old-man melodies and dressed in tulips and antiquated film the pink cadillac parks at a gas station the proverbial church for truck drivers and Springsteens the old adage: crimson comes in threes like the curve of your gibson in the moonlight the careening highway in desert darkness the eroded canyon valley, itching for an echo you’re very rockstar, you know she screams and grips the steering wheel the engine croons out one last rock tune elvis eventually auctions off the cadillac in graceland and new york city burns in the rising sun to be anything but this is impossible for us (you whisper: memento mori!) life betrays art, art betrays death something like that and i watch you do everything magnificently, gorgeously, divinely— will you do the same for me?

Illustrated by Grace Reeve

Content Warning: references to smoking/drugs

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Satan Wears a Bra written by Chelsea Rozario Find comfort in disquiet, in mould in humid bathrooms, the mayhem

of broken noses

and crushed aglets d r a g g i n g on concrete— caked in chewed spearmint gum. You are an observer of calloused hands on brass strings Crimson plastic, nostrils pierced in backyards, Running in on platform shoes (just give us a clue). Eardrums

crackle

and then they burst. Drink vanilla cough syrup. It will burn like scraped knees

Longing does not leave and you will not be free. Rip off rose tinted band-aids along with some dignity. You are soft like petrichor, homegrown hydrangeas. You will crave

more more.

Until the only thing left for you is an overfilled ashtray and a tiled bathroom floor.

Illustrated by Jessica Norton

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Content Warning: animal death (graphic), blood, insects

Felicide Friday Written by Helena Pantsis

A cat’s dead by the side of the road. Just lying there, bloodied and flat-faced. Looking at it, I think it might be a fox or a possum. Might even be a wombat. I think, though, that it is a cat. It reminds me of the neighbour’s cat from when I was a kid. They don’t look anything alike. They’re simply two cats, existing separately but parallel in my mind. I suppose the fact that they’re both cats ties them together in some way. This cat is brown, made burgundy and tawny from the dried blood and pulled flesh. My neighbour’s cat was white, pristine and blue-eyed; its thin pupils carved vertically through shallow pools of iris, black tears rupturing clean through clear waters. The cat lived on my neighbour’s windowsill, blurred by the sheer curtain. This cat’s a corpse. It doesn’t have a collar. It probably never had a home. I wonder where it came from. A child slows on their bicycle, stopping to look at the cat alongside me, then to look at me. “Did you do that?” the kid asks. Brazen. They’re looking right at me, considering my role in the death of the animal, not three feet away. I wonder what they’d do if I said yes. “I think someone ran it over,” I say. “Oh.” They don’t ride away. They just stand there, their glossy red bike helmet reflecting the sun into my eyes. We stare at the cat. “What was it?” they ask. I realise the child’s probably never seen a cat before. They used to be commonplace—household ornaments, companions to the lonely or strays roaming the streets, hunting birds, fighting each other by day and night. That’s what I’m told. When I was a kid, the domesticated cats were kept in houses. They’d poop in litter boxes and occupy their days staring out windows like my neighbour’s cat did. The only cats you’d see outdoors were strays—if you were lucky to see one at all. No one let their animals out then, not after the criminalisation of domesticated household predators—that’s what they called them. You had to be brave—or stupid—to let

Illustrated by Sally Yuan

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them out of the house. “A cat, I think.” In an effort to save the dying bird species, outdoor pets were the first to go. We were allowed to keep them so long as they stayed indoors. Then we were paid to turn them in. I vaguely remember having a dog when I was very young; a little white thing with brown patches over his eyes—couldn’t tell you the breed even if I wanted to. He was put down when he shocked a bird to death. Mum turned him in. Not that it was the dog’s fault; birds are easy to shock. Felicide Friday was the final reckoning. People hung their dogs and cats up by their necks at their windows, on their front porches, from the streetlights. The blood dripped down their gullets and to the ground beneath them in puddles as if they were being prepared for butchering. I’m not really sure what happened to their bodies. By the time morning came around again, they had all miraculously disappeared, and we all went on as if that horrific day had never happened. The sounds of whining, dying cats and dogs, screaming and choking on their own blood, still haunt me. “Where did it come from?” the child asks. For a fleeting moment I think that the cat will catch flame from the heat of our combined gazes and the beating sun. Dried out and rancid, it is flammable in my mind. Or inflammable; flammable and inflammable being one and the same. My neighbour’s cat died of old age, lucky thing. She buried it in the front yard with a small wooden cross plunged into the earth where it lay. The grave was robbed by birds about a week later. I remember them swarming, pecking at the earth, deranged and wild. I think a dog had dug it up and the birds found it ravaged by insects; the worms were probably the first to find it, to dig inside it and make a meal of the wretched thing. It was a crude display, watching those birds striking into feline carcass like some godless inversion of fate and evolution. None of that exists anymore, no dogs or cats. Nothing domesticated. The birds remain. And the worms remain. The worms always remain. I suppose the only places you’d find those animals now are in the earth and in the worms. Ironic. “I haven’t got a clue.”

Illustrated by Sally Yuan

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Content Warning: drugs and alcohol; physical, verbal and sexual harrassment

Murder on the Dancefloor: The Bar Fight Written by Rupert Azzopardi

The nightclub on Collins Street had no official cloakroom, and the alcohol-saturated crowds began shedding their jackets: dancing with silk over their arm, a sleeve dangling by their knee. Withered accountants whispered lechery into the ears of younger women and fingered coke-stained wads of fifties. A woman delicately leaned under the bar’s far end and vomited. A busboy swept up the kaleidoscope of glass and liquor at the feet of two young bankers, and spot-fires of aggression in the crowd were ignited and suffocated in sequence. The patrons shouted at staff to hurry with their drinks. The night manager saw a bartender’s distress—her frantic movements, the tenseness in her voice—and allowed her five minutes to cry in the cool room. Her absence was felt by the others, who felt the line at the bar swelling. After seven minutes, the bartender wiped her eyes under the shadow of the drained kegs; as hard as she tried, she could not stop the tears earlier. As she returned, hastily dressed men and women with lipstick smears smoothed their clothes, stumbling out of the disabled bathroom in succession. The universe pulsated within the venue. It seemed as though there was no “outside”—only the blinker vision of six hundred nouveau-riche staving off their cocaine crash in sweaty proximity to each other. The song changed, the crowd scowled, and at that moment the bikie gang were let into the venue. Around twenty bikies and their dolled-up dates walked into the main room. The chaos of the seething dancefloor abated as the entire crowd turned their gaze to the entrance: their suits were fresh, pristine, in stark contrast to the onlookers who had long let their ensembles deteriorate. The atmosphere had become custard-thick as the perspiring corporate crowd struggled to re-establish themselves. The bikies, beers in hand, carved their way through the wary dancers and stood by the DJ booth, their dates glancing imperiously over the crowd, sipping their vodkas. One of the women began dancing with a bikie, twirling and twisting

in between drowned patrons, sending splashes of sticky pornstar martini and low-grade prosecco over the suede and linen of increasingly disgruntled men. More began to dance. Under the bassline’s thump, none-too-friendly words were exchanged, and the glares became bloody. A bartender poured a gin and tonic between impatient slaps on the bar. She kept her head down as she worked—mostly to avoid the competing shouts for her attention—but lifted it to give the patron their drink. Instantly, the hands waved closer to her face, and she winced. Between insistent hands and shouts, she saw a stiletto heel catch on the curve of a piece of broken glass the busboy had missed. The woman stumbled, bumping into another, and knocked the vodka out of her hand. The security, busy attending four other misdemeanours, could not stop the incident from escalating. The night manager turned away from a red-faced patron demanding a refund. Just in time, he saw a dancefloor that had been twitching and shifting in barely contained menace erupt into its predestined aggression. The music cut, screams interlacing with bellows of fury. Jackets were trampled on the saturated floor as faceless men launched fists and expletives through the air. The staff’s calls for order were lost in the racket. The night manager, who attempted to push the violence outside of the venue, shouted at the security through a split lip, but they were busy losing a battle against men who knew how to fight. Through the chaos, a seersucker arm moved in a piston-like motion into some felled target in repetition. Men dragged their belligerent mates to the exit and the floor began to clear out. When it was over, and the night manager took a report with the police, the pack-down was silent. Broken glass glittered on the floor, spilt alcohol lay in puddles everywhere and security sat to the side with icepacks on their skulls. The staff slowly cleaned as the sticky night fell away and the grim, wintery dawn arrived.

Illustrated by Arielle Vlahiotis

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Filling Up The Static: Hot bread, humidity and Palm Springs’ A Collection of Songs Written by Stella Theocharides There’s no wifi here, so I ask my friend if you can over-knead dough. She fiddles with her camera settings while she tells me about airless bread, and I imagine dough, sitting in a pan, too familiar with my hands and breath to take shape or be eaten. I am in a mountain creek with three friends in early January. Humidity is at 79 per cent. I want to float on my back, waiting for the UV to win against the sunscreen and burn my nose, but the creek has a strong, cold current that won’t let me sit still. When I hesitate, it tugs at my calves, pulling me downstream, and I have to splash around like a big wet dog to find my footing again. Despite the sleepiness of the season, I haven’t slept well in weeks. Sometimes I suspect a body can register a heatwave and choose to give into it. Mine has started asking if it can walk around outside at night instead, when it won’t burn. It’s been tense. Everything is full of moisture and waiting to break. The only thing that cuts through the humidity is the creek, slicing past my knees now. All summer, in one of many attempts to rest, I’ve been listening to Palm Springs’ A Collection of Songs. They’re too warm to send me to sleep, but they seem to draw me out of myself enough to permit a deep, slow breathing. I keep forgetting the CD is in the player, and when I turn it on again the next day, her fingerpicking begins without warning, disturbing the humidity of the room. Most of the time, I let it play. The album art is orange, and the colour seems to hang in the air with the music. From the corner of the room a voice and a guitar diffuse, gathering stray feelings into songs that feel immediate and old, like they’re being written as they’re sung. I imagine them emerging whole and without pause, with enough air in them to rise.

Earlier today, before the creek, we sat around a loaf of Turkish bread and ate it all with our hands. No one mentioned setting any aside: we were hungry, and it was hot, and restraint is rarely useful when it comes to what the body loves. One of my worse habits involves leaving bread for tomorrow and then waking up to stale bread. Things are good when they’re fresh. When we turn off all the lights, I lie awake in the kind of dark where you can’t make out the windows or a hand above your head. Tiny bugs land on my phone screen and then dart away. My tongue is slightly burnt from peppermint tea. This time around January feels rich and open and wet, the weather and the year thickening in the air. I lean against the deep cool current, trying to forgive myself for hesitating while trying to learn a degree of healthy impatience. I listen to the house, invisible, and the creek rolling itself out like cool, steady dough. Rising. Making itself into something I can trust. Bread I can hold. Something that wants to carry me. As my focus shifts between my friend’s breathing and the creek water, I feel orange and restful. Almost. Still, the moths landing quietly on my skin. Still, the humming of the months. I wonder if my fingers smell of bread, despite the creek. I doubt it. I am far from the CD player in my room and the songs waiting in it, but I can hear them, an orange phantom limb in the back of the mind. Each year, I press play and am surprised again by chords and a voice I know. An album I’d forgotten was in there. A song I’ve heard before. And I know the tune. I fall asleep expecting to wake early and let myself walk into the water; a gesture of goodwill, and of willingness. When I wake, it is raining, and I hesitate.

Illustrated by Nina Hughes

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Content Warning: Loose (but graphic) allusions to childbirth; injury

A Screen is Not a Room (But it Might be a Door) Written by Caitlyn Steer

It was the third consecutive night of video calling when I decided I’d had enough. Our usual staple, phone calls, were an inoffensive pastime. A disembodied voice was certainly enough to spark yearning over kilometres of distance and time spent apart, but never beyond the brink of sanity. Video calls were another matter entirely. If a phone call was a spark, a video call was a wildfire. I squirmed hotly in my chair, watching the tiny rectangle of light in front of me. This simply wouldn’t do—it was, after all, the third consecutive night of video calling. I decided I’d had enough. The first puzzle was whether my laptop screen would comply with my wishes for long enough to become a room. It looked like a room. It almost sounded like one – the carpet rustled in a muffled sort of way, but the sound wasn’t distorted enough to be discouraging. The other question was size. Would the image of the room be wide enough for my body? I had no way of knowing, but I expanded the call window to full capacity for good measure. Then, I ran an internet speed test. The upload speed left something to be desired, but it would have to do. Finally, I felt ready. I laid my laptop on the bedroom floor and prostrated myself in front, arms steepled in front of me like a diver. Briefly, I glanced up at the image on the screen. Your device was on your floor too, giving me full scope of the room I was about to enter. I saw you, naked except for your burgundy briefs. Seeing what I was about to do, you’d made your way to the opposite wall to give me plenty of space. Small petals of blue and red bloomed around the spot my fingernails pressed into the smooth screen. I pressed harder until they pierced it, wincing as I felt the first zap. Too late, I realised I’d worn the wrong shirt for this; staticky, synthetic. I was up to my wrists in the screen now. No time to change. The gash widened easily after the first push. Elongated, yawning, vaginal, it expanded to accommodate my forearms, then my elbows. By now I was becoming impatient. The process was too slow and nothing like the smooth transition I’d imagined. I shuffled forward on my hips and was rewarded with a violent spurt of blue shards; glowing, minute and razor sharp. They buried themselves in my face, my arms, my neck. Another electric shock. I gritted my teeth against the sting and pushed harder. Finally, it yielded. The gash opened fully, and the rest of my body slithered through. I gasped as my head was enveloped in light. A foyer, I thought deliriously. A feeling of weightlessness and velocity overcame me but before I had time to comprehend my surroundings, my head entered your bedroom. You were watching me incredulously from the opposite wall where I’d seen you last. I managed a reassuring grin as I struggled through your computer. It had a slightly smaller screen than mine. My face prickled. Looking behind me, I noticed with some regret that both our laptops were completely ruined. Mine had been brand new, but I accepted this as a price worth paying. We were finally together. You kissed me once on the lips, then readied the tweezers. I closed my eyes contentedly, head on your knee, as you tweezed out the glowing blue splinters, one by one.

Illustrated by Monica Yu

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‘DIY Craft Guide’ by Weiting Chen

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‘DIY Craft Guide’ by Weiting Chen

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Content Warning: spiders, (police) violence

On the Tip of the Tongue Written by Lochlainn Heley

Kasey lifted the bottom of her mask just enough to slip a popcorn kernel onto her tongue for Winona to nibble on. Winona had never been to a movie theatre and Kasey’s description of the snack had piqued her curiosity. Winona crawled forward from her web at the back of Kasey’s throat to her left cheek, gripping tightly to Kasey’s top and bottom molars. The kernel was as tall as Winona’s legs were long and billowed with strange puffs. Before the cloud passed the wave of Kasey’s swallow, Winona took a quick bite. The rest slid down Kasey’s throat, falling through one of the holes of Winona’s web along the way. The taste of the corn was quite strange: buttery and salty, but already mushy as it quickly absorbed Kasey’s saliva. Not that Winona minded. If the spider had detested mushy foodstuffs, then she wouldn’t have taken Kasey’s offer to live at the back of her throat in the first place. “So?” Kasey whispered, readjusting her facemask. Both agreed that it was best if Kasey kept the mask on; they didn’t want to risk being seen. “What do you think?” Winona scuttled back to the moist warmth of Kasey’s throat and answered by strumming a rhythm along the strings of her web. Very accurate to your description, the vibrations sounded in Kasey’s head. But I still hold that crickets are the tastier morsels to crunch on. Do you think they might have any at the snack bar? Kasey chuckled. It had taken her a long time to get used to Winona’s way of talking. For the first month she couldn’t stop laughing as the vibrations from the spider’s deft strums tickled the back of her throat. She still found herself chuckling sometimes, but nowadays it was often at Winona’s formal and orderly rhythm.

Winona strummed back that it was okay. She enjoyed trying to conjure the room in her mind. Much like her comfortable spot at the back of Kasey’s throat, these descriptions were precious things, meant for just the two of them. The bright lights from the theatre dimmed, further darkening the inside of Kasey’s mouth. Winona crawled forward into the front again, finding her usual place for whenever they watched movies at home. She gripped the tips of Kasey’s incisors with her back four legs, resting her other four lightly along the bottom. Some of her leg hairs tickled the inside of Kasey’s lips as she settled in. The soft light from the movie projector began to filter through the folds of Kasey’s mask. If she focused her many eyes, Winona could just make out the faint shapes of the characters on-screen. Simply more figures hidden from Winona, as she was from them. The movie was a re-showing of Sid and Nancy. Kasey had explained it as a film about the co-dependent relationship between a bassist of a famous punk band and his girlfriend, and their self-destructive spiral through chaos. Not exactly something Winona would have picked for herself, but Kasey was clearly excited when they walked by the theatre and saw it on the billboard. The movie played on, and Winona listened through the facemask. Kasey occasionally chimed in with whispered descriptions of anything she felt Winona should see. Her voice was a soft thing, threaded with anticipation.

What does the theatre look like? Winona trilled. Though Winona didn’t share Kasey’s excitement for the movie, she shadowed her lack of interest with curiosity about the theatre.

The movie only puzzled Winona. The relationship between the two main characters was loud, unapologetic, and very uncomfortable to watch. She wondered if that was why Kasey enjoyed it.

A small secret for herself. Miniscule.

“Is everything okay?” Kasey whispered.

“Well, it’s a large space with some old architectural ornaments along the walls. Mostly electric candelabra, but there are also some small bronzish busts. On the ceiling there’s also this electric chandelier—like the one from the Phantom of the Opera stage recording.”

Winona realised that she had been tapping a contemplative rhythm on Kasey’s bottom incisors. The spider had found herself lost in thought, listening to the unravelling the characters caused in each other. Her absent-minded nothings must have sounded like nervousness as they vibrated into Kasey’s teeth.

The image hummed in Winona’s mind. It wasn’t exactly accurate, but Winona had come to understand Kasey’s way of describing things. Sometimes not much. Other times with a flair of dramatic specificity. Will this chandelier fall into the audience, too? Winona asked. Kasey chuckled again. “Not this one. We’re also in the middle row of some slanted seating. There are a few people around us on their phones or whispering to each other while they wait for the movie to start.”

Kasey hesitated for a moment. “Are you sure you don’t want a quick peek?” she finally asked.

Yes! Winona tapped out. It… sounds like a very hardcore film. “Yeah! And a really interesting dive into romantic dysfunction.” Winona hadn’t expected an answer like that. She swayed silently to Kasey’s slight breath, weaving the beginnings of her next question. Everyone in a couple brings themselves to the relationship, she tapped, sharing the little pieces of love, anguish, and habits between each other. In a way, they become the other person’s pieces too—just like

with Sid and Nancy.

“This is a really cool part,” Kasey said eventually. “You should really see this.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Kasey lifted the bottom of her mask, just slightly, for Winona to take a peek.

Am I your secret? Or are you mine? A long silence hung between them. Beneath the noise of the movie, Winona noticed a steady drumming nearby. She immediately recognised it as one of Kasey’s new tics: a rolling pattern she would tap out whenever she was nervous.

A rickety river boat was filled to the brim with panicked punk rockers dashing to escape a police raid. Most fell to the ground and didn’t make it back up before they were thrown down and beaten by an officer. Through the middle of it all, Sid and Nancy walked arm-in-arm, as if the chaos would never touch them.

Kasey had been the one to offer her throat as a home for Winona. They kept the arrangement to themselves, enjoying the secret no one else knew.

But that wasn’t quite right, Winona realised. Maybe they weren’t afraid, because they were part of the chaos and brutality.

A spider making its home inside a human’s mouth, spinning its hidden web.

Winona had never been afraid of living inside Kasey, and had never been afraid of secrets.

Over time, the web caught treasured moments and secrets that never needed to leave Kasey’s mouth. They stayed safe inside the taut structure of Winona’s weaving.

Do you think everyone here is hiding a spider in their mouths, too?

“I… I don’t know any more,” Kasey said cautiously.

Illustrated by Zoë Hoffman

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Content Warning: references to death; snakes

We, the Fleas Written by Jessica Faulkner My best cursive sits on a headstone We wear name tags to bed As if the death-nurse does not know us And perhaps she does not Breath is soft and sweet as air And we are all final I lie under a tree And behold our earth Encircled by the snake We hatched and now deny Squeezing The soil sleeping Under the grass And on its field of scales, we sleep And on its field of scales, we sleep We We, the fleas

Illustrated by Ivan Jeldres

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Content Warning: illness and implied classism

Pay for a Pandemic written by Kiara Grace Speaker 1

Speaker 2

we hope to be

always full of complaints

in a position to be able to

undercut

do further work

with confidence

working on

those arrangements

working through

those issues there’s a difference between those two things

those arrangements

they’re also tax-deductible

we’re in another stage

as I had already flagged

we have to live with this

this pandemic

this virus

available at $15

it’s a test

you can’t make everything free someone’s always going to pay for it

for concessional access

for pensioners and others

everyone who is

when someone tells you

going to pay for it

stock their shelves

have a rapid antigen test

it will be you

a medicine

a test finalise those arrangements

make everything free

the big warehouse pharmacies

in a position to be able to

the other pharmacies

live

the private market

work

the supermarkets

with confidence

the government

needed confidence

testing regimes make them free

Note: This is a found poem made from excerpts of quotes by Prime Minister Scott Morrison. This material can be found via the following QR codes.

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Younger Siblings Written by Mia Pahljina The conversation continued like a river, energetically rolling on before slamming into rocks and getting redirected. The kind after a storm, full, sinuous, and rowdy, not the strained trickle that drips from the rock edge on the precipice of a drought.

sibling. Like all outshined.” The words flung out of me like unwanted spit and hung heavy in mid-air.

Hyde Park was painted green. Large fig trees cast splotchy shapes on the concrete path, which was covered in halfopened fruits; a tangerine-coloured blanket, sturdy from the press of loafers and high heels. Groups of people picnicked on plaid woollen rugs. A man in a suit crouched on the edge of a group, awkwardly attempting to enter the conversation. Two women shared sushi and concern over the happenings at work. We walked for hours that day, conversing in circles, but in the kind of way that was refreshing, rather than exhausting. I didn’t feel that way very often.

I shook my head in disbelief. We arrived at the fountain that stood tall in the centre of the park, and I stopped because it felt right. Bronze turtles spurted high-pressure water in semicircles. I got close enough to let the mist settle on my nose and breathed it in. Then we walked on, diffident and directionless. We didn’t seem to care exactly where we were headed on that day, nor how long it would take us.

The sunlight washed over us. He spoke about his brother, Daniel, who was twenty-five and in a long-term relationship with a twenty-nine-year-old woman, Kathy. They ran a climate activism group together. In return, I exchanged facts about Laura. Her love for marathon running and mountains, her job at Credit Suisse, and her highly-strung but loveable presence. I joked that Laura and Daniel would have been very well-suited together if they weren’t already in committed relationships. He laughed, in the light tone he always did: bubbly, low, addictive. Maybe, because we grew up beside them, like rocks carved by similar tidal waves, we would be good together, I thought. We ventured further into the park. The sun defiantly jumped through gaps in the trees and formed dapples on my skin. “This will probably sound stupid,” he said. He kept his eyes fixed on the path and stretched out his hand into the open air. “But I always feel small beside Daniel.” He dropped his hand limply back to his side. “I feel that way sometimes with Laura,” I said. I did. I knew that feeling like I did my sister. But there was something about the tone I said it in, or the fact that I was prompted by him, that made it sound like an empty empathy. He returned my gaze with a half-smile.

“That’s because you haven’t met Daniel.” He laughed; it was a kind of self-deprecating scoff. “You’d get it if you met him.”

“Growing up,” I said, “I kind of just did everything Laura wasn’t good at to differentiate myself.” My voice pierced through the tranquil ambience of the park. I had never liked it all that much. “She liked sport, so I took up sewing. She was great at Maths, so I was good at English. I guess I sort of just assembled myself, like a collage of disjoined images, from the remains of her half cut-out magazines. Then just stuck it all together with glue.” The shroud of trees that blanketed our bodies ended; uncertain steps thrust us beneath a stark white glare. “I guess, sometimes, it just makes me question…” I said. “How much of my identity was formed by just finding the spaces she wasn’t good at and wedging myself in those?” I kicked a fallen fig along the concrete, anxious that I had rambled too long. Then I looked up at him. There was something in his eyes, the softness in the greenish tint and the brown edge lining the iris. “I get that,” he said. I believed he did get it, and with such conviction too. I would have sworn an oath in a court that he had got it, and with that, he had gotten me.

“It’s funny,” I said. “I just can’t really picture you as the younger

Artwork by Ayushmaan Nagar

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