2022 Edition Two

ART · COMMENTARY · CULTURE · FICTION · NEWS · NON-FICTION · PHOTOGRAPHY · POETRY · SATIRE

Publishing the University of Melbourne's student writing and art since 1925

INADEQUATE STUDENT RENTAL RIGHTS AT UNIVERSITY ACCOMODATION Selina Zhang. p. 15

PANCHATANTRA: A LIFE KIT Akanksha Agarwal. p. 24

A NAME FOR A MONSTER Amara Cavahlo. p. 70

FOLKLORE Edition Two 2022

‘t bc t ext’

content warning: police brutality, genocide, racism, colonisation, stolen generations

Acknowledgement of Country Written by Lauren Scott. Arabana and Southern Aranda.

Farrago is written and published on unceded Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung land, and it is imperative that we acknowledge their sovereignty and pay our respects to their elders past and present—but I want to encourage readers to further interrogate what historic and present brutality the necessity to remember this implies.

All those who are not Indigenous living on stolen land, whether their ancestral roots extend hundreds of years or if they are first-generation, contribute to the continuing settler-colonial project of Australia, even without the intention to. The nation of Australia conceptually cannot exist without the ongoing subjugation of First Peoples—states must override the sovereignty of traditional lands, and a racial hierarchy of power must be entrenched into the various systems that form the foundation of this nation. Non-Indigenous people, who now forcibly form the large majority of the nation, must, and do, remain complicit in upholding these oppressive structures.

Indigenous people endure seemingly endless instances of this control and dispossession— most notably as of the publishing of this edition, the weaponisation of the judicial system to lock up and kill our people. Plain carnage of the past becomes countless deaths in custody, missions and stolen children take new forms in prisons and youth detention. As of 2022, there have been over five hundred Indigenous lives ended to police brutality in barely over 30 years, and there has not been one conviction of murder. This is not an accident; this is a state-sanctioned slaughter. The method of subjugation changes, but the intent remains constant. The colonisation of this land is an ongoing process reliant on the maintenance of oppressive systems, and to not act against this is to play your own part in it.

As our people continue to be massacred, our children locked up and taken, and our traditional lands gutted for urban expansion, mining, and resources, I can say without hesitance that an acknowledgement of country is not enough. Realise when your positionality is dependent on the oppression of another, actively decolonise your thinking, and show up for us when the state continues to brutalise our people. We are still here, but our pain continues on.

I pay my deepest respects to the Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung people of which I live and work on their lands as a visitor, who have survived and persevered through 234 years of colonisation in awe-inspiring strength. I acknowledge my own elders, my Arabana and Southern Aranda ancestors of which their endurance in brutalisation I credit my continued being to. But an acknowledgement of country is meaningless without tangible, decolonial action, and I encourage readers of this edition to carry this with them. Reflect on this, and act.

This always was, and always will be, Aboriginal land.

CONTENTS REGULARS 02 Contributors 03 Editorial 04 May UMSU Calendar 05 Radio Fodder Schedule Artwork by Alexi O'Keefe

12 Letters to the Editors, One45

Sentence Fairy Tales & Flash Fiction For and Against: Ed Sheeran Bella Farrelly, Chelsea Daniel, Madison Barr & Zachary Matthews

UMSU 06 UMSU Office Bearer Reports 08 Southbank Updates Xiaole Zhan

09 UMSU Updates Sophie Nguyen

NEWS 14 News-in-Brief The News Team

15 Inadequate Student Rental Rights at University Accommodation Selina Zhang

16 A Question of Dignity:

Period Poverty in Melbourne

24 Panchatantra: A Life Kit 26

Driving Stick

Leah Macdonald

28 Sad Girl: The Soundtrack of an Era Chelsea Daniel

30 Growing up a Misogynist Emma Xerri

34 Films for the Directionless 20-Year-Old

Daniel Snowden

Joel Duggan

CREATIVE 59 Busting

Sati Handan Öcal

62 Virgil's Eclogue I Michael Josefsson

64 to: life.

Tim Willett

SATIRE 19 Dear Diary:

The PM’s Retrospective Journal Jack McMahon

20 Satire-in-Brief

The Satire Team BREAKING: Farrago Shuts Down; Honi Soit Now Australia's Oldest Student Publication Pavani Ambagahawattha

RADIO FODDER

Aeva Milos

48 'Les Seins Percus' CJ Starc

54 Here, it's Quiet Clem McNabb

57 Featured Art

Sophie Sjostrom

Under the Apple and the Pear:

of Edwardian Arts and Kusama Yayoi

Donna Ferdinando

38 Filling Up The Static:

Rocket, Magic and Big Thief’s Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You

Stella Theocharides

40 Lost in Translation

Wei Ann Lai

58 Ordinary Phenomena:

太空 。

65 Orbits Tehreem Inam

with Busted Chops

Make Their Mark Off the Pitch

Ivan Jeldres

23 Featured Art

Wei Ann Lai

67 Jan 27 (Hardly Working)

18 From Punk to Paragon: FC St. Pauli

13 Featured Art

42 The Ironies of the Public House COLUMNS Emma Barrett 10 A Day at UniMelb: Travel 44 The Cost of Space Travel Weiting Chen Velentina Boulter 36 Facets of Madness 46 The LinkedIn Industrial Complex

66 New Year

Aeva Milos

ART

Akanksha Agarwal

Rebecca Reubenicht

17 A Farrago Family Dinner

22

NON-FICTION

Georgie Greentree Caitlyn Steer

70 A Name for a Monster Amara Cavahlo

76 The City of Light Tehreem Inam

78 The Well

Zoe Keeghan

80 On Holding Joel Keith

PHOTOGRAPHY 49 Featured Photography Christian Theodosiou Michael Sadeghi Tonia Pan Clem McNabb Maddy Cronn

Riley Morgan

Fireflies in the Suburbs

Helena Pantsis

60 Oyster: Eggs Sophia Zikic

68 Hocus-Pocus Recipes and Rituals: Making Fiction Come to Life!

Marcie Di Bartolomeo

71 Murder on the Dancefloor:

Tales from Late-Stage Hospitality The Staff Drinks

Rupert Azzopardi

72 A WIP Around the Workshop Modern Mythology: Creating our own Lore

Breana Galea – Creative Literature and Writing Society (C.L.A.W.S.)

74 DIY Craft Guide: Felt Craft Weiting Chen

32 Our Queen Taylor 33

Fodder Blog Team

Radio Fodder's Music & Film Picks Fodder Blog Team

Illustrated by Edie Spears

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EDITORS Charlotte Waters Jasmine Pierce Joanna Guelas Nishtha Banavalikar

COVER Edie Spiers

MANAGERS Akash Anil Nair Bayley Horne Ben Levy Carmen Chin Christina Savopoulos Emma Xerri Jordan Di Natale Mollie Crompton Pavani Ambagahawattha Samantha Shing Trang Dau

CONTRIBUTORS Aeva Milos Akanksha Agarwal Amara Cavahlo Bella Farrelly Caitlyn Steer Chelsea Daniel Emma Barrett Emma Xerri Georgie Greentree Jaz Thiele Joel Duggan Joel Keith Lauren Scott Leah Macdonald Madison Barr Michael Josefsson Pavani Ambagahawattha Rebecca Reubenicht Sati Handan Öcal Selina Zhang Sophie Sjostrom Tehreem Inam Tim Willett Velentina Boulter Wei Ann Lai Zachary Matthews Zoe Keeghan

COLUMNISTS Breana Galea (Creative Literature and Writing Society C.L.A.W.S) Donna Ferdinando

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Helena Pantsis Jack McMahon Marcie Di Bartolomeo Rupert Azzopardi Stella Theocharides

GRAPHIC COLUMNISTS Riley Morgan Sophia Zikic Weiting Chen

ONLINE COLUMNISTS Aries Chathuni Gunatilake Emma Xerri Fantasy and Science Fiction Appreciation Society (F.A.S.F.A.S.) Ishan Morris-Gray Nina Hughes Zoë Hoffman

NEWS TEAM Aeva Milos Alessandra Akerley Archie Bear Bayley Horne Brighton Wankeaw Dominique Jones Ella McCartney Joel Duggan Jordan Di Natale Josh Davis Kayra Meric Max Dowell Megan Tan Tan Miriam Litwin Patrick Sexton Rebecca Reubenich Selina Zhang Tianyu Wang Vanessa Chan

NEWS SUBEDITORS Beau Kent Daisy Assauw Emma Barrett George Tyurin Le Thuy Linh Nguyen Max Dowell Rico Sulamet Sarah Grace Pemberley Stephanie Umbrella Zara Feil

CREATIVE SUBEDITORS Aeva Milos Ava Nunan Breana Galea Chelsea Rozario Clem McNabb Helena Pantsis Izma Haider Jaz Thiele Laura Charlton Leah Macdonald Mary Hampton Melana Uceda Nalini Jacob-Roussety Nina Adams Romany Claringbull Rowan Burridge Tianyu Wang Xiaole Zhan Zoë Hoffman Zoe Keeghan

NON-FICTION SUBEDITORS Alexander Thomas Allegra McCormack Bella Sweeney Clem McNabb Bridget Schwerdt Emma Barrett Frank Tyson Gwynneth Thomas Helen Tran Leah Macdonald Livia Kurniawan Mary Hampton Millie McKellar Samson Cheung Sara Vojdani Sarah Pemberton Sophie Lodge Sunnie Habgood Susan Fang Tegan Lyon Thalia Blackney Yoly (Yuzheng) Li Zara Feil Zhiyou Low Zoe Eyles Zoe Hoffman

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

Zoe Eyles Zoë Hoffman

ILLUSTRATORS

PHOTO & VIDEO TEAM

Amani Nasarudin Amber Jepsen Amber Liang Arielle Vlahiotis Ashlea Banon Ayushmaan Nagar Birdy Carmen Casey Boswell Cathy Chen Chelsea Rozario Claire Hoang Edie Spiers Ella Cao Evan Goulios Grace Reeve Ivan Jeldres Jessica Norton Joanne Guo Leilani Leon Manyu Wang Marchella RuscianoBarrow Matilda Lilford Meadow Nguyen Melana Uceda Monica Yu Niamh Corbett Nina Hughes Pamela Piechowicz Riley Morgan Sally Yuan Weiting Chen Yicheng Xu

Illustration by Ashlea Banon

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

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

FODDER BLOG TEAM Alexia Shaw Aeva Milos Beatrix Brenneman Benley Nguyen Chelsea Rozario Isabella Ross Lochlainn Heley

Maia Everist-Migliore Olivia Ryan Padmo Widyaseno Rhea Chatterji Sherry Tay Tanisha Khan Zac Eaton

FODDER BLOG SUBEDITORS Elina Pugacheva Issy Abe-Owensmith Joel Duggan Nikita Mohar-Williams Pamela Piechowicz Saanjana Kapoor Samson Cheung Sarah Pemberton Thalia Blackney Zhiyou Low

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

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.

EDITORIAL

EDITORIAL

The inhabitants of Parkville Forest are many and loud. As you traipse through the trees, you might glimpse the heel of a Doc Marten in motion, or a flash of a stray political poster.

In the deepest part of the forest, at the top the tallest tree, sits the humble room where our story begins. Travellers call it the ‘Media Space’, and tell tales of its abundant array of teas, biscuits and beautiful treetop views—but before you’ve had a chance to marvel at it, its door bursts open, and four elves emerge to welcome you. They have the frazzled aura of beings who always seem to be running late, though you’re never quite sure where to.

Throughout the day, all sorts of strange and beautiful creatures ring the doorbell. They move around tables, toadstools and chintz chairs, make tea, and form circles amongst themselves. Some of them blast music through the forest and broadcast their voices through thaumaturgy, others paint the grass and the trees in bright colours, and others still open up scrolls and annotate the margins with a careful hand.

But the majority of the creatures crowd around one corner, as you peer between their heads and shoulders, you catch a glimpse of the wonder (or horror?) that’s taking shape. It’s a great gingerbread man, covered in frosting and sugary sweets and colours that haven’t yet been invented. If you ask them nicely, they’ll tell you their name: Edition Two. * You take a bite of Edition Two’s dough, and it transports you to the news section. Turn every page: we’re talking modern soccer mythology, we’re talking about stories of communities, and of course, in true Farrago tradition, we’re talking about the University being shit to students. What is Farrago’s folklore if not fighting for students, if not talking about taboo subjects, if not talking about niche subjects (content warning for jazz)?

Then, with soft hands, you pick off one of their buttons, roll it between your teeth, and find yourself in the land of non-fiction. It’s chosen to centre itself on culture, featuring dissections of Indian mythology and an analysis of the everchanging conventions of Australian society through the public house. There are several feature pieces that tackle the dehumanisation of the ‘LinkedIn Industrial Complex’, the rise of the ‘Sad Girl’ in pop culture, and the heavy disconnect of our obsession with exploring the farthest reaches of space when the ground around us is destroyed every day.

As the icing coats your tongue, an unexpected creativity begins to swell within you. The creative section retells, translates, and breathes new life into folktales that have been passed down through many generations. But it also writes its own folklores: it pans out to imagine cosmic, celestial folklores, and then zooms in on tender, interpersonal folklores, immortalising friendships and relationships.

Pleased with what you’ve tasted, you stand back and survey the masterpiece. Many of this edition’s illustrations and art pieces capture scenes from folktales, imagining them from a fresh angle. Others capture the essence of fairy tales: they invent monstrous and marvellous creatures, or place the viewer inside the landscape of a dream. * Sure, Edition Two didn’t surrender themselves to the oven without a fight. The elves had to run through thickets and cobwebs in the shape of apprenticeship commitments, SummerFest scrolls, and even a rampant plague. But they’re here now, and as they prepare to open the oven door, they’d like to thank their fellow contributing creatures for their endless help kneading the dough and polishing the buttons of Edition Two.

Illustration by Sample Student Illustration by Ashlea Banon

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calendar /

MONDAY 23

TUESDAY17

TUESDAY 24

1pm - Enviro Collective 1pm - Bands & Bevs & BBQ 2pm - Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective 2pm - Trans Collective 3pm - Women's Collective

MONDAY 30

TUESDAY 31 2.15pm - Burnley Yoga

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WEDNESDAY 18

1pm - POC Activist Collective 1pm - POC Collective 1pm - Enviro Clothes Swap 5pm - Queer Political 2pm - Rural, Regional & Action Collective Interstate Collective 2pm - Trans Collective 2.15pm - Burnley Yoga 3pm - Women's Collective 6pm - Bands & Bevs After Dark

12pm - Queer Lunch 12pm - Queer x Southbank Collective 4pm - Creative Arts Collective 5pm - Queer & Questioning Support Group

DAILY EVENTS:

WEDNESDAY 25

1pm - POC Collective 5pm - Queer Political Action Collective

THURSDAY 12

12pm - Disabilities Collective 1pm - Bla(c)k Collective 1pm - Education Action Collective 2pm - Enviro Justice Collective 4pm - Women’s x POC Collective 5pm - G&T’s with LGBT’s 6pm - First Nations, Bla(c)k & POC Queer Party

THURSDAY 19

1pm - Bla(c)k Collective 1pm - Education Action Collective 2pm - Enviro Justice Collective 4pm - Women’s x POC Collective 5pm - G&T’s with LGBT’s

THURSDAY 26

1pm - Bla(c)k Collective 1pm - Education Action Collective 1pm - POC Activist Collective 2pm - Enviro Justice Collective 4pm - Women’s x POC Collective 5pm - G&T’s with LGBT’s

umsu.unimelb.edu.au/events

8-10am - Wellfare Breakfast 11am-1pm - Union Mart Open @ Union House Cafeteria

Illustrated by Edie Spiers

FRIDAY 13

1pm - Queer x POC Collective 2pm - ARO/ACE Collective 5pm - EuroParty ‘22 Time TBC - Feminist Workshop

FRIDAY 20

1pm - Queer x POC Collective 2pm - ARO/ACE Collective 4pm - Feminist Action Collective 4pm - Media x Creative Arts Collective

WEEK 9

FRIDAY 6

1pm - Queer x POC Collective 2pm - ARO/ACE Collective 2pm - Queer x Media Collective 2.30pm - UMSUi x CAPS Student Wellbeing Workshop 4pm - Feminist Action Collective 5.30pm - Creative Arts PLOM (Pot Luck Open Mic Night)

WEEK 10

WEDNESDAY 11

1pm - POC Collective 1pm - Creative Arts Embroidary Workshop 5pm - Queer Political Action Collective

THURSDAY 5

12pm - Disabilities Collective 1pm - Bla(c)k Collective 1pm - Education Action Collective 2pm - Enviro Justice Collective 4pm - Women’s x POC Collective 5pm - G&T’s with LGBT’s 5pm - Night Market

WEEK 11

MONDAY 16

12pm - Queer Lunch 12pm - Queer x Southbank Collective 4pm - Creative Arts Collective 5pm - Queer & Questioning Support Group

TUESDAY 10

1pm - Enviro Collective 1pm - Bands & Bevs & BBQ 2pm - Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective 2pm - Trans Collective 2.15pm - Burnley Yoga 3pm - Women's Collective 4.30pm - Social Robotics

WEDNESDAY 4

12-2pm Education BBQ @ South Court 1pm - POC Collective 5pm - Queer Political Action Collective

FRIDAY 27

1pm - Queer x POC Collective 2pm - ARO/ACE Collective 2pm - Queer x Media Collective Time TBC - Feminist Workshop 5pm - Farrago Edition 3 Launch Party @ The Ida!

WEEK 12

MONDAY 9

11.30pm - Burnley Coffee Collective 12pm - Queer Lunch 12pm - Queer x Southbank Collective 2pm - Queer x Creative Arts Drag Makeup Workshop 4pm - Creative Arts Collective 5pm - Queer & Questioning Support Group

TUESDAY 3

1pm - Enviro Collective 1pm - POC Activist Collective 2pm - Rural, Regional & Interstate Collective 2pm - Trans Collective 2.15pm - Burnley Yoga 3pm - Women's Collective 6pm - Bands & Bevs After Dark

SWOT VAC

MONDAY 2

12pm - Queer Lunch 12pm - Queer x Southbank Collective 4pm - Creative Arts Collective 5pm - Queer & Questioning Support Group

may

/ radio fodder

SEMESTER 1 SCHEDULE 2022 LISTEN LIVE AT RADIOFODDER.COM Monday 12:00

Tuesday

Coffee Breaks

Wednesday

Thursday

Clubs Chat

crushcrushcrush

Friday

Saturday Student & Local Music Hour

1:00

2:00

Little Brown Girl Discussions

3:00

Bollywood Buzz

4:00

Identity Unknown

5:00

The Dish

bell hooks & Jars

Duck, Duck, Queer

Radio Sci-Lens

This Should be a Netflix Documentary

6:00

7:00

Writer’s Jam

Rock Room

Thanks for the Angst

Illustrated by Alexi O'Keefe

Public Playlist

70’s Saturday

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UMSU / President | Sophie Nguyen Please refer to UMSU Updates on page 9.

General Secretary | Amelia Bright (Former General Secretary as of 12 April) Hello! I’ve been chairing a *bunch* of meetings. Some Students’ Council, Operations Sub-Committee, the Constitution, Regulations & Policy Working Group, it’s all happening! The latter is something we’re working very hard on to get our ducks in a row in time for an Annual General Meeting (that includes all of our lovely members!) in May of this year. Basically everything we’ve been doing has been scouring all of our regulatory framework to ensure we’re operating in tip-top shape for our members! We have also now opened Student Initiative Grants for 2022. You can find details and apply on the UMSU Website.

Clubs & Societies | Eleanor Cooney Hunt and Benito Di Battista Hello fellow students. C&S department here to tell you about what we’ve been doing these past few weeks. If anyone walked by South Lawn in Week 1 you may have seen a few clubs hanging around and a small crowd of people becoming members. This was our Clubs Expo! First large-scale in-person club expo in a while so hopefully everyone enjoyed it. The next few weeks there won’t be many events run by us, however you may notice clubs running more and more events around campus. That’s because right now we are focusing on club grants and admin stuff.

Creative Arts | Prerna Aggarwal and Marcie Di Bartolomeo We’ve done so much so far this semester! We had Arty Party Under the Stars and it was a dazzling good time; students got to wear dazzling, shining costumes, and hear all about us and all the wonderful ways they can get involved and get creative! Our collective has returned, our student artist spotlight has returned, and our grants program is returning again and again, round after round to support ye olde students of UniMelb! We’ve got our fabled PLOM returning as well. What is PLOM ye may ask? Why it’s our Pot Luck Open Mic Night—where we bring the food and drinks, and you bring your arty talents to showcase!

Education Academic | Ethan Georgeou and Moira Negline Between battling Summerfest, Covid-19™ and The Flu™, Ed Ac has been kicking absolute goals! We’ve just published our Know Your University Handbook (online and in stands now!!) and have been busy with the Student Representative Network (SRN) to ensure students’ voices are heard across the University. We’ve also launched a Return to Campus Reporting Form, where students can express their concerns for Covid-Safety and teaching quality—check out the website for more info! Rumour has it a BBQ is coming to drum up student input…

Education Public | Benjamin Jarick and Ruby Craven Hi all! Get involved with our campaign to stop the Menzies Institute, a far-right wing think tank on campus. Follow UMSU Education on FB or Instagram to get updates on all of our campaigns. For fun chats and free pizza, come to our collectives! Rural, Regional and Interstate Collective runs Tuesday at 2pm, while our activist collective, the Education Action Collective, runs Thursday at 1pm. Both are in Training Room 1, Level 3 of Union House. More details on our socials. See you there!

Burnley | Kaitlyn Hammond Due to circumstances, an OB report could not be submitted.

Disabilities | Betty Zhang and Prachi Uppal It has been an exciting time for us to welcome students back to our stunning Disabilities Space (Level 3 Union House) and get our collectives up and running! Come along to our fortnightly Mental Wellness Collective at 10-11am on Mondays and weekly autonomous Disabilities Collective at 12-1pm on Thursdays. Amazing free food guaranteed! Summerfest was an absolute blast, and we hope students are enjoying using their Wellbeing Trackers as the semester gets underway. Make sure to keep an eye on our socials for more exciting ways to get involved in our department! Questions, concerns, comments? Your feedback is always welcome in our inbox: disabilities@union.unimelb.edu.au

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/ UMSU Indigenous | Brittney Henderson and Harley Lewis Semester has officially started! We have met our beautiful fresh Blak students and we are so excited to get to know them even better. We survived Summerfest! Our Welcome Back event was a massive success, it was lovely to talk to our cohort in an autonomous, safe and warm environment. Wominjeka had a huge turnout with over 300 people coming to witness Uncle Bill Nicholson performing a smoking ceremony. We’re so proud and grateful to have played a role in facilitating such an important cultural event. Indigenous Nationals planning is well and truly underway; we’re currently in the process of holding try-outs. More exciting events are coming, we can’t wait to share all this Blak excellence with you all.

People of Colour | Hiba Adam and Kyi Phyu Moe Htet The People of Colour department has been busy at work the last few weeks! We have had our first event during Summerfest, Games Night, which had 45 people turn up to it!! Our collectives have also all started, so make sure to check out our social media platforms for their schedules. Anti-racism workshops applications are also open, so apply if you are keen to deliver one.

Activities | Bella Henry and Sami Zehir Activities did not submit a report.

Queer | Rook Davis and Rose Power

Queer has been super busy lately, especially with Queer Lunch and G&Ts with LGBTs. We’ve been so happy to meet everyone and we hope this extraordinary attendance will continue into the semester.

Southbank | Nina Mountford, Jack Doughty, Alex Birch and Xiaole Zhan Greetings from Southbank!! Students here are loving being on campus again and creating new art.

They’ve also been enjoying our collectives, social events, free food, and performance opportunities!

We’ve all been so super busy helping to create an awesome and welcoming campus culture—along with getting recognised in between classes as that guy who wore the purple banana costume whilst riding a purple trike during Summerfest. Make sure to follow us on our socials (Insta: umsu_southbank, FB: @umsusouthbank) to stay up to date on our upcoming events and performances!! We’re really excited to continue showcasing student art and supporting students.

Women’s | Lauren Scott and Kraanti Agarwal [cw/s; sexual misconduct (no explicit detail), institutional negligence, transphobia (no explicit detail)] March has been both illuminating and emotionally taxing for survivors on campus. UMSU Women’s sends our love and solidarity, and condemns institutional negligence and inaction. The National Student Safety Survey (NSSS) report and findings will be released on 23 March, and the Women’s Department looks towards this to form the foundation of their work on campus safety this year. Come to our Feminist Action Collectives every odd-numbered week Fridays at 4pm to help shape and organise campaign efforts going forward. Every other Friday will be Feminist Workshops, and our first one will be why trans-exclusionary feminist rhetoric is so harmful.

Welfare | Office was vacant at time of writing.

Environment | Chelsea Daniel and Zachary Matthews Howdy! It’s been a hectic few weeks since we last explained what we’ve been up to. Our divestment campaign has launched, including our cheeky little Farrago article that explains what that all means.

Divestment campaigning has taken up most of our time, and we have reached over 500 signatures in less than a month. Your voice is important so if you haven’t signed yet, please do! We are showing the university the petition in late March, so get in those signatures QUICK! We are also busy organising the contingent to the climate strike on 25 March with UMSU Indigenous and UMSU POC as we stand in solidarity with climate strikers all over the world. We have also been running events, with our Summerfest events running smoothly. Our collectives are back up and running (Tuesdays 1-2pm and Thursdays 2-3pm if you’re keen hehe). Keep an eye out for our clothes swap, including an even bigger event in April, our Radical Reading Library, and upcoming talks panels within the next few months.

If you want to hear more, sign up to our mailing list on the UMSU website and keep up to date on umsuenviro on Instagram and our FB page.

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UMSU /

Southbank Updates Written by Xiaole Zhan We really have all collectively crashed into the first few weeks of uni, haven’t we? Well done for surviving thus far. I know we’ve been working some crazy schedules at the VCA and MCM (Music Theatre, Dance students, and that one violinist who practices for 6hrs a day in the sweaty 862 practice rooms, I’m looking at you) so some of us may be feeling a little overwhelmed or burnt out as we approach our first assignment crunch time!

That’s where UMSU Southbank is here to help! Make some friends who remind you to drink your glass of water for the study sesh *and* send photographic evidence by coming along to our monthly social events, free fortnightly BBQs, and autonomous collectives. Fill up on free groceries for the week from our Bread Bin at the Southbank Student Hub. We are here for you.

Our first Welcome Party at Betwixt was a lovely, artsy affair with live music, free drinks and food (Yes, there was beautifully golden-crisp arancini and sauce with an artistic flourish along the rustic-blue rectangular plates on the menu. For free!). We also had our first Southbank Queer Collective for the year last week with good vibes and free snacks. Rumour has it there will be some crafty banner painting happening at the next session so don’t miss out! Our first free BBQs will be starting up (fortnightly, Tuesdays 12-1) as well as our first Southbank Disabilities Collective (Friday 1-2 in the UMSU Southbank Office).

UMSU Updates

We are also here to hold the University accountable. If you run into any issues in any of your courses, or are just facing any problem you can’t handle on your own, flick us an email at: southbank@union.unimelb.edu.au.

Follow us on our socials, too, so you don’t miss out on any of our future free events!

Facebook: @umsusouthbank Instagram: @umsu_southbank Also, catch us in our office on Level 2 of the Southbank Library/ Student Hub! If you’re lucky, you might catch our notorious giant walking banana mascot lurking the corridors…

Love, Your UMSU Southbank Family x

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Illustration by Marchella Rusciano-Barrow

content warning: sexual assault/sexual harassment in no explicit detail

/ UMSU

UMSU Updates

Summerfest was a blast! It was amazing to see people’s faces both on campus and online. Thank you to everyone who attended our events, we’re so keen to continue these services! We will be having our O-Week in Semester 2 called Winterfest!

Lately, I’ve been working with the Education Departments and the Women’s Department to advocate to the University on two main issues: •

First is COVID safety on campus. We are ensuring that the University is transparent with ventilation details and information for masks, positive cases, and RATs. The Education Department has also advocated a smooth and fair process in deallocation of student’s who haven’t verified their vaccination status.

•

Second is sexual assault and sexual harassment (SA/SH) on campus. UMSU is dedicated to our Zero Tolerance policy. We are consistently working towards a trauma-informed and survivor centric approach from the University in handling cases of misconduct.

•

If you or some you know needs support, please reach out to UMSU’s Sexual Harm Response Coordinators who can assist you through advice and referrals via the UMSU website: umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/survivors/contact-shrc

UMSU Environment has also launched their Divestment Campaign that calls on the University to divest from fossil fuels and invest in renewable energy instead. It’s an important campaign during the climate crisis—and important for the University to actively back the science behind climate change.

Union House food venues are closed besides Ho Ho’s and Pronto’s! We are working with the University to make sure that there are food trucks around when UMSU doesn’t have a free food event as we transition in moving to the Student Precinct. If you’ve got ideas about what Union House can be turned into, send them through to president@union. unimelb.edu.au! I’d love to hear them.

UMSU’s Constitution, Regulation, and Policy Working Group is now open for all UMSU members. If you’re a student and would like to attend, please contact the General Secretary at secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au. It’s a great opportunity to have your say on what governs your student union!

Like always—if you have concerns, please email me at president@union.unimelb.edu.au.

— Sophie Nguyen, UMSU President

Illustration by Nina Hughes

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graphic column /

10

‘A Day at Unimelb’ by Weiting Chen

/ graphic column

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regulars /

Letters to the Editors If you want to write a letter to the editors, email editors@farragomagazine.com

Farrago editors!!!I!!!

Hate how COOL you guys are.

STAY COOL! ~electric guitar flourish~

—Melana

One-Sentence Fairy Tales The Drowning Mermaid She fished for trash like treasure, plastic rings and blue bottle caps, but the piles now tower too high: she cannot see where the sun breaks through the water.

—Jaz Thiele Untitled Spring When my incisor wobbles—pulls— falls, I slip it under my pillow, and wake to a bed full of pansies.

—Jaz Thiele

“Only true love’s kiss will save you!” the magician howled, but she knew and accepted and loved herself for everything she was, so she pressed her lips to her own wrist and the curse was shattered before it had even begun.

—Zoe Keeghan

Flash Fiction: ‘Renewal’ The attic was covered with the smell of youth. Leaves. I was transported. I was moving into my dorm, and outside my window stood an oak tree. Between assignments, classes and friends, there was not much time for flora. Yet, I admired its ability to transcend time, unaffected by changing weather.

Then, it moved. I wandered to the enclave, and found a hollow. I stepped into it, greeted by an ocean of fairies, glowing like fireflies, their wings buzzing. Inside was an angsty warlock. The green glimmer in the eyes was unmistakable: magic. Before I knew it, my hair turned starlight, sallow lines replacing what once was skin.

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Illustrated by Jasmine Pierce

NEWS Artwork by Ivan Jeldres

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news /

content warning: sexual assault/sexual harassment in no explicit detail

NEWS-IN-BRIEF Written by the News Team

Back to Campus

Flooding in NSW/Queensland

Semester 1 2022 marks the return to physical classes after two years of online learning. The University is utilising their three subject delivery modes: dual-delivery; on campus; and online.

There are COVID-19 requirements for studying on campus: students must validate their COVID-19 vaccination status with the University in order to attend campus and utilise physical services. With the return, libraries, study spaces, sports facilities, galleries, remaining food options, and cafes have returned to their normal operating hours.

Mid-February 2022 saw the beginning of one of Australia’s worst recorded flood disasters that are currently occurring at time of writing.These floods are affecting South East Queensland, Wide BayBurnett, and parts of coastal New South Wales.

20,000 houses were destroyed in Brisbane alone, with 23 people known to have died during the flooding. On 9 March, around 100 Lismore (NSW) locals protested to Prime Minister Scott Morrison but were denied to meet him in person; many have criticised the Federal Government’s slow response to the flooding.

AFLW Preliminary Finals

2022 AFL Season

The 2022 AFLW Preliminary Finals Match between Melbourne Demons and Brisbane Lions made AFLW history. The match, which played out in the first week of April, was the first AFLW game to play at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG)— the ‘spiritual’ home of Australian football. Tickets were made free for the match, which was won by Melbourne. As of writing, the Grand Final between Adelaide Crows and Melbourne will be played at Adelaide Oval on 9 April; Playing the Grand Final at the home ground of the team at the top of the ladder (Adelaide in 2022) is an AFLW Tradition.

Happy 2022 Toyota AFL Premiership Season! The footy returns and brings with us full capacity stadiums. Notable stand out games lie with Carlton, who won their Round 1 and Round 2 matches for the first time since 2012; Lance ‘Buddy’ Franklin became the sixth person to reach the 1000 Goals landmark in the Round 2 Sydney v Geelong match. The 2022 Seasons has seen the introduction of the COVID-19 Contingency List: each club can nominate up to 20 players to sit on this list to give them team selection flexibility in the event that they struggle to field a team.

This works to prevent game rescheduling in order to ensure the season goes as planned.

Melbourne International Comedy Festival Returns

Ash Barty Retires

The Melbourne International Comedy Festival (MICF) is back, having launched its 36th year on 29 March. The MICF is one of Australia’s largest cultural events; the MICF happens annually and spans three weeks and a half. The 2022 MICF consists of 500 shows, over 1,000 artists, and features an increase of 45% in the number of venues. The Victorian Government has partnered with the MICF, offering audiences the opportunity to claim a rebate of 25% when they spend $40 or more on tickets in a single transaction; this is part of the State Government’s Victorian Dining and Entertainment Program which seeks to encourage Victorians to eat and drink local.

Three-time Grand Slam winner and World No.1 Ash Barty announced her shock retirement at the age of 25 in the interview with her former doubles partner Casey Dellacque, saying that she has “given absolutely everything [she] can to this beautiful sport of tennis”. Barty has had a decorated career not just in tennis, but in cricket as well: she has 15 Career Singles Titles, spent 121 Weeks at World No. 1, 3 Consecutive Year-End No. 1, and was undefeated in 2022. With more time now available after retiring, Barty is “really excited to have the opportunity to give Indigenous youth, Aboriginal youth around our nation, more opportunity to get into sport”.

National Student Safety Survey Results Released in March 2022, the National Student Safety Survey found that 5.5% of surveyed UniMelb students have experienced sexual assault while 18.5% have experienced sexual harassment since starting their studies at the University. 12.6% of students experiencinng sexual harrass in the past 12 months identified as ‘differently-described’ gender, the highest amongst all surveyed gender groups. Nearly 40% of sexual harrassment take place in general campus areas however, only 1.9% of these students have complained formally to the University and 56.5% have no or little knowledge about where to report sexual harrassment.

The figure of students experiencing sexual assaults without information how to file a complaint even reaches 59.3%. The UniMelb Provost Nicola Phillips promised to work to “eliminate sexual misconduct in all forms”.

If you or anyone you know needs support around SA/SH, please refer to: umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/ survivors/

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Illustrated by Yicheng Xu

/ news

Inadequate Student Rental Rights at University Accommodation Written by Selina Zhang Since the University of Melbourne’s first student-accommodation residence was established in 2019, many renters have experienced abridged rights and unfair penalties. Consequently, there are doubts surrounding the tenability of university lodging policy, and its unique position in Victoria’s rental sector.

What makes university accommodation ‘different?’

Legal exemptions granted to University-owned accommodation have directly impacted the rights and entitlements of student renters.

Under Section 21 of Victoria’s Residential Tenancies Act (RTA), accommodation providers owned by—or affiliated with—educational establishments are exempt from complying with the Act. Not only does this result in a lower threshold of institutional accountability, but it also prevents students from accessing the same defences normally available to renters.

As University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) Legal Service Lawyer Isabelle Butler explained: “Although the rationale behind such an exemption is that University-owned accommodation supposedly provides a notably different, more holistic living environment, students are nonetheless ‘carved out’ from protections offered by the RTA.” What’s more, while students can seek remedies from contract or consumer law, Butler added that these are “likely to be vastly more complex, expensive, timely, and difficult to pursue than tenancy protections through the Act … There’s a reason why rental laws are in place to protect tenants. And, [sic] from our perspective, we don’t really see why students in these situations should be exempt from those protections”.

Are the University’s rental procedures justifiable?

The University’s exemption from the RTA has, as Butler stated, formed the basis for its propensity to “include terms that are more onerous than would be allowed under residential tenancy law”.

Some terms include penalties which are unfair and excessive, such as the withholding of academic results due to rental arrears.

Without its exemption, the University would be subject to Section 505 of the RTA, which prohibits owners from imposing penalties for noncompliance other than rent, or other amounts provided for under the Act. Lawyers at the UMSU Legal Service regard these penalties as “outrageous [and] inappropriate … students renting should in no way be connected to their studies”.

Accommodation disputes and resident experience Since 2019, the UMSU Legal Service has assisted with 22 disputes involving university-owned accommodation.

However, this number is expected to increase due to the University’s opening of new commercial residences, such as Little Hall, and the return of international students.

According to Butler, these figures “do not reflect the reality of how many complaints there may be in future”.

In addition, the University’s rigid early termination policies, especially during Melbourne’s extensive lockdown, have been deemed unreasonably inflexible.

Alex*, a former Little Hall resident, said the accommodation team used “over-scrupulous excuses to reject applications [for early termination]”.

“I felt that the University might have prioritised keeping more residents at this newly-built accommodation to pay full rent and gain commercial profit, rather than … [prioritising] residents’ wellbeing,” they continued.

Their reflection on Little Hall’s “cold, hard-lined approach to minimising loss” subsequently highlights how students feel that rental rights at university student-accommodation have been compromised by a conflict of interest between financial viability and duty of care.

Is there potential for reform and redress?

While experiences like Alex’s appear to have emerged due to persistent lockdowns, Butler argued that these problems have existed “long before COVID ever hit, and will probably continue long afterwards, unless that exemption is removed”.

As long as the exemption remains, she said that “the only avenues available to students for resolving disputes … is something like pursuing a claim to the Civil Claims List of the Victorian Civil Administrative Tribunal … which, again, is just not targeted to resolving what are, basically, rental disputes”.

However, the University has rejected any need for a change to their rental policies.

“Residents’ rights are very clear in their agreements,” said Cameron Bestwick, Manager of Student Accommodation at the University of Melbourne.

“The University updates the agreements every year and maintains an open invitation, all-year round, for students to recommend changes to the agreements. Unfortunately … we’ve never received one.”

Roundtable discussions between legal and rental advocates have proposed the formulation of a standard-form accommodation agreement, which would facilitate greater negotiation between renters and university housing operators.

These solutions sound favourable to students like Alex, who believes “having consultations with student renters regarding their rights, and clearly stating their grounds in the student occupancy agreement, will ensure renters’ rights are not violated”.

Despite being a step in the right direction, the UMSU Legal Service maintains this agreement “doesn’t go far enough, [as it] still leaves a lot of problems to resolve”.

“Exemption from the Act … can only increase the disadvantage faced [by students], and reduce the options for speedy and cost-effective resolution,” said Butler.

As university student-accommodation begins to fill up once more, it remains to be seen how contrasting viewpoints on the necessity, and extent of, rental reform will impact attempts to strengthen student rights.

If you are a current University of Melbourne student who needs legal advice, please contact the UMSU Legal Service on their website: www.umsu.unimelb. edu.au/legal *Name changed at source’s request.

Illustrated by Meadow Nguyen

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news /

content warning: period poverty, menstruation (mentions in no explicit detail: domestic violence, exclusion of trans community)

A Question of Dignity: Period Poverty in Melbourne Written by Rebecca Reubenicht Period poverty has a deceptively sweet alliterative name.

It could slip unnoticed into a list: pears, poppies, piglets, period poverty, and periwinkle.

But beyond its innocent name lies a lack of access to necessary period products, hygienic facilities, education, and open conversations.

Period poverty exists in that 15% of menstruating Victorians are unable to afford period products when they need them.

The unemployed, homeless people, those fleeing domestic violence, and the LGBTQIA+ community are disproportionately affected.

“Period poverty is more prevalent than people realise,” said Kimberley Price, who works with The Cova Project, a nonprofit organisation that aims to provide safe period supplies to developing countries. “[It] can affect people in developing regions who have to choose between buying a sanitary product from their supermarket shelf or food for the week.”

Higher education students are also affected by period poverty.

Almost half of people who menstruate at least sometimes miss class because of their periods.

“While the University should be committed to providing free menstrual products on campus, the UMSU Women’s Department has a wide variety of stock available for free, no questions asked... [a]dditionally, Queer Space on [Union House] level 3 also has menstrual products available.”

The wider City of Melbourne is also trialling the instalment of free period product vending machines at six locations across the inner city.

And since 2016, Australian initiative Share the Dignity has installed 265 of their own free Dignity Vending Machines across the country.

But period poverty isn’t just about products. It’s also about discourse and stigma.

“Things that people can’t talk openly about face a lot more resistance and tension and shame,” said Matt Cohen, co-founder of Melbourne business Bloody Good Bins. “[P]eople don’t necessarily feel that they can… talk about it with their doctor or health professional, but even just mention it to a friend, [and] say ‘hey is this normal?’”

Currently, the University of Melbourne does not supply free period products on its campuses.

To this end, Bloody Good Bins create eye-catching and euphemism-free period bins. Rather than the deliberately inconspicuous, bluey-greyish period bins, these bins aim to generate attention and start conversations about periods and menstrual health.

At time of writing, the University also does not have plans to supply free period products for its menstruating students.

Also rarely acknowledged is the range of gender identities of people who menstruate.

When questioned about students experiencing period poverty, a University spokesperson said, “[S]tudents can access financial grants to assist with essential living expenses, including sanitary products. We encourage any student experiencing financial hardship to contact the University of Melbourne’s Financial Aid team.”

“[M]enstruation is not a gendered experience,” added Scott and Agarwal.

“Not having access to adequate sanitary items... sees people falling behind their non-menstruating peers,” added Price.

The University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) Women’s Officers Lauren Scott and Aashi (Kraanti) Agarwal condemn the University’s lack of initiative on free period products.

“Having menstrual products only available at a convenience store or off-campus entirely denies students struggling financially the

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ability to pursue study without discomfort and shame,” said Scott and Agarwal.

“Menstrual products should be made accessible to people of all genders, and period poverty will never truly be combatted without due consideration to this.”

To stop period poverty slipping quietly into the background takes free period product initiatives from the University, accessible vending machines, and bright bins. It takes new, broad, possibly awkward conversations.

It takes calling a period a period. Period.

Illustrated by Chelsea Rozario

/ culture

A Farrago Family Dinner with Busted Chops Written by Aeva Milos Melbourne live music is finally making a comeback and on a Tuesday night in December, in front of a sweaty crowd at a local Fitzroy pub, a band is taking to the stage. It’s a sound unlike the indie alt-rock scene Melbourne is known for—that’s because it’s a Busted Chops gig. And at a Busted Chops gig, they play a genre-defying fusion that playfully pushes the boundaries of performance.

Formed after meeting at university, the five-piece ensemble consists of Jess Mahler (alto sax), Matt Trigge (trumpet), Dave Faulkner (guitar), Ashleigh Howell (bass guitar) and Mia Rowland (drums). Busted Chops are still fresh to the stage and yet, they’re already bringing something new to the table.

“Performing with Busted Chops is like drinking a shot of fireball and eating a pineapple,” said guitarist Dave Faulkner.

The band plays an eclectic and groovy mix of genres, weaving through improvised solos and licks. This blending of styles makes it hard to exactly pinpoint the band’s sound.

“We don’t know how to describe our band yet,” said saxophonist Jess Mahler, although this doesn’t seem to bother them at all.

Their music is quite unique to the local Melbourne scene, though worldwide it’s a genre that is gaining fast traction. Busted Chops are part of a new generation of jazz performers rejuvenating and modernising groove fusion as we know it. The crowds that form during a Busted Chops set don’t just awkwardly stand around and listen, but jump, whistle, and cheer as the band is playing.

Like any good gig, it’s loud and incredibly immersive.

“Combining improvisation with music people can dance to is just so enjoyable and rewarding to play,” said trumpeter Matt Trigge.

Set to release their debut EP this year, the band hopes it will be a chance to showcase their sound and finally put an end to the burning question of: so what kind of music do you play?

“This [the EP] is us, this is what you can expect if you’re around,” said Mahler.

Taking place over two days, the process of recording the EP was both new and collaborative.

“We’re such a live band that recording us is such a weird experience and when we have to listen back to it, we’re really critical of ourselves,” added Mahler.

“I think since doing the recording, we have played together better than we ever have.”

“We know each other’s playing styles so well now that we can read each other and play off one another which is really exciting,” added bassist Ashleigh Howell.

A strong influence for Busted Chops has been Colleen Wurfel, their close friend and supporter, who the band refers to as ‘Coach Colleen’.

“The sixth silent member of this band… silent not so much,” describes Mahler.

As the band plays their set, Wurfel wanders in and out of the crowd in a neon yellow vest, grinning widely, and selling handmade bucket hats. Then, in a matter of minutes, she’s up on stage, trombone in hand, playing with them—and the crowd loves it.

Busted Chops have big aspirations for the coming months, hoping to play a festival this year, start writing their album, and gear up for a tour in 2023.

“I’m so proud that we can all produce such a tight, holistic sound and as long as we have that… I know we’ve got a chance of going places,” said drummer Mia Rowland.

The gig at The Workers Club in Fitzroy, supported by Soren and St. Emerald and later accompanied by Wurfel and Araminta Beroukas, perfectly encapsulates their charm and sound.

Within minutes, they have the crowd cheering and bumping against one another. For a performance almost exclusively instrumental, the ability to connect with the crowd is no small feat. The energy is vibrant and electrifying—a moment where it is just the music that does the talking.

“I think Busted Chops is more than just a band,” said Trigge.

“We are creating this really exciting atmosphere whenever we play and people love it.”

Surrounded by friends and strangers in the dimly lit venue, it’s the way they communicate with one another on-stage and offstage that stands out the most. The name of the gig, ‘Family Dinner’, a subtle nod to Mahler’s post-rehearsal dinners, is the perfect fit for a band like Busted Chops, who invite the crowd to take part in the fun of their performance while expertly leading music in a fresh direction.

You can catch Busted Chops again and news for their next gigs on Facebook and Instagram.

Photography by Joanna Guelas

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news /

From Punk to Paragon: FC St. Pauli Make Their Mark Off the Pitch Written by Tim Willett Modern football is defined by wealth. The rich have the best players, build the best clubs, win the most titles. But for a sport with such a proud history of ‘playing for the shirt’, it seems that the virtues that the game’s fans hold dearest have faded. Thankfully, there is a corner of the football world that refuses to abide.

Hamburg, Germany’s second largest city, has long been famous for one of the German football league’s powerhouse clubs: Hamburger SV. Their trophy room is filled with silverware including a European Cup (the crown jewel of European footballing achievement), and above it the fans fill their stadium and thumb their noses at their upstart cross-town cousins, FC St. Pauli. Or, at least, they used to.

Of late, it is those same upstarts who garner more attention, flying a skull and crossbones flag as their punkinspired. Sankt Fucking Pauli, as their fans cry, are a proud second-division team, known as much for their consistent failure to make it in the big leagues as for their unique flag choice. But in an age where football is dominated by financial inequality, astronomical broadcast deals, and absurd player salaries, they have managed not only to maintain relevance, but to develop praise and acclaim.

The skull and crossbones however, extends beyond the football pitch. The port city has long known the ‘jolly roger’—or Totenkopf in German—given its historical associations with pirates. St. Pauli has a history of radical politics and countercultural sentiment all its own, home to left-wingers and squatters, most notably along the St. Pauli Hafenstrasse (or Harbour Street), where people in the 80s barricaded themselves inside to prevent the gentrification of their home. Then one afternoon as faithful fans made their way to the club’s Millerntor Stadium, Doc Mabuse—a punk singer and Hafenstrasse resident—snatched a pirate flag on his way to the ground.

As the symbol rose in the stands, an icon was reborn with new meaning.

The flag was an instant hit among many, but its anarchic and even violent connotations worried officials, as did its newfound associations with Hafenstrasse squatters. They refused to endorse it as a legitimate club symbol, but this would not stop the fans.

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For the next decade, the team would continue to struggle on the pitch, but fans kept turning up and waving their flag, and the club became an expression of political and social identity. Their on-pitch results were turbulent, but the skull-waving capacity crowd more than made up for any disappointment. The club eventually bought the rights to the image in the late 90s, putting it on equal footing with the traditional crest. They built punk into their fabric.

As the club became more intertwined with its fans, and by extension the politics and concerns of the area, a proud culture took shape. In 2009, the club held a congress at which ‘guiding principles’ were debated, centred around issues of importance to club members, fans, and volunteers. They became the first German club to publish such a document, functioning as a community organisation and acknowledging that, beyond the pitch, their responsibility was to the community. They have become an outspoken voice on issues such as racism, refugee rights and homophobia. The men’s coach gives orders in a hoodie that reads “St. Pauli—antifascist football club”, while the pro-refugee rallying cry ‘kein Mensch ist illegal’ (‘no person is illegal’) is painted onto the grandstand where other clubs would place advertisements. It could not be more apparent what is most important to them.

Recent Melburnian recruit Jackson Irvine explains: “There’s no empty gestures here—this club lives its values every day.”

In modern times, FC St. Pauli have evolved their roots to mean something more. They are still punk, but in an age where professional football clubs stray ever further from their identities in search of revenue, defying the system has come to mean something more virtuous than the traditional connotations would suggest. The skull stands for recognition of social issues, the crossbones for political engagement, and FC St. Pauli for the chance— and responsibility—to do good.

St. Pauli may never catch up to the dozens of trophies of their neighbours. They might never even claim a single championship. But when 30,000 raucous fans in brown and white consistently gather to watch a second division match, the message ringing out from the stands is clear: it’s not all about football.

The humanity of the club is a victory unlike any other.

Illustrated by Cathy Chen

/ satire / column

SATIRE

Dear Diary: The PM’s Retrospective Journal Written by Jack McMahon Dear diary, I’m tired of the city life, summers on the run, people tell me I should stay, but I’ve got to get my fun.

Those are some catchy lyrics. I feel like I have heard them before but can’t pinpoint the actual song… oh well. I certainly had my fun this week. Firstly, my friend Karl came by and interviewed me for 60 minutes. I got to play my ukulele for him and performed that super catchy song “April Sun in Cuba”. I only played the chorus, but I think I might have actually forgotten it. Some people in the media were asking why I chose to sing a song about escaping to a communist paradise, but I’ve got no idea what they are talking about. I’ve only ever been to one paradise and that was Hawaii…I wonder if that was communist?

Given all this media attention it’s really no surprise that I’m feeling pretty targeted at the moment, and frankly, I find it pretty unfair. Grace Tame is a bully. She says that I don’t listen to her or take her concerns seriously but what she doesn’t know is that I simply don’t hold a hose with this situation. Yes, there are issues coming from the government and parliament that I represent, but how can she expect me to fix everything? I’m just one man. I think she’s speaking on some important social issues that must be fixed, because these dilemmas, which I remember perfectly well, need to be stopped. Also, if I didn’t want to listen, why would I invite her to parliament house? I still can’t believe she didn’t smile in my photo with her, I thought that was so rude.

Then when I thought all was well, I found out that I had offended Senator Thorpe. All I said was that “sorry can never be given without any expectation of forgiveness” in relation to Kevin Rudd offering the national apology 14 years ago.

Apparently it’s disrespectful and selfish of me to expect unconditional forgiveness after an apology. Honestly, what is the point of saying sorry if someone isn’t going to forgive you? It makes me feel pretty bad about myself.

As the good book says in 1 John 1:9, “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness”. Maybe I should investigate implementing more biblical teachings in Australia – I can see that working quite well actually. I never did understand why they shut down the missions.

I also think I have gotten to the stage where I can forgive Grace Tame for not smiling in our photo even though she hasn’t said sorry. I hope that makes her feel better about it. I wish more people were like me.

I got to have a lovely Valentine’s Day with Jenny as well. I always joke to her how I am glad she didn’t run away all those years ago, especially after the whole Engadine Macca’s thing but that is all behind me now. I don’t think many people know about it which is good… best keep it on the down-low. That is the last thing that I need people to find out about right before the election.

Ah…the election. To be honest, I’m getting a bit nervous about it. I thought I had a lot of friends in my party but I found out that Barnaby sent some nasty text messages about me. At least he apologised, which was nice I guess. I don’t forgive him for it though. Mate just because you feel bad doesn’t mean I have to comfort you, silly. Hopefully my friends will be a bit nicer to me next week.

Until next time,

PM.

Illustrated by Pamela Piechowitz

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satire /

SATIRE-IN-BRIEF Written by the Satire Team

Travelling to Japan a Scam: Try DonDon Instead

Israel recognising Ukraine’s sovereignty proves no one knows the definition of irony

Why spend thousands of dollars when you can be spiritually transported across the Pacific Ocean by ordering the same chicken curry don every day from this iconic Melbourne restaurant?

“It’s not warmongering when we do it” said Israeli President Herzog.

We at Farrago don’t want to report any further because honestly it’s a bit of a bummer and this is the funny section.

— Gloria Yu

— Bayley Horne

Betrayal is a Five Letter Word: Uninitiated Mate on Thin Ice After Spoiling Wordle in Group Chat

Girl takes vitamins and chugs a green juice after night out to avoid hangover and maintain wellness lifestyle

Not wanting to be left out of the trend, Nate from Commerce decided to have a gander at this Wordle thing after seeing weird coloured squares in the group chat the past couple of days. After figuring out the word in three attempts, he triumphantly texted “my word was ‘vivid’, what did you guys have?”, only to be met with “multiple people are typing”.

Since then, the rift between Nate and his friends has only widened. Nate has come to a bitter acceptance of his fate, and will be tried at the Hague for his crimes.

It is widely known among the girlboss community that having a self-care Sunday also cancels out any amount of drinking and drug-taking that happened on Saturday. This can include activities such as burning sage, attending a yoga class or doing a skincare routine.

— Gloria Yu

“Straight” women spotted at a bar sharing thoughts about how much easier it would be to date women “I just feel like girls get it, they’re much better communicators.”

“Yeah girls know what they want!”

“Exactly, like I would definitely rather date women.”

“Same! And girls are so pretty.”

“Like I would date you for sure…”

“Aw that’s so sweet, I would date you too…”

— Genevieve Byrne

“I really treat my body like a temple… I love a good ginger shot!” says Lina, who was spotted by an anonymous source throwing up in the front yard of a house party last night.

— Genevieve Byrne

Okta Verify Successfully Fucks Over Another Student With a New Phone After deciding that SMS authentication was simply not niche enough, UniMelb made the bold decision to install Okta Verify in 2021.

Now more and more students are spending hours digging up their old phones to verify themselves on the app, because God forbid we have a security system that actually makes sense.

— Madison Barr

All-Male Sharehouse Hasn’t Purchased Dishwashing Liquid Since they Moved in At the lovingly nicknamed Casa De Tinnies, housemates Cayden, Caiden and Kayden have decided that soap is completely optional when doing dishes.

“I don’t know why everyone needs to clean all the time,” said Kayden. “Personally I like the leftover KFC grease on the bowls, it gives my cereal a bit more flavour!”

We at Farrago want to vomit.

— Bayley Horne

Illustrated by Manyu Wang

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/ satire

SATIRE-IN-BRIEF Written by the Satire Team

Scomo in Tears After Being Denied a Mashd N Kutcher Remix of his Ukulele Performance

Student Forgets To Google When Semester Actually Starts

— Madison Barr

Four weeks after getting “seriously sloshed” at a variety of O-Week parties, Josh Gabforth began posting in several UniMelb Facebook groups asking “So when do we start going to classes?” The collective sympathetic sighs from other Facebook users resonated across campus.

Study Finds Euphoria’s Portrayal of Drug Use is Not it’s Worst Problem

Lactose Intolerant Friend Once Again Risks Life to Fuel Bubble Tea Addiction

After the anti-drug organisation D.A.R.E. lashed out at the show for “glorifying teen drug use,” the Farrago Satire Team conducted an extensive survey of parents to see if they agreed with this statement. After analysing these findings, it was found that while 37% of parents felt uncomfortable with the show’s portrayal of teen drug use, an overwhelming 100% of parents reported being far more pissed off about the show’s copious use of glitter, which survey respondents have said is “a real bitch to vacuum”.

While those with intolerance to substances like nuts, seafood or gluten tend to know what’s good for themselves, the lactose intolerant often choose to brave the consequences of their actions. One of these brave souls is Cindy, who eyes up the Gong Cha menu, ignores the array of lactose-free options, blocks out memories of agonising cramps, and orders her third Thai Milk Tea of the week. Great taste though.

Apparently no amount of auto-tune could save Scomo’s attempt at being a passable member of society. Rumour has it the famous DJs will be sampling his recent Russia speech for a diss track instead.

— Alexia Shaw

— Alexia Shaw

Has Ukraine Considered Just Asking Russia Nicely?

My mum told me that you should always say please when you’re asking for something. Has the Ukrainian government said please?

Have they attended couples counselling in the past seven years? Have they experimented in bed at all?

I’m really hoping they can work it out before it escalates any further.

— Gloria Yu

Man Gets Rejected for the Twentieth Time Because he is an ISTJ Scorpio Mercury “Ahh, ISTJs are just a bit… common. I mean they can be good at making money but since he’s a Scorpio Mercury, that kinda just... cancels out… Oh yeah, plus my rose quartz is also sensing bad feng shui,” Tinder date Amelie says apologetically, holding a pink rock close to her ear as if it’s talking to her.

— Danqing Zhu

— Bayley Horne

Illustrated by Manyu Wang

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satire /

BREAKING: Farrago Shuts Down; Honi Soit Now Australia's Oldest Student Publication Written by Pavani Ambagahawattha As of today, Farrago Magazine, Australia’s oldest student publication, will cease operations under the current four editors.

While this news may surprise some, many will agree that Farrago’s demise was long overdue. Once a bastion of student journalism, edited by such illustrious figures as Nicola Gobbo esq., it had of late become, to quote one unbiased critic, little more than a ‘glorified poetry competition’.

Behind Farrago’s deceptively glossy covers lay lukewarm news stories from five weeks ago, op-eds so bland and uncontroversial you wonder when exactly the editors lost their spines, a satire team too haunted by the spectre of cancellation to make any actual jokes, and an entire section devoted to that horror of all horrors: student poetry. Small wonder that stacks of Farragos from 2019, 2020, and 2021 languish unread in the Media Space, feeding the Union House rats.

The Media Department’s other endeavours have also fizzled out. Radio Fodder draws an impressive average of four listeners per show, while the Farrago YouTube channel is a barren wasteland which’s most (only) successful content was uploaded five years ago.

Rumours are afoot that the editors had even set up a Farrago TikTok in a last pathetic attempt at relevancy.

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Farrago’s reputation on campus had also soured.

One Redditor found Farrago “incredibly depressing and borderline narcissistic”, adding that it platformed the opinions of privileged, performative social justice advocates while censoring everyone else. (Of course, one could argue that Farrago is student-run, meaning if these esteemed critics wished to diversify the range of opinions published they could submit …. something …. themselves, but I digress.)

Nor was it beloved within the student union it was part of. Farrago might have a reputation as ‘leftist crap… the product of politically opinionated hippies’, but any politically opinionated hippie on campus would furiously disagree. Farrago was the Schrödinger's cat of student publications; depending on who you asked, it was too left-wing or not left-wing enough, Stand Up!’s propaganda machine or its bitter nemesis. Its editors were four overworked, underpaid uni students trying their best, or incompetent cartoon supervillains who loved nepotism and attacked innocent student politicians as bloodsport.

Like the insufferable Media and Comms-studying, oat latte-sipping campus literati who ran it to the ground, Farrago had few friends but many enemies.

None will mourn its demise, Honi Soit least of all.

This article was originally published online, on 1 April 2022.

Photograph by Jasmine Pierce

Read more weekly pieces at farragomagazine.com/nonfiction

NON-FICTION Artwork by Aeva Milos

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culture /

¢ Panchatantra: A Life Kit ∫ Written by Akanksha Agarwal “The firefly seems a fire, the sky looks flat; Yet sky and fly are neither this nor that.”

—The Panchatantra (as translated by Arthur W. Ryder, 1925, page 209) Deep in the woods, a lively monkey’s curiosity has bloody results when he proudly sits on a log that snaps, cutting his tail off. A fox mistakes a drum for a predator, and a crocodile’s wife yearns for the heart of a monkey. Those that appear friends may be foes, taking too much may leave you with nothing at all, and talking to caves could save your life. Ancient Indian culture was permeated with such stories, passed from one generation to the next as prized life codes. According to legend, in the third century BCE King Amarashakti of Mahilaropyam in southern India called upon a sage, Pandit Vishnu Sharma, to instruct his three dim-witted sons and make them worthy of ruling the kingdom. The sage vowed to perform the miracle of transforming the sons in six months or else change his name. Upon realising the dull, listless nature of his disciples, Vishnu Sharma composed a textbook of engaging animal stories of friendship, desire, betrayal and deceit which concealed deeper learnings. Remarkably, in six months the princes conquered intelligence. Thus, the Panchatantra (Sanskrit: “five treatises’’) was born.

The text comprises five sections, each with narratives of prose and verse embedded within a frame story, a textual unravelling described by the Times of India in 2008 as “a succession of Russian dolls-within-dolls”.

The aim: to instil nīti, or the wisdom of life, through tales of animals with human vices and virtues. In Vishnu Sharma’s eyes, the use of beasts less illustrious than humans added a playful tone to profound truths and created a sense of distance to enable the reader to truly understand the stories’ teachings. Lessons lurk on every page, teaching survival (artha, “worldly knowledge”), the danger of greed (kaama, “desire”), and the importance of abiding by a moral code, or dharma. Every detail is significant: characters’ names (e.g. Paapabuddhi from Paap, “sin”, and Dharmabuddhi from “dharma”) hint at their personalities, while the setting of the forest,

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tumultuous and vast, is a metaphor for the human world.

These pearls of wisdom retold throughout history have not lost their relevance today. The world is growing in complexity, each one of us in a web of relationships, a sea of choices, battling between the convenient and the necessary. In this forest, only the fittest shall survive the battle of the mind. The lessons of the Panchatantra value intellect over honesty: tricking the lion may be the only way for the rabbit to escape alive. When the lion is deceived into fighting his own reflection in a well, we realise the animals are not fighting each other, but themselves. The Panchatantra also presents moral conundrums: the rabbit is revered by all the animals for his wit, yet the jackal who lies to become king is killed by the same animals. Every situation warrants a unique response.

The Panchatantra calls us to persist despite the forest’s challenging conditions. Sometimes, the view is beautiful: as a gentle breeze lulls you to sleep, you can hear a symphony of birds and feel sunlight kissing your face.

At others, you awaken to snapping branches, slithering tails and poisonous berries. This is the natural balance.

The five sections of the Panchatantra contain principles essential for navigating these maze-like trails. They are a portal for seeing ourselves as who we are and recognising that truth resides within: i) Mitra-bheda (“The loss of friends”): This section, the longest of the Panchatantra’s five treatises, is coloured with stories of betrayal, lies and conflict in which friends with strong bonds fall out. Our hearts are pierced when the cunning jackal named Damanaka and his wise brother Karataka convince the Lion King to slaughter his best friend the Bull so they can feast on his carcass. As young adults, during a time of formative friendships, even the closest friends may fall out and cliques may become political.

It’s important at these times to think for oneself and not be led astray by ill-intentioned advice.

That said, missteps are part of our journey. In another tale, three fishes in a lake hold different beliefs: the

/ culture

first is wise, the second a problem solver and the third believes in the inevitability of fate. While swimming, the wise fish overhears fishermen planning to fish the next day. The fish warns his friends to join him in leaving the lake, but the second fish does not want to leave and declares he will find a way to be saved. The third remarks that whatever will be will be and that he shall remain in the lake, his home. When the fishermen catch the second and third fishes in their nets, the second plays dead and is thrown back into the sea, but the third flaps violently to escape and is immediately killed. Change is the only constant, and one needs to adapt to it. When starting university as a small fish in a big pond, knowing how to navigate a new environment proves crucial. While it can be easy to shield yourself from new people and situations out of fear, we must acknowledge but not be bound by these instincts. You could be a fish on the outside, but a lion at heart. ii) Mitra-lābha (“The winning of friends”): Friends are an integral support system at university. They stand with you throughout good, bad, and ugly. In the city of Mahilaropyam, the king of doves becomes ensnared in a hunter’s net with a flock of a thousand of his subjects. Together, the thousand doves fly in perfect balance to a trusted old rat that gnaws through the ropes. Such is the power of alliance, that even the weakest of animals can overcome threats through collaboration. There is strength in unity: remember that everyone in university is going through a similar phase in life and can be a source of light and companionship. iii) Kākolūkīyam (“On Crows and Owls”): This section elucidates the origins of the rivalry between crows and owls. When a parliament of owls prepares to attack the crows, the Crow King hatches a plan to outsmart them, telling the rest of the crows to fly away. When the Owl King arrives, the Crow King exclaims that the entire crow kingdom abandoned him. Despite warnings, the Owl King shows the Crow King mercy. Later that night, the crows set fire to the owls’ nest, killing them all. A deceitful enemy must never be trusted. This could apply to something as simple as waking up in the morning—if you know you will snooze your alarm, put it far away from your bed!

it is not. In this treatise, a Frog King insulted by his relatives, vows revenge and invites a snake into his family’s well to devour them. When the snake finally eats the Frog’s very own son, he himself is forced to flee. Do not blindly subscribe to the majority but make informed decisions. You may only realise something’s worth once it has been lost. v) Aparīkṣitakārakaṃ (“Ill-Considered Action”): The digital age enables efficiency and instantaneous transaction. These snap judgements and implicit biases can be very harmful. In this treatise, a mongoose fights a snake to protect a sleeping baby, but is killed by its mother who, seeing the blood on the mongoose’s lips, assumes the friendly animal murdered her child. When she finds the child alive, she is flooded with remorse for her hasty actions.

Be cautious of connecting the dots without the full picture.

Around 800 years after Vishnu Sharma’s legendary work, Borzuy, physician to the Emperor of Persia, came to India in search of the elixir of life, the mritasanjeevani (“reviver of the dead’’). Instead, he found the Panchatantra. He soon realised this text was the elixir itself, dispelling ignorance and bringing knowledge to life. Borzuy‘s translations of the Panchatantra into Pahlavi enabled its dissemination in Persia and eventually westwards to Europe. Now, according to BBC Culture in 2018, “the Panchatantra has had more than 200 retellings in at least 50 non-Indian languages”. The Panchatantra is also part of a global history of collections of profound stories including Aesop’s Fables, One Thousand and One Nights, and the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, and is one of the oldest of such texts. Through its teachings we come to understand that while there are trials and tribulations in the forest, the open starry sky bestows limitless possibilities.

“The earth has a limit, The mountains, the sea; The deep thoughts of kings are Without boundary.”

—“The Loss of Friends”, the Panchatantra (as translated by Arthur W. Ryder, 1925, page 46)

iv) Labdhapranāśam (“Loss of gains”): You may take a course of action thinking it is the right one when

Illustrated by Riley Morgan

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memoir /

Driving Stick Written by Leah Macdonald My brother is trying to teach me to drive a manual car; we go around and around the empty lot down at the local high school. When I was younger, my band teacher taught us a trick on the snare drum, where you throw the drumstick in the air and catch it again without interrupting the drumbeat. He said if you have the coordination to do this, you have the coordination to drive a manual car. I can play the snare drum, but I still can’t drive a stick. I don’t have the instinct for it, that intuitive understanding of the inner workings of the car. Listen to the engine, that’s what everyone tells me.

But the sounds coming up from under my feet are as mysterious and unintelligible as another language.

Sometimes, when people ask me how old I am, I have this strange, weightless sensation, a feeling of falling upwards, like a balloon drifting into the ether. I tumble helplessly, fingers scrabbling at the edges of twenty-five, twenty-seven, twenty-nine, until I remember how old I am, and my feet find the ground again. I had a dream the other night that I was thirty-five. I was looking back at my twenties and thinking, how did they go by so fast? Then I woke up and remembered they had barely begun.

I'm sitting in the car, trying to put it in first. Again and again, we jerk forward, hurled against our seatbelts. I am searching for the rhythm of the switch, the transition, but I can't find it. When I was younger, my piano teacher played chords for me and asked me to hum the middle note. All I could ever hear was the harmony, not the individual parts. Sometimes, when I try to do something while people are watching me, I feel like my brain is fogging up, like the car windshield on a frosty morning.

I’ve been looking at cars recently, preparing to buy one so that I’ll have one when (if) I get my license. I sit in the smoke-choked interiors of cars, cars with mismatching tires and ill-fitting parts. You’ll never get the smell of cigarette smoke out, my mum says. So I don’t buy that car. In fact, for every car, there’s a good reason not to buy it. So I don’t.

But recently I updated my search criteria: I’m no longer looking at manual cars. I’m not a manual driver, I can see that now. I don’t even remember now why I ever wanted to learn to drive stick. I suppose I always thought there’d eventually be a situation where a manual car would need to be driven, and I would know how to drive it, like in the movies.

Now, though, I do know the trick to finding that middle note. Now, I play chords for myself at the piano, and I hum them from top to bottom. The top note of the chord is like a steady handhold in my grip

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and I use it to lower myself down, I find the next rung under my foot; it was there all along.

So I do speak this language after all. I lacked confidence though; sometimes, all it takes is a blind stab in the dark, a leap of faith.

Because, in the end, I never was able to execute that snare drum trick on performance night. No matter how easily I could do it in practice, I was too afraid to attempt it on the one night where it would really matter if I couldn’t pull it off. So I taught myself a trick within the trick, a kind of half-flip where you don’t actually let the stick leave your hand. No one can tell the difference if they’re not looking closely. And, most of the time, I think it was the right decision to stop learning manual.

But other times I equate it with this paralysing fear, the unwillingness to let the drumstick ever leave my hand completely.

My brother gets out of the car and I practise by myself for a bit. Once I get going, I’m alright, but it’s getting started that’s the problem. So I jolt ungracefully around the parking lot. Starting, stopping. Starting, stopping.

Once I dreamt that I was driving with my family at night but, somehow, I was left behind on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. Tall trees rose on either side; headlights glanced through the trunks from cars that were out of sight.

Sometimes, when I sit in the passenger seat of my friends’ cars, I catch myself mimicking them, leaning forward to check that the way is clear before they drive across the intersection, like a child copying their parents from the backseat. And I have this strange reverence for people my age who can drive, as though it is them, not me, that is abnormal in this regard.

The problem is, I don’t want to be left behind, but I’m not quite ready to grow up either. I know I am not the only one who feels this way, but that doesn’t stop me from believing that I am alone in this, the only imposter on the stage who doesn’t let go of the drumstick.

Sometimes, I think of a memory that feels recent and realise it was from years ago. In those moments, it feels like the years between have sped by, swept by, spun me around and left me dazed. And when I do forget, momentarily, how old I am, the re-remembering is always a relief, it grounds me, it’s like a handhold to cling to when gravity has let go of me. I know that I am ageing, but sometimes I feel that, if I hold tight enough, maybe

Illustrated by Claire Hoang

/ memoir I won’t. But I don’t think this tight-knuckled grip on the fact of my age, which changes regardless, changes all the time, is a good thing.

I know that I need to let go.

But I am also sure that, if I do, I will simply float away, at an ever-increasing, uncontrollable pace, until I disappear into the atmosphere.

Sometimes, when I catch my reflection at an odd angle, I think I see an older version of my face emerging, pushing out my young face like adult teeth burrowing relentlessly out of the gum.

Red P-platers account for more car crashes than any other group; I think about this sometimes when I imagine myself, in the near or distant future, driving to a friend’s house or down the coast or to the shops by myself.

Young adults are more likely to crash their cars because they think that they’re invincible, that they can’t die. Or at least that’s what everyone says. That’s why they drive fast, drive recklessly. And this is because your prefrontal cortex, your decision-making faculties, don’t fully develop until you’re at least twenty-five, or so I’m told.

But I don’t think that I am invincible. I do recognise in myself, though, a certain resistance to the idea that I am ageing. Which is why I don’t bother to put on sunscreen, sometimes; part of me still isn’t convinced that I will ever be old enough for the consequences of this to catch up to me.

So I wonder if for me, and other young adults, accepting the reality of death isn’t the problem. It is accepting the reality of ageing—of which death is a part—that I cannot do. And this, perhaps, is what holds me back from crossing that border that would make me a fullyfledged, well-adjusted adult. Because I do often feel that something is holding me back. I’m just not sure if it is actually me, holding on.

No, I don’t think that I am invincible, but sometimes I need to convince myself of the importance of looking before I cross the road. The danger of not looking, like the fact of my ageing, is something learned by rote, not truly felt.

So maybe I am wrong. Maybe being young does mean a belief in invincibility, even a flawed one. Because I am young, and even when I recognise this delusion of immortality in myself, I can’t quite dispel it. And maybe this delusion is why I reverse out of the driveway too fast and ding my mother’s car, and why I wouldn’t apologise for it, or maybe that’s a completely different blind spot of mine.

In any case, if all the psychology is right, soon enough my frontal lobe will develop and I won’t feel this way anymore. I will have a perfect understanding of the everpresent possibility of death, and I will always look both ways before I cross the road, left, right, and left again,

and I’ll never hesitate at the intersection because I don’t know if the gap in the oncoming traffic is safe, I’ll push off across the dotted line with confidence, drive effortlessly and readily down the road.

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commentary / content warning: mentions of climate change, mental illness, sexual assault, racism and death

Sad Girl: The Soundtrack of an Era Written by Chelsea Daniel From my many hours of research—that is, building up my Spotify streams—I have found three common conventions of the rising genre of ‘Sad Girl Music’.

1. A man didn’t or doesn’t understand the complexity of your emotions.

2. Feeling sad because you are so happy, worrying you’ll never feel the same again.

3. Feelings of dread over getting older, God and/or the current state of the world.

Music made by melancholic women is nothing new.

The 1950s darling Billie Holiday has been credited with the popularisation of the ‘torch’ song, a sentimental ballad for unrequited love. Folk singers like Carole King and Joni Mitchell rose in the 60s and 70s. The 90s saw the surge of Fiona Apple, who remains a key figure in the Sad Girl genre today.

Circa 2014, in the depths of the internet subculture of Tumblr, Marina and the Diamonds’ ‘Primadonna’ and Melanie Martinez’s Cry Baby broke out in the alternative scene. However, none broke out in the mainstream like Lana Del Rey’s Born to Die and Lorde’s Pure Heroine. ‘Video Games’ and ‘Royals’ provided a contrast to contemporaneous poppy love songs. In 2017 Billie Eilish released her debut album, which explored themes of suicide, the death of friends, heartbreak and even climate change to cultivate an online image of sadness. Despite other Sad Girl artists bumbling in the indie scene, Lorde, Billie Eilish and Lana Del Rey were the select few in the mainstream available for those lacking serotonin.

Then 2020 happened. With the contextual background of Gen Z mental illness and climate anxiety, the whole world was thrown into an upheaving mess of disease and political mayhem. Also, Phoebe Bridgers released Punisher.

Evoking apocalyptic imagery, feelings of faithlessness, doomed love and tormented relationships with her father, her sophomore album cemented Bridgers on the scene, with her lead single ‘Kyoto’ now amassing over 70 million streams on Spotify. Punisher provided an accessible gateway into a genre that mirrors one's own sense of helplessness. Furthermore, there is no other indication that a genre is no longer alternative than when a mainstream artist climbs aboard. When Folklore by Taylor Swift received the Grammy award for Album of the Year, it cemented Sad Girl as a prominent genre.

Art production and consumption are driven by one’s surroundings, whether the art validates emotions

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or enables an escape from them. Romanticism was a response to the Industrial and French Revolution.

Dadaism and Expressionism captured the discontent of society following the devastating loss of World War I. All art movements used a medium most accessible at the time. With the rise of streaming, music is the most accessible channel for producing and consuming art.

With a global pandemic, constant headlines about sexual assault and deaths and climate change, we need a space for our feelings to be validated, and a lot of people have found this in Sad Girl music. But, like every artistic movement before this, and for every one after, there are inherent flaws.

We cannot ignore that Lana Del Rey, the heroine of 2010s Sad Girl music, glorifies depression through a dainty Americana aesthetic imbued with white femininity. Despite the recent celebration of PoC artists like Mitski, FKA Twigs and Arlo Parks, there is a recurring cultural preference for the sad white woman.

Whilst Phoebe Bridgers and Clairo are both queer, they still fit a beauty standard dictated by a genre guilty of perpetuating patriarchal, racist, ableist and anti-fat biases.

In an interview with Crack, tapping her fingers tentatively on an armchair, Mitski says, “The sad girl thing was reductive and tired like 5–10 years ago and it still is today.” Despite my avid engagement with this genre I cannot help but agree. Why are songs by artists expressing the complexity of emotions that comes with being a femme person in the world today, especially one of marginalised identities, reduced to a shallow label? By being labelled demeaningly as a "Sad Girl," femmes' emotional expression through art becomes subject to a patriarchal condescension that belittles them, deems them as irrational and casts them aside. Ironically, one of the aforementioned conventions of a Sad Girl song is explaining how a man failed to understand the complexities of the artist’s emotions. As listeners we are guilty of perpetuating this issue when we categorise this form of art using a demeaning label; we don’t appreciate the emotions of these femmes in a nuanced nor genuine way. We embody the Sad Girl's subject of sadness.

Yet, with all of this in mind, ‘All Too Well (Sad Girl Version)’ plays and not only provides the comfort of nostalgia but validates the current underlying distress the world is suffering together as a collective. Sad Girls provide a short, but necessary burst of release. And that’s all art can do.

/ commentary

Illustrated by Zoe Eyles

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commentary /

Growing up a Misogynist Written by Emma Xerri, Staff Writer

It’s the senior primary school disco. You’ve finally made it to partying amongst the upperclassmen: the grade fours, fives and sixes. Your grade six crush stands across the hall, looking totally cool and unbothered as he taps his foot to David Guetta’s ‘Where Them Girls At’. You lip-sync to the lyrics in the hope of catching his attention, not in an overly excited way; just in a casual, indifferent sort of way. You’re above the primary school disco.

If he doesn’t want to be there, neither do you, and no boy would ever have a crush on a girl who gets too excited about anything. Then the song comes to a slow fade and your heart rate increases as you anxiously await the next song. Taylor Swift’s ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’. The cute boy’s relaxed nonchalance contorts into a look of disgust, and you panic to ensure he knows you’re not like the other girls singing along. You could never like Taylor Swift and you think it’s stupid that these other girls do.

For many girls like myself, the desire to appeal to men, and their reductive expectations of what a woman should be, can be overwhelming. I have lost count of the number of times I have subdued my passions and interests, or altered them entirely, to reshape my personality and character into something more desirable to my male classmates. Perhaps it was laughing at a joke made at another woman’s expense or rolling my eyes when one of my female peers expressed their love for Selena Gomez, whilst simultaneously expressing my hatred for her (a façade I maintained until the age of 17).

These slight alterations to my person became deeply rooted; parts of a role I wanted so badly to play that eventually, it became difficult to turn a new leaf and make the distinction between what I really thought and cared about, and what the men around me had made me feel I should.

I have seen it in my best friend, a girl so immensely talented and creative, a girl so sure of herself, caving when asked by a boy in our class if she was a feminist. I watched her as she adopted a shocked look, reacting as though he had offended her by asking such a question. I anxiously awaited her response, hoping with every ounce of my being that she would say yes.

“Oh no, I’m definitely not a feminist,” she replied, wanting desperately to reassert her position as an ally and friend to all men, even if that meant separating herself from other women.

The films we are shown growing up certainly do not help. We’re taught to be the Hilary Duffs and Amanda Bynes of the world, not the Julie Gonzalos or Alexandra Breckenridges.

We’re taught that the quiet girls get the guys, the wallflowers who’d rather spend their free time playing baseball with their guy best friend than going shopping with their girlfriends, the girls who play soccer and who would rather spend their days in a hoodie and baseball cap ensemble than partake in a debutante ball. Despite the powerful presence of female characters like Kat Stratford on our screens—women who are outspoken in their feminist ideologies and refuse to partake in things merely because it is expected of them—we can’t help but feel that the brooding, beautiful men like Heath Ledger falling in love with girls like her (girls like us) are the exception, not the rule.

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Illustrated by Grace Reeve

/ commentary

But when did this metaphorical switch flip? How did I go from a dorky seven-year-old watching Taylor Swift’s ‘You Belong With Me’ music video on repeat in my fake Ed Hardy t-shirt and geometric patterned leggings to telling guys I only listened to rap?

Maybe it was in year six when the group of popular guys in my year level recruited me, giving me an endearing nickname and appreciating my company because I was different, "not like the other girls". Maybe it was in year seven during my ‘About Me’ oral presentation, in which I depicted myself as a soccer fan, sharing with the class that I’d met the then coach of the Socceroos, as though it was one of my best and only attributes, and awaiting the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of the boys I was so sure would like me more after learning this information.

It saddens me to think of the precious time wasted cosplaying as someone else, aspiring to a version of femininity that only exists in the minds of men and the films they write.

Thinking I’d have a better chance of my crush liking me back if I repressed my interests, only for them to resurface when I made fun of them and replaced my passions with theirs.

Putting up with the endless remarks and jokes about rom-coms, like those written by John Green or One Tree Hill, when perhaps I didn’t need to constantly defend myself. Rather, what I needed was to make some new friends.

But I told myself I was lucky to have these guy friends, that somehow it made me superior to the girls who didn’t. Did I want to make other girls jealous? I’m not certain that was my goal. But my internalised misogyny certainly flourished at the thought of them envying my situation, wishing that they too weren’t "like other girls".

Why did I think that was a compliment? Not being ‘like other girls’. What exactly is so bad about these other girls? Did I ever truly think they were lesser than for enjoying music by female artists, or wearing the colour pink, or enjoying makeup?

I knew other women would accept me regardless of my interests. That just wasn’t enough for me. But that’s just it—I needed male validation, and in many ways, I still do.

Whilst I now passionately and unwaveringly speak out about my passions—everything from contemporary romantic fiction to Kate Hudson’s performance in Almost Famous— aspects of my so deeply rooted internalised misogyny remain. These remnants resurface every time I muster a fake laugh when a man makes a joke, or I shave my underarms to not make the men around me uncomfortable. It resurfaces when I attempt to portray myself as mysterious and uninterested in social situations and when I throw in the occasional profanity when messaging guys to make me seem more relaxed and less uptight, despite my distaste for the language.

Relearning (or perhaps truly learning for the first time) who I am has been an upward battle and, for the most part, these remain deep-seated feelings. But seeing myself and my progress replicated in films such as Lady Bird and the incredible series Fleabag makes me feel like a better—though somewhat—flawed feminist; a better woman even.

So I guess, in the wise words of Taylor Swift (13-year-old Emma did not see that coming), “I don’t try to blend in anymore, it’s all about standing out.”

Illustrated by Grace Reeve

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fodder blog /

Our Queen Taylor Written by Carmen Chin & Christina Savapoulos While she has always remained present in the media with signature lyrics detailing her heartbreaks and hopeful relationships, Taylor Swift’s release of her sister albums—Folklore and Evermore—months apart in 2020, as well as the re-recording of her past albums, has stirred a contagious excitement among both her fans and the broader music world. You’d be lying if you didn’t see Dylan O’Brien and Sadie Sink’s faces splattered all over social media after the release of the short film for the 10-minute-long version of ‘All Too Well’, directed by Taylor herself.

There has been widespread media criticism and accusations that “no one can date Taylor without a song being written about them”, and that enjoyment of her heartfelt songs was reserved exclusively for tween girls and the heartbroken.

Perhaps it was a direct result of lockdown and a subsequent re-evaluation of priorities, but many Swifities felt free to come out as proud Taylor Swift fans. Several of our Fodder Blog writers have shared their favourite albums, songs or music videos she’s created to appreciate her sprawling body of work and undeniable impact on the music industry over the last decade. After all, she did win the Grammy for Best Album at 20 years old!

Elina Pugacheva - Call it what you want, but reputation is a masterpiece

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Lochlainn Heley - ‘cardigan’ ‘cardigan’ and the entire Folklore album was a surprise revelation that captured all of us during iso. The song is designed around repeating introspective rhythms to create a stable momentum that was sorely needed in the pandemic. Coupled with the lyrics, Taylor fully hones in on the idea of ‘forgetting’ to remind us, as she states in a 2020 Vogue article, that “one person’s forgettable sweater is another person’s treasure”. And in relistening, the song transforms into a well of golden nuggets for the listener to fondly re-remember.

Padmo Widyaseno - 1989

2017 was many things, but its standout? The release of Taylor Swift’s reputation. My ears have been gifted by it many times since then, and although I now know all the songs, each listen still feels cathartic: the comforting familiar meets the exciting nuances of the work. The record is bold and polarising; a friend waiting to accompany me whenever I invite it.

Out of Taylor Swift’s entire discography, it is 1989 that stands out head and shoulders above the rest. There isn't a single mediocre song here, and listening to it also makes me somewhat nostalgic for my early middle school years, which was around the time this album came out. The nostalgia arises mainly from the album’s sound, which is quintessential of the pop music in that era.

Sarah Grace Pemberton - ‘peace’

Christina Savopoulos - ‘willow’ music video

I don’t want to exaggerate, but I’ve listened to ‘peace’ literally a billion times. The jazzy electric guitars mixed with the heavenly piano chords create a chill folk vibe that just soothes my anxious soul. In this soft ballad, Taylor’s all like "yeah, I’m insecure and worry my special someone thinks I’m too much, but I’m still going to tell him that I love him with the most stunningly romantic lyrics ever written." All these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret. My heart.

Taylor Swift’s ‘willow’ music video has recently become my favourite of hers despite not featuring her signature all-star ensemble cast of fellow celebrities, nor adopting a short film format like her infamous ‘All Too Well’ video. It feels like you’re entering the fairy garden of your dreams. In the video’s four-minute runtime, you’ll surely be entranced by her soothing guitar and the glowing thread Taylor follows.

Illustrated by Melana Uceda

/ fodder blog

Radio Fodder’s Music & Film Picks Aeva Milos - Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe in You Big Thief Big Thief’s new album, Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe in You, is a 20-track record that surveys love and landscape in its most primal, most road-trip form.

Carmen Chin - Last Night in Soho The supernatural and painful realities meld together in Last Night in Soho, a psychological thriller with elements of horror which follows an aspiring fashion designer who has the ability to slip into neon-lit ‘60s London. Her idyllic impression of the era and its glamour quickly cracks and splinters into something sinister, as Edgar Wright explores the pitfalls of showbiz in the city.

Its execution of two stories told in parallel fashion was tightly delivered, with a groundbreaking performance from Anya TaylorJoy in particular unfurling to blossom as the show’s main driving force. Last Night In Soho, at its core, is a commentary on a woman’s experience trying to make a mark for herself amid an industry conquered by sleazy men.

There’s a risk with all albums, especially of this length, that the sounds and tinctures will begin coalescing into one. For a moment, Big Thief wobbles on this precipice. Then suddenly, like a smug wink to listeners, a triphop infusion opens their song ‘Heavy Blend’.

In its second season with weekly episodes, Superman and Lois follows Lois and Clark as they struggle to maintain a balance between their superhero lives and raising their two teenage boys. The series kicks off when their sons find out their dad is Superman, and so ensues the Kents’ attempt to answer the one question which inevitably plagues all superheroes—how can we lead a normal life in a very abnormal environment?

Big Thief refuses definition. They appear to straddle convention while freewheeling through contemporary textures. It is a fascinating fusion of genres, expressing complex musical registers and modernising past influences.

Aeva Milos - The Dream, alt-J

Christina Savopoulos Superman and Lois Marvel and DC’s cinematic universes have recently bled into television and one of the newest shows is Superman and Lois. As a long time Smallville fan, I was initially sceptical about whether the show could capture the same excitement from watching Clark Kent explore his heritage and abilities. It’s safe to say that my apprehension immediately vanished and I’m now obsessed.

Illustrated by Melana Uceda

In The Dream, alt-J firmly plant themselves in the American landscape, in all of its heatstroke and bluesy glory. The record is like basking under Californian sun, perched between debauchery and the luxury of Chateau corridors, before plodding through the Wild West.

In some ways, the album carries a peculiar sense of grief; it’s a band stripping back their most complex layers and mellowing their idiosyncratic style. In this album, the band is anxiously searching for what path to next forge whilst also memorialising the bygones.

The Dream is a proclamation: this is just the beginning of something new.

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staff writers /

Films for the Directionless 20-year-old: Film Recommendations from Farrago’s Non-Fiction Staff Writer Team Written by

Daniel Snowden

At one time or another, we all tend to feel directionless. In these moments, it rarely fails to turn into a good film, one which acts like a guide-rope, and makes you feel like you’re not alone in your indirection. When you’re feeling lost during your twenties or at any age, these are the films that will affirm your direction. These are the types of movies you can simply never get enough of. And so, here are some of our favourite films, for the directionless twenty-something year old, from the NonFiction Staff Writing team (and Ivan) at Farrago.

The Green Knight (2021) Bella Farrelly

Booksmart (2019) Emma Xerri Drowning in the tears and social isolation brought on by VCE, I could not stomach yet another peppy, unrealistic high school film in which the characters spend their Friday evenings attending parties instead of hiding away in their bedrooms writing practice essays and causing irreparable damage to their upper back. Watching Booksmart for the first time felt like I could finally come up for air. Molly and Amy’s adolescent experience was the first with which I truly identified: two girls governed by academic success, trusting that every sacrifice and Friday evening spent alone would be worth it to say you’d bested your peers and made your academic aspirations a reality. I identified with their version of youth; one that was devoid of parties and driven by schooling, and one which films had taught me to believe isn’t much of a youth at all. This movie serves as comfort as I enter my twenties and cry about wasted time. It’s a reminder that academic validation isn’t everything and that maybe, just maybe, I should let my bubble-gum pink hair down every once in a while.

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Illustrated by

Amber Liang

A medieval fantasy film adaptation of a 14th-century Arthurian poem might seem like a bold choice if we’re talking about relatable movies for directionless twenty-somethings, but hear me out. Harking to a fine art classic of our own generation— Ke$ha’s ‘TiK ToK’ music video—a shabby young man, slick with sweat and still drunk from the night before, wakes up in a brothel on Christmas morning. Failing to convince his lover to stay in bed with him for the day, he’s fashionably late to mass, and there we learn that he’s actually Sir Gawain, much-beloved nephew of King Arthur and soon-to-be knight.

Destined for great things, one would think, and hardly befitting his palpable self-consciousness.

Prompted to entertain the congregation with tales of his heroic adventures, Gawain, visibly ashamed, admits that he has none to tell. On her throne, Queen Guinevere smiles warmly and finishes his sentence— “you have none to tell yet.”

Lonely, wavering, waiting for external forces to transform him into the hero he apparently ought to be.

Gawain perfectly embodies that early 20s dissonance of appearing to have your life together while actually hanging by a thread internally.

/ staff writers

I’m Thinking of Ending Things (2020) Ivan Jeldres

Frances Ha (2012) Emma Barrett Frances Ha is aimlessness in grainy black-and-white. The film explores the narrow space between pretending and doing, between trying and failing. Frances and Sophie share a bed most nights, running hand-in-hand through the streets of New York City, until Sophie moves out of their apartment to live elsewhere. Frances is left behind to pursue her increasingly unrealistic dream of being a dancer in New York City as she and Sophie grow more distant. Frances travels between a series of addresses, latching onto friends and odd jobs in an attempt to establish herself. Frances Ha is both comforting and unsettling—it sketches out a story which seems deeply specific to Frances and yet also universal for the flailing 20-something creative. The inertia of the film is best represented in the dialogue exchange below: So what do you do?

Charlie Kauffman’s 2020 film, I'm Thinking of Ending Things is a tough film to recommend. The title alone doesn’t help make it approachable, and it’s difficult to even talk about this film without spoiling it. That said, I shall do my best to convince you to watch it. Based on the book of the same name, it’s a story about a young woman who travels with her boyfriend Jake, to meet his parents and have dinner with them. There is one nagging thought in her head through-out the car ride; that she’s thinking of ending things with Jake.

Once this thought arrives, it stays; it sticks; it lingers. As a 19-year-old, the ending of a relationship can be a sickening experience and this film doesn’t shy away from those feelings. The young lady’s connection with Jake is one with blurred lines, and it’s often hard to decipher who is really in control of the movie’s plot. Like many of Kauffman’s films, it will leave you with a nagging feeling of familiarity. Everyone feels directionless at some point, and sometimes you feel like that when you’re driving through a snowstorm with your new boyfriend while you’re thinking of ending things.

It's kinda hard to explain.

Because what you do is complicated?

Because I don't really do it.

Illustrated by

Amber Liang

Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989) Daniel Snowden Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989), from Studio Ghibli and director Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away, Princess Mononoke), is my earnest recommendation for those who feel directionless. Based on a Japanese novel of the same name, the narrative follows a young witch who leaves home to find her own town and start a life of independence.

When Kiki, and her companion cat Jiji, find their town, Kiki finds herself starting a delivery business on her broomstick. The rest of the narrative follows her encounters and difficulties with growing up, and the relationships she makes along the way. It's a heartfelt story about transition and passion. How do we hold onto passion if we find it?

How do we bridge the gap between dependency and self-reliance? How do you stay true to yourself when you’ve lost faith in your own abilities?

These are the questions which Kiki’s Delivery Service is concerned with, and it does so with stirring animation and a comforting and humourful humanity. In my opinion, and on my recommendation, Kiki’s Delivery Service is a charming and timeless film that simply affirms life, no matter how directionless it may feel. And fortunately enough, you can enjoy Kiki’s Delivery Service and the rest of the Studio Ghibli catalogue on Netflix right now.

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non-fiction / column /

content warning: discussion of mental illness; mentions of suicide in no explicit detail

Facets of Madness

Under the Apple and the Pear: Of Edwardian Arts and Kusama Yayoi Written by Donna Ferdinando As I read several tediously long articles to alleviate the boredom of isolation, I came across one describing the life and artwork of Kusama Yayoi. An acclaimed Japanese artist, her most significant achievement seemed to be having entered herself into the psychiatric ward of a Tokyo hospital. The words used are "psychiatric ward," but they might as well have been "mental asylum", "lunatic asylum", or "bedlam". Search though I did, not one description of her artwork caught my notice.

However, the sentence "mental illness is not only presented as the origin of Kusama's creativity..." certainly did. Upon reading this sentence, the first thing to enter my mind was the contemporary romanticisation of mental illness; the unwelcome whack-a-mole, if you will, of oblivious 14-year-olds claiming to possess serious mental disorders on that damned plague we call TikTok. I suspect that such a lax attitude towards mental illness pervaded Kusama’s art world as well.

What else could my literature buffed, sonnet carrying, neuron firing brain do but make the immediate connection to A. S. Byatt, an author just as obsessed with fairy tales, myths, and systematically dismantling the stupendously harmful tropes of mental health so prevalent in creative spheres?

It's safe to say that A. S. Byatt's The Children's Book is every fairy tale enthusiast and arts and crafts buff's wet dream. It cleverly conceals the deep, dark depths of its content with quite the misleading title, forcing its readers to question madness, mental illness, and a plethora of burning questions. At what point does a scientist become a "mad scientist"? Must a writer cross the threshold of sanity to be considered great? Is madness necessary for creative originality? Where does one draw the line between passion, talent, manic obsession and an illness?

I can hardly call myself a connoisseur of creative fervour.

I cannot lose myself in the thralls of painting a portrait.

Yet I came quite close to experiencing a shadow of it in Byatt's play-by-play of Edwardian England. It is an era where conservatism invades new age liberalism and innovation. Here, suffragettes protest amidst tightening corsets and tightening legislation. Twentieth-century Art Nouveau painter Klimt experiments with form and

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sensuality as European politics worsens. Byatt tugs on the puppet strings of uncanny caricatures to propel the story along: Olive Wellwood the fairy tale writer, Benedict Fludd the potter, Imogen Fludd the silversmith, and Anselm Stern the creepy puppeteer.

The precise, detailed prose is nothing short of astounding, almost akin to poetry. I find myself sitting

by Olive Wellwood as her fingers fly across the page, spinning stories just as her ancestors spun tapestries in the days of yore. She is a veritable Mother Goose surrounded by her doting husband, loyal spinster sister, and brood of decidedly English children. Readers soon find that Olive’s stories bear an eerie similarity to the private lives, experiences and secret wishes of her children.

But surely, the thrilling results warrant such an invasion?

And who are we to judge if Benedict Fludd's pottery, the sculpted forms of human bodies, bears disturbing similarity to his daughters? Who are we to say that Imogen's marital relationship with her once-guardian is odd when her newfound happiness evokes extensive improvements in her artistic career?

Perhaps I and others, in our limited experience, are simply ignorant of the emotions and efforts that go into wrenching mud, ink, glass, linseed oil and gloss into something otherworldly, something to be admired by creatures who practise rationality and thus call any artistic attempt the work of "fervour", or in crasser terms, "madness". Byatt, however, in subtle digs worthy of Jane Austen herself, spares no time in driving home that the existence of the Mad Artist and its romanticisation is troublesome at the least and deranged at worst, burying artistic talent under mounds of stereotypes. After all, “Artistic Madness” certainly wasn’t the excuse for all those brilliant pieces of art with history's name etched upon them.

It is one thing to claim that the artist reflects the madness of society through artistic mediums, and thus, is themselves condemned as “mad”. Stating and idealising severe mental illness to perpetuate creativity is a far graver matter.

Such is the case of Kusama Yayoi. Relishing in the intricate painted dots, the webs of splattered ink

converging to form delicate floral motifs—it’s heartbreaking to think her mental illness overshadows her raw skill. It’s hard to believe that an internationally recognised woman with such immense talent could have her skill attributed to misfiring chemical cannons in her brain, rather than the craft she has strived to perfect. Is she really her mental illness? Is her craft the fruit of the maddened branch? Wouldn’t mental illness rather be an influence rather than the origin of her work?

This concept is mirrored in The Children’s Book by contrasting the master and his apprentice, Philip Warren. Spending nearly half his time sketching the pottery in the Victoria and Albert Museum, Philip’s work reaches an expertise few artisans achieve in their lifetime, in the span of a few years. While Benedict Fludd destroys his creations in fits of uncontrollable rage, it is Philip who saves the shards and pieces, giving them new life. Philip may have a rocky past of his own, yet Byatt illustrates his genius as derived from raw skill. He clambers and crawls his way out of the soot and into the sunlight. It is Philip who calms Fludd down from fits of anger, and who saves him from catastrophe.

It is Philip who remains “sane” throughout the book, as untreated madness precipitates the rest of the cast’s downfall. Olive Wellwood’s oldest son commits suicide after his mother takes it a step too far. Imogen Fludd enters a pseudo-incestuous relationship with a man thrice her age. Anselm Stern falls to the political machination of a Germany at the brink of war.

I wonder whether these conclusions would have persisted had Byatt set the story in the twenty-first century instead of the Edwardian Era, where psychiatry and psychotherapy, Jung and the bits of acceptable Freud would have identified and treated blatant mental illness rather than have it seen as a “symptom of artistic expression”. Would her characters’ art have been affected? In turn, would Kusama Yayoi have had her art interpreted in newer ways than simply through the lenses of mental illness, if treatment and not romanticisation was common modern-day practice?

I cannot predict possibilities, but it is quite clear that the spectrum of perception, artistry, analysis, and medical treatment is contingent on historical context.

Illustrated by Niamh Corbett

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non-fiction / column /

Filling up the Static: Rocket, Magic and Big Thief’s Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You Written by Stella Theocharides In the song “Time Escaping”, the opening bars of percussion clatter reluctantly into view, as if someone’s dropped a pair of sticks down a slightly confused slope. You can hear Adrianne Lenker sigh and cough a little; then, a second rhythm, overlapping. The first time I heard it, I felt turned around and faintly bewildered. They were going somewhere I wasn’t sure I’d be able to follow.

When the song gasps into place, it does so with a flood of peculiar and immediate magic.

The percussion suddenly takes form like a clay figure, opening its eyes and sitting upright.

Later in the recording, Adrianne’s dog runs in, startled as I was by the song’s noise. You can hear her reassuring him, repeating gently: “It’s music! It’s music!” / If you grow rocket in your garden, beware in late spring. Left unchecked, the plants will bolt and become an unruly field of yellow flowers.

No more salads—the plants’ energy flees to the bright seed heads, and the remaining leaves grow tough and bitter.

The year after we made this error, rocket sprung up all over, vivid amidst the native plants my mum preferred to grow. If I weaved through the grasses and banksia bushes, I could pick at the new growths, wild between the rocks and dirt and compost heap.

Unprotected from insects but hidden from our eager hands, they had grown thicker than they ever did fenced in. / Big Thief’s album Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You is not cohesive the way a soup might be, with root vegetables boiling down to something smooth and safe. The album stirs up an admittedly soupy sense of comfort, but its bright and familiar textures feel freshly grown. Like a garden gone to seed, it’s sprawling, unpredictable, and generous in its variety and substance. When I listen closely, I can hear shoots of intense and untidy joy, springing up from a warm soil. /

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The year the rocket went wild, I was nine and hooked on adventure novels, the kind with dragons and magic and children clever enough to foil wicked plots. Keen for 'real adventure’, I groaned to my mum about the plotless boredom of my life. She was patient, suggesting I chase thrills by trying new foods— rocket, perhaps, since it was everywhere now.

I was frustrated by the idea, wanting proper dragons, a real story, and maybe also to be chosen for something bigger and truer than spices or leaves.

These days, though, I am overjoyed to be worthy of a good salad, and it seems like very little is truer than spices and their startling generosity. I take a bite of what’s in front of me: Something is crunchy, something else soft, and maybe the cheese is too salty, but there’s bright fleshy orange in there and the sharp citrus soothes the rest. I learnt this recipe and made it with my hands, and that is almost enough of a marvel to sustain me. Magic is no longer a mystery, sitting undisturbed like a dragon in its old, golden cave. Instead, it’s peppery and sweet and taught to me in recipes from friends. It sits in the rocky crevices of my week like tastebuds, watering, anticipatory. / The year has begun to bolt ahead like a loose percussive instrument down a hill, or rocket left untended. None of the rolling beats make any sense and the ingredients confuse me, but surely soon I’ll be humming in a kitchen, taking deep breaths of the fruit in my hands.

I imagine orange rind, fragrant and gathering quietly under my fingernails with the garden dirt.

Somehow, this mess is going to be music. I believe in it, although I remain unsure about the recipe. All I’ve got is something green in the ground before me, and I’m trying to figure out if I should call it rocket or arugula. I am deeply fond of untidy gardens and untidy albums, and I suspect that I also love untidy salads. I know I need to wash these oddly shaped leaves.

Somewhere, though, I hear my mum promising that dirt is good for the immune system, and I am listening.

/ non-fiction / column

Illustrated by Monica Yu

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graphic column /

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‘Lost in Translation’ by Riley Morgan

/ graphic column

‘Lost in Translation’ by Riley Morgan

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culture /

The Ironies of the "Public House" Written by Emma Barrett, Staff Writer

My interest in the contemporary Melbournian pub began with an expensive Northcote parmigiana.

As I tapped my card to facilitate the transfer of $26 from my bank account to the EFTPOS machine, I found myself wondering whether a pub meal was always this expensive.

Sure, the cost of a chicken parmigiana must cover the price of ingredients, and the labour of preparing, cooking and serving the meal. Ensuring restaurant workers are well-paid for their work is essential, as is making sure establishments stay afloat. But $26 was a little steep for my budget.

When researching similar venues in Melbourne’s inner north, I found that $26 is a pretty standard price for the humble parma. You’ll pay $26 at the Northcote Social, a beloved pub and live music venue, as at the cult-favourite The Retreat in Brunswick. You’ll only fork out a dollar less at the Prince Alfred, which sits just across the road from the University of Melbourne and is filled with students by 5pm.

The modern pub meal is decently expensive—sometimes embellished with micro herbs and jus—far from the image of a cheap and sufficiently greasy, meaty meal conjured up by the affectionate term of ‘pub grub’.

This "upmarket" pub meal serves to exclude those with a tighter budget, essentially pricing out lower-income groups from eating at these venues. But why does this matter?

The pub, short for ‘public house’, has traditionally been constructed as a welcoming space. The name itself suggests a site for community, congregation and celebration—a home outside of home. But, if the modern pub is increasingly expensive and an unfeasible option for lowerincome groups, is the pub truly public anymore?

The contemporary pub is an offshoot of the Roman taverns in Britain, where lower-class groups met to eat, drink and gamble. They were sites of crime and violence, with men entering from the street wearing veils and engaging with sex workers. Alehouses and inns in the Middle Ages also contributed to the development of the pub and its role as a community meeting place. The modern-day Australian pub is a descendant of British and Irish traditions, with Australia’s beer-drinking culture, for instance, directly inherited from this history. In early colonial Australia, pubs were quickly established, generating commerce and providing employment. Establishments like the Mitre Tavern in Melbourne’s CBD have stood since British colonisers declared Melbourne to be a city. In the modern pub, games like pool and trivia, gambling and live music are common forms of entertainment and pull in customers.

The inclining price point of a pub feed is not the first instance of the "public house" contradicting the openness suggested in its name. The Australian pub, etched into the landscape of the country, is a British imperialist symbol.

Both the permanence and omnipresence of the pub serve to mark out the incursion of British cultural practices,

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and the ways they continue to govern the lives of First Nations peoples. Historically, the pub was unwelcoming to Indigenous peoples due to practices of segregation, often under the guise of "protection", alongside racist attitudes amongst white Australians. Stories of contemporary pub segregation continue to emerge, exploring the insidious methods by which establishments "lawfully" keep Indigenous and non-Indigenous patrons separated. The tradition of segregation in Australian pubs continues to this day. One example is by refusing Indigenous customers admission to the main bar on the basis of dress code, and instead allowing them entry to run-down rooms out the back.

The dialectic between the pub and colonial structures is distinctly clear at the Builders Arms on Gertrude Street, Fitzroy. The Builders Arms was the first non-segregated pub in Melbourne, openly welcoming Indigenous customers.

The pub became an important meeting place for Fitzroy’s Indigenous community, alongside other sites in the area like the Gore Street Church. Andy Price was the bar manager at the Builders in the mid-2000s. He told me he witnessed firsthand the friction between the history of the pub and its modern identity as an upmarket food and drink venue. The Builders is “a snapshot of how Fitzroy has been developing”, Andy said, reflecting the challenges posed by gentrification, and the difficulty of preserving the pub’s unique identity.

The Indigenous history of the Builders is commemorated by a plaque etched into the side of the building, acknowledging its role in fighting against segregation. Yet, as Andy noted, there is a general lack of awareness of the significance of the venue, and a risk of this history being forgotten entirely as the pub continues to evolve.

The pub is a masculinised domain—both in its traditional and contemporary iterations. Historically, women were barred from sections of the pub, with specific ‘Ladies Bars’ catering to female clientele. Women were charged more for beverages, or unable to place orders without a male chaperone. In Queensland, this segregation persisted until 1970, when the Liquor Act was altered following protests. Hyper-masculine attitudes still exist in the pub space despite the inclusion of women in the public bar. In 2016, a Perth pub received backlash after displaying sexist signs advertising a frat party. Most instances of sexism in the pub, however, receive far less press attention. Stories of harassment and assault are commonplace, often going unreported. And, though it may be easy to assume that unwanted sexual attention occurs mostly within the confines of dodgy clubs, the local pub also forms a backdrop for these incidents. As such, the pub remains an environment where women are trained to act with caution: don’t accept drinks from strangers, keep your glass covered, look out for your friends.

/ culture

For women who work in the pub, the masculine culture of the space shapes all aspects of the job. In Australia’s emerging pub scene, ‘barmaids’ were often widowed women or former female convicts. Their role extended beyond serving drinks—they provided company to their male clientele, who in turn projected their desires onto the barmaids. Male customers viewed barmaids as seductive and sexually powerful, with some groups fighting to ban the barmaid, claiming they lured men in and encouraged them to drink. Despite the mythos which surrounded the barmaid, employment in the pub was still granted to women prior to their capacity to be a customer in some Australian states.

Nowadays, female bartenders continue to face sexism and harassment both from customers and fellow employees.

Amy*, 21, works at a large pub in Richmond. She spoke to me of the “boys club” amongst the male supervisors and managers, and a lack of female representation in leadership, leading to her feeling as though she has to “work harder than [her] male counterparts to establish [herself]”.

Amy relayed stories of being made to feel uncomfortable by customers—in one instance, when she reported this to her supervisors, no action was taken, leaving Amy “close

to walking out on the spot”. Amy also spoke to me of the Catch-22 of the tight-knit pub community: filing official complaints could potentially impact her employability in the future, yet a lack of action allows for sexist attitudes in the pub to continue to fester. Amy is hopeful of finding a better bartending environment elsewhere, yet wary that these experiences of sexism are relatively common within the pub scene.

Currently, the pub occupies a strange position in our social fabric. To many in the community, it’s a watering hole, a place of togetherness, with frothy beer and a pool table.

It’s a place to meet after work, a place to leave at 1am in a wobbly state. Yet, to others, the pub is clouded by a history of exclusion and segregation which has played out within its walls—a history which continues to shape the present. In current-day Australia, where the forces of gentrification and social change are remoulding our public space, I wonder what new traditions will emerge within the pub. I wonder whether the classic Australian pub will exist in the future, and what forms it might take. Finally, I question how we can make the public house truly public for all members of the community. *name has been changed

Illustrated by Ivan Jeldres

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content warning: coarse language

feature /

THE COST OF SPACE TRAVEL Written by VELENTINA BOULTER, STAFF WRITER I am named after the first woman in space, Valentina Tereshkova. This is usually my go-to “fun fact about myself” I have tucked away for the first week of uni classes; a simple and easy answer to most ice-breaker questions.

Growing up, it was always in my nature to look up to astronauts, cosmonauts, and all the little maths geniuses behind them, and to be inspired by their daring and fearless determination. Although I once screamed so loudly on a rollercoaster that the operator shut it down mid-ride, the idea of hurtling through space at the speed of light has always sparked my interest. In my eyes, space travel has always been the ultimate display of both human perseverance and scientific achievement.

In fact, the idealist in me still has a childlike love for space exploration. For one, the technologies invented as a result of space exploration help us all, from telecommunications to weather forecasts, and even to memory foam. As someone who is always getting lost, I have constant gratitude for the satellite technology that allows me to “google maps” my way to where I need to go. Additionally, the further we push into space and travel beyond the solar system, the better we understand our own role in the universe and make giant breakthroughs in the scientific world.

To the naïve and innocent, space exploration is nothing short of incredible. To gaze up in awe as the International Space Station whizzes past my house. To engross myself in the discovery of phosphine in Venus’ atmosphere. To be continually mesmerised by the technology that enabled the first photograph of a black hole. Space exploration leaves me breathless.

Well, at least that is how I used to feel.

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On July 20, 2021, Blue Origin blasted its first four crew members, including founder Jeff Bezos, into space. They orbited the earth for 10 minutes before descending back to our small blue planet and cracking open a bottle of champagne. Privately owned spaceflight companies, like Blue Origin and Elon Musk’s SpaceX, have completely revolutionised the field of space exploration.

Privatised space travel represents a shift. Space travel is becoming less about advancing civilisation and more about advancing individualist opportunities. While they once carried with them the hopes and dreams of entire nations, these rockets are now launched with nothing but the greed and self-interest of billionaires. Instead of focusing on the giant leaps for mankind, space travel has shifted to the individual small steps of a man. It has taken billionaires shoving their phallic-shaped rockets into the sky for me to realise the true cost of space exploration.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Newton’s third law of motion is commonly used by physicists to ensure the successful launching of rockets; however, this third law also applies to the financial cost of space programs. For every dollar spent on space travel, there is an equal and opposite amount not spent on more dire sectors of society. The James Webb telescope, launched in 2021, cost over USD 10 billion.

Furthermore, in 2021 NASA received around $23 billion from the United States’ federal budget. Now while this may only account for 0.5% of the overall budget, even just a fraction of that $23 billion could make a huge impact in a country where 14.3 million households are experiencing food insecurity. Of course, this issue is only exacerbated by the billionaire space race. The fact these people have an exorbitant amount of money to enable them 10 minutes in space, whilst others cannot afford to put food on their plates, is sickening.

Illustrated by SALLY YUAN

/ feature

But this is not even the first time the moral ambiguity of space travel is being called into question. At the time of the 60’s Space Race, many civil rights activists, including Martin Luther King, constantly called out the hypocrisy of dedicating all this money into sending astronauts to a dry and barren moon whilst millions of African Americans lived in poverty. Surely, there is a more efficient and benevolent way to spend this money.

The cost of space travel extends beyond financial costs.

Instead, much like a binary star system, the financial cost of space programs is gravitationally bound to another cost: the environmental cost. As we push further into the climate crisis, nearing a point of no return, instead of pouring all our efforts into salvaging the environment, we are pouring wealth, effort and resources into rockets that omit 300 tons of carbon dioxide into our upper atmosphere after each launch. This is 300 tons of carbon dioxide directly injected into the stratosphere, which is where the sacred ozone layer is found. And once you consider the growing market of “space tourism” and the exponential growth in the number of rockets launched, space travel becomes just another factor contributing to those rising global temperatures.

neighbours here on Earth need our dire help? Although our problems may be insignificant in the broad picture of the universe, these issues are what people must deal with every day. These issues are the centre of our universe, not some galaxy that is 2.537 million light years away.

When people ask me how my parents decided on my name, I feel honoured to be able to explain that I am named after the first woman in space. I, of all people, understand the importance of scientific ventures and space endeavours. Space travel is designed to motivate and galvanise us; yet in its current state, driven by billionaires, it leaves me uninspired and indifferent at best, and fed up and infuriated at worst. While space travel has undeniable benefits, there are also indisputable negative financial, environmental and social impacts. Unfortunately, it seems that a part of growing up is ultimately recognising that, yes, there is a cost to everything.

Even space travel.

The more I think about space exploration, a growing guilt slowly sucks up all my optimism like a black hole.

Upon returning to the earth, astronauts often claim to have stumbled upon a new perspective on life.

Emphasising the fragility and vulnerability of a small rocky planet we call home, they often express the revelation that all our grievances, no matter how big they seem to us, are all ultimately contained within the five layers of our atmosphere. However, while this perspective may be helpful for the overthinkers, for others it is not. So, while Jeff Bezos can seek clarity 100 kilometres up in the sky, the millions of workers who endure terrible working conditions in minimum wage jobs will have to continue struggling to keep their heads above water.

What is the point in focusing all our attention on our faraway galactic neighbours like Andromeda when our

Illustrated by SALLY YUAN

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non-fiction /

The LinkedIn Industrial Complex Written by Joel Duggan, Staff Writer

I have attempted to make a LinkedIn profile twice in my life.

their production of a “permanent undercurrent of debilitating anxiety”.

The first time was when I was fresh out of high school with barely any experience to speak of. I did not end up registering though, because of this growing feeling of being unable to justify its utility.

What lends this anxiety its permanence is of course the collapse of the work-life divide, plus the fact that there is no ultimate standard by which one can judge themselves. No amount of work will make you safe from being tossed away by your employer. One need look no further than our very own University of Melbourne, where academics with illustrious careers are made redundant with disturbing ease.

As the philosopher Jean-François Lyotard (quoted

by Savonarola) puts it, “we will never play the whore enough, we will never be dead enough.”

The second was a few months ago. This time I did complete account creation. Yet, as I was filling out my profile with experience and achievements, I could not shake off a sense of disgust. Disgust at the idea of recording every productive act in my life and breaking it down into a series of buzzword-laden skill descriptions—only for the potential employers to scrutinise as they consider whether I am savvy enough in the LinkedIn lingo, whether my display picture gives off professional yet wholesome vibes, whether the entire course of my life listed before them in neat, dot-point form satisfies their Key Assessment Criteria™.

I stopped there and deleted my account.

I did not really examine this revulsion until months later when I was reading an old article by the philosopher Mark Fisher, titled ‘The Privatisation of Stress’, in which he articulates how workplace stresses had grown to infect the entirety of the contemporary worker’s life.

We are compelled to “be [our] own auditors”, to make ourselves eternally available to the whims and wants of employers, to be always engaging in professional development.

The contemporary CV is the crown jewel of this privatisation of stress, the blood diamond whose violent glint is brightest in the lives of those entering the labour market.

Fisher quotes another article by the blogger Savonarola, titled ‘Curriculum mortis’, which brings greater focus to this issue of the CV: “[We] are obliged not just to over fulfill the plan, but to record—with the exacting eye of a Big Other meting out his next-tolast judgment—every single one of [our] productive acts. The only sins are sins of omission.” Savonarola goes on to compare the plight of the post-industrial worker to that of the Soviet Stakhanovites, labourers who would work harder than necessary in the name of strengthening the socialist state. The modes of production may differ, but both are united in

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And the worst thing about this is that you internalise it until the “exacting eye” is not that of the “Big Other” but yourself. Everything in your life becomes viewed through the prism of the CV. This is not to say that it is unethical to list mundane things like your hobbies in your CV, but rather that there are psychological consequences to existing in such a system, where leisure loses its function as an escape from labour to instead become yet another submissive servant of labour.

Despite my valiant rallying against the LinkedIn industrial complex, I am no exception here. I do have a CV, in which you can find things I would never have imagined putting on a CV when I signed up to do them. My experiences with high school debating have been broken down into neat references to teamwork and public speaking skills (now mostly eroded by COVID-19). Short stories I had published in my teen years have found their way into the ‘Publications’ section at the end, as if to demonstrate I am a serious writer when, in reality, they were written just for fun and published by happenstance. Even the act of making friends has been translated into me possessing a so-called “affable personality”.

And I confess, the “exacting eye” is now what I see with. Each new uni club is one I can list in my CV to give the illusion of me being a cultured schmooze.

Each volunteering opportunity is a chance to project my commitment to social justice. Each story I write is another notch in the belt of my ‘Publications’ section.

Admittedly, even this story will find its way into my CV. I apologise, but “the only sins are sins of omission”.

Illustrated by Zoe Hoffman

/ regulars

For and Against: Ed Sheeran

Against

by Bella Farrelly

You’re nearing the end of a night of belligerence in the club.

Not really feeling it anymore. You don’t know the song they’re playing, you’re just hoping the next one’s something good. An ole reliable Doja Cat song? A 2000s banger, perhaps? You’re not picky! As long as you can dance to it, you’ll try to have a good time.

The song ends. There’s a beat. One last delicious moment of silence before you hear It. Of all the instruments you could possibly hear in a club.

For

The ridiculous sound of a xylophone.

by Madison Barr I know what you’re thinking. How could I possibly convince you that Ed Sheeran is worth defending? But hear me out. Mr Sheeran is a necessary evil. In recent years, people have come to their senses and realised that he is shit, but this collective realisation has birthed some of the greatest memes I have ever seen.

Whenever I open TikTok, I am delighted to find endless material mocking Ed for his attempts at being relatable on the app. No one holds back at ripping into this man, including his appearance. While I’m not one to judge someone based on looks, the meme trends about Ed Sheeran ‘lookalikes’ brought me endless joy. Egg Sheeran was a personal favourite.

I believe this humour more than compensates for hearing his monstrosities on repeat in every retail store. We have reclaimed Ed Sheeran’s existence and used it to ease our pain, which is the very purpose of memes.

Mr Sheeran has also given us a very effective way to judge our peers. You may think someone is a decent and likeable person, but this can be tested by checking if they posted about his 2019 tour or Hosier Lane performance. It’s a quick and foolproof method to cull any tasteless losers. Thanks, Ed! At the end of the day, could we really imagine our lives without his confused yet emotionless stare? The laughable yet perverted horror of ‘Shape of You’? The years 2013-2015 when we were all convinced this man had an ounce of talent?

Our trauma has shaped us and our perception of the music industry. It has paved the way for us to destroy future stars who rise to fame through unoriginal songs and an outdated hipster aesthetic. Whether you hate him or really hate him, that blank faced ranga really has got us ‘Thinking Out Loud’.

Against

by Chelsea Daniel

Ahh, Ed. The definition of a man who does half as much as the women around him for the same, if not more, praise and success.

The Infamous narrative is: Sheeran started as a street busker, became famous with his song ‘The A Team’ overnight, and then was invited to open Taylor Swift’s Red Tour along with collaborating for her song ‘Everything has Changed’. From there, he has dominated the industry by wearing flannel, writing cash cow songs that are made to be overplayed at Coles. All the while women in the music industry have to change eras every album to stay relevant.

The weight of a small meteoroid settles in your chest. It’s ‘Shape of You’.

“Girl, you know I want your love,” he says to you. You remember the scary makeup he was wearing in the promo photos for ‘Bad Habits’. “I’m in love with your body,” he insists. You remember he’s British. It’s all compounding in your stomach. You’re breaking out in hives. The xylophone is unrelenting. You think it’ll build up to something, it has to—a danceable climax, a break in the monotony of his God Damn British Cadence, a release from the skeletal, droning, literally never-changing melody of it all. Something. Anything. It never comes. It never comes.

Stop playing ‘Shape of You’ in clubs. It’s not a club song. It sounds like Fraggle music. Release me.

Against

by Zachary Matthews When Kimberly Diane Craig née Day said “red hair no friends”, it wasn’t about her second-best friend Sharon; it was really about Ed Sheeran. As my friend Srishti would say: Ed Sheeran’s career is very blink-and-miss, just like his appearance in Game of Thrones. This cishet white man droning on and on about flings with women I can’t really believe actually occurred provokes such a loathing, a disdain in my lil queer soul that I wonder whether this is really the finest that straight culture has to offer? I don’t know, maybe when your albums are named after mathematical operations I might tune out and stream ‘Crash’ by Charli XCX instead. Not even the aggressively masculine cover of ‘LoveGame’ that trended on TikTok for all the wrong reasons comes close to the de-yassification of music that is Ed Sheeran’s discography. The one redeeming quality of his music has to be the ease by which CupcakKe remixes of his music can be made—I’m looking at the various remixes of ‘Bad Habits’, ‘Thinking Out Loud’ and ‘Perfect’ that were immensely improved by the addition of moans, slurps and screams.

Besides that, keep your heterosexuality to yourself, Ed. Over and out.

‘A Team’ still slaps though.

Illustrated by Ayushmaan Nagar

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artwork /

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'Les Seins Percus' by CJ Starc

Photography by Christian Theodosiou

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Photography by Christian Theodosiou

Photography

by Christian Theodosiou Photography

by Maddy Cronn

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Photography by Michael Sadeghi

Photography by Michael Sadeghi

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'Here,Artwork it's Quiet' byby Aeva Clem Milos McNabb

'Here, it's Quiet' by Clem McNabb

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Photography by Christian Theodosiou

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Photography by Tonia Pan

/ artwork

CREATIVE Artwork by Sophie Sjostrom

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creative / column

content warning: mentions of illness

Ordinary Phenomena: Fireflies in the Suburbs Written by Helena Pantsis The shops still don't stay open as late as you would like. It's suburban living, the sparks from the blistering street lights competing with nettled crickets, and every creature shut inside its home for the evening. Your brother asks to go bowling with you, and even though it's the last thing you'd ever want to do, you strap yourself in the passenger seat and check the size of your shoes; the lightning bugs glow fluorescent behind your teeth. He tells you the competition will be tight, and it’s because you both know you are as bad as the other. You never used to be this close, before the operation, before the cancer. You find blessings in disguise, like fireflies in a darkened field, the bed rest and the rehabilitation making the gravity moonlike here, bodies wading heavy and slow like in water. When you arrive at the bowling alley, all the lanes are booked. In the car, the radio starts playing Culture Club's ‘Karma Chameleon’, a classic learned from hours sung on SingStar ’80s, a game you forced your brother to play with you unabashedly in childhood.

You learned all the lyrics by heart. You belt it out, laughing and singing falsettos beyond either of your actual ranges. You see him, like you haven't in a long time, not as a sick boy or a nuisance sibling, but as a person: a partner in crime, a friend, someone who can empathise with every childhood experience you've ever had.

The silence settles gently on you, soft and restful, like a weighted blanket. You've never had to pretend with him. You find an arcade, and can see your retinas through vaulted eyelids, lit up by the strength of a hundred lights and TV screens.

These were the places you lingered when you were young, trying to cheat the claw machines and bracing trembling hands as you stood rigid by the stacking game.

You recall winning a beanie baby once; you don’t know what ever happened to it.

At the back of the arcade are the kart simulators, your brother’s favourite. Either luck is growing from the undersides of your tongues or has attached to you both like parasites in the night, because your machine doesn't run over, doesn't ask for another two dollar coin nor boot you when you come in second place. It goes on, the credits rising and your score growing; you are winning without winning. Your brother laughs, something delicate and bright; it's gleeful and giddy as you rack up the wins. But you can't stay all night, despite the urge to linger in the laughter a little longer. You hope the credits will find another child looking for some time to kill. It is dark on your way home, and there's barely any cars on the deserted roads ahead—the road glitters under the floating haze of fireflies in the sky above. No one says anything, or maybe you and your brother joke about the absurd things your parents do: the things you got into trouble for as a kid. With every turn you are closer to home. You close your eyes, but still, even in the darkness, you can see the streetlights lit like lightning bugs in the night.

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Illustrated by Evan Goulios

/ creative / prose

BUSTING Written by Sati Handan Öcal

The watermelon dwarfs the little fridge it’s displayed on, green rind overtaking white plastic. It currently resides with a family of three. They survey their prized mass from the kitchen table. Through the crack of an open window, the sounds of bleating and braying fill the room. A group of flies buzz around a haphazard pile of unwashed dishes. None of this matters—all focus is on the rare, marvellous melon.

“Not tonight,” their father calls.

A week painfully elapses, and the melon rests proudly, yet to be sacrificed. Both children hold their hands against the rind, cool and firm. Gavin gives it a cheeky slap, feeling it vibrate in response, while Rose laughs and observes a yellow spot on its underside: it’s perfectly ripe. Gavin darts to the drawer by the squeaky sink, pulling out a butcher’s knife as long as his arm, while his accomplice handles the plates. The knife hovers a fraction from the rind, an inch away from the prized sweet scarlet flesh. But— “Step away from the watermelon!” their father bellows from another room. “Put that knife down!”

Alas! Gavin drops the knife immediately, unable to stop it from falling in such a clatter that it cuts a small slit into the side of his thumb. Their father rushes to the green giant’s side—he anxiously gives it a thorough pat-down, grubby hands leaving bits of dirt against the rind. The melon will live. He turns around sharply, his eyes full of wild anger, then whips back around to carefully lift the watermelon from the fridge. He tenderly places it on the top of their tallest cabinet, well out of reach from his two miscreants.

Mealtimes become tense after the unsuccessful heist. The two youngsters share looks of aversion as their father inhales his chicken and rice. White stringy meat and soft beads of rice mush between his set of six teeth. He coughs and a clump of food escapes through one of his mouth’s generous gaps.

It lands in the centre of the table followed by a thick trail of saliva. The children look away as he rises from his haunches, grunting and straining with his arms outstretched to retrieve his projectile. While avoiding this unfriendly sight, Gavin and Rose stare up at the green mass. Both appear concerned—something looks off about it. Has it doubled in size? One thing is for sure: its round sides have most definitely swollen abnormally outwards.

At the following breakfast everyone keeps their heads down and avoids eyeing the growing globe on top of the cupboard. A tiny fan sits on the table, its laboured droning unable to serve a single iota in subduing the relentless heat. Gavin and Rose watch their father lightly tap his spoon on his usual morning boiled egg.

Crack crack. They both stare wide-eyed and full of anticipation as the shell splinters. He stops, something finally registering in his brain, and gives a sly smirk.

With one quick and heavy thwack he beheads the egg, snatches his sausage fingers for the bread and savagely dips it into the white chamber. His daughter watches the yoke run down the egg’s shell. She catches her brother’s gaze as both look longingly up towards the watermelon. They wonder in reverie— What’s he waiting for? Why won’t he let us eat it?

“Not today,” says their father with a menacing snort.

Bits of egg dangle from his double chin. Gavin slumps in his chair and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

Suddenly, the miserable whirring from the fan ceases. There is a moment of pure silence. Then, a thunderous bust, and the insides of the watermelon pelt the room like a monstrous monsoon. The walls and windows are coated with a furious, thick coat of crimson. With the squeals of their father as mere background noise, the children run around like barnyard animals, rejoicing in the scarlet hues.

Illustrated by Weiting Chen

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graphic column /

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‘Oyster’ by Sophia Zikic

/ graphic column

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translation /

Virgil’s Eclogue I Translated by Michael Josefsson

Meliboeus

Tityrus

Tityrus, you recline beneath a screen

The city, Meliboeus, that they call Rome

of spreading beech and dwell upon the woodland

stupidly I thought resembled ours,

muse with slender reed, while we are forced

the place we shepherds drive our tender lambs.

to leave our home, its borders and sweet fields.

I knew that puppies were like dogs and kids

We flee our homeland: you, Tityrus, in shade at ease,

their dams—thus I compared the great and small.

are teaching woods to sound beautiful Amaryllis.

But Rome has raised her head midst other cities,

Tityrus

high as cypresses midst bending osiers.

A god made us these pleasures, O Meliboeus,

Meliboeus

and he will always be divine to me;

What was the cause for your first seeing Rome?

a tender lamb of mine will often wet his altar. He allowed my cows to roam, as you can see, and I myself to play whatever is my will on rustic pipes.

Tityrus Freedom, though late, beheld my joyless form once white my beard began to fall beneath my blade, but saw me ne’ertheless and came

Meliboeus

long past her time, when Amaryllis had me

I bear no grudge, but marvel: such great strife

and Galatea’d left. Confess I must—

there is on every side, in every field.

while Galatea held my soul I had

I drive my goats on sickened: look, Tityrus,

no hope for freedom and no care for thrift.

this one I can barely lead—for here,

Though many victims left my stalls, and much

just now, among thick hazels, she gives birth

rich cheese was pressed for an ungrateful urbs,

to twins, hope of the flock, alas!, on naked

my hand did not come home weighed down with bronze.

flint. I would recall this often, if my mind had not been dulled, this evil was foretold by oak trees touched by heaven. Still, tell me, Tityrus—who is this your god?

Meliboeus I wondered, Amaryllis, why you called the gods so sad, and let those apples hang abandoned in their tree: you were forsaken too. The pines themselves, Tityrus, these the very springs, your trees all called you home.

Guo Joanne y b d rate Illust

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/ translation

Tityrus

Meliboeus

What could I do? I could no more evade

While we are forced to go from here—some off

my bonds than find such kindly gods elsewhere.

to thirsty Africa, a part to Scyths,

I saw that youth here, Meliboeus, he

and some will reach Oaxes, wrenching chalk,

for whom our altars smoke now twice six days

and Britons wholly sundered from the world.

a year. Here first he gave an answer: ‘Feed

Ah, will I ever see again, years hence,

your cattle as before, and rear your bulls.’

my country’s bounds, a little cottage roofed

Meliboeus You lucky man—so these will stay your fields, for you enough, though barren stone draws over all and muddy swamp paints rushes on the pastures.

No foreign grass will test your pregnant ewes, no bad contagions strike from neighbouring flocks.

O happy man! Here among known rivers, sacred springs, you will court the shady cool.

From here, as ever, on your neighbour’s hedge the willows fed on by Hyblaean bees will with their gentle whisper soothe you off to sleep; while there, beneath the towering crag,

with heaps of sod, and later, gazing on my kingdoms, marvel at some ears of corn?

Will some godless soldier tend these fields, barbarians these crops? Behold how strife produces wretched citizens: we sowed our seeds for them. Now, Meliboeus, graft your pears and plant your vines in rows. Away, once blessed flock, off goats. I can no more recline in leafy grottoes as you hang from thorny distant crags. I will sing no songs; no longer will I tend you, goats, as you pluck bitter willow, flowering clover.

the gardener on the breeze will sing—your pets,

Tityrus

the strident pigeons, airy turtledoves,

Yet here with me tonight you rested on

will not cease to wail atop the elm.

green herbs—we have ripe apples, chestnuts soft

Tityrus And gentle deer will graze in air, and straits will forsake fish naked on the shore, or both

and much pressed milk. And even now, far off, the highest roofs of distant houses smoke, and greater shadows fall from mountain heights.

will cross the other’s borders, exiled Parthia will drink the Arar, Germany the Tigris, before that young god’s face slips from my chest.

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poetry /

太空︀。 赖韦 (Wei Ann Lai) 浩瀚无垠的宇宙 在奥妙的深空 无声无息地 野蛮生长。 时间凝固的往事

to: life.

在空虚的心里

Written by Wei Ann Lai

滴答滴答地 落入未来。

to wring a dry cloth on cracked soil under the ablaze sun.

太空的银河系； 太空的玻璃心。

to drink water from the dead sea under the mute night. to wrestle a child, parched, famished, deserted on the streets. to dangle carrots miles away from a restful stable. tread softly, please. there is nothing left to give.

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Illustrated by Ella Cao

/ poetry

Orbits

Written by Tehreem Inam The sun brines in a sticky chicken broth watching one to eight float in her belly, they revolve like marbles in cheesecloth.

The planets remain shy and neighbourly.

They hear Neptune pull Saturn by her rings: “A new moon for them,” stars hiss childishly.

They quietly watch the crescent as it sings to the unborn child’s cosmic heartbeat.

Globes of ashtrays envy solar tidings.

How easy they make it seem to complete a full circle, breathing evenly through every axis in their orbit without defeat.

Earth mocks men who forget their orbit.

But this world does not revolve around an axis,

(its people do).

Illustrated by Amani Nasarudin

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poetry /

New Year Written by Georgie Greentree January air is amniotic.

February will come like a birth or excision.

This is love right now: Christmas bushes burning red through the mud.

This is a portrait of you with a trowel and sweaty nape.

I may keep the soil under my fingernails, carry it 'til Spring, return and dig my hands in.

I may leave this moment here, in the nectar of the grevilleas, when the sun takes its warm hand from my cheek.

The youngest leaves shiver with a breeze too weak for me to feel.

Then I feel.

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Illustrated by Leilani Leon

content warning: references to colonisation

/ poetry

CREATIVE

Written by Caitlyn Steer

Mud-caked and defeated we rove over a country choked into submission. The thunderstorms that broiled the night before leave it soaked and steaming.

We sweat in a sick grey dome.

Back, in a colonial cottage I lie in the company of a mosquito and try to think of a time before uprooting, repotting, allotting (how propertarian!)— Before gaffa tape strewn in aprovenancial dirt and the plains wanderer’s baking bitumen grave.

I try, but fail to think of a gentler cultivation.

Illustrated by by Sample Student Illustrated

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creative / column /

Hocus-Pocus Recipes and Rituals: Making Fiction Come to Life!

Written by Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Hello hello! This is your local apothecary and witch, Selena Sparklemoon.

For the longest time I’ve always wanted to journey into my favourite novels, take a deep dive into their fictitious worlds and plots and gallivant with my favourite characters. Live a few lifetimes here and there, have a go at reviving Frankenstein’s monster myself and enjoy a spot of soothing peppermint tea together. Maybe I could even change the very course of events and add a whole new level of spice to my favourite works of fiction!

Recently, I’ve seen this become a common plot point in a bunch of movies, TV shows and video games. There’s even a genre dedicated to the phenomenon—Isekai— aka portal and transdimensional fantasy. How exciting!

I’ve been doing research to see if this can be achieved in real life. Amon has been helping too—they’ve been super-duper excited about visiting their favourite desserts-themed slice of life romance novella series Pumpkin Bread & Peppermint Tea. After much digging, we’re pleased to announce it’s indeed possible! There’s a very fun list of steps that’s perfect to realise this dream.

So what are those steps you may ask? Well, I’m about to get into that—follow these steps to the letter, and you can enter your favourite world of fiction, whether it’s in a book, painting, or multimedia like music, television, or film!

You will need the following: • The work of fiction you want to enter • Several sticks of chalk—at least two, no more than five • Several pinches of salt • A pinch of basil, a pinch of coriander and a pinch of thyme • A whole bunch of chicken stock, at least three litres of the stuff. Go for the meat-free options if possible, we want to be sustainable here • Lavender, lavender, lots of lavender! At least five bouquets—we want to get really sleepy.

• One cauldron; you can easily source one from your local coven, or the night market for a hefty amount of money • One wooden ladle, blessed by a tree nymph’s kiss • A playlist of your favourite tunes

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/ creative / column

• A device to play your tunes—whether it’s your phone, a boombox, or a record player

1. Place your work of fiction in the centre of the room/field you want to use.

• The body and headspace (aka spoons) to dance your heart and soul out/a friend to dance for you

2. Draw a pentagram around the work of fiction.

Follow that up with a sprinkle of salt—the more demonic your work of fiction, the more salt you should use!

• An assortment of pillows—soft pillows, animalshaped pillows, demon-shaped pillows, Pokémonshaped pillows, whatever fills your heart’s desires!

• A pile of blankets—the really soft, snuggly kind that is perfect for cat naps

3. Pick out your herbs and lavender. Whether it’s your local garden, local market, local cemetery or local courier, we’ve gotta have some lavender, basil, coriander, and definitely some thyme (no pun intended!).

4. Bunch up your herbs and lavender and put it all in your cauldron.

5. Time to combine with a pour of chicken stock! Stir until the brew resembles the Milky Way galaxy.

6. Set up your tunes and dance to your heart’s content! Dance to the beat of your heart! Dance around the work of fiction! If you’re unable to dance, that's a-okay; a friend can dance in your place—after all, that’s what friends are for! Amon tends to dance in my place whenever I don’t have the spoons for this step.

7. Whether you danced or not, you will suddenly feel a deep urge to fall into a deep sleep. It’s part of the process, don’t worry! Find a nice place to lie down (this is where your pillows and blankets come in handy).

8. Once you wake up, if all goes well, you should be in the world of your work of fiction! You can choose to stay for as long as you like, even forever.

9. To return, simply twirl in place, click your fingers three times and say the words “there’s no place like home”, and you will awake again, right next to the work of fiction that you were just visiting.

10. Hug your work of fiction (if you want) and show your appreciation for its existence by giving it another read/watch/listen!

I should warn you though, if you do plan on staying—if you try calling your new place home—be prepared to bear the consequences. For if you happen to die in the fictitious world, you will die in real life. I had to learn that the hard way—me, Amon, and my former coven…

That’s all from me for now! Tune in next time where I will finally reveal the cure-all for brain fog! Buh-bye for now!

Written by Jessica Norton

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creative / prose /

content warning: death

A Name for a Monster Written by Amara Cavahlo I think the most terrifying sound in this world must be the crunch of rubble under a hero’s foot. It’s as if the whole universe quietens for such an occasion: strange birds holding their breath in the scrub, wind pausing in its howling around the palace ruins in the second before a wave crashes on the beach. I imagine even the rain would forget to fall in such a moment, if rain were to bother gracing this cursed place at all.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Each step a cruel promise.

Some days, too, I hear the scrape of bronze—a breastplate fitted to a broad chest, or a sword held in hands slick with sweat—and if I’m foolish enough to hope for a friendly visitor that day, well, then I won’t be so foolish any longer. I don’t think Athena means such warnings as a mercy. She probably enjoys watching me choose between my death or each hero’s, every time.

But today even the gods need not have alerted me to my newest hunter. He’s brash, this one; traipsing up the palace’s hill from the beach, banging sword against shield.

“Medusa!” he yells. “Gorgon medusa!” Frightful ruler! Greek words, easy on his tongue. All these heroes are Greek.

I’ve already crawled between two collapsed palace walls, sandstung eyes shut tight and head held between trembling, scratched knees. If it weren’t for his blustering, this hero’s arrival would be the same as all the others: filled with a terror so great that they’ve all crushed together into one ragged-breath memory in my head.

But his words have left me confused, and in a welcome moment of distraction I think, What? That’s not my name, and even if the world’s chosen to call me by it… “frightful” I can understand, but what does anyone believe I rule? Even this body isn’t my own, not really.

“Medusa!”

I flinch at his voice’s closeness. A few more steps in the right direction and he’ll find me. But if he doesn’t know where to look, if he isn’t alerted by— Hissssssssssssssss.

So close to my ears, the snakes that circle my head are deafening; throats tight as their smooth-scaled bodies brush my skin.

Remember how I said that sometimes I’m foolish enough to hope for someone friendly? Well, I’m always foolish enough to hope that my serpent companions won’t betray me. Don’t know why, considering even the gods haven’t extended me that courtesy. I suppose it’s because I don’t have much else to hope for.

“Ah!” the hero roars. “You can’t hide from me!” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“No, please, listen!” I yell. “I don’t want to hurt you! I’ve been cursed with this form, maybe you could help me—”

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He laughs, much closer now. “That may have worked on the others, but not me. It’s time for you to die, monstress!”

No matter what words I use, no matter where I hide or how long I try to evade them, the heroes never listen.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. I’ve a cruel choice to make.

Death, like any momentous occasion, is something better faced head-on, I think. If you’re the one dealing it, it shows that you accept the consequences of your choice. If you’re the one receiving it, at least you can say you were brave at the end.

I stand, broken fingernails scrabbling across rough sandstone, and face the hero’s oncoming footsteps. It isn’t the first time I’ve done this, and it won’t be the last: when I choose to open my eyes and look into his, all the pain, the terror, the sheer unfairness of it all disappears to numbness. I feel nothing but the fire that gathers beneath my skin, unleashing my curse. It’s him, or me.

I can’t tell you how it feels to be killed by yours truly, but I can tell you what it looks like. One moment of eye contact is all it takes.

You become transfixed, frozen in place. And then some part of you, unhinged, just… lets go. You breathe out, one long exhale, and between blinks your skin hardens into grey stone.

I always lunge forward to catch the heroes before they fall and shatter. If I don’t, the sound of it is like… I… No. I don’t want to remember.

I catch them. Close my eyes. Lower them to the ground. Walk away. Never opening my eyes again, until it’s time to make another cruel choice.

I don’t know where their spirits go. I don’t know if they’ll ever rest. All I know is that I can’t bury them, because I have no tools.

Trust me, I’ve tried; all I’ve managed to dig are grooves in the palms of my hands. So I just leave them there, and feel nothing, and nothing’s almost worse than grief.

Medusa, that hero called me.

That wasn’t my name, back when others used it, but I’m not the person I was.

Gorgon medusa.

I don’t want to remember who I was.

So… what if it doesn’t make sense? Nothing else in this godsdamned world does. What happened that night…

I don’t want to remember.

So, fine. If the hero who slays me must proclaim the deed, if the poets must spread the story of my death, then let them call me Gorgon Medusa. Frightful ruler.

After all, a monster needs a name, doesn’t it?

Illustrated by Amber Jepsen

content warning: alcohol, drugs, injury

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Murder on the Dancefloor: Tales from Late-Stage Hospitality The Staff Drinks

Written by Rupert Azzopardi “That was fucked. I don’t know how many Christmases I have left in me,” Krissie groaned. “Honestly. How has Milos lasted so long in hospo.”

“I think I know,” Ella replied. Milos went early to the staff drinks to prepare for everyone’s arrival and had a few furphs in the process. Ella looked closer, and noticed the white dusting on his moustache. Krissie laughed. She was already a bit tipsy.

“Having fun Milos?” Krissie shouted across the bar. Startled, he looked over and gave a slow thumbs up, grinning. A postlockdown December had been unkind to the venue manager. Milos deserved to let loose.

Ella wanted to enjoy her night, but her mind was occupied. Her partner, Sarah, would finish her nursing shift at 9:30, and they would finally, finally have some time together. Both of their jobs were full-on, and time off was getting scarcer for Sarah. It had been an awfully long year, and she was looking forward to a responsibility-free night with her love.

As the evening wore on, the bar became rowdier. An impromptu dancefloor appeared, and strange combinations of staff danced up on each other. Ella found herself swept into a drugged-up salsa with Milos, then a rhythmless ballroom waltz with Krissie. They stumbled into a seat. Ella blearily checked her phone—it was 10:23pm—and then a message from Sarah appeared:

Ella found herself at kickons at Milos’s house. Half the remaining staff lay on the couch, including Ella, resting their heads on each other and talking shit, making out, or both. The other half used a mirrored tray Milos had quietly lifted from their venue and one of their $100 note tips as evening-extending apparatus. Krissie swaggered over to Ella and kissed her on the cheek.

“Ella. I am on that much coke. Like, that much coke,” she said, holding her face. Ella smiled.

“Me too, my love.”

“Hey. I fucking love you. We killed December togeth—” Before Ella could respond, Milos grabbed her, pulling her to the tray. Krissie leaned down.

“Ella! Come here!” Milos called her over. She groaned and joined them.

“Sarah’s coming soon,” she complained. Krissie began cutting up for them.

“You have to be awake for that,” Krissie laughed.

Ella took a moment to stare at her face in the tray’s reflection. She had a flush in her cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and smudged mascara.

Had she been crying?

Can’t make it til later. Understaffed cos Jenny called in sick and Ali had a breakdown. Got a couple of incidences. Sorry my love xoxo

She resigned herself to the line. Milos started cheering, then hiccupping. The night sped up, and the little living room began dilating and contracting.

Time bled like watercolour; gradually, disorderly patrons were removed. Ella found herself stuck in a conversation with James, who was complaining about his girlfriend—you have a girlfriend too, Ella, you would understand, sometimes they’re fucking… anyway, I shouldn’t say that—before Krissie rescued her. Outside, Ella noticed an ambulance, and felt a pang of worry. She prayed it was not bound for Sarah’s hospital.

Then, in a slow-motion shutter-burst of images, Ella watched Milos slip on a spilled drink, lose balance, and collect his head on the side of the kitchen bench. She was conscious of blood, screams, ambulance sirens, and a debilitating wave of nausea. She turned and saw Sarah standing pale-faced on the side of the road.

Ella did a shot. She went to the bathroom and checked her phone, but was distracted when James vomited loudly into the men’s sink next door. She heard a peal of laughter from a cubicle. She checked her phone again. *

Ella rose slowly and blinked, and when her eyes opened again, Sarah had her arms wrapped around her. She realised she was sobbing. She watched Sarah’s soft hair turn red, blue, in the ambulance ambience. They were both crying, shuddering, their world reduced to nearly nothing, a bubble-like realm whose firmament hinted at strange and horrible entities elsewhere; where echoes of the universe outside passed, barely perceptible, into the world of their intimacy. Shouts were whispers, lights like shadows; a chaos, an inferno. Throughout it all, Sarah finally in her arms.

Illustrated by Arielle Vlahiotis

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column /

content warning: discussion of myths involving rape; blood

A WIP Around the Workshop Modern Mythology: Creating our own Lore Written by Breana Galea - Creative Literature & Writing Society (C.L.A.W.S.) As a certified fantasy geek with my stacks of Dragonology books, Greek mythology pocket guides and YouTube history chock-full of game lore, I revel in ancient legends.

This inevitably shines through in my writing, where I prefer to explore the mystical and magical before the realistic. Many modern works have intentionally repurposed these stories to fabricate new fables or reveal different perspectives of well-known narratives.

W hat is Modern Mythology?

If I asked you to think of a myth, you may think of something very old. Hades and Persephone. The Tower of Babel. Durga and her tiger. Modern mythology could be considered the reformation of these tales through new contemporary lenses. These stories which have been passed down to us were likely murmured around campfires, during work breaks, to children before bed.

What about the tales now whispered in apartment buildings around a bowl of popcorn at 2am? Will they too become myths?

Recent Reimaginings Many plummet into the pantheon of Greek deities in their pre-teen years, and I was no different. The dramatic, unbelievable stories of love, nature and a worrying number of affairs (really, Zeus?) sharpen the emotional intensity of situations which often occur in real life. Yet, many of these tales are at the expense of female characters. One writer attempting to rectify the fallacy of supposed inaction or acceptance by women in Greek mythology is Nikita Gill. Her poetry collection Great Goddesses: Life Lessons from Myths and Monsters is brimming with the potent powers of female deities— elegant and loving, venomous and spiteful. ‘Eurynome: The Mother of All Things’ tells of the Greek goddess who created the world from chaos. In the original narrative, Eurynome creates Ophion, a serpent, who proceeds to desire her. In a vague manner common to such tales involving sexual assault, Ophion impregnates Eurynome, and she lays an egg containing the universe. The egg hatches and a genesis narrative is created. Ophion assumes credit for the formation of the universe and Eurynome, enraged, kicks him into the darkness of the earth. Although Eurynome’s character reveals a spark of indignance towards the end, Gill focuses on the goddess’ extraordinary power, one which birthed the universe: “And she waltzed/the earth awake and the rhythm of her feet/fermented the stars alive”.

In Gill’s footsteps, I tried my hand at a short story inspired by the Celtic tale of Niamh and Oisín. During a hunt, Oisín encounters Niamh, a magical woman

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who asks Oisín to return with her to the land of eternal youth, Tír na nÓg. Oisín agrees and the two live happily; however, their joy is not everlasting. Developing homesickness, Oisín asks Niamh if he could return to Ireland to visit his father. Niamh agrees to Oisín’s request, warning him not to touch the mortal ground or he could never return to Tír na nÓg. Oisín departs for Ireland and—as you likely guessed—falls to mortal ground, aging hundreds of years, never to return to the land of eternal youth. This narrative considers Niamh’s fate after Oisín’s departure.

Niamh stood at the water’s lips. The rolling tide tasted the rich berries crushed underfoot, staining purple. Clutching the stems of flowers from their garden, she released them to the ravenous waves, starved of her tears. She turned, her white robes trailing heavily to the shore. The sun followed her, curiously peeking through the lush canopy to glimpse her golden hair. Chitters whispered in the underbrush, eyes glinted in the light. She did not skip over the berries which darkened her feet or avoid the branches which snapped softly as she walked. The mutterings of the forest dampened as she walked. Her gaze was set forward through saplings whose thin trunks bunched together like sticks ready to burn.

Light bathed her village in the orange-purple sunset when she arrived. The land of unending youth, filled with familiar faces of endless years. Silence stilled the air, everyone inside.

Vines twisted along stone walls. Doors rested in shaded crevices. She passed their garden—her and her husband’s— bare of once-vivid blossoms. It was considered terrible to pick them, for though they were eternal, they would only bloom once. To grow more was to wait lifetimes. The soft, ambling pathways began to turn to clay. Hunching away from the sun was her father’s house. It had once seemed to lean towards light, angled so carefully that spotting shadows became a game. Now, grass fell into cracks in the clay and colours dimmed in its presence. She did not stop.

Small candles decorated the widening trail, cupped in intricate holders. They flickered as she passed, licking at her robes, drawing closer. She reached the centre of her village, marked by a single headstone.

She brushed the smooth surface, worn by whatever murmur time had forgotten here. Her father had mourned more than she had. She had more to live for; she could not remain stuck. Fingernails dug into palms, teeth into cheeks, and she bled. Gripping the headstone, her hands split into the stems she once held, leaves and petals unfurling from her fingertips. Golden hair twined together, weaving branches through the sunset sky. Heart of liquid lacquer hardened, curling into bark around a solid trunk. Her legs sifted

Illustrated by Casey Boswell

/ column

through soil and rooted her, unmoving. The candles blew out. The headstone was crushed. The crux of her self, her spirit, was ingrained in Tír na nÓg.

Across the ocean, the overgrown land crumbles, her husband seeping into its depths.

T he ‘Hero’s Journey’ Aside from characters, modern works also use other common aspects of mythology. The monomyth, better known as the ‘Hero’s Journey’, is a central narrative structure in myth. It involves the departure from the familiar, the initiation into an unknown world or circumstances and the victorious return. This framework has served as the foundation for an endless number of contemporary works including Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings and Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.

Developed by the Chinese company miHoYo, the video game Genshin Impact is yet another example of the ‘Hero’s Journey’. The protagonist, known as the ‘Traveller,’ is torn away from their sibling by a mysterious god, waking in the foreign world of Teyvat, supposedly destined to find them and continue their journey through worlds. Genshin utilises the foundations of real-world cultures and mythologies to inform its lore and reinvent ancient fables. The land of Liyue, based on China, is home to dragons. Derived from Japanese tradition, Inazuma houses the mystical creatures known as tengu, kitsune and oni. Though these figures are well known in their respective cultures, Genshin reimagines their interactions with mortals, often integrating them into human society and expanding upon stereotypes in myth. The dragon Rex Lapis discovers the significance of carrying currency when it cannot be created on demand. Tengu are often considered tricksters or tormentors, however Kujou Sara is intensely loyal and devoted to her leader. Although Genshin utilises the ageold structure of the ‘Hero’s Journey’, it is also suffused with new perspectives on mythologies of the real world.

Creating Our Own Folklore You may have been lucky enough (or unlucky enough, it’s debatable) to be of the generation familiar with Vine, the predecessor to TikTok. I’m certain that if you were to read the following phrases, your brain would autofill nearly all of them, including visuals.

“And they were roommates.”

“Road work ahead?”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life!”

(Hint: this has multiple answers) In a sense, have these not become myths? Their origin and context lost, continuously changing and refitted to new purposes. If they were to completely disappear, how would we convey them to others? How do you explain “look at this graph” in words? The memories of these short videos would likely be confined to inside jokes and awkward explanations; narratives no one else will remember. The YouTube channel Unus Annus created by Mark Fischbach (Markiplier) and Ethan Nestor-Darling (CrankGameplays) captures this idea perfectly. Translating to “one year” in Latin, it was designed to be destroyed after a year with no efforts to preserve the channel’s content. It embodies this concept of ephemerality—that not all will be immortalised. In many ways, it has become a myth.

Our literature and media are founded on narrative structures which have existed for thousands of years, whether in oral or written form. In a generation where everything seems to last forever, we understand Niamh’s urge to move on, while leaving our own footsteps, passing on our own stories.

Illustrated by Casey Boswell

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‘DIY Craft Guide’ by Weiting Chen

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poetry /

The City of Light Written by Tehreem Inam

The people of Madina keenly awaited his arrival. Suddenly, atop a hill, someone announced the Prophet had arrived. On hearing this, the people became wild with joy and recited “God is Great!”

The children chanted in loud, cheery voices: ṭala‘a ‘l-badru ‘alaynā - The full moon rose over us min thaniyyāti ‘l-wadā‘ - From the valley of Wada‘ wajaba ‘l-shukru ‘alaynā - And it is incumbent upon us to show gratitude mā da‘ā li-l-lāhi dā‘a - For as long as anyone in existence calls out to God ayyuha ‘l-mab‘ūthu fīnā - Oh our Messenger amongst us ji’ta bi-l-’amri ‘l-muṭā‘ - Who comes with the exhortations to be heeded ji’ta sharrafta ‘l-madīnah - You have brought to this city nobility marḥaban yā khayra dā‘ - Welcome you who call us to a good way “Speak good or remain silent” - Muhammad ibn Abdullah (Islamic prophet) The following villanelle is reminiscent of a poignant moment from Islamic history: The Prophet Muhammad’s migration to Medina.

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Illustrated by Ayushmaan Nagar

/ poetry The City of Light gets brighter and brighter As they wait for the King’s arrival Who asks them to speak good or remain silent Men weld new beds and women pull out bigger pots To welcome home a new quest for survival The City of Light gets brighter and brighter Empty-handed they depart, leaving lovers, homes, and jewels of sorts The Muhajir1 hiding in his house was always ready for a new trial And repeatedly whispered to his camel: ‘speak good or remain silent’ They spend the night of miracle at Jabal Sawr2, hiding in fraught After calling him a mad poet, some magician, their archrival The Meccans ask, how is the City of Light getting brighter and brighter?

The borders of Yathreb3 glisten as its children dance, chant, and trot Waiting impatiently for the Messenger who sowed the seeds of revival Come sooner O RasulAllah4 and make this City of Light get brighter and brighter!

Alas, he arrives! He graced the people who sought the message he left for each and every disciple: As long as the City of Light gets brighter and brighter…

Oh Ummati5, you must learn to speak good or remain silent.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

Muhajir (plural: muhajirun). Arabic for emigrant. The Muhairun migrated in the year 622 due to the torment they faced at the hands of the Arabs of Mecca/Makkah.

Jabl Sawr: The Cave of Thawr. The Prophet Muhammad spent the night hiding in Jabl Sawr with his friend, Abu Bakr. The Meccans had set a hefty prize for those who found Muhammad, dead or alive, and bring him back. Since he feared persecution, he hid in the cave until the hunt was over.

Yathreb. The former name of Medina, the City of Light.

RasulAllah. The Messenger of God. The Prophet was often referred to by this name.

Ummati: My people/followers. When the Prophet addressed his followers collectively, he often used the loving term: ‘Ya Ummati’ (O people of mine).

Illustrated by Ayushmaan Nagar

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creative / prose /

The Well

by Zoe Keeghan

Auntie Rose’s was the perfect place for an eleven-yearold to find adventure. Her house was all flaking wood and lichen-covered tiles and those little stained-glass panels beside the door that distorted the world into yellow and red. Mum would bring one of her famous teacakes and Auntie Rose would tell her about her new council project, and I would roam the backyard.

The garden was sporadic, a mess of trees and shrubs and flowerbeds. “Be careful around the old well!” Mum would yell, and I’d shout “Yes Mum!” as I bounded out the back door.

But I was more curious than careful, and as soon as I was out of sight I’d duck behind the wispy pines and creep up to the well.

Years earlier—perhaps centuries, to my mind—it must have looked exactly like the sort of thing you’d find in a fairy tale. Now its blue-grey rocks were pocked and waterstained, and a wooden board covered the opening. The bucket, frame and winch were long gone. Sometimes I found blackened splinters in the grass, and I wondered if they were all that remained.

I didn’t get too close at first. Mum had warned me if I fell in I might break my leg or my neck, that it was so deep I wouldn’t be able to climb out. I imagined myself stuck down there, withering away until I was only a skeleton. So instead I’d grab the longest stick I could find and poke at the well-stones from a distance. The mortar was starting to crumble away, and if I poked the right spot I could send insects scrambling for cover—millipedes and shiny beetles and little brown cockroaches with questing antennae.

Over time, I’d get closer, creeping forward to brush my fingers against the stone, then skipping back. I dared myself to touch them for longer and longer, counting one-cat-and-dog, two-cat-and-dog before darting away.

The stone always felt cold and damp, even when it was scorching outside. One day as I counted five-cat-and-dog, fingers pressed against its cool surface, I swore I could hear water dripping in the well.

When I went inside, I asked Mum and Auntie Rose about it. “You didn’t go near it, did you?” Mum asked accusingly, and I shook my head, even though I could still feel the well-stones’ imprint on my fingers. “Course not, Mum,” I said. “Just curious.”

Rose patted my arm. “It’s all dried up, Kaia,” she said. “No one uses it anymore. The couple I bought this house from had a superstition. Told me to never use the well, but never demolish it either. Said they heard something

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whispering down there.” I must’ve looked horrified, because Mum shot her a stern look, and Rose hurriedly offered me a slice of teacake.

The next time we were there, I knelt by the well, hands and chest pressed to the well-stones, and tilted my head over the wooden board. Drip. Drip. Drip. I dropped my head lower, rough wood brushing my ear. Drip. Drip. Drip.

There was another sound beneath the dripping noise—a sort of rustling. Or perhaps it was like Auntie Rose had said—a whispering. But it wasn’t quite a whispering either.

It was something else.

A beckoning.

I scrambled back from the well until I crashed into one of the pines. You’re just hearing things, I told myself. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something down there. And for the first time, it had noticed me.

If a well-creature did exist, I determined to let it know I meant no harm. So I went to one of Auntie Rose’s flowerbeds, and broke a flower off at the stem, a purple pansy with a ring of white on each of its petals. Back at the well, the wooden board was stuck firm over the opening; I shoved it hard, just enough to make a tiny gap. I let the pansy fall from my fingers, watching it disappear into the blackness. It suddenly felt as though the dark opening went on forever. Heart pounding, I hefted the board back over the well, and hurried back inside.

From that point on, each time I came over to Rose’s I delivered a gift to the well. Most were found in Rose’s garden—a white-and-yellow daffodil, a shiny acorn, a long sprig that smelt strongly of pine. At school I found a lorikeet feather, half-green, half-yellow, with tiny wisps of grey. I placed it carefully between the pages of my English book, and carried it the whole way home. The next time we went to Rose’s, I watched it drift down into the well until it was swallowed by the inky black.

Summer arrived, and Rose’s gerberas had begun to flower.

I picked two—one a warm orange-red, the other a sunny yellow. I made my way to the well, cradling the flowers against my chest with one hand so I wouldn’t crush their fragile petals. With my free hand, I pushed at the board. It wouldn’t budge, so I dug my feet into the ground, pressing my whole forearm against the board and shoving, shoving, shoving with all my might.

The board gave way, and I tumbled forwards, plunging into the dark, flowers spilling from my hands, clutching empty air and falling, falling—

Illustrated by Matilda Lilford

/ creative / prose

“Kaia!” I heard Mum’s voice, felt grass beneath me, opened my eyes. I lay under the pines, several metres from the well. “Oh sweetheart, you’re alright!” Mum said.

“We heard a crash, and I thought…”

Auntie Rose peered over at the well. “Cover’s fallen in. It must’ve rotted away.”

“Good thing you weren’t too close,” Mum said, pressing a hand to my cheek. “You must’ve fallen asleep out here, huh?”

Blinking, I went to push my hair out of my eyes, and my fingers bumped against something soft. I realised something was perched on my head. “It looks lovely,” Mum smiled. “I never knew you were such an artist.”

I struggled to keep the confusion from my face as I lifted the thing out of my hair. It was a crown, made of the twisted sprig of pine. There was the acorn, perched prettily beside the daffodil. On the opposite side was the lorikeet feather, the two bright gerberas spreading their

petals beside it. And in the centre was the purple pansy, as bright and fresh as the day I had picked it.

Auntie Rose frowned. “I thought the pansies had stopped blooming by now,” she said.

“It’s the well you should be worried about,” Mum said.

“You should really get it filled in.” She looked at me with a gentle expression. “And we should get you home. You must be tired.” They began walking back towards the house, beckoning me to follow.

I took one last look at the now uncovered well, clutching the crown in my hands. “Thank you,” I whispered, “for saving me, and for the crown.”

The wind stirred, a whisper in my ear. “Thank you,” I heard, “for your gifts.” I smiled, turning towards Mum and Auntie Rose. The wind stirred again, cool against my cheek.

“And thank you, Kaia, for setting me free.”

Illustrated by Matilda Lilford

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poetry /

On Holding Written by Joel Keith

The wind pulls my hair out from behind my ear onto my face and so I set down my book and push my hair back behind my ear but the wind flicks through the pages and throws my bookmark out onto the street and as I dart out to grab it takes the napkins and the empty muffin wrapper too and so I buoy-bob up and down across the ground around the table gathering them up and set them down under my coffee cup and find my page and mark it and push back my hair which the wind pulls straight back out again and I think I am so many loose parts I cannot keep from spilling onto this or any street and this is part of why I am so glad as you may have noticed when they are held by you.

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Illustrated by Meadow Nguyen

back cover

UMSU and the Media Office are located in the city of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay our respects to their elders­—past, present and emerging­—and acknowledge that the land we are on was stolen and sovereignty was never ceded.