2023 Edition Six by Farrago Magazine

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

Edition Six 2023

Odile’s Coda Odile Seraphine p. 38

FEATURED ARTIST MEDIA X DISABILITIES Creative: Eleanore Arnold-Moore p. 50 Design: Nirmalsinh Bihola p.82

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

Acknowledgement of Country Written by Carmen Chin As I write this, there is a heavy downpour that covers Singapore like a curtain. It has expelled the darkness out from the outskirts and filled the world with shards of broken glass and sheets of reflective coating, constructing mirrors we cannot sidestep. We must confront them by walking right into them. I have always thought of rain as a means to wash away dirt and to cleanse. But this rain isn’t that. The relentless downpour is muddling fresh paint and exposing what was once hidden beneath the once-opaque layers. The rain is turning cold water into fresh, warm blood. There is no time for respite; the rain accumulates into oceans of dead bodies of innocent people and children you are forced to wade through on the way to class or the office, where you have the privilege to disconnect yourselves from the corpses laying just outside our sheltered buildings and immerse in foreign, soundproof worlds of emails and lectures. For thousands and thousands of years, the land we now call “Australia” thrived under the love and care of its Traditional Custodians. Their stories, cultures, art and community have roamed this part of the Earth in peace, until the land was desecrated and deeply stained with the blood of innocents by settlers. Now, we are watching the same events unravel; the same bloody histories repeating. The Earth is showing us what we have done and that we have not learned from our mistakes, but the media insists that our voices are not worth broadcasting. Farrago can only exist because of the land on which we work, gather and create. We pay our deepest respects to its Traditional Owners and their enduring connection to Country, even in the face of large-scale atrocities against humanity that we, as settlers, are unable to even fathom. We acknowledge the histories and uphold the sheer resilience and wisdom of the First Nations people. We recognise their ongoing stewardship of the land, and we pay our deepest respects to the Elders—past, present and emerging—for their custodianship and their deep connection to this land that has and continues to inform the narratives of every Farrago edition. In Edition Six, we unravel the ethereal and the macabre in equal measure through Phantasmagoria, but that itself is a privilege we must recognise. For First Nations people, their horrors are their realities. And we are complicit. This land we call “Australia” has always been, continues to be and will forever be Aboriginal land.

CONTENTS FARRAGO

02 Contributors 03 Editorial 09 Thank You from the 2023

Editors 85 Join the 2023 Farrago Team

UMSU

04 UMSU President & General Secretary Hiba Adam and Disha Zutshi

04 UMSU International Richard Ha

04 GSA

Jesse Gardner-Russell

05 Southbank Updates Annalyce Wiebenga

06 Office Bearer Reports

NEWS

16 Meet the New Boss, Same

as the Old Boss: 2023 UMSU Election Recap

Josh Davis

20 OPINION: An open letter

to Vice-Chancellor Duncan Maskell and Dean of Arts Russell Goulbourne

NON-FICTION

26 Shadows of Yesterday:

Unveiling the Childhood Poetics of Wonder in the Gothic Genre

Louisa Zhang

28 The Seductive Subtlety of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice

Elizabeth Browne

29 The spectral avant-folk of

36 After the Demise of Ideals 39 Ode to an Afterlife

70 wicked soiree

Odile Seraphine

71 Winter

Akansha Agarwal

RADIO FODDER

The Best Albums of 2023

Carmen Chin

48 Radio Fodder’s Declassified Year-End Gigs Survival Guide

Carmen Chin

48 Writing Back to Music:

Interview with Eddie Ink on new ‘Daydream’ album and celebration of sobriety.

Harrison George

FEATURED DISABILITIES ARTISTS 52 Creative

Eleanore Arnold-Moore

11 Art

Yixuan Zhao

Thomas Granger

me?

Michelle Yu

34 Bloodthirsty Lesbians:

43 Get a Life 2023 Connie Wong

51 Made In: Installation, Commentary

Kianna Juma

PHOTOGRAPHY

53 Featured Cover Art

COLUMNS

15 Different Perspectives Luyao Shi

24 About in Melbourne Meg Bonnes

Water: We Do Not Perceive the Bodies in the Sky

CREATIVE

Donna Ferdinand

54 Head Full of Snow Mal Priestley

55 before the coffee gets cold Jessica Fanwong

56 Cracks

ART

37 There is Something in the

in between

Astara Bell

58 The Swan Chloe Pigneguy

59 Dreamscapes and childhood

Nalini Jacob-Roussety

62 One dash of sweet

33 Why did you say that to

Mal Priestley

eerieyre

Domenico Lepore

32 Dear Academia

Akansha Agarwal

72 Red Mum

44 Radio Fodder Wrapped:

60 In Absentia

Isolde Kieni-Judd

house think

George Line

Meagan Hansen

40 Odile’s Coda

Arthur Russell’s Picture of Bunny Rabbit: Otherworldly outtakes cut from the same cloth as World of Echo

30 Detours

69 What does the burning

Guanhua Huang

Andrew Darling

61 maladaptive daydreaming Stephen Zavitsanos

38 The Unauthorised,

Unorthodox, Unofficial Guide to Writing a Novel Under the Age of Twenty: To all the unfinished drafts Claire Le Blond

73 Bleeding Marble: Prometheus Rhylee L.

74 Metro Disjunction: 666: Angel Numbers on Street Signs Ledya Khamou

75 Both Sides Now: New Age Hannah Hartnett

78 Hubert's Travelog:

Journey to the East

Yicheng Xu

mushrooms for your delicious stew?

80 CHRONIC: Counter Culture

Michelle Yu

82 重复 Existence in Repetition

64 Poems

Sophie He

Helena Pantsis Zhuzhu Xie

66 tell me my hair looks like starlight

Claire Le Blond

Sapphic Representation in Occult Literature

67 The soil our mother

Veronica Kwong

68 The Service.

Nalini Jacob-Roussety Elysha English

EDITORS Carmen Chin Josh Davis Weiting Chen Xiaole Zhan COVER eerieyre MANAGERS Akash Anil Nair Alexia Shaw Eldon Lee Iyaad Casim Jack Jeffreys Jaz Thiele Joel Duggan Lochlainn Heley Maya Hall Nishtha Banavalikar Yvonne Le CONTRIBUTORS Akansha Agarwal Andrew Darling Astara Bell Carmen Chin Chloe Pigneguy Claire Le Blond Connie Wong Domenico Lepore Donna Ferdinando eerieyre Eleanore Arnold-Moore Elysha English Elizabeth Browne George Line Guanhua Huang Harrison George Hannah Hartnett Helena Pantsis Imogen Hildagard(Grace?) Isolde Kieni-Judd Jessica Fanwong Josh Davis Kianna Juma Ledya Khamou Louisa Zhang Luyao Shi Mal Priestley Meagan Hansen Meg Bonnes Michelle Yu Nalini Jacob-Roussety Nirmalshine Bihola Odile Seraphine Rhylee L. Sophie He Stephen Zavitsanos Thomas Granger Veronica Kwong Yicheng Xu Zhuzhu Xie COLUMNISTS Claire Le Blond Donna Ferdinando Hannah Hartnett Ledya Khamou Rhylee L. Yan Ru Lee GRAPHIC COLUMNISTS Helena Pantsis Luyao Shi Meg Bonnes Yicheng Xu Zhuzhu Xie ONLINE COLUMNISTS Jocelyn Saunders

Creative Literature and Writ- Isabel Charlton Jaime Tan ing Society – C.L.A.W.S Judith Vu Breana Galea Kai Prideaux Mary Hampton NEWS TEAM Ola Wallis Alain Nguyen Samson Cheung Caitlin Hall Sara Vojdani Chelsea Daniel Simran Khera Churan Zhang Stephen Zavitsanos Dominique Jones Tina Thakrar Elizabeth Browne Virosca Gan Hannah Vandenbogaerde Harshita Roy STAFF WRITERS Joel Duggan Animesh Ghimiray Julie/Jules Song Chloe Frances Laura (Ira) Green Claudia Goundar Maham Mannan Dominique Jones Sasha Mahlab Donna Ferdinando Selina Zhang Edward Carrick Vanshika Agarwal Elizabeth Browne Winnie Cheng Georgia York iana abrigo NEWS SUBEDITORS Isolde Kieni-Judd Asimenia Pestrivas Jordan Fenske Claire Le Blond Kien-Ling Liem Joel Duggan Larissa Brand Katya Sloboda-Bolton Meagan Hansen Linh Nguyen Megha Iyer Linh Pham Mira Manghani Marcie Di Bartolomeo Pamela Piechowicz Max Dowell Sebastian Hugh Nicholas Eastham Stephanie Munn Rico Sulamet Velentina Boulter Samson Cheung Veronica Kwong Selina Zhang Stephanie Umbrella REVIEWS WRITERS Thalia Blackney Alexia Shaw Thomas Gilbert Anushka Singh Beatrice Van Rest CREATIVE SUBEDITORS Caitlin Hall Ailish Steel Chathuni Gunatilake Annabelle Brown Chelsea Daniel Charlie Simmons David Nawaratne Chloe Pigneguy Desmond Ng Ern Syn Lee Dimple Maholtra Felicity Smith Emma Xerri Harvey Weir Georgie Atkins Holly Mcpherson Hayley Li Shan Yeow Ilnaz Faizal Indy Smith Isobel Connor-Smithyman Isabel Charlton Jaz Thiele Joanne Zou Jessica Fanwong Judith Vu Katelyn Samarkovski Katelyn Samarkovski Katrina Bell Linh Pham Ledya Khamou Narii Hamill Salmon Livia Kurniawan Sybilla George Marcie Di Bartolomeo Tah Ai Jia Mary Hampton Tharidi Walimunige Matthew Chan Vanshika Agarwal Matthew Lee Victoria Winata Mia Pahljina Michelle Yu ILLUSTRATORS Nalini Jacob-Roussety Alexi O'Keefe Olivia Brewer Amber Liang Romany Murray Arielle Vlahiotis Ruth Jarra Ashlea Banon Stephen Zavitsanos Crystal Wu Sybilla George Duy D Emma Bui NON-FICTION SUBEDIFelicity Yiran Smith TORS Harriet Chard Angela Yu Indy Smith Annabelle Brown Jacques CA Anushka Mankodi Jessica Norton Anushka Singh Jocelyn Beatrice Van Rest Lauren Kimber Bella Farrelly Leilani Leon Catherine Tootell Lucy Chen Charlie Simmons Manyu Wang Cori Rushdi Meg Bonnes Finley Japp

Michelle Yu Nashitaat Islam Nina Hughes Olivia Sutherland Rachel Radhika Paralkar Tina Tao Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen Zhuzhu Xie GRAPHIC DESIGN Gaius Kwong Jennifer Nguyen Nashitaat Islam Nhat Duy Dang Zhuzhu Xie PHOTO & VIDEO TEAM Adrian Wong Alain Nguyen Angela Yu Anya Aw Arunika Madina Ben Levy Chenyi (Yolanda) Liang Erin O'Neill Ha Khoa Dang (Calvin) Hannah Ogawa Harshita Roy Heidi Zhou Jasmine Leong Karen Kan Karin Chen Kinsley Wang Lihini Gamage Maehula Datta Max Elwers Michael Sadegi Smiriti Hosur Tony Hao Yuyang (Angela) Liu Yuyang (Kevin) Sun FODDER BLOG TEAM Ainsley Paton Aqira Clark Bella Farrelly Catherine Tootell Claudia Goundar Crystal Lim Dimple Maholtra Harrison George Issy Abe-Owensmith Ilnaz Faizal Jessica Fanwong Joanne Zou Katelyn Samarkovski Marcie Di Bartolomeo Noa Shenker Sonya Chong Rebecca Weynberg Romany Murray SATIRE TEAM Charlie Robinson Charlotte Handley Julie/Jules Song iana abrigo SOCIAL MEDIA Amelia Han Bella Farrelly Charlotte Chang Elizabeth Browne Katelyn Samarkovski Maehula Datta Nashitaat Islam

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. If you want to raise an issue within the union and with the university, please contact the President and General Secretary. president@union.unimelb.edu.au secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au

EDITORIAL Phantasmagoria is a word that embodies a constantly shifting, surreal sequence of eerie images. It was originally used to describe a form of 18th and 19th century horror theatre, where magic lanterns are used to project frightening spectres and silhouettes of ghouls and monsters in an otherwise darkened room. It’s a form of storytelling that immerses you in the obscurities of your own imaginations; lets your minds go wild with the possibilities of the beings beyond the realm we tread. But in a broader sense, the word evokes the bizarre, the mysterious, the dreamlike. It plays into fears of the unknown, the Uncanny Valley, the ghostly whispers that fill the silence of derelict, haunted asylums and abandoned hospitals. Phantasmagoria explores a realm within sight but far beyond our reach—where spirits wander in futile search of something they no longer remember and where demons lurk for fresh meat. Even when they are mere projections on a screen, what makes them less real than what we can see and touch? What makes spaces where stories, art and imaginations thrive any less real than the magic lanterns used to project ghastly images that plague your dreams? Think of possessed dolls, blurred photographs of unidentified cryptids and shadowy figures that lurk in hallways, or an unidentifiable figure that speeds through thick fog. Horror and fear aside, we uncover a sense of wonder and curiosity for the world around us. We fathom the possibility of a thin, metaphysical veil that separates our dimension from the next. We open our minds to the stories and the avenues that lie outside what we can see, touch and feel. It’s more than just horror and gore—it’s also about unbridled receptivity, vision and foresight. As Farrago’s run in 2023 comes to an end, we look back on the inanity of it all, paired with the reflection of the importance student media holds. Farrago is more than just a few hundred pages bound by foil-laced covers, more than just four regular folks rushing deadlines and sending heaps of follow-up emails. Farrago sits at the heart of a community that wholeheartedly champions self-expression, paradigm shifts, contemporary approaches and delight in the arts. Our themes this year have always embraced the absurdity of the human condition: from the pure delirium and folly of Choreomania down to the infinite, cosmic, divergent lifetimes of the Multiverse. We have tried our hardest to challenge student media, push the envelope on student art and encourage that first step out of your comfort zone and into the unknown. The unknown is where student media thrives, and we hope we’ve blazed the trail through these uncharted waters well enough. We hope we didn’t sink. We call for submissions for every edition like it’s a fever dream each time—each descriptive paragraph, each prompt, each post crafted with pure intention of bringing out the best in the budding talents of the Media Collective. To say we were consistently astonished and captivated by the rich, animated imaginations of each and every submission we receive may be the biggest understatement in the world. Each of these six editions became their own individual assortments and slices of creativity, wisdom, emotions, perspectives and experiences we wouldn’t have encountered in our respective paths otherwise. How magical is that? The very essence of Farrago lies in its community. We are an assemblage of over 200 students who contribute and collaborate to keep each and every cog in the Farrago machine up and running. The Media Collective, so deeply alive with its writers, sub-editors, illustrators, reporters, radio hosts and more, forms the beating heart of the Media Department. Your very presence—whether they be over email, Messenger, in our messy office, or at our events—and dedication are what continue to constantly breathe new life into Australia’s oldest student publication. We have a lot to be proud of, but what we hold closest to our hearts, even past the end of our terms, is the tight-knit community we have managed to maintain and develop. No amount of words in the universe could astutely embody the feeling of indebtedness we experience for the privilege of being Farrago editors for the past year. Now, we pass on the baton to a fresh quartet who we have no doubt will allow Farrago and the Media Department at large to beam even more resplendently in these dreary times. Thank you for picking up any 2023 copy of Farrago, for writing, for reading, for perceiving, for joining us on our wonderful journey. With all our love, Josh, Carmen, Xiaole & Weiting

Illustration by Weiting Chen

UMSU

PRESIDENT

GENERAL SECRETARY

Hibatallah (Hiba) Adam

Disha Zutshi

Report not submitted.

UMSU INTERNATIONAL

GSA

Richard Ha, UMSU International President

Report not submitted.

by Jesse Gardner-Russell, UMSU International President

UMSU

SOUTHBANK UPDATES By Annalyce Wiebenga, Southbank Coordinator

Hey, Southbankers. This is our final report for the year! It has been an honour to represent you and run events and welfare programs on our campus. We built on our predecessors’ regular BBQs to bring them to you on a weekly basis and introduced a weekly breakfast for those of us who (sadly) have to be on campus in the morning. We also stocked the student lounge Breadbin with groceries, snacks and menstrual care! We ran Queer, Disabilities and POC collectives to facilitate conversations (and feed people). By the time this edition of Farrago comes out, we will have given away assessment care packages to students with assessments outside the exam schedule, and run exam support stalls in Ian Potter and the library. In the event this magazine comes out while exams are ongoing, come find us! We have tea and snacks and stationery On the back-end, we represented your interests to the University in a variety of ways, including regular meetings with staff both here and at Parkville, racism and timetable surveys, and supporting students concerned about their treatment at uni. We also made sure Parkville-based UMSU representatives were not able to forget they represent Southbank students as well. We also ran some events! We collaborated with Creative Arts to bring a Mudfest preview night to Southbank, supported Farrago’s Betwixt launch earlier this year, and collabed with the Music Students’ Society on the Southbank Ball! All going well, we will have run a “paint and sip” with UMSU Women’s as well. While our time is almost up, a new group of students will soon take over, so stay in touch! • • • • •

Instagram @umsu_southbank Facebook page: UMSU Southbank. Mailing list: http://eepurl.com/hVhYGD Webpage: https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/communities/southbank/ Email: southbank@union.unimelb.edu.au

Illustration by Ashlea Banon

Disabilities | Alice Zhao and Adam Whitehead

UMSU

Report not submitted.

Indigenous | Harley Lewis Report not submitted.

People of Colour | Mohamed Hadi Report not submitted.

Queer | Mehul Gopalakrishnan and Leslie Ho Report not submitted.

Women | Ngaire Bogemann and Alessandra Soliven

What a year it’s been! From getting the uni to commit to a review of their SASH policy to bringing back the Clothes Swap, it’s been a big one for the Women’s Department. Other highlights you ask? Summerfest badge making, ensuring the UMSU SASH Working Group is safe and accessible, learning to make a magazine – the list goes on! It’s been a privilege to serve as your 2023 Women’s Officers, and though we’re sad to leave, we’re happy you’ll be well looked after in 2024 by Micaela and Akanksha. Signing off, Ngaire and Alessandra <3

Activities | Arya Kushwaha and Tvisha Purswani Report not submitted.

Clubs & Societies | Kimmy Ng and Renee Thierry

Creative Arts | Savier D'Arsie-Marquez and Abbey Crowley Report not submitted.

Education Academic | Taj Takahashi and Mary Kin Chan

What a year it’s been for UMSU Education Academic — it’s been a busy year starting off with our popular Summerfest pottery event, and ending with our Sweet Study Cafe co-hosted with the coffee club. We would like to thank all students who came along to UMSU events, and to our committee members, volunteers and casuals for making these events come to life. It has been an absolute pleasure to have served the UniMelb community as your UMSU Education Academic Officers in 2023. We look forward to seeing Julian and Lucy continue to fight for your Education here at UniMelb. Goodbye for now and all the best in 2024!

Education Public | Carlos Lagos Martin See Education Academic.

Environment | Emma Dynes and James Gallagher Report not submitted.

Welfare | Yashica Mishra and Ishita Ganeriwala

Hey there, fellow students! We're Yashica and Ishita, and what a year it's been as your welfare officers! We've been on a wild ride, and it's been nothing short of extraordinary. Our mission? To keep those smiles on your faces and your tummies happily full. (continue on the next page)

Illustration by Ashlea Banon

UMSU

Wow!!! This year has flown by!! We’ve had an amazing time and got to do so many wonderful things in the Clubs Department. Orientations were back on campus with so many students and clubs. We held events for club executives including workshops, executive mixers, and Clubs’ Awards! A lot of work was done to increase safety at club events which saw the implementation of risk assessments, a massive Camp Policy update and creating an Anti-Hazing policy. After many years of the rumoured Canvas subject, we finally made it! So overall, it’s been a productive and great year in clubs!

UMSU

WELFARE A Year of Epic Welfare Magic! By Yashica Mishra and Ishita Ganeriwala

Welfare Brunches: Where Food Meets Fun! We kicked off the year with a bang, introducing our legendary Welfare Brunches. These weren't just about food; they were about forging unforgettable connections, sharing laughter, and indulging in delicious bites. It was all about making those college memories that will last a lifetime! Union Mart: Savings Galore for the Savvy Student We knew that being a student sometimes means being broke. So, we introduced the Union Mart—a haven for frugal students! Here, you could find essentials without breaking the bank. Because we get it, the struggle is real. Stress Less Week: Take a Chill Pill! Amid the exam chaos, Stress Less Week was a lifeline. We brought you meditation sessions, pet therapy, and all sorts of stress-busting activities. It was a week dedicated to helping you unwind and recharge, ensuring you never lost your cool. Bands and Brunches: Where Music Meets Munchies, in Collaboration with the Activities Department! Our partnership with the Activities Department took our game to a whole new level. Local bands rocked the stage while you indulged in a feast of epic proportions. It was all about the fusion of great music and delicious food, adding a rhythm to your campus life that you won't soon forget. A Heartfelt Thank You As we wrap up our term, we want to express our deepest gratitude. You chose us last year, giving us the chance to lead the Welfare Office. It's been an absolute honor, filled with incredible learning experiences and unforgettable memories. Our adventure as welfare officers may be coming to an end, but we're leaving you with a legacy of fun, care, and epic experiences. Always remember, taking care of each other and ensuring we're all happy is a mission we should all embrace.

THANK YOU!

Farrago Collage 2023 Mudfest Art Festival

THANK YOU!

Our 2023 can probably be most likened to a rough rollercoaster ride with insane back-to-back-to-back loops. The Media Department has seen many physical changes over the past three years since the onslaught of the COVID-19 pandemic—our old Media Office and Radio Fodder studio at the now-demolished Union House sat vacant for the better part of two years amid the rigid lockdowns, accumulating dust and neglect. Then, UMSU moved over to a new building with new spaces to grow accustomed to. A new office to adjust to and get furniture for. A new recording studio for Radio Fodder that needed tweaking. Lifts and staff cards not working. Trying new things on behalf of the department for the first time. Having to figure out where to host launch parties now that the Ida Bar is gone. The four of us took on our mantles without a single idea of what to do and how to do it (maybe except Josh, who is our resident stupol guru), but the experience of growing, working and lifting Farrago up alongside each other is irreplaceable. Many mistakes were made, but just one look at our stands with all our editions in the flesh assures us that they were all worth it. We are so thankful for each other and to every single person in every Farrago team for creating this safety net of collaborative support that made it okay to fall and rise again and again. This year, we launched a new team dedicated to reviews—to label it a huge success is to understate the true extent of its soaring achievements. Our Reviews Coordinators, Joel and Nishtha, have always been on the ball. It is thanks to them and our team of adept review writers that our online presence has grown to such an extent. From plays, to festivals, to film premieres and even book releases, the Reviews Team had everything covered. Our thanks especially goes to Joel, who hardly needed any prompting from us at all. He went above and beyond in securing us accreditations and passes to events we never fathomed we could. I never had to worry about the reviews department because I could rest easy knowing it was in good hands. Despite the uncertainty and at times confusing flexibility of a brand-new team, Joel and Nishtha exceeded expectations. Our Photography Managers, Eldon and Akash, who are not only talented in their own crafts, but are incredibly proactive; going above and beyond in providing visually striking works of art and supporting photography that has become one of the strongest

pillars of our News section. On that note, our Video Managers, Yvonne and Maya, who have been understanding and open to our sometimes absurd ideas through to the very end. The Video department has always fallen on the backburner, but the two of you have managed to bring some much-needed life back. Our Radio Fodder managers—Iyaad, Yuta, and more recently Jack—who have worked tirelessly to liven up our shiny new studio. It was a hard feat, acclimating to an entirely new space with entirely new equipment and programs, but you somehow did it, and managed an expansive, impressive roster of talk shows. Back and forth messages in the dead of night, responding to a request that’s as urgent as it is out of the blue—we owe the vibrancy and variety of Radio Fodder to you all. Our Fodder Blog managers, Jaz and Lochlainn, who have been leading lights from day one, have been so accommodating and on the ball. Everything from music reviews to film features were churned out at impressive speed, and managing a small team of Fodder Blog writers who consistently produced quality content is a fantastic feat. A huge shoutout goes to Lochie, who always knows what to do despite my last minute calls for the Fodder Blog insert in each print edition; who always produces the coolest gig guides and continued a series I started last year. Thank you both endlessly. Our social media team—which is regrettably smaller in size this year—have been absolute superheroes in maintaining our feeds and updating our Stories. Social media is not an easy thing to conquer, but you have somehow done it. Thank you especially to Jessica, who volunteered to be our Reviews Team’s resident social media manager, constantly and regularly posting the latest reviews at lightning speed with incredible precision. We would not be here without you. Last but not least, our satire manager Alexia, who has persevered against the odds and always provided our print editions with the fresh breath of air in the form of your wittily curated Satire-In-Briefs. You are one of our strongest writers, and we are so indebted to you for keeping the Satire section alive with your magnificent way with words and jokes about Taylor Swift ticket prices. To our dear representative on Students’ Council, Marcie, who

has been consistently and deeply committed to advocating for the Media Department amid the unrelenting chaos and entropy of hours-long council meetings. Not only are you one of our most treasured people, you are also one of our best—not just as a writer and creative, but also as someone with a brain that must be, by now, a bottomless repository of all things UMSU. We have been so lucky to have you by our side this year. Not to mention our editorial assistant for Above Water this year, Stephen, who may or may not possess inhuman levels of organisation, patience, resourcefulness and capability as we struggled to process the hundreds of submissions we received for the anthology. You should be studied in a lab (we mean this in the best way possible). You embodied the spirit of creative writing and art in a way we did not expect, but we wholeheartedly enjoyed. Thank you for your insanely good communication skills and efficiency in processing everything on time with such efficiency. It will be a tall order to find another editorial assistant like you. The News Team Jesus, where to even start? Student media is one of the weirdest and most wonderful parts of the university experience. Even now, when every other part of higher education feels like a shitty ersatz of what came before, you can still count on there to be a group of dedicated, endlessly talented, irreverent and staunch volunteers who manage to create a functioning newsroom out of nothing more than thin air and tenacity. That the Farrago News Team persists year-after-year, despite every possible factor working against it (VSU, the Melbourne Model the magazine format, a broken website, politically disengaged campuses, an editor of questionable sanity and spine, etc.) is a testament to every single person in it, past and present. And what an indescribably amazing lot the current team is! I have done every single thing wrong that it is physically, linguistically and journalistically possible for an editor to do, and y'all have turned around time after time and produced absolute gold nonetheless. The dedication of everyone—reporters, subeditors, photographers, videographers, sources, co-opted OBsturned-op-ed-writers—to producing real, genuinely newsworthy journalism in our ramshackle, glorified little literary mag still leaves me starstruck. Special thanks go to Joel, Chelsea and Alain for letting me drag them up to EdCon on the false pretense of a

sunny holiday; to Selina, whose support as my co-News Manager for the tail end of last year laid the foundation of everything I've done as an editor since; and again to Joel, who by all rights should have shared my title and my honoraria as a co-editor. To every single person that's put their hand up this year (and last) to join our motley News Team: your professionalism, dedication, and passion are the light that keeps my faith in journalism alive, even when all else seems hellbent on killing it. Everything we achieved this year is yours. I owe you the world. I love you all. —Josh The Non-Fiction Team This year has been one of the roughest in my life, I’m convinced God was personally testing my will to live. I had to unexpectedly return home to Singapore in May for extensive and long-term psychiatric and oncologic treatment, and was subsequently forced to work from a whole other continent for the better part of my term. Balancing my hospitalisations and management of Farrago was the furthest thing from being easy, but I am so deeply thankful for my team of staff writers and sub-editors for being so unbelievably and undeservingly patient with and supportive of me. Despite my many shortcomings, delayed responses and my own inability to fulfil certain areas of the department, you all have been so understanding and kind. On top of that, every single one of you will always deliver. My staff writers this year have given me so many great ideas that I can’t help but want to pick their brains and see just what’s in there. My subbies have been so proactive and on the ball with deadlines and edits, on top of their individual commitments—I would like to kiss every single one of you on the forehead (with consent). We’ve had an equal measure of peaks and pitfalls, but I genuinely could not have asked for a better team of talented individuals to work this closely with. To get to know each and every one of you has been nothing short of a blessing. I love you all so deeply. Go change the world one nonfiction article at a time! —Carmen The Creative Team Being a part of the creative community at Farrago and Student Media has honestly been the absolute highlight of my time at university. It’s been an honour to witness the vibrant creative

community between the pages of our magazines as well as the faces behind the words at our launches, workshops and social events. I am constantly inspired by our creative media community—from a macabre mascara-smudged funeral in a shattered and glistening Renaissance, to dancing mice infected with Choreomania, to fragments of developing photographs in a greenand-sepia-tinted Analog, to a kaleidoscopic Multiverse of heartbreaks and friendship, to a gutsy collage of chants and rallying in brown rice & kerosene, to the twisted folklore in a cloud of swan feathers in our final edition Phantasmagoria… It has been the most fabulous and colourful journey through the pages of Farrago Creative. Thank you so much to my uniquely talented Creative Subbie Team for your keen eye for detail and sensitivity to an author’s vision. It has been a privilege to see your careful and considered work throughout the year. Thank you also to our 2023 Creative Columnists! Your tales of transfigured love stories, of Melbourne Central Sushi Trains tinged with ennui, and of lyrical and bloody retellings of Greek Mythologies have enlivened the pages of Farrago Creative throughout the year. And of course, thank you to our readers! Thank you for experiencing these shimmering universes of creativity with me. I hope some of these words inspire you to go out and create yourself! The doors—and pages—of Farrago Creative are always open. I can’t wait to see what the multi-talented Jessica Fanwong will bring to the department in 2024! —Xiaole

part of this wonderful community we have helped to strengthen and grow. We know how daunting it can be to take that first step out of your comfort zone and be a part of something that has been such a significant part of student life at the University, and we appreciate you for it. We appreciate your fearless commitment to the Media Department this year and your trust in sharing your deeply personal and intimate art, words, and collages. Your contributions have been instrumental in the creation of six full editions showcasing the best students have to offer, even if some submissions didn’t manage to make the cut. Your courage in sending your work to our editors is praiseworthy enough, and we look forward to seeing your names on future Farrago bylines and potentially in larger, more prestigious publications. Each and every one of you have bright futures ahead of you and we can’t wait to see where you go.

The Design Team I just wanted to take a moment to express my sincere thanks to all the amazing illustrators, graphic designers and artists who've made this year so visually stunning! Your creativity has truly brought the magazine and our events to life in the most beautiful ways. Thank you for consistently creating fantastic art submissions throughout the year. Each piece has added so much vibrancy and personality. Your talent never ceases to amaze, and it's been an absolute pleasure collaborating with such a talented group. Cheers to a fantastic team of creatives ;) —Weiting

Ciara Griffiths Ciara is our personal saviour. At the very beginning of our terms, we were running the office like a bunch of headless chickens (again, maybe except for Josh) but you were always there to help us out whenever we needed it. Your insane levels of patience, kindness and care should be studied. Thank you for providing us with your unconditional support – from answering last minute, stress-induced emails to attending some of our launches in person. We are so grateful for you. We hope you’re having the most wonderful vacation, you absolutely deserve it!

Media Collective & Contributors Thank you all, each and every one of you, endlessly for showing your support to us editors and to the Media Department in every single way imaginable—attending our workshops, mixers and launches, coming to see and talk to us in our hectic little office, submitting your work, sub-editing others’ work, contributing your illustrations and Photoshop wizardry, and just being a

UMSU Communications, Marketing & Events The Media Department and us editors would have been absolutely nothing without the heartfelt kindness, guidance and support from CME. Thank you CME for helping us out with planning and organising our events, making sure everything is up to standard and helping us to promote anything we post on social media. Thank you for your patience in answering all of our stupid questions and calming our anxieties over the smallest of things. We would not have been able to end our terms on such a high note without your support.

Tim Lippis Although Tim has since left UMSU as of this edition, they have been incredibly supportive, gracious and sweet. Thank you Tim for coming to help us with the most annoying of requests (including but not limited to installing a socket for our mini-fridge and fixing our staff cards) and growing along with us as we learned the ropes. We could not have asked for anyone better to be by our sides this year. We were all really sad when the news of your

departure from UMSU reached us, but we wish you all the best in every future endeavour you embark on. UMSU General Secretary Disha, thank you so much for being such an efficient, responsive GenSec this year; from approving all our online articles to reading through our print editions before they’re sent to the printers. For approving our countless motions to pass money from our budget to handling the chaos that is council meetings. We have no idea how you did it all and we are in absolute awe. The Clyde Hotel The closure of the Ida Bar and Union House late last year left us in quite a quandary about where to host our launch parties this year, but The Clyde has been an amazing and stress-free venue for most of our events and launches this year. Thank you especially to Maeve, The Clyde’s Events Manager, who has been the most reliable with providing our bar tabs, food and other amenities needed for our launches. Our Fellow UMSU OBs The Media Department really focused on cross-departmental collaboration this year by introducing the Featured Artist initiative for every print edition, which could not have been done without the support and budgets of the various other departments of UMSU. Thank you to the Disabilities, Queer, Women’s, POC and Southbank OBs for being so open to this new idea and providing us your support in drawing more student artists to the Media Department. Of course, we also could not have launched our annual creative and art anthology Above Water without the help of our best friend, the Creative Arts Department. Savier, you have been an absolute star to work alongside. Thank you for your patience in our partnerships and supporting us at all our events but especially at Above Water. Students’ Council Thank you for never questioning our spending and for always passing our motions! We know they can get a bit repetitive with the frequency of council meetings. Thank you. Kosdown Kosdown has been our go-to printing company for who knows how many years, and they have never failed to disappoint any of us. Thank you Kosdown for tolerating numerous emails containing our final, final, final, final PDF versions of our print mags, and for always delivering them in time for our launches. Thank

you for putting up with our inconsistencies, which you have always found a way to work around and make everything work in the end. Thank you especially to Andy—who has since left the company after 10 years of wholehearted support of Farrago— whose creative mind never fails to bring up the most beautiful cover design ideas to go with our whacky themes. We love you almost as much as we love the rainbow foil. Thank you for being so wonderful and patient with us. 2022 Editors: Charlotte, Jasmine, Jo and Nishtha We are so sorry for bothering you almost every other week, most of the time with requests for verification codes on old emails and accounts that have been dormant. Thank you to Charlotte and Jasmine in particular for always making an effort to either attend our launches or congratulate us whenever we launch anything new, and providing the best advice and resources at all the right times. We could not have done most of what we have accomplished without your experience and wisdom. 2024 Editors: Joel, Ling, Gunjan and Jessica Before anything else, all four of us are so excited to hand the reins of this wild horse over to you. Taking on the mantle of editors of Australia’s oldest student publication is already a feat you should be proud of, but we hope you take things one step at a time. It will be overwhelming, scary and you will get burnt out at least thrice over the course of the next year, but we promise you it will be worth it. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes and try new things. Don’t be afraid to reach new heights and put your foot through a new door. We trust that you will do phenomenal things with the Media Department in the next 12 months and we cannot wait to see what you have in store. Family, friends, partners, parents and pets Thank you all so deeply for your unwavering, unconditional support in the face of our mental breakdowns over the endless waves of problems we went through this year. You are the ones that ground us back to earth, where the sun will rise again. We could not have made it out of our terms in one piece without your encouragement and empathy. Thank you especially to Carmen’s doctors for keeping them alive (lmao). We were only able to have conquered this milestone of our lives with you by our sides. We cannot thank you enough.

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‘Different Perspectives’ by Luyao Shi

COLUMN

NEWS

Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss: 2023 UMSU Election Recap 58

Written by Josh Davis, News Editor The (virtual) polling booths have closed, the votes have been counted, and the litany of would-be student politicians have gone home, their brightly coloured t-shirts to be stowed away until next September.

Results for the 2023 UMSU Elections are in, and we now know what the University of Melbourne Student Union will look like for the next year. Spoiler alert: not much has changed.

OFFICE BEARERS Community for UMSU have again swept the most important Office Bearer positions, retaining every currently held office (including both President and General Secretary) and gaining Creative Arts and Education (Public) from traditional rivals Stand Up!, who retained the Women‘s, Education (Academic) and Clubs + Societies offices. Of Community’s ten OB positions, two—Environment (Emma Dynes and Jaan Schild) and Education (Public) (Bella Beiraghi and Raphael Duffy)—were won by candidates affiliated with the Socialist Alternative faction, who traditionally run under the ticket Left Action. Independent Media have retained the Media Office despite a rare contestation, and a new ticket called Southbank Students! For UMSU has retained the Southbank Coordinator, Activities and Education offices, inheriting them uncontested from defunct incumbent ticket Independents for Student Democracy. Independent candidate Hamish Rose was elected uncontested as Indigenous Officer, and the Burnley Coordinator office fell vacant with no nominees. A meeting of the Burnley Campus Committee has since been scheduled to appoint a candidate.

STUDENTS' COUNCIL NEWS

2023

2024

Community remains the largest faction on Students’ Council with 11 councillors elected. The ticket, which is currently dominated by the Shop & Distributitve Allied Employees Association (SDA) Labor Right subfaction, was founded during the first remote election in 2020, and has controlled the union outright since gaining a majority on Council in last year’s elections.

Rebuild, a Liberal-aligned ticket founded in 2022, have won two positions on Council—the largest campus Liberal presence in the union for years.

Left Action, which is affiliated with Socialist Alternative, have won five positions on Council, with three General Representatives along with Indigenous Representative and Southbank Representative. Two of their councillors, Yash Sah and Labdhi Gandhi, will caucus with Community, handing them a functional majority.

Stand Up!, a coalition between Labor Left and the Labor Right Transport Workers Union (TWU) subfaction, have won two positions on Council—one more than they currently hold, but a far cry from their traditional position as one of the strongest political groups on campus. Independent Media, which originally fell short of a quota on primary vote, won one Council position after the distribution of preferences, repeating their result from last year’s election.

COMMITEES + NUS DELEGATES In line with the results across the rest of the union, Community have won controlling majorities on all but three departmental committees, with only a scattered presence from Stand Up! and Left Action. Southbank Students! For UMSU won all positions on the Southbank Students Committee unopposed, and the Burnley Students Committee had no nominations. Clubs Committee, which is elected separately in a vote of club presidents after the main elections, stands out as one of the most significant departures from the rest of the results, with Rebuild-aligned candidates picking up five of the seven available positions in a highly contested ballot.

Community also dominated the ballot for delegates to the National Union of Students’ (NUS) National Conference, which will be held in Ballarat in mid-December. Four of UMSU’s delegate positions were won by Community, with one each won by Left Action, Stand Up! and Rebuild. In terms of national factions, this will translate directly along ticket lines to four delegates for Labor Right's student wing Student Unity, one for Socialist Alternative, one for Labor Left's student wing National Labor Students, and one for the Australian Liberal Students' Federation on conference floor. Of the seven delegates, Kisara Perera is the only one who does not also hold another position within UMSU.

UMSU'S NUS DELEGATES BY NATIONAL FACTION

NEWS

RUCKUS AND REFERRALS Returning Officer Stephen Luntz characterised the “behaviour of the vast majority of campaigners as good”, but said that there were also “reports, most of which we could not verify, of campaigners abusing each other in ways that go beyond the legitimate interactions between opposing campaigners.” One of these incidents relates to an altercation between Rebuild presidential candidate Patrick Irwin and Community Education (Public Affairs) candidate Raphael Duffy, which is currently before the Electoral Tribunal.

Duffy and Irwin are both prominent figures in campus-level student politics. Duffy, who was provisionally elected alongside co-candidate Bella Beiraghi as Education (Public Affairs) Officer on the Community ticket, is a member of Socialist Alternative and has run under the Left Action ticket at previous elections. He is currently a voting representative on Students' Council.

Irwin alleges that Duffy physically hit him whilst he was campaigning outside the Baillieu Library during polling week.

Irwin is the president of the Melbourne University Liberal Club and a member of UMSU's Clubs and Societies Committee. He was the leading figure behind Rebuild's election campaigns in both 2022 and 2023.

In a statement to Farrago, Irwin said that Duffy "struck [him] in an entirely unprovoked incident”.

Duffy and Beiraghi's election has yet to be confirmed by the Returning Officer due to the onging tribunal hearing,

Irwin said that he had reported Duffy to the Electoral Tribunal over the incident, as well as to the University’s Academic Registrar.

The Returning Officer confirmed that Irwin made a complaint against Duffy that was referred to the Electoral Tribunal, but declined to comment further.

Farrago has also heard from other campaigners outside the Baillieu at the time, who confirmed that they witnessed an altercation between Irwin and Duffy.

Duffy was contacted by Farrago for comment.

WHERE TO FROM HERE? STAND UP! Stand Up! have staved off a complete collapse after last year’s elections and have even recovered some of their primary vote, but must now confront the political reality that they are simply no longer one of the major factions on campus. Whilst the NLS caucus that forms the core of the ticket was previously able to rely on coalitions with other Labor subfactions to boost their numbers at election time, they have now been forced into a no-contest deal with the SDA in Community, agreeing not to run candidates against each other in key office bearer positions. This deal was first struck at last year's elections after NLS' coalition partner TWU collapsed following the resignation of their campus convenor Jesse Gardner-Russell, but appears to have persisted this year as no NLS and SDA candidates ran directly against each other for a single-member position.

Despite the revival of TWU this year and their continued presence in Stand Up!, neither they or NLS have the required number of core members or engagement with key student voter bases to meaningfully contest the union. What few positions they do have, they have only at Community's discretion. In fact, in the only position where Stand Up! and Community did run candidates against each other—Education (Public Affairs) Officer—Community's candidates were members of Socialist Alternative who were previously elected as voting councillors under Left Action. The two factions now run candidates on each other's tickets as part of a separate deal also struck next year, meaning that Community and Left Action also have an effective non-compete arrangement.

offices they didn’t even have to run for, and enough primary to pick up five councillors—even if two of them aren't really theirs. In an era where positions are won and lost before a single vote is cast, Left Action seem to be doing better than anyone.

REBUILD Despite a modest improvement to their primary vote across the board, Rebuild are still unable to win office bearer positions in their own right—not surprising, given that they're one of the only groups not cut in to Community's stupol version of a stability pact.

LEFT ACTION

They could be in striking distance next year though, after leaving Stand Up! with only a 6.8% margin for Education (Academic)—safe according to the AEC perhaps, but if any MP were in this position, they’d be rightly sweating.

Not that Socialist Alternative seems to have a problem with this. In the space of two years they've gone from stupol pariahs to having de facto control of two

More consequential is their majority on Clubs Committee, as a large portion of Rebuild's support base revolves around the Clubs & Societies Department, despite

Read all about the candidates and their vision for your student union in 2024

NEWS

both their candidates for Clubs & Societies Officer withdrawing shortly before the election. Whether they will be able to leverage control of the committee to enact their oft-touted reforms without control of the office itself is very much an open question.

COMMUNITY Community, clearly the dominant faction of this era of campus politics, have walked into their fourth year slightly bruised perhaps, but hardly battered—a repeat or improvement on last year’s virtually uncontested election was never on the cards. Despite their Council primary dropping slightly, there really isn't any way to frame this election as anything other than an out-and-out win. It's worth highlighting, however, that Community were only able to wrest control of the union last year after two previous attempts, and even then only won full control—UMSU President, and a Students' Council majority—after their only real opposition stopped running against them. They have more of a mandate than anyone else, undisputedly—but how strong is a mandate based on two barely contested elections and a spider's web of backroom deals? More importantly, will it last? Cutting

every organised faction on campus, bar the Liberals, into your deal—even if it is a patchwork quilt—is stupol hackery par excellence, but is it sustainable? How long will the other factions be satiated with the scraps from Community's table?

THE REST With Independents for Student Democracy (ISD) dead and buried, most non-factional and non-partisan involvement in the UMSU elections this year came from genuinely independent (i.e. running on their own without a ticket) candidates, with a significantly larger number than in previous years. Notable candidates include Nishant Sahoo, who polled 17% of the vote for General Secretary and Education (Academic) Officer, forcing the latter to be decided on his preferences, and Qingran Wang, who polled 36% of the vote for Clubs & Societies Officer despite running as a sole candidate with no partner. Other independent candidates contested the Women's Office (Lee Hazel) and Welfare Office (Poulomi Sinha), but did not impact the outcome of the ballots. A grouping of three independent candidates (Gupta, Ramesh and Ribeiro) contested Independent Media for the Media Office, polling 34% of the vote.

SO WHAT CHANGED? Ultimately, very little. Two office bearer positions swapped hands, and Council looks slightly different (and more complicated), but by and large UMSU in 2024 will carry many of the same names as in 2023. Perhaps this shouldn't be overly surpris1 ing, given that only 3,342 students in a university of over 52,000 voted in the presidential ballot—a turnout of around 6.5%, just shy of last year's 7.1%, but broadly in line with the low expectations of student union elections in a post-VSU world. Whilst a handful more independent candidates meant that the nominations sheet looked a bit different to last year, now that the dust has settled, UMSU doesn't. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Disclaimer: Josh Davis is the News Editor of Farrago and an UMSU Media Officer, elected on the Independent Media ticket in the 2022 UMSU Elections. He was previously elected as a General Representative on Council with Independents for Student Democracy in the 2021 UMSU Elections. He is not a member of any political faction, group or party, on campus or otherwise.

FEATURE

OPINION: An open letter to Vice-Chancellor Duncan Maskell and Dean of Arts Russell Goulbourne Seventy-five students in the Faculty of Arts sent a letter to Vice-Chancellor Duncan Maskell and Dean of Arts Russell Goulbourne during the NTEU's week-long strike in October. They did not recieve a response. An edited version of the letter has been reprinted below. Professor Duncan Maskell, Vice-Chancellor 9th Floor, Raymond Priestley Building The University of Melbourne Victoria 3010 Australia Professor Russell Goulbourne, Dean of Arts Ground Floor, Old Arts The University of Melbourne Victoria 3010 Australia

The History of the Grievance and Attempts to Resolve it

We are writing to you in your capacity as Vice Chancellor and Head of School to try and resolve a grievance issue in the Faculty of Arts and the University itself.

During the week of the 28th of September, numerous classes of ours went on strike. For many of us in the Faculty of Arts, all our classes were cancelled due to the strike action. This strike would have been completely avoidable if management had negotiated in good faith with the NTEU. Instead, management left the bargaining table thus eliminating any chance of negotiation. Currently, we believe that staff are not being treated with the respect that they deserve as hardworking members of this University.

We are hoping that by raising this complaint with you informally, you will be in a position to consider the best outcomes in a timely way.

We have taken previous action to submit formal individual complaints and in the responses received from the University no commitment was made to change action.

This is consistent with section 5.4 of the University of Melbourne Student Complaints and Grievances Policy (MPF1066). We are writing to you as a united group of students in the Faculty of Arts, as well as others in support from other faculties.

In the responses received, we were told that the University was negotiating with the Union in good faith, however, this cannot be the case if management were prepared to walk away from the bargaining table prior to the strike. Further, the current offers to staff do not address secure work concerns and instead offer wage increases that do keep up with inflation.

Dear Prof. Duncan Maskell and Prof. Russell Goulbourne,

Specifically, this grievance relates to our bitter disappointment with the treatment of staff at this university. Our education is being compromised because our lecturers and tutors simply cannot perform at their best under the subpar conditions that they are currently experiencing. We fully support the industrial action that has been taken this week, and we blame management for the disruption to our tuition. We are raising a joint complaint under section 4.5 of the University’s Complaints and Grievances Policy (see below) as we have all been affected by the treatment of staff which led to the industrial action.

more complaints or grievances about the same matter are submitted independently, they may be considered jointly by agreement of all parties concerned.

The demand for 80% secure work is not only reasonable but essential, as we believe it is shameful that the University does not provide its academics with secure work. Casual work on short-term contracts does not reflect the University’s respect for its staff and leaves those who are already struggling with the cost of living crisis without secure work. In our response to our initial complaints, we were told that our complaint did not constitute a complaint under section 4.2 of the complaints policy. However, section 4.2 reads as follows:

4.5. Students may raise joint complaints or grievances where more than one student has been affected, in which case the matter will be considered as one issue.

4.2. Students may raise complaints or grievances in relation to administrative decisions, including but not limited to:

In these cases, all students who have agreed to be party to the complaint or grievance must be named. If two or

(a) decisions by administrative staff affecting individuals or groups of students;

FEATURE

(b) administration of policies, procedures and rules of the University; (c) standard of service received through the University administration; or (d) access to resources or facilities. We maintain that as students we are raising a complaint in relation to the administration of the University not to negotiate adequately with the NTEU. As such this has had an adverse impact on the standard of the educational service that we are receiving from our degrees. Additionally, we were told in our complaint response that the University was endeavouring to make up for education loss by providing different avenues such as keeping the LMS accessible. However, any material that is made available to students by striking teachers is a breach of the strike. Further, it is inaccurate to presume that keeping the LMS open is enough to make up for the lost lectures and tutorials. We are paying for what has been ranked as the best education in the country. However, the best education in the country is reliant on the best staff in the country. If staff are not adequately compensated and not treated fairly then they cannot provide the best education possible. Therefore, we maintain that our complaint does constitute a complaint under section 4.2, and that management is single-handedly responsible for the loss of education. Moreover, we were told that our complaint did not meet the grounds for a complaint under section 4.7: 4.7. Grounds for complaint or grievance include, but are not limited to: (a) a student being affected by a decision made without sufficient consideration of facts, evidence or circumstances; (b) a student being affected by a failure to adhere to appropriate or relevant published University policies and procedures; (c) a penalty applied to the student being unduly harsh or inappropriate;

(d) a student being affected by improper or negligent conduct by another student or staff member; or (e) a student being affected by unfair treatment, prejudice or bias. However, under section 4.7(a) our complaint does meet the grounds for a complaint as a managerial decision was made not to meet all NTEU demands and to walk away from the bargaining table which led to the week long strike. This decision was clearly made without sufficient consideration of circumstances as the need for union demands to be met are due to the circumstances of immense pressures placed on staff. This has had an immense impact on us as students as we are not able to learn effectively from staff who are not treated fairly. Furthermore, if the University maintains their position that our complaint does not actually constitute a complaint, I urge the addressee to consider the University’s commitment to student learning conditions and the opinions and experiences of the students. We believe that the response received thus far does not demonstrate commitment to our learning experience or our entitlements as fee paying students. Therefore, as students, we wholeheartedly support the staff strikes and hold the University responsible for the lackluster education we are receiving as staff cannot teach and work in such subpar conditions.

Reasons for the Determination Our relationship as students to the University is through the staff. We know that our teachers and academic services, Stop 1 and library staff are all hardworking and dedicated individuals. They have been mistreated. Not only have they had their wages stolen from them, not only are they underpaid for marking and for overtime, but they are clearly not valued by the University. If staff were valued, they would be fairly compensated for their work and their jobs would be secure. Casual work demonstrates that staff are as disposable to the University as their contracts are. The current state of affairs is ridiculous. This week we have admired the strength of staff to stand up for their rights as workers. We stand by them and we give them our unwavering support.

FEATURE The Resolution Sought

Katherine Carpenter (Linguistics and Applied Linguistics)

Therefore, management must negotiate with the Union in a way that demonstrates a genuine interest in improving the work experiences of staff. This includes agreeing to the Union demands set out in Attachment 3 because “demands such as 80% secure work, a fair pay rise, and no forced redundancies are not only reasonable, but necessary to building quality education at the University.” (Attachment 3).

Harriet Carpenter (Linguistics)

Further, we believe that staff and students are owed a formal apology from the University for both the lack of fair teaching conditions and the subsequent inability of staff to deliver the best education possible. We wish for the University management to admit their full responsibility for the missed tuition, as it occurred as a result of their unwillingness to deliver upon the fair and reasonable NTEU demands. We believe that we have suffered a loss in our tuition and education and maintain that the University is responsible for this. We would appreciate acknowledgement of the receipt of this grievance within five working days of its receival. Notification of the investigation process would be appreciated within 15 working days, as per the indicative timeline in section 5.12 of the policy.

Signatories: Urszula Nowak (Politics and International Studies) Tahlia McDonald (Politics and International Studies, Spanish and Latin American Studies) Ava Wansbrough (Gender Studies) Bryda Nichols James Gallagher (Geography) Joel Duggan William Roumeliotis (Science) Eva Matthews (Psychology)

Jack Doughty (Music) Stuart Pattison-White (Linguistics) Eugene Soo (Politics and International Studies) Adele Roeder Theo Purchase (Politics and International Studies, Criminology) Olivia de Aizpurua Rebekah Hopkins (Media Communications, Italian) Joseph Sadleir (Politics and International Studies) Lucy Beltrami (English and Theatre Studies) Finley Japp (English and Theatre Studies) Prudence Anderson (English and Theatre Studies, Art History) Molly Anders (Anthropology) Geordie Kidd (Linguistics) Erica Giudici (Chemistry) Grace Wake Hayley Marsh (Politics and International Studies, English and Theatre Studies) Isaac Heap (Politics and International Studies, Economics) Alessandro Rizzo (International Relations) Harriet Norman (History) Marlon Toner-McLachlan (Politics and International Studies) Thomas Devonshire (History, Politics and International Studies)

FEATURE

Evelyn Garcia (Politics and International Studies, Linguistics)

Jocelyn Rowland

Mieke Crighton (Politics and International Studies)

Amelie Sims (Psychology)

David Jeisman

Lili Way (Neuroscience)

Priyanka Hannah Mudali

Emma Giddens (Politics and International Studies)

Isabella Ioannidis (Criminology)

Ariel Zhang Yao Yong

Thomas Hofer (Politics and International Studies)

Mary (Psychology)

Catherine Forge (Politics and International Studies, Media and Communications)

Felix Clerk

Aimee (Psychology)

Ishara Tilakaratna (Politics and International Studies, Economics)

Niamh McInerney (Politics and International Studies, Literature)

Emma Elliott (History and Philosophy of Science)

Josh van de Ven (Linguistics)

Sienna Pivetta

Sahana Selvendra

Kayla Milliken, (Psychology, Criminology)

Annie Cavenett (Politics and International Studies, Media and Communications)

Claudia Cunningham (Politics and International Studies)

Cameron Proposch (Psychology, Politics and International Studies) Caitlyn Sproston (Politics and International Studies) Tyler Davey (Criminology, Politics and International Studies) Annabelle Bullock (English and Theatre Studies) Ildi Clemens (Politics and International Studies) Mia Ruddock (History) Alexander Bowering Aoibheann Mcconnon-Elvins (Media and Communications, Politics and International Studies) Arthue Duckworth (History) Tahlia Tannous (Politics and International Studies)

Tom Alessandrini (Politics and International Studies) Jasmine Michie (Politics and International Studies, Media and Communications) Alessandra Ward (Politics and International Studies) Sebastian Hugh (English and Theatre Studies) Melissa Hon Caitlyn Clark (Psychology) Shaun McMahon Brendon Henry (Politics and International Studies) Jesse McDougall (Psychology) Melissa Zi Yun Hon (Politics and International Studies)

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'About in Melbourne' by Meg Bonnes

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Shadows of Yesterday: Unveiling the Childhood Poetics of Wonder in the Gothic Genre Written by Louisa Zhang Gothic fairy tales are oddly comforting. I remember being enamoured by the first animated adaptation of Hansel and Gretel I ever saw at around the age of four. The short feature film appeared in a Disney collection called House of Villains (2002)—reminiscent of the silent animations in Fantasia, it was based on the classic Anderson tale and set to the haunting music of Saint-Saens' Danse Macabre. It was during a time when physical media still reigned. My mother was fond of collecting various children's books, DVDs, CDs, and VHS tapes for my sister and I. We saw House of Villains (2002) together on the television in the living room. The film was not considered extraordinary by critics, so it is now mostly lost to the archives. Nevertheless, it was one of the first doorways to my fondness for the macabre. I was thrilled with the audio-visual form of storytelling and the sweeping melodies. Classical music was a wistful medium, evoking aesthetic pageantries of the past. I was struck by an array of emotions as I followed the lead characters along their discovery of the candy house, their realisation of the looming dangers, and their efforts at escape. With its geometric boldness and dramatic shadows, the pictorial constructs in the animation, which looking back now, seem to be redolent of Expressionist cinema. Sadly, evil appears in the shape of a female witch (as is the case with many traditional tales). As a child, it was the symbolic scenography—the charming correlations between the visual and auditory motifs—which led me to feel both haunted and inspired at once. Despite the pastel dreamscape of the candy house, foreboding echoes rang through the opening notes. I was captured by the stark contrast between the innocent visuals and the uncanny undertones in the music and the eye motif. The rest of the short unfolded as a maelstrom-like descent into a fantastical world, revealing the trickeries that propped up the surface reality. The fairy-tale vernacular often involves cycles from darkness to transformation, along with the disparities between illusion and truth. As an anxious child, I resonated with the prospect of both sides of the coin existing at the same time—the strange juxtaposition between naivety and terror. At times, even mundane things, such as walking barefoot across prickly grass, found a way of casting disquieting possibilities in my anxious mind. I felt consoled by the surprising sense of familiarity in the spooky genre. The perils depicted in Hansel and Gretel (1999) allowed some of my vague fears to materialise as something tangible and thus intelligible. Storytelling has a way of diminishing everyday anxieties by characterising them through a narrative structure. It worked especially well if the story also had comic and consolatory elements. Because our emotional experiences are magnified tenfold as children, perhaps it makes sense for the stories to be just as hyperbolic. Stories offer us an imaginative escape into perils and possibilities, granting us a metaphorical toolbox for making sense of our inner worlds. During childhood, we often turn to storytelling in our search for solace and clarity; to make sense of dissonances that may arise in our naïve experience of the immediate world. Research has pointed out some of the therapeutic effects of stories that deal with children’s unspoken anxieties, noting them to be more beneficial than uniformly optimistic tales^). Hansel and Gretel (1999) involved this intricate interplay of suspense and emotional resonance in an optical dreamworld. It involved archetypal experiences expressed with just the right sense of harmony between the colours, sounds, and actions. Arriving at the Witch’s house became the catalyst for a journey into a land of polarity, where true intentions were haphazardly concealed below the surface. A place of enchantment and sugary decadence undertook a sudden reversal, revealing the discrepancy between the illusion of paradise and the actual circumstance which lay ahead. The witch had two contrasting faces—after the extravagant meal of desserts, she led the two children to a guest room and locked them in. At this point, the lighting in the animation shifted to darker tones, and her silhouette loomed large as she descended the staircase in triumphant anticipation. She prepared the oven per a recipe titled “Roasted Mice”. The way the light of the stove fire lit up the ominous look on her face added a subtle yet necessary touch of sinister. According to Piaget’s cognitive development theory, young children perceive things as split between two extremes, such as good and evil, darkness and light, or danger and safety. Despite being the ‘founding father’ of developmental psychology, Piaget’s ideas have also been held up

Illustration by Emma Bui

NON-FIC to some critique regarding its universal applicability. But if we suppose Piaget’s ideas are true to an extent, then it makes sense for the supernatural facets in fairy tales to involve this play on polarisations. By using ideological imagery which strictly separates good and bad, the chaotic world and the chaos of psychic experiences seemed to fall into order more easily. Melding together imagery and musical rhetoric in Hansel and Gretel (1999), the art form gave rise to an alternate setting for which to confront one’s fears, feelings, and imaginings. The narrative represented a race against adversity, and the audio-visual synthesis created an enthralling and immersive atmosphere. The music felt diegetic at times and merged with the represented action, such as when the staccato door-knocking was perfectly aligned with the melodic motif from Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre. Yet, the instrumental score is logically non-diegetic or, in other words, separate from the narrative world. The unique ambience achieved through Danse Macabre made all the difference, with its ghoulish call-and-response phrases and embellishments. Moments of contrasting tempo and tone allowed for different layers of signification; the melancholic inflections in the violin solo seemed to articulate the protagonists’ unspoken thoughts of despair, a stark contrast from the lively rhythms during the witch’s solo montage in the kitchen. Transfixed by the gothic paraphernalia in the visual details of the animation, it felt like a momentary escape into an otherworldly realm, where the rules of reality were allowed to bend for the sake of idiosyncratic perspective and symbolic language. It was a language without words per se; a language told through motion pictures and the bravura of classical music. As a child, I was stunned to discover that stories could exist in a plethora of ways. Echoes of it could be heard in the little things, like a strong gust on a stormy day. I began to pay more attention to the visual and aural qualities of an environment, and at times, allowing it to take on a projective valence in the same way I experienced them in stories and films. The animation’s semi-surrealist elements, such as the spiral motifs and the metamorphic interior space of the mansion, seemed to mirror dream logic and the subconscious mind. Perhaps, it is no trick that this alternative reality evoked by Hansel and Gretel (1999) is deliberately made to resemble an artificial, staged vision. Yet, it is a vision and a narrative that is very much real, valid, and significant. This serves as a reminder that fears and dreams are just as organic and interpretable, despite the irrational parts and the sense of unknowability. The magical elements from fairy tales are accepted in the same way one acknowledges the unknown. But more importantly, the abstract world evoked by Hansel and Gretel (1999) allowed for a safe distance for experiencing the narrative. As a child, I could recognise the adorable absurdity of a giant candy-cane with fangs. This made me accept that the reality depicted here was likely dreamt up or imagined. I think this is such a fundamental part of storytelling for children, the creation of a distinctive psycho-symbolic world, rather than direct representations of reality. Stories provide beneficial psychological functions, such as depicting different states of minds, or mitigating tensions and conflicts. Despite the witch’s bloodthirsty desire to devour the protagonists, the element of terror is alleviated by the hyperbolic excesses in the visual style, the caricatures, and the heart-warming trust built between Hansel and Gretel. The final rumble of the stove at the end was more a humorous twist than a real threat. As children, the protagonist’s assertive agency in the face of fear can be a liberating event to witness. Evil appetite is dispatched back to its proper place: the inferno landscape hidden inside the oven. For children who have experienced parallel situations with fear or injustice, moments like this satisfy a subconscious need on a psychological level. Stories and their harmless fantasies can be deeply cathartic, like a safety valve releasing negative feelings which are normally repressed. For children whose relatively stable, outer lives offer no mirror for the “inner drama…of growing up”, the gothic genre can fill that absence, offering “concrete expression to abstract psychic processes” along with “healthy doses of humour and hope”*. Nowadays, Disney represents nostalgia for me more than anything else. Nevertheless, during the formative years of childhood, its hidden gems offered truth and connection through deeply memorable forms of storytelling. References ^Boodman, S. (2002). Children’s Literature Review, 79, 185. *Coats, K. (2008). “Between Horror, Humour, and Hope: Neil Gaiman and the Psychic Work of the Gothic”. In A. Jackson, K. Coats, R. McGillis (Eds.), The Gothic in Children’s Literature: Haunting the Borders (pp. 57-76). Routledge.

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The Seductive Subtlety of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice Written by Elizabeth Browne

Even after 28 years, the iconic image of Mr Darcy (Colin Firth) emerging from a lake in a sodden white shirt has arguably remained as relevant as it did when it first premiered in 1995. Replicated, ridiculed and referenced countless times, most recently in Greta Gerwig’s Barbie, few other television series have been able to replicate the widespread success and irrevocable cultural influence of the BBC’s adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. But why is this the case? What about this particular television series, and more importantly, this particular depiction of the brooding male love interest, has made this a “comfort show” for so many? Will Hollywood ever be able to reproduce its allure?

For those who have not had the life-altering experience of watching Elizabeth Bennett (Jennifer Ehle) surprise Mr Darcy after his impromptu swim at Pemberley, the series is a six-part, mostly faithful adaptation of Austen’s most famous love story, in which a romance gradually blossoms between two initially bitter enemies during Regency-Era England. BBC’s adaptation was an immediate hit at the time of its release, with around 40% of England tuning in to watch the final episode, and the others amassing around 10-11 million viewers each. While these numbers may fail to impress the modern viewer given the accessibility of television brought in by streaming services, this was unprecedented for the era and instantly propelled its starring actors into stardom. In particular, the series became (and has arguably remained) synonymous with Colin Firth, whose extremely effective yet subtle portrayal of Darcy as unwaveringly stoic, pioneered—or at the very least popularised—the trope of the dark, ruminating male love interest. Amongst the television series that have been influenced by this show, the most obvious is Netflix’s Bridgerton. In Season Two (spoilers ahead), the similarly tormented, “enemy” love interest Anthony Bridgerton falls into a lake during a fight, only to emerge similarly in none other than a dripping wet shirt in front of a blushing Kate Sharma, in an undeniable reference to its 1995 predecessor. Indeed, the author of the books that the series adapted from has openly commented that she was inspired by Austen herself. However, while somewhat similar in style and aesthetic, Bridgerton is rarely popularised as a “comfort show” in the same way BBC’s adaptation is. Likewise, Netflix’s 2022 adaptation of Austen’s Persuasion (infamous for its pitiful attempt to ‘Fleabag-ify’ Austen) was a complete disappointment for most fans despite the two source texts being relatively similar in content. Even the 2005 production of Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfayden was not as widely beloved as the television show*, even if it is more accessible with a theatrical release on top of its availability on streaming services. So why has the essence of the BBC’s adaptation been so difficult to re-capture? The reason behind this is the tantalising subtlety in the BBC’s adaptation—the way in which romance and eroticism underpins the entirety of the show without ever being actualised. Nowadays, a surprising number of movies and televisions will have some form of gratuitous nudity, sex scene, or at the very least, kissing, regardless of the plot (did we really need to see Florence Pugh naked in Oppenheimer?). For example, a 2019 study found that almost 30% of the Top 100 films in the US box office

included nudity, usually in the form of topless cis women. The consequence of this? The on-screen romance is inadvertently warped, transformed into something physical that isolates the audience—it is no longer the elusive emotional connection we all inevitably long for, but something tangible. And while we can empathise with the emotions of these characters, we certainly cannot experience the same physical sensations as them and thus, viewers are reminded of the screen separating them from the narrative. In fact, it can often feel intrusive, as if we’re barging into a private moment, rather than partaking in it. Along a similar vein, the fundamental question of ‘will they, won’t they?’ is already answered. We are no longer privy to the mysterious allure of whether the erotic suspense will ever be resolved—an undeniable act of mutual attraction has taken place and it cannot be undone. It is therefore difficult to maintain the romantic momentum following scenes like this. This is what makes Colin Firth’s lake scene, and the whole BBC adaptation, so iconic. Over the course of the show, the director deliberately deprives audiences, providing mere morsels of romance and physical attraction through quick, vague scenes of the women dressing, through dancing and promenading, even Mr Darcy bathing. Mr Darcy’s eyes seem glued to Lizzy, constantly aware of her physical presence in the room, regardless of whether they actually interact. Physicality is at the heart of the show (and indeed, the book) and they barely even touch—the magnetic pull of attraction inevitably bubbles under the thin veil of Regency propriety. This tension escalates with each fleeting encounter, climaxes during the lake scene, and when gratification can be delayed no longer, they kiss in the very final minute of the show during their wedding. This scarce use of physicality has been so effective at creating both romantic and sexual tension, it has been called the most “sexed-up adaptation of Pride and Prejudice” and sparked a large boom of Jane Austen erotica that remains just as popular today (cough, Bridgerton, cough). Consequently, there is something so simultaneously pure yet erotic yet wholly romantic about their relationship, which draws audiences in time and time again and is yet to be successfully replicated.

The pitfall of modern television romance is this lack of subtlety. Writers and directors often underestimate the emotional intelligence of their viewers and leave nothing to be inferred, nothing unsaid. Rarely do they let audiences relish in the titillating uncertainty — the very butterflies in the stomach—that forms the basis of romantic excitement, both in movies and in real life. With Pride and Prejudice, the audience wants to picture themselves in Lizzy and Mr Darcy’s realities and when too much is spelled out for them, this inevitably eclipses the imagination and brings viewers crashing back down to reality. The ability to capture the thrilling unease of blossoming love is no doubt what attracted readers to Jane Austen’s novels in the first place, and what drew viewers back via the BBC’s adaptation almost 200 years later. *P.S: I personally love this adaptation just as much as the BBC’s and think it’s brilliant in its own way—however, I’m simply pointing out that it is not as widely popular as the television show, especially amongst older audiences.

Illustration by Weiting Chen

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The spectral avant-folk of Arthur Russell’s Picture of Bunny Rabbit Otherworldly outtakes cut from the same cloth as World of Echo Written by Domenico Lepore The meditative primordial songcraft of Arthur Russell may very well be the highest calibre of earnest artistry. He was a key player in shaping New York’s downtown mutant disco scene (1981’s 24 24 Music), laid the foundation for ‘80s arty, sophisti-pop (2004’s Calling Out of Context), and even ventured into folk rock eliciting Bob Dylan comparisons (2019’s Iowa Dream). Many of these accomplishments, though, were cemented years after the fact. Russell’s sole mission statement under his name was 1986’s World of Echo, best described by the caption bearing this record’s sleeve: “crossing the line from vocal to instrumental and back”. In the next six years, his eccentric sonic exploration curtailed, due to his tragic and untimely passing from AIDS-related illnesses in 1992. Russell’s estate at Audika Records has meticulously unearthed his plethora of unmarked tapes, collating his work to keep his spirit alive for today’s generations. Consequently, Russell’s omnipresence in modern music is as ghostly as the man himself, with his music and history being posthumously pieced together. The enigmatic Picture of Bunny Rabbit from 2023 comprises songs that didn’t make it onto World of Echo. In the latter collection, he quietly redefined minimalism in music, merely with spectral howls and his signature screeching cello. It is the culmination of his mind that was impossible to decipher. The electroacoustic and folk leanings are gorgeously tranquil, yet sparse as they are dense. It’s as if Russell dismantled every fibre of what constitutes a conventional song. Ambient and dub influences are present, but his soft voice ultimately plants his music in pop. Naturally, World of Echo is challenging, but eternally rewarding. It’s of the utmost avant-garde in musical works, however, this new compilation makes for an easier listen. Its brevity lends itself to greater accessibility, but surprises lie within—entrances to a world parallel to ours. To reiterate, much like Russell, Picture of Bunny Rabbit is phantasmal. The way his photograph catches him precariously paints him as a rabbit-like apparition, swiftly escaping our grasp but still moving around. Listening to the songs is the same as conversing with him, where he delivers his psyche as brooding laments. ‘Not Checking Up’ is especially nocturnal, featuring his woeful mumbles about juggling external commitments: ‘It’s the only day / I’m off work / It’s the only time / I have at all’. ‘In the Light of a Miracle’ is like a prehistoric dance chant, with his dissonant cello guiding the way. Warbling synthesisers permeate the sparsity, akin to gentle ripples in a small pool of water. Russell’s repeating of his exclamations like a wisp—‘Holding in the light / Walking in the light’—infers a sense of hope in his oft-ominous poetry. Reaching the light, albeit in glimpses, is possible in the series of ‘Fuzzbuster’ instrumentals. ‘#10’ opens the collection with keyboards sounding pleasant bells, greeting the listener to the con-

versely suffocative musical emptiness. ‘#09’ is propulsive and beguiling, soundtracking moonless high deserts. Meanwhile, wistful ‘#06’ is the most impressive, evoking the same innocent self-restraint of indie bands Young Marble Giants and early the xx, marvellously foreshadowing the latter’s nightly indie pop of today. Russell’s twinkling acoustic guitar, harmonising with the funereal cello, is a sublime remedy for the disconcerting soundscapes in-between. The album’s true centrepiece, uncharacteristically lurid, is the titular track, ‘Picture of Bunny Rabbit’. Russell was no stranger to long-form improvisation, but the allure of this voyage is implausibly isolated from his usual forte. No recorded music up to that point (1985–86) sounded like it. To me, it conjures a spellbinding pilgrimage into lucid imagination. Abrasive arpeggios bloat with distortion and glitch, as though trying to make sense of the surroundings. Bitcrushed cellos fleetingly hop around, as liberated as a jovial bunny. They don the uncanny strangeness of a grovelling anthropomorphic rabbit in a dapper suit. Familiar images, thoughts, and memories become crystallised, skittering as the disseverance from the physical plane continues. Russell’s bellowed cello shrieks like discordant church bells, leaving gashes on the eardrums. An incessant strangle by the incoherence. The gloaming is blood red like the eyes of a white rabbit, and only the listener in that moment is facing the discordance of inner scrutiny. Is this still the same Russell who dreamily mopes with his off-kilter baritone? By the conclusive stretch, when fully separated from oneness, it seems impossible. His only remnant is his cello, which cascades further into malevolence, until the haunting ringing abruptly peters out. Back at present. For those eight minutes, the listener is the only recipient of this labyrinthine, effusive ceremony. It is by far Russell’s most visceral piece bestowed upon ears, which otherwise would’ve been concealed eternally if not for his estate—stunning and beautifully chilling. Russell’s thorough musical deconstruction was merely one facet of many. His curious art pop predates that of Peter Gabriel’s heyday, and even had a collaboration with the Talking Heads under his belt. When he wasn’t caressing his cello to sound a buoyant heart like skipping over water, Russell was at his most esoteric. The peachy flickers on Picture of Bunny Rabbit’s artwork are the luminous beams of inspiration that only Russell could see. He seized them, surpassing his creative peers—tragically too much so—but his ghostly portrait eyeing them is a trophy. We’re blessed with his spiritual guidance, tending to his artistry as loyal as a rabbit, and making sense of his vulnerability for ourselves.

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Detours Written by Isolde Kieni-Judd Google Maps assumes it takes the average human an hour to walk three miles when estimating the ETA to your destinations. Coupled with the fast pace at which I typically navigate the footpaths of Melbourne (with elongated strides and a technique I call the ‘tuck and weave’, you can too!) and my constant ambition to prove Google wrong, I know I can always beat these estimates by about 35%, if not more. Such unfounded confidence I once had in this ability, that in my arrogance, I began testing its limits under the high-stake setting of catching trains. Through practice, I had this particular walk down to a fine art. Four times a week I would soar down the hill to the North Melbourne train station, crossing the street at the same place each time, leaving the house right at the latest possible second, my mind focused solely on my end goal of boarding that train mere seconds before its departure. Whoever coined the saying “it’s the journey, not the destination” had clearly never experienced the adrenaline rush of this particular venture. But alas, these thrills were to be short lived. We are experiencing a period of great change here in Melbourne in a locomotive sense. With works underway on the West Gate Tunnel causing disruptions, new stations being built to be connected by the Metro Tunnel, alongside new trains and supporting infrastructure being installed (with incredible names such as ‘X’Trapolis 2.0 which conjure images of Transformers in my mind), we live in very exciting times for train enthusiasts, although I suppose all times since 1804 have been pretty exciting for them in some respects. Now, Melbourne even has its own Metro Tunnel HQ, which is a little interactive information centre about Victoria’s public transport projects. I’ve never personally made it inside due to it coincidentally being closed for a school group tour every time I have attempted to visit, however if you are interested, reviews on their website rave that it is “air conditioned” and the Victorian Premier’s Design Awards website (the only other place I could find it mentioned on the Internet) commends its “moments of spherical’ness”, which is a statement I felt deserved a broader audience. Besides the Metro Tunnel HQ conspiracy, these exciting times are not nearly as exciting for the average daily commuter, to which the word ‘frustrating’ seems far more fitting. The Victorian Premier’s Design Awards website describes the Metro Tunnel HQ as seeking to “make the intangible tangible”, a sentiment which initially confused me due to my previous, rather physical encounters with trains. But thinking back over my somewhat liminal transport experiences with the North Melbourne station over the past few months, I think I have begun to understand what they meant. It was a day like any other when my transport troubles began. I woke up, packed my things and left the house with barely a second to spare. As I neared my train’s departure time, the station was within my sight but suddenly not my reach, as a large truck blocked my path. Much to my surprise, my typically straightforward journey had been interrupted by a fork in the road, as detour signs directed me either left or right around these new road works. Trying not to let this minor disturbance discourage me, I chose to go right without a second thought. Whilst I wasn’t enthusiastic about the change in my routine, I was willing to accept this minor addition to my usual journey. After all, things could definitely be worse: there’s always the threat of bus replacements. Even so, I would like to make some suggestions to anyone planting detour signs in the future. As much amusement as trying to hunt down the next sign to lead me along the winding path devised to the station elicited, it is generally better to make road signs intuitive and easy to follow. Making the commuter feel as if they are in a Tolkien novel should not be the goal. This particular path twisted around two back streets, through an elevated caged path that had been created through the middle of a construction site, across a park and several people’s driveways, before finally delivering you to your destination with a complimentary 10-minute delay. I missed my train that day and didn’t especially delight in taking the same, convoluted journey in reverse after sunset. So began my war with the railway works.

Human beings are creatures of habit. We crave routine and often abhor any changes to it, and that’s especially true when it comes to transportation. We are faced with so many decisions on a daily basis, so it’s a comfort when at least one aspect of our lives feels somewhat straightforward and unchanging. Yet, even then, we don’t really want to give up control. Think about the frustration of missing a train by a mere minute or facing an unexpected delay. Sure, it may only be a couple of minutes lost, but that’s also a couple of minutes you will be missing for the rest of the day. Yet another aspect of your life ripped from your control. So, can you really blame me for trying to find an alternative train station? I happen to live in a sort of Bermuda Triangle of stations, somewhat equidistant from the North Melbourne, Macaulay and still in development Arden station (the disappearances being in this case to scheduled railway services rather than aircrafts and ships). Following my initial failures with my usual station, I decided to give alternative options a go. I know, unfaithful, but I had my reasons.

NON-FIC The trains were less frequent, and the path a steeper incline, but I craved my old life of mindless speed walking and expertly caught departures. If we stick with the Bermuda Triangle analogy however, Macaulay station would be Bermuda itself. As I emerged from the station’s perimeters, I found myself surrounded by dark and desolate buildings, isolated in an ocean of shadows and night. The longer train ride paired with the gloomier walk home simply wasn’t the improvement I’d hoped for. You can’t replicate perfection, and one should never chase what’s lost to the past. I returned the next day to my beloved North Melbourne station in shame, only to find it had similarly turned its back upon me once more. It was time to accept this new world I’d been unwittingly hurled into and try an entirely alternate route, for better or for worse. My second suggestion to people establishing detours with signage is to endeavour to keep said signage up to date. People being forced to take circuitous journeys around roadside works are usually not in the most cheerful moods, and this is not improved by them getting most of the way along their journey, only to find the detour they had been taking has now abruptly ended short of their destination due to a secondary set of works (my third and final advice is don’t build a detour through a construction site, that’s absurd!). Now, they have to back track all the way back to the beginning and start over again. The roadblock truck remained where it always had, inside which sat a worker, whose purpose I had never questioned more than this day. For those following along at home still wondering what the detour to the left was like, let’s just say it was just as bad as you are imagining. On my way home, I resigned myself to taking the tram. I’ve taken the tram many times before—it offered a longer journey with exciting views and a shorter walking distance. However, its experience was often lessened by how incredibly crowded it quickly became, and whilst I wasn’t too fussed the time a four-year-old boy accidentally sat on my lap, I was less pleased when similar incidents occurred with older travellers. It seemed clear that only one option remained. I was reduced to just walking. I sighed as I embarked on my first 30-minute trek home, unaware of the impact this seemingly insignificant choice was about to have on my life. My reduced-Google-walking-ETA has its limitations and long distances are at the top of that list. It’s not especially easy to speed walk at shin-splitting speeds for a full half hour on an inconsistent incline. So on this—my longest journey method yet—I was forced to engage with my surroundings, something I hadn’t done much since moving to my new corner of the city. It's easy to be absorbed by distractions inside the vehicle on tram rides, and my metro train journeys don't usually feature particularly exciting scenery. But even while listening to music, the walk presented a much more hands-on experience. I'd been so consumed by my need to get to wherever I was going, I never quite managed to be where I already was. It was nice to slow down every once in a while, with late night window shopping in all the Victoria Market stores, stopping by cute hidden bars or cafés that had always been just round the corner from my house but never before within my narrow field of view. On one occasion, I met a dog whose name was "Karl Barx", on another I found the phone of a not-so-talented skateboarder and earned myself a deck of cards and a stack of pancakes upon its safe return. My life had gone from being lived only in the brief moments between classes and work shifts, to evenings of bizarre encounters and mornings of the occasional zany Uber or tram-based social interactions I’d regale once I reached my destination. I had introduced variety into an otherwise boring task without even realising and consequently, transformed it into its own daily attraction. Even as the roadwork around the station has cleared up, and my line—however temporary it may be—has returned to its regularly scheduled departures, I’ve often found myself choosing to take the journey on foot regardless. The appeal of the Metro Tunnel HQ, at least to non-railway fanatics like myself, is the interactive displays, the VR headsets and the to-scale models, which introduce an element of fun to the rather mundane aspects of our lives. I can't say that my alternative travel methods boast such high-tech experiences, but I feel they still evoke a similar sentiment. Sometimes, excitement can be found in unexpected places if you’re open to the change. Routine is sacred and personal, but so too are the benefits of varying your daily journey every so often. A different route, a varied method: it turns out adventure can come as easy as a cancelled railway service. I wasn’t pleased when a large truck blocked my path to the station and forced me to take a detour on foot, yet now I often delight in taking the same walk by choice and my life is better for it. So, when you're faced with a detour or delay as the railway works continue over the coming months, try to look for the story in your new situation. Because it could be worse—you could always be on a bus replacement.

Illustration by Meg Bonnes

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Dear Academia Written by Thomas Granger

This essay by no means speaks to all academics. My mum has always had a strong presence in my life. She is, by trade, an academic -- meaning that she researches, studies, reads, teaches, lectures, and, above all, fills out an enormous amount of paperwork for a living. And she has, since I was a child, often inspired me to think more critically. In fact, she is also (in part) the inspiration for this essay. I began writing this essay in response to a recent New Year's resolution that may or may not stand the test of time. The commitment I made to myself was to read one book, each fortnight of the new year. I had been talking one evening in the lead up to New Year's Eve with a close friend of mine, Grace, whose parents are also (loosely) academics. Grace and I concluded that we were lacking something – that we both felt we weren't reading enough. As it turns out, I had not read a book for leisure in over six years. I saw my parents and my peers enjoying the fruits of The Written Text, and I felt that I was, in some way, not gleaming the same satisfaction from life that they were. They always spoke of joy, imagination, and above all, the Truth that came with reading. I wanted to be a part of that world, to reap the rewards and satisfaction that came with all of this knowledge. Shortly after reading my first book of the new year, I began to reflect on how I felt. After all, this was the first book I had read of my own accord in over half a decade. Upon reflection, I noticed that I certainly felt emboldened, and maybe even more knowledgeable, but I did not notice feeling any more fulfilled. This dissatisfaction troubled me. It was not what my university lecturers had promised me in The Written Text. And it certainly wasn't what my Mum had promised me in it either. Maybe the Truth was in there, but this Truth did not seem to be providing the same fulfilment that those around me were supposedly receiving. The Christian and enlightenment philosophies that seep through our social fabrics remind us that the search for the Truth is what makes us human; that to be all-knowing is to be sated, fulfilled, and at peace. This is reflected in my mum's profession, academia, whose ultimate goal is the search for this ever-elusive Truth in all of its glory. And somewhere in that picture lies my mum's subjective relationship to the world and what she believes creates a meaningful life. Talking to Grace again, I reflected further on all of this. Despite many differences in our upbringings, we had similar experiences with our parents and their definitions of a meaningful life. What I think we both gained as an unspoken understanding through watching our parents as we grew up was that reading and research could not solve that hole in our spirits. Intellectualism, and debate, and research, and knowledge, had always failed to fill that hole for them. We saw our parents and their obsessions with knowledge, their obsessions with the Truth. And we acknowledged the value in that search, in learning from others through The Written Text. But what we also acknowledged was that our parents remained seemingly unsatisfied. They worked stupidly long hours, in their high-up, intellectual jobs. And they claimed that they were sated by their craft, and by their contribution to Truth searching. But there was always, somewhere beneath, a disquieting melancholy about the existence they had chosen for themselves; a quiet defeat in the way they thought of their time in this life. As I too have begun to read again, I have come to believe that this obsession with reading and Truth searching in many cases serves to distract from the thing we are truly lacking: human connection & community. Our capitalist economy fundamentally resists the creation of community because capitalism requires private land ownership, which in turn sees individual families in their stand-alone, weatherboard houses with their six-foot-high fences and ten-foot-tall ceilings. This we already know (see Marx, or somebody else, I don’t know). But inside these houses we find the evidence of distractions and escapism: big bookshelves filled with innumerable stories, big TVs, phones, computer monitors and sound systems, all teeming with exotic (synthesised) worlds. We fill our houses with gateways to other, more exotic places to seemingly numb that disquieting melancholy which comes with a lack of community and connection. This by itself is not a controversial notion. However, what is controversial to the academic elite is the idea that maybe they are just as lost as any of us, with their supposedly superior world of books and plethora of answers. That books will save you from the disquieting melancholy: maybe this is the ultimate Lie that the intelligentsia tells themselves – the one antithesis to all of their Truth.

Illustration by Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen

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Why did you say that to me?

Written by Michelle Yu

There's nothing more fantastical than being haunted by your inner demons. Nonsense. The term "inner demons" is a common and piss-poor way to describe the experience of being alive. The "demons" aren't inner; they feel like they're coming at you from everywhere, everyone—the hurried goodbye of someone you thought was a friend, the impatient frown on your tutor’s face when you ask them a question, an unanswered email, a message left on read. On a never-ending rollercoaster of rejection and slights, thrilling dumps and dizzy heights; one morning I'm fine, and that very night, I lay awake, the ten text messages and two emails I sent today running through my head – did I say something wrong? Did I sound too abrupt, too rude, too confident? Was I too brash in asking for them to give me some attention, some help, some concession? Waiting for their reply, refreshing my emails, checking socials every time I wake up to go to the bathroom at 3am in the morning on the off chance I got a reply while I was asleep (yeah, right). The time ticks slowly in my ear; the "deafening silence" of being ignored. Yet another trite phrase: the period of waiting is not "silent" at all—it is full and loud and noisy, with quaky, fearful thoughts racing around my head and through my ears, playing catch around my sinking heart and my heaving, jittery stomach. Wait. Wait. They'll get back. We've been through this before. You know you're just imagining things. They're probably not thinking that. They're not like you, harsh and judgemental and self-important. You're imagining it, says the “demon” in my head; but that's much too religious a metaphor for me. I don't want connotations of haunting, evil, or curses—I want to understand what is in my head, and how I can get this inner monologue to say nicer things. Have you heard of positive affirmations? I am loved, I am wanted, I am talented. But I don't want to say it to myself, I want someone else to say it to me, every tutor and teacher and editor. I want more, I need more. I am a starving baby suckling at the chest of a bat; trickles of milk dripping out, but I need more. I am a human, an adult-sized one at that. A smile, a compliment brushes against my mouth like honey-sweet lipstick; I flick my tongue out and lick it, even while I know that I shouldn’t be lapping up compliments so glutinously, not be so needy, not eat my lipstick like I'm trying to suck the sweetness out of an popsicle while it's still frozen. A day later, three days later, oftentimes even a week, I get the reply I obsessed over to my text and my email, along with five likes on my social media post. Two more than I have as friends. All is good again. But I have to say, there's nothing worse than getting a piece rejected from a publication—that's a true silence; you hear nothing at all. Sometimes, from Farrago, no rejection email; just… nothing. No sound at all from the outside, at least not anything that they actually said in an email, but all I hear is: Huh. Not again. Why did you submit that? It's unpublishable. Can't you tell? Keep your ramblings to yourself. Don't do this to us, you hear? The comments are raucous, echoing, and I know they didn't say that at all, but in the gap left by their silence, there's plenty of space for these thoughts to flourish. And I know it's true—I did get rejected, after all.

Illustration by Weiting Chen

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Illustration by Indy Smith

Written by Veronica Kwong In 1872, Irish author Sheridan Le Fanu blessed us with the cult classic, homoerotic vampire novel Carmilla. It is one of the earliest works of vampiric fiction, even predating Dracula—it is incredibly captivating and dark. The Gothic novella begins as a deadly illness is spreading amongst the people of 19th century Styria and strangely coincides with the arrival of the gorgeous Countess Carmilla into town. Laura—who is the book’s main protagonist and narrator—and her father are joined by Carmilla in what is described as their “picturesque and solitary” castle. Shortly after Carmilla’s arrival Laura begins to develop strange symptoms (such as extreme fatigue and unusual bite marks on her neck) and suffer from night terrors as more illness-related fatalities are being reported in the neighbouring towns. There’s an insane amount of homoerotic subtext and although it is never explicitly described to be sexual or romantic, Laura and Carmilla develop a codependent relationship. Carmille claims Laura as her own: “You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one forever.” She kisses Laura as they stroll around the castle holding hands and Laura describes her extraordinary beauty many times throughout the novella. History would insist they’re best friends, though. Just gal pals! Despite the queer undertones, a lot of friction between the two characters in the book stems from religion, particularly Christian values. Laura is worried about Carmilla’s possible atheist views: she refuses to pray at night and when Laura claims that they are in God’s hands, Carmilla's response is to deny God’s existence altogether, instead choosing to believe in nature: “Creator! Nature!”. Vampires are typically framed as ungodly and evil humanoid, immortal beings, a devilish force that can only be destroyed by garlic and the exorcist powers of Christ by priests. I’ve found that there is a palpable symmetry between vampires and lesbianism—one of the clearest examples of this being the Church’s disapproval of both entities (except lesbians are real people). Despite its covert denunciation of lesbians and, to a broader extent, the queer community, it simultaneously doesn’t seem to want to be outwardly homophobic (lest the women get any lewd ideas), so it is instead covering it up in a layer of gothic horror by drawing comparisons between sapphics and vampires—framing the former as succubus-like beings with nothing but murderous intentions. The characterisation of lesbians as bloodthirsty, cannibalistic vampires still prevails in contemporary media. One of the most popular examples is the 2009 film Jennifer’s Body. The complex friendship between the film’s main characters, Needy (Amanda Seyfried) and Jennifer (Megan Fox), has plenty of homoerotic overtones. We are first introduced to Jennifer through Needy’s narration as she showers her with compliments and praise that are played over beautiful clips of Jennifer. Needy’s daydream is interrupted when one of her classmates calls her “totally lesbi-gay”, while Needy is dreamily staring at Jennifer during her cheer routine. All of this is before an actual kiss they shared together in the events leading up to the movie’s climax, although it’s played off as an uncontrollable vampiric urge on Jennifer’s part. Spoiler warning: the girls' intense, mutual infatuation begins to warp into an intense hatred when they try to kill each

other near the tail end of the movie. Another contemporary example, although less mainstream, is the 2001 horror parody film Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter. As understood from the title, Jesus Christ is hunting vampires to protect the lesbians of Ottawa. The film is intentionally campy and doesn’t take itself seriously at all—the fact that Jesus himself is taking it upon himself to defend lesbians is indication enough of its radical divergence from traditional Christian values. Just like in Carmilla, Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter’s premise involves playing around with Christianity and the idea of the holy fighting against evil.

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Bloodthirsty Lesbians: Sapphic Representation in Occult Literature

Love and hate are often said to be two sides of the same coin, and this centuries-old trend of comparisons between lesbian love and unholy vampiric lust might stem from some sort of shame and homophobia. Likening lesbians to bloodthirsty, supernatural and cannibalistic women who prey on innocent women in a way represents them as predators. A lot of WLW media that is more grounded in realism might either show lesbian relationships in a Jennifer’s Body-style of a strong love-hate friendship with underlying currents of intense feelings or urges, or include someone being killed or shipped off to marry a man because we just aren’t allowed to be happy and see two women in a healthy, loving, and more importantly, romantic relationship. Case in point: Killing Eve, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Disobedience and so on. Movies and TV shows that feature tragic, unhealthy sapphic relationships are much more common and seem to gain much more traction than stories that are genuinely heartfelt and healthy. Of course, the intentional ambiguity surrounding vampire allegories in literature and media could always be interpreted differently in different contexts. For example, the act of cannibalism could have been used as a physical metaphor for all-consuming love. I don’t think this intense, cannibalistic and vampiric representation of lesbians is entirely negative (we do get some really cool Halloween costumes out of it) and this is, in the end, entirely subjective and personal. I don’t think that every piece of media that is remotely pessimistic about lesbian relationships is homophobic (I actually love all the pieces of media mentioned above), but I do think there’s an underwhelming amount of genuinely healthy and hopeful WLW representation on screen. If this is the kind of media that you’re interested in, there’s an abundance of lesbian vampire movies and TV shows out there: Daughters of Darkness—a 1971 erotic horror film—the numerous film adaptations of Carmilla, Yellowjackets, the 2021 TV show that has been (surprisingly) renewed for a third season, and of course, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I think despite the negative and somewhat homophobic aspects of monstrous lesbian literature, this is still a fascinating and distinctive allegory representing the all-consuming nature of sapphic love. Overall, I think it is necessary to be critical of all media that we consume and to analyse why marginalised communities are being represented the way they are, but books and movies like Carmilla and Jennifer’s Body are still incredibly complex (and I definitely recommend them) and can be simultaneously questioned and celebrated for their exploration of gothic horror and supernatural themes.

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After the Demise of Ideals Written by Guanhua Huang Many often say that in order to be happy, one must live for oneself. However, from my observations, very few individuals in modern society actually live for themselves. Instead, many people are living to meet external societal expectations. They might seem happy, but they might not truly be. After all, not everyone is fortunate enough to have the opportunity to live the life they aspire; sometimes, it's more important to have food on the table and a roof over your head. But what does a life with dignity look like? This is a question we have no choice but to contemplate. A meaningful life should not merely be a noisy and bustling feast, only to end with everything turning bleak once the festivities are over. Little do we realise that life should be a beautiful experience, one so wonderful that it compels us to cherish it, prompts us to put in ceaseless effort into translating our lifelong values into reality. However, in this era, many young people seem to have lost faith in the meaning of life. They put all their effort into excelling in education for the sake of securing three meals a day in the future. Many are willing to spend hours queuing for concert tickets but are unwilling to listen to the yearnings of their own hearts. The immense pressures of modern life drive most away from profound thinking, and they view shallowness as a trend, and consumption as a pursuit. Does this not indicate that people today have prematurely discerned a sense of powerlessness from life alone, thereby completely giving up on seeking the meaning of our existence? Behind the seemingly lively and bustling modern world, is it spiritual contentment brought about by societal progress, or the confusion and fear caused by the absence of belief? Could the rebellion of many young people today no longer be a defiance against confinement, but rather the experience of despair at their powerlessness to change the status quo? Yet, happiness sometimes doesn't depend on whether you possess something or not, but on whether you still believe in the meaning of being alive. In other words, if given another chance by fate, if you would still choose the same life without hesitation, then you must be truly happy. This principle is quite simple, really. If a soldier joins the army out of a sense of duty, he will certainly be much more content with his life than those who enlist merely to make ends meet. Though they undergo the same training, adhere to the same routines, and receive the same compensation, the soldier with an innate sense of duty can derive an emotional understanding of purpose from his day-to-day toil. He works and sweats for the sake of realizing an intrinsic value, while soldiers who enlist in hopes of securing post-service employment are merely living for the paycheck. In my view, the former holds the reins of his life, while the latter has relegated his power to life. Of course, today's society is no longer the idealistic world we knew twenty years ago. Asking the youth of today to prioritise

ideals over the practical realities is obviously unrealistic, as they have countless reasons to escape from the burdens of a laborious spiritual belief. After all, everyone is already exhausted. However, is this an unsolvable problem? I don't think so. If, during our formative years, we noticed the elderly on certain streets quietly collecting empty mineral water bottles from piles of rubbish just to make ends meet, if we once held the calloused, weathered hands of a farmer, if our education imparted not only knowledge but also the patience to navigate life's trials, if we witnessed the short journey from birth to death, if we appreciated both the blossoming and the wilting of flowers, then perhaps we wouldn't be so startled by the harsh realities of life in our twenties, nor doggedly sigh at the prospect of our future. Many modern individuals, I believe, seem to have lost the courage to lead their own lives and are unable to bear pain, unable to alleviate stress, all because we were taught only to excel academically and financially, to compete vigorously, but were never taught how to live, how to choose and find meaning in our own paths. In the end, life is just a lengthy experience filled with noise or silence, joy or sorrow; even if life is difficult, it should never involve a single choice: escape. Just like any living creature, humans too undergo a process of growth. And this process of growth is reflected in the significant moments of loss, tucked away with countless regrets. All these experiences that drive you to your wit's end quietly shape your character, but all of it requires time. So, when life's complexity and labour drain your patience, when you face setbacks, feel neglected, and believe you've lost, don't be anxious, because we have time, we have opportunities. However, if someone in their twenties suffers a blow and endures it with timidity, I can assert that by the time they reach their forties, they still won't have the courage to do something for themselves. Because they never believed in the power of courage from the beginning— they chose the path of avoidance and ultimately came out of it feeble and worldly. Yet, from another perspective, if someone possesses ideals, shouldn't they also be prepared for pain and failure? For example, a teacher dedicated to the field of education might find themselves having to follow a curriculum or regulations that they disagree with. In such a situation, what should they do? If they resist these regulations, they might pay a hefty price and achieve limited success within the educational industry. However, if they do nothing and silently carry out their teaching tasks regardless of the validity of those tasks, how would they be able to truly love their profession? How can they be responsible for their students as guides and role models? Contradictions are present in everything in this world, including ideals and beliefs. I'm not sure if an effective solution to this contradiction exists, but I believe that the process of growth involves exploring the delicate balance between idealism and realism. This path, however, may present itself differently to each individual, but we all will eventually have to traverse it.

Illustration by Manyu Wang

Content Warning: heavy mentions of death

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T h e r e I s S o m e t h i n g I n T h e Wa t e r

We Do Not Perceive the Bodies in the Sky Written by Donna Ferdinando I think of what it would be like if, instead of burying ourselves in graves, our bodies were left to hang in the sky. I’d like to think we’d be angelic; in a biblical sense, like the effigies of saints done in gold leaf and paint made from ground carmine and lapiz. The saints were always painted with such romance. They had a spidersilk spin to the tragedies speckled across their lives. Perhaps if every soul were to be immortalised in poetry, or angled aesthetically beneath pointed crowns of thorns, or clad in robes of suspiciously luxurious hemp, then we would all yearn to achieve sainthood in the afterlife as well. The notion of spending one’s afterlife strung up in the sky is an inherently blasphemous one. Souls belong in fire and brimstone burning the ever-winding catacombs of the earth; or they ascend (as Dante postulates) beyond the stars and Kuiper’s belt and the edges of the universe to a starrier ring of the heavens, among the cherubs and the seraphs and gates that are pearly and white. If you fail to enter either (or are stuck in what I can only assume is the afterlife’s derelict, out-of-date transportation system. How do souls travel?), then your soul may be doomed to an eternal purgatory on Earth as a shade (or a ghost, or a spirit, or whatever term emo boys toting spirit boxes and holy water into abandoned churches tend to call you). To imagine souls strung up in the upper levels of the troposphere, therefore, is to enlist an in-between place in the topography of the afterlife; a little sliver of space a hands distance away from the heavens and the bowels of the earth, yet belonging to neither. A frightening notion at that. Let’s allow our imaginations to run wild for a moment. Would the souls be visible to or blinded from the human eye? For if they remained unseen, I can only imagine that they’d be equated to sentient particles flung about by the wind. We’d know they were there, or perhaps we’d choose not to know. We’d look up at the clouds and ponder if it was indeed a cloud or a soul whose particles have been subject to the cooling effects of flying a little too close to the stratosphere. They’d be a reminder of death, but a gentle one, like a soft sprinkle of rain on a particularly hot and humid day. Much like the benevolent guiding spirits of the typical dream and premonition story. And if they were visible? What an absolute riot it would be! Watch the horror film industry go out of business. On one end we’d have souls in various states of death hanging above little Anna, who just wants to play with her trucks outside without witnessing the gaping maw of a drowned and dripping woman every time she tilts her head up to get some sun. And even if they weren’t the visualised love children of monsters, ghouls and beasts, I can’t fathom having your morning walk be monitored by the eagle-sharp eyes of wandering souls any better; like having a painting whose eyes follow you perpetually hover by you at every single moment of your morning commute. There are, of course, flaws in this digression of imagination (the result of several cocktails of energy drinks consumed at the wee hours of the morning). What stands out, however, is the image that invokes the most fear, the image we cannot ignore: that of the visible death invading the space, the troposphere that we have already claimed as ours. To see the dead or be blind to them, the stark fact visible in my tangent of imagination, is that we do not wish to acknowledge or be perceived by death. Death, as much as we’d try to deny it, represents the unknown—a bridge we cannot cross no matter how many ventures into abandoned asylums and churches we may take. And we have since consigned that lack of knowledge, or rather, the evidence of that lack to deep beneath the soil with only a fragile, perishable gravestone to mark it. Of course, practices of memento mori have tried to familiarise death with a skull placed next to one’s inkstand or strands of a passed loved one’s hair intertwined in the face of a ring. These tokens, however, are just that. Objects, immobile and lifeless. To face a living soul is to face that reality of your lack of knowledge, of one’s painful failure to grasp at the unknown, of the loss from life and the addition to death. It is a concept that artists, filmmakers and authors have understood and what makes their works both consumable and avoidable alike. To imagine an afterlife where death and the dead stares one in the face, therefore, is to imagine a reality where life and death dance together on the same plane—one a-top a grave and the other just past it—hand in hand, rather than averting one’s eyes to the realities of either.

Illustration by Lauren Kimber

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The Unauthorised, Unorthodox, Unofficial Guide to Writing a Novel Under the Age of Twenty

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To all the unfinished drafts Written by Claire Le Blond In Spy Kids 2 – as in, one of the most iconic kids’ movies of the 2000s – Steve Buscemi poses this question to the young protagonists Carmen and Juni: “Do you think God lives in heaven because he too lives in fear of what he’s created?”. Regardless of one’s religious beliefs, it is objectively one of the most existential and profound lines found in a kids’ movie ever. It’s also a statement that encapsulates the never-ending horror that comes with being a writer. Writers live in a state of endless paranoia. That the remnants of stories past will return in full force, commas upon commas moulded into full stops, the sentences of once magical verses disintegrating into a graveyard of languishing, forgotten ideas. A haven for a macabre sense of wonder. How what we have created is no longer luminous, a tunnel at the end of the light, a lurid reminder of what we left behind. In some cases, it's bizarre. How could a journey well-taken, a plot well-loved, be left to rot under the trappings of a moleskine notebook that strains its voice through the dust to let a single note reach its god in heaven? Except writers don’t really have a heaven. There’s no state of bliss, even for published and successful writers. It is a form of voluntary purgatory. It’s entirely your own fault. Which it should be. We, as writers need to take responsibility for the fact that within, the abyss of broken books, there are ideas that with the right circumstances would have gone on to be more. And it’s okay that they didn’t. We can be honest, the value of the arts in modern Australian society has changed dramatically. Arts as in the social sciences? Just take a look at how everything got moved to the most expensive HECS bracket (as a history-french major, I am half suffering half celebrating). Arts as in fine arts? We’ve all heard the running jokes of “you’ll never get a real job.” As if to be real, to be worthy of a reality, relies on whether we contribute to the economy or not. Arts as in books, theatre, movies? I’m starting to wonder if I intend to do a year in Honours just for an extension on my student discounts. Moreover, we’re all tired. I wish I could tell you that I’d been writing a novel this whole time behind the scenes. And to be honest, I wanted to. Life takes its turns . Writers are writing everywhere but in reality. Last year I had to force myself to do an honest reflection on failing the Nanowrimo challenge. Who was I kidding when I said I’d write fifty thousand words in a month? And it doesn’t truly matter that I didn’t finish anything. I still have stories to tell and so do you, but I know time and making time can feel impossible sometimes. Hey, I want my PhD. Badly. Here’s a sample from something I tried to write and failed to finish (so far). A special treat for my loyal readers: In an inconsequential world, we formed a family from consequences, from decisions made and disassembled time and time again. Coming together with all our broken parts and finding solace in those jagged edges and uneven interfaces instead of artificial glues found in viscous speech. This is our family, we found it first, and we’ll be the last to see it go. Indeed, I didn’t finish this novel. I’d barely started it and now I don’t know if I ever will finish it. I will say that I worked with the Melbourne Uni Shakespeare Company. I didn’t write anything, but I did bully the directors into passing the Bechdel test (for legal reasons Joshua & Alexi, this is a joke) for the second semester comedy. While I didn’t write any novels, I wrote lots of poems, and two full plays of my own! … Well, one and a half. Still in the drafting process. And sometimes, as a writer, it never feels like you’ll leave the drafts. You’re always halfway through the beginning, a plot, a character, a word choice short of a start. But how do you start? Well, the best writing advice I was ever given was to never pay attention to any writing advice. Especially mine. Dear reader, I sincerely hope that over the past six editions of Farrago, you have absconded and rid yourself of any preconceived notion of writing. You’ve bruised, bamboozled and bewildered all who dare. Indeed, you have something inside you. Whether it be a novel, a play, a song or a carefully curated course plan that incorporates two diplomas and two awkwardly timed majors into a somehow not-over nor-under-loaded schedule, there will always be a story. I hope you tell that story someday.

Content Warning: heavy mentions of death, descriptions of physical violence

Written by Meagan Hansen

Life is the heavy red scent of a cabernet sauvignon, indulgent and sour and sickly. Its taste lingers on the tongue and burns a hole through the core. Everywhere it bleeds little reminders of its looming scarcity, tracing the glass and dotting the tablecloth.

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Ode to an Afterlife

Death waits and he is patient. He is courteous; he allows you to finish the glass. He sits in the corner and sharpens his scythe, scraping metal against stone, over and over until you can’t help but notice him draw near. He watches as the wine is consumed, spilled, and then evaporates. He watches until the final drops of liquor from the bottom of the glass trickles down your lips. Then he breaks the glass and plunges it down your throat. You’re surprised, though you always knew it would end this way; you had long understood this inevitability. You’ve heard it whispering at the window on long summer nights, caught glimpses of it in the hardening grooves of your father’s face. You’ve felt it in the rushing wind as the next train arrived at Flinders Station, in the burning aftertaste of a tequila shot under strobe lights. You have felt this heavy truth settle into your fingers and your toes as your breath is ripped from your belly. Every little act of transience reminded you that there was an end, and yet you are surprised to greet him. He could have used the scythe or dragged the bottle over the back of your skull, but your life was always going to trickle away under his calculating gaze. Life offers no explanation, and it taunts you with the hope of a happiness that was never meant to last. But there is an afterlife, and she offers comfort in the absence of resolution. She is the light that dances across a canopy of flowers, the fireflies that hum in the marshland dusk. She is the wind that echoes over an ocean, and the coral that dances in the reefs beneath. She answers to many names. She is Heaven and Valhalla and Jannah and Asphodel, and she waits with her arms flung wide to embrace the souls who have left their mortality behind. She is kind, drawing pictures in the clouds above a meadow of chamomile and honey. She smiles as I finish my glass of wine and offers me another; she is the semicolon at the end of existence. And I love her. Every fibre of my mortal flesh aches and cracks and arches towards her, feeling for her presence in the moments where premonitions of mortality whisper in my ear, compressing my rib cage until bones begin to snap. I love her as she draws the best and worst from the living, making us mad and wicked fools who stumble blindly towards her embrace. She is the keel of a ship as it navigates jostling waves, providing stability in the deep and dark ocean. I love her because I depend on her, because she keeps me tethered to the deck and provides me safety from the obscurity of the awaiting waves. But my love is unrequited. I hold my love like playing cards to my chest. I am strategic, cautious, and logic is my nicotine. She is beautiful, kind and comforting, but she may also be an illusion. A trick of the light, shimmering magnificently as the sun cuts through the early morning mist. Life may be terrifying, but so too is the notion of seeking comfort in her intangibility, of blindly believing that she will be there to catch me as I slip through the fabric of existence. She has given me no proof, no reason to believe other than my desperate desire to do so. And she was not made for me. She is for the pure, the good. She embraces those who stumble innocently from one world to the next, clean and helpless. I sometimes wonder if her apathy towards me could be better described as contempt. I wonder if, when I turn the other direction, she scorns my desire to close our distance. The others who love her, the priests and the monarchs and the suburban mothers, tell me that I will never be able to gaze upon her beauty. They say that I am sinful, that she will turn me away at the gate and send me to someplace darker, where illumination emerges from ghastly flames and my sisters’ screams.

I would rather await Death’s company every day of my existence than to love her and pray she will eventually love me back.

Illustration by Tina Tao

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Content Warning: heavy mentions of mental illness (psychosis, OCD, ED), self-harm, violence, sexual assault, domestic abuse

Odile’s Coda Written by Odile Seraphine There is little to be said about Black Swan that hasn’t already been said in the past 13 years since its theatrical release. The psychological thriller/horror film, directed by Darren Aronofsky (also the mastermind behind last year’s The Whale, which more famously marked Brendan Fraser’s celebrated return to Hollywood), was widely hailed by critics and garnered resounding acclaim for not only the directorial work and creative vision of Aronofsky and the performances of leads Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis, but also for its psychological depth, the unravelling psyche of the tortured artist and its visceral, almost violent depiction of the contemporary ballet world. Portman even took home the most coveted prize at the Oscars that year as Best Actress for her role in the film—an accolade that was most certainly deserved.

For those who either need a refresher or are unfamiliar with the film and its premise – although I highly, highly recommend you watch it first before reading my thoughts on it – Black Swan chronicles the journey of 27-year-old professional ballerina Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman), known among her peers and superiors as a “frigid” perfectionist who is “obsessed with getting each and every move right”, to quote Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel), the director of the New York City Ballet company. Everyone in the company knows Nina as a demure, soft-spoken woman who mostly keeps to herself. She has no friends within the academy, no social life outside of it either. All she has is her mother (played by the brilliant Barbara Hershey) who, as we find out over the course of the film, gave up her career as a ballerina at age 28 to have and raise Nina as a single mother. It’s clear to the audience—even those who aren’t actively picking apart the little morsels of detail Aronofsky tucks in fleeting sequences— that Nina’s entire life is her work as a ballerina.

You’ll begin to see why her life has come to be this way when you observe her twisted relationship with her mother, Erica. Nina, despite pushing 30, still lives in her childhood apartment, where her bedroom is decorated with an excess of child-like decor, evoking an innocence and naïveté unfitting for her age, to say the least. A vision of bright pinks of all shades and hordes of childish soft toys. Her mother, Erica Sayers, infantilises her, controls her every move under the guise of being an involved parent and makes passing, guilt-tripping comments about how she had to sacrifice her career to have Nina. As the movie chugs on, it becomes increasingly clear that Erica is just a classic narcissistic parent—in some scenes, she threatens to throw her cake and calls it “garbage” when Nina asks for a small slice. In others, she keeps Nina away from forming social connections and lives a bit too vicariously through Nina’s journey as the appointed Swan Queen. She credits herself for Nina’s success, telling her daughter she wouldn’t be as successful as she is now if it weren’t for Erica bringing her to all her classes as a kid, claiming Nina would’ve otherwise been “totally lost”. Erica has shown no respect for Nina’s personal boundaries either, frequently taking

it upon herself to dress and undress Nina, forcefully cutting her own nails for her and frequently barging into her room despite pleas from Nina to leave her alone.

The real story starts when Thomas walks into a studio filled with thirty-or-so dancers of the company warming up, Nina amongst them. He announces that the company will be opening the upcoming season with Thomas’ own take on Tchaikovsky’s classic ballet Swan Lake, but boldly re-interpreted to encompass Thomas’ creative vision. “Done to death, I know,” he tells his ballerinas as he struts among them while they continue their routines, eyes quietly scanning their movements, searching for the perfect dancer to cast. “But not like this. We strip it down, make it visceral and real.” This viscerality demands more from the lead dancer than what meets the eye: whoever is to be casted as the Swan Queen will have to portray both roles of the White Swan (Odette) and the Black Swan (Odile), both of whom have starkly contrasting demeanours, motivations and dispositions within the story. Thomas is in search for an adept dancer who can seamlessly transition between both personas, while capturing their polarising essences completely—it’s a tall order, especially so for a stage performer. When Nina is shortlisted as a potential Swan Queen and asked to attend auditions later that day, she’s ecstatic yet terrified. Her profound desire for the part becomes palpable and her desperation grows almost impossible to conceal as time progresses. Having dedicated years of tireless work to the company, this rare opportunity to embody the flawless ballerina she has always strived to become holds immense significance to her.

When watching her audition as Odile, Thomas acknowledges that if he were just casting for the White Swan, his decision to pick Nina for the role would have been the most natural choice. He doesn’t deny the fact that she is a brilliant dancer, rough edges chiselled completely smooth from years and years of technique training. But the moment he asks the pianist to play Odette’s Coda, the Black Swan’s theme, Nina begins to lose confidence in herself as an increasingly disappointed Thomas yells at her to attack the move; infuse it with a devil-may-care passion. She loses her balance and falls to the floor, after being startled when a tardy ballerina, Lily (Kunis) barges through the studio doors. Thomas immediately dismisses her audition and asks the next ballerina to step up. Nina leaves, sobbing.

The next day, she asks to have a word in private with Thomas, lying to him about having completed the Coda at home the night before in order to prove that she does have the physical skill to earn her title as the Swan Queen. Nina wholeheartedly believes that technique and precision are what make a good dancer, but what she doesn’t understand is that without a substantial emotional connection to the character(s) she portrays, her perfor-

mance will amount to nothing but a hollow vessel.

When Nina is announced to have been cast as the Swan Queen, she is obviously ecstatic, but in the months of rehearsal and training leading up to the season opener, the role gradually swallows her whole. For Nina, the price for her freedom is a hefty one. Her mental health starts deteriorating rapidly as she begins experiencing hallucinations of her Odile self taunting her, distorted, sinister laughter echoes in the distance as she practises each and every move a thousand times over to ensure impeccability. Her hallucinations have led her to self-harm, and in one case (where fellow ballerina Lily invited her out for drinks and a dance at the club) drug abuse and unsafe promiscuity. She frequently watches the skin off her back morph to show little bumps, reminiscent of a swan’s skin. She often vomits too, hinting at an eating disorder.

The night before the season opener, Nina completely and utterly spirals. Something in her back cracks with a visceral crunch and she hisses at the pain. She frantically runs to her vanity in her room as she screams at her mother—who is at this point pushing against the door with all her strength just to get in the room—to go away. Something is growing out of the gooseflesh skin, and Nina desperately tries to pull it out, hissing and writhing from the excruciating pain. A small, black feather emerges, held up between her rough fingers as she stares at it in confusion and panic, blood pooling over the whites of her eyes as her breath hitches in panic. As she tries to silently process what’s going on, one of her legs snap backwards, the gruesome sound of bones cracking fills the silence of her room. The other leg follows suit—her body is physically morphing into that of a swan’s. Before anything else can happen, she falls, hits her head on her bed frame and passes out.

The final act arrives. After escaping the clutches of her crazed mother, who locked the both of them in Nina’s room and removed the knob on the door to prevent her from escaping, she hurries to the theatre, the vicinity of which is already teeming with spectators waiting for the show to start. She storms backstage to the surprise of the other dancers and Lily, whom Thomas had made her replacement after Nina’s mother had called her in sick in an attempt to sabotage her debut.

You can see that something about Nina has fundamentally changed as she haphazardly applies the make-up to her face, rushing to get ready before she’s due to take the stage. Facial expression blank and stoic, but eyes full of rage, determination and a fleeting hint of madness. As established throughout the film, Nina’s performance as the White Swan is completely flawless because it mirrors who she was: fragile, sweet and innocent. But as her psychosis takes shape mid-performance, as the distorted, layered sounds of sensual moaning and provocative laughter ring through Nina’s head, as she sees her own face

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Thomas urges her to let go of herself, telling her that perfection isn’t just about getting every single move and gesture right. It’s also about letting go, being free. Thomas forces a kiss on her, taking Nina aback. The kiss—although very much so sexual assault—was Thomas’ questionable way of coaxing a darker side of Nina to rise to the surface. And it works: Nina bites his lip in self-defence and storms out of Thomas’ office. That is the first sign of Nina’s Odile in the film.

on her supporting dancers mocking her, she slips and falls. Her transformation, her full embrace of the darker side of herself has caused cracks in the precision of Odette she once knew. The innocence she once embodied is no longer infallible. Her subsumption of Odile came at the cost of her perfection as Odette.

When she returns to her changing room after what, to her, was a devastating performance as Odette, she’s greeted with her alternate self sitting by her vanity, powdering her face with Black Swan make-up as she taunts Nina, who is still clad in her Odette costume. “I’m just worried about the next act,” she says, with a sinister, condescending tone. “Not sure you’re feeling up to it.” Nina’s double rises from her seat and tackles her, and Nina pushes her against a standing mirror, glass pieces shattering everywhere. Nina’s double continues to taunt her as they strangle each other, repeating the sentence “It’s my turn!” over and over again like a chant, depravity coating her voice like poison.

Nina’s complete metamorphosis into Odile happens at this very moment, as her fingers shakily reach out for a glass shard near her. As she’s struggling to breathe against Evil Nina’s strangulation, Nina manages to pick it up, and plunges the weapon straight into the abdomen of Nina #2. “It’s my turn,” Nina growls, eyes pooling with a familiar shade of blood red. From the tightly woven chrysalis, Odile completely emerges with newfound freedom within Nina, reclaiming her autonomy from the illusions that have haunted her throughout the film. Natalie Portman’s delivery of the line here amplifies the significance of this scene by leaps and bounds—the way in which her face contorts to display that innate evil rising to the surface, all while capturing the way Odette Nina has let go of the frenetic, neurotic need for perfection that has held her back all her life, was what won Portman her Oscar. Her final “It’s my turn” delivery is so primal and animalistic that you can almost see the way Odile forcibly pushes her way through the surface with an insatiable tenacity, no longer wanting to be a fly on the wall or a ghost that only exists in mirrors. Nina has finally emancipated herself from the suffocating grip of her manipulative mother, the relentless pressure exerted upon her by Thomas through sexual coercion, and her own paralysing, crippling perfectionism. She is free.

Nina’s final performance as Odile has me convinced that this is one of the best executed climaxes in cinematic history. As a stage producer calls for her to be ready in five minutes, a frantic Nina—who has since snapped out of her rage and is faced with the terrifying ordeal of having a dead body in her dressing room—drags it into the bathroom. She allows herself just a few seconds to process and calm down, and it’s this perfect onetake of Natalie Portman suffering from an intense panic attack, hyperventilating and sobbing uncontrollably at the situation that has unravelled before her, before she begins to quietly soothe herself and steady her breaths. Her breathing gets slower and deeper, her eyes blood-red yet crystal clear, her gaze sharpened. Her chest rises and falls with the ease and confidence of the Black Swan. She is ready.

The final performance of Odile’s Coda has already been picked apart and analysed again and again, but what some critics fail to dissect is what happens to her once she goes back behind the curtains. Odile doesn’t just disappear like how you’d expect a regular performer to shed their character after a performance. Odile continues to live and breathe within Nina, as she saunters backstage amid the hustle and bustle of ballerinas and stage

Illustration by Nina Hughes

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hands behind her. The way she walks is elegantly rhythmic and languid, almost like a dance in itself as she sensually but softly moans, pants and hums. Her head tilts, shoulders ease, figure slowly twirling and she closes her eyes, relishing in the relief that floods her body after giving in to Odile. The same distant, echoed laughter that used to herald macabre visual distortions now act as an emboldening force that serves to empower her. She watches in twisted delight as her arms are slowly being covered in gooseflesh and black feathers, travelling upwards to her neck as she smiles in content and comfort. Nina unapologetically indulges in this twisted transformation, letting herself be consumed by the psychosis and the madness she once fought so hard to keep at bay. Now, they are the source of her strength. Natalie Portman’s depiction of the way the Black Swan has so wholly and utterly enraptured Nina’s complete essence was so hypnotic that you might have failed to notice that the entire minute-long scene was filmed in one take. Portman’s ability to portray that slow, deep and powerful transmogrification with zero dialogue painted an incredibly vivid portrait of Nina’s shifting psyche. Her nuanced depiction of this seemingly passing moment casts a shadow of doubt over what we once thought was the film’s fundamental premise—witnessing how comfortable and at home Nina felt once she relinquished herself to the Black Swan, was Odile the real Nina all along?

Another aspect of the film that many tend to overlook is the way Nina completely handled the entire performance—as its titular star, no less—with such an unmatched degree of sublimity and knife-sharp precision (aside from the fall during Odette’s Pas de Deux, but that wasn’t her fault) while experiencing the height of an intense psychotic break. She immersed herself so wholeheartedly into getting her performance as the Swan Queen right over months and months of dogged preparation that she was completely able to perform while in a deranged state of disassociation. Her own reality fiercely warping and melting around her was not enough to stop her from achieving the perfection she worked herself down to the bone for. It is terrifying to fathom how broken she would emerge from the end of the Swan Lake production, based on the subtle hints that took me up to three or four re-watches to pick up on.

At the end of the performance, when Nina falls from the stage to signify the White Swan’s death at the end of the ballet, there’s a look on her face that’s hard to describe. A mix of relief, contentment and pain as tears welled up in her eyes, blood spilling through her once-lily-white costume from the stab wound she inflicted upon herself during a previous hallucination with Double Nina. Was it worth it? Was the sheer suffering, anguish and abuse she was forced to weather through for this one performance worth it?

It was all worth it. Every single drop of blood, sweat and tears. Every single toenail she’s broken. Every single scratch she inflicted on her back. Every single time she practised Odile’s Coda; every single twist and turn. They were all worth it. “I felt it,” Nina croaks with (what we can only assume) her dying breath, the faintest, bittersweet smile adorning her face. “Perfect.” By letting go, by growing into her own skin, by unabashedly embracing the dark sides that ground her on Earth as a human, her once seemingly endless pursuit of perfection has now come to an end. Odile is finally free.

Illustration by Nina Hughes

Connie Wong Get a Life 2023 Oil on canvas 43 x 31 cm Connie Wong Get a Life 2023 Oil on canvas 43 x 31 cm

ART

Radio Fodder Wrapped: The Best Albums of 2023 As the calendar turns a page and another year wanes, there is no better time than now to celebrate the sonic landscapes that have coloured our days and nights; soundtracked our highs and lows. 2023 has been a whirlwind of fresh musical innovation, emotional depth, artistic exploration and even new club bangers to get drunk to. For Farrago’s final edition of 2023, we present our picks for the 13 best albums to have been released in the past eleven months. Join us as we celebrate the standout records of the year, from chart toppers to underground gems in no particular order. Maybe you’ll find something that’ll appear on your Spotify Wrapped results for 2024.

The Gorillaz tradition of campy beats, music videos chock full of the band’s labyrinthine lore and Jamie Hewlett’s art will never be unwelcome. In Cracker Island, there exists a prevailing sense of disquiet that only 2023 can evoke infused throughout the record, as Damon Albarn frequently finds himself in a bittersweet state while contemplating the possibility of a deranged cartoon cult seizing control over the paper-thin fabric of society. Cracker Island is, for better or worse (mostly better though), very Albarn-forward and leans back on the safety of familiar Gorillaz tropes, namely the band’s penchant for crooning about the state of the world and an entire star-studded roster of features, from Fleetwood Mac’s Stevie Nicks to Tame Impala.

Nobody is really surprised that Melbourne’s very own Troye Sivan has made an appearance on this list. It’s been a thrill witnessing Sivan back at his best—he may have even bettered it. Built on the foundations of house, hyperpop and electro-pop, Something To Give Each Other marks his first album since 2018 and a major breakup to boot. He fully and unabashedly embraces his sexuality as a queer man not just with the music, but with the accompanying visuals too: a jarring vision of hot bodies, lustful gazes and glory holes, Sivan has comfortably come into his own as a queer musician and artist. Something To Give Each Other serves as a poignant reminder that strength can reside even in the softest of voices; that charisma can exist in quiet moments too.

Calico was written and made to put into carefully crafted words the innate pains that come with being human. As a storyteller and lyric writer who is talented beyond his years, the essence of Calico— Beatty’s first album in three years—lies in its earnest attempts to answer the unanswerable; to gracefully accept what was once unacceptable. Throughout the album, Beatty’s words and acoustic melodies ebb and flow without restraint, strengthened by the crystal-clear string orchestrations and gently plucked guitar chords. Calico signifies a transformative leap for the innovative singer-songwriter, an intimate and praiseworthy sentiment.

Written by Carmen Chin

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Most may recognise Los Angeles-based duo Magdalena Bay from their 2020 Tiktok hit ‘Killing Shot’ or 2021’s Mercurial World album, but little know that before their mainstream recognition, they garnered a cult audience with short mini-albums like 2019’s mini mix vol. 1 and 2020’s mini mix vol. 2. vol. 3 may be the best of the series yet—third time’s always the charm, isn’t it?—featuring seven brief songs, all clocking under the three-minute mark. All three mini mixes delve into eclectic, sometimes even pastiche soundscapes, but it comes to a head in vol. 3 as the duo broaden their horizons on genre and structure alongside a dizzying ‘90s pop sensibility.

The Korea-based quintet have made quite the name for themselves since they burst onto the international scene unannounced over a year ago with their viral debut, eponymous EP. On their sophomore record, NewJeans powerfully harnesses the thrill of self-appreciation and teenage infatuation through six dreamy tracks, steeped in genres ranging from UK garage on ‘Cool With You’ (the music video of which stars Squid Game’s Jung Ho-yeon and legendary Hong Kong actor Tony Leung) to Jersey club on songs like ‘ETA’. As one of the few K-pop acts that have successfully managed to break into the mainstream music scene with their undeniable penchant for club-ready bangers and impressive dance routines, NewJeans continues to blaze the trail for non-Western music.

The remarkable women of boygenius—Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus—are committed to a steadfast ethos that evokes the timeless essence of a beloved, dog-eared literary classic, one that’s shared so often and for so long among friends until the pages gentle separate from the book’s spine and begin to yellow. As three talented songwriters of astute perceptiveness, the trio headed into the studio with no expectations, thinking they’d emerge with just one song. They came out of the recording booth with six—an experience that can only be best summarised by Bridgers: “It was not like falling in love. It was falling in love.” boygenius croon of heartache, sorrow and love, and on The Record is where you’ll find pure, undiluted forms of real, material, raw intimacy.

Chris designed the 20-song album around Tony Kushner’s Pulitzer-winning epic, Angels in America. The play’s narrative follows the journey of Prior Walter, a young man battling AIDs in 1980s New York. During the recent COVID-19 pandemic, Chris found solace in the 2003 miniseries adaptation of the play—particularly its uplifting conclusion, where Prior chooses “more life” over triggering an apocalypse. Chris told Vulture in an interview for the album: “Subconsciously I picked that play because I wanted to manifest that for myself.” Within The World Only Spins Forward—Isaac Butler and Dan Kois' oral account of Angels in America—Kushner recounts the harrowing ordeal of crafting the play's second half, Perestroika. During a ten-day stretch of sleepless nights, he filled 700 pages with handwritten text while holed up in a spider-infested cabin alongside the Russian River. Paranoïa, Angels, True Love, at its pinnacle, successfully grasps that intense, one-of-a-kind fervour akin to catching lightning in a bottle, beautifully portraying the subtle interplay between the holy and the irreverent.

FODDER The Norman Fucking Rockwell singer-songwriter returns with her ninth album that unfolds as an expansive, enigmatic work-in-progress. It fuses moments of serene introspection and disruptive interludes, revealing its unrefined essence with visible seams and untidy edges. From the choir rehearsal that marks its beginning to the lingering echo of a piano’s sustain pedal at the end, Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd departs from Lana’s conventional pursuit of beauty. Instead, she pursues themes of enduring significance, tackling themes that “lie at the very heart of things”: family, love, healing, art, legacy, wisdom, and all the inherent contradictions and complexities that accompany the pursuit.

Paramore has been a staple in the music that defined our childhoods, but as frontwoman Hayley Williams told press in an interview: “We don’t want to be a nostalgia band.” So, the band’s latest album marks a stark departure from the style imbued in all their previous records, where the gritty mall punk sound is left behind in favour of the propulsive rhythms of contemporary post-punk. Hayley, in particular, has voiced her sentimental attachment to this particular genre, having grown up amid the British post-punk revival of the early 2000s. They sing of millennial frustrations all while settling into their groove as they combine the sonic richness of Hayley’s solo work and the band’s signature edge. Paramore once drew inspiration from emotionally charged revenge, but after 20 years together, they're now placing their bets on resilience as the most effective way to settle a score.

Desire is a strong emotion, charged by a tempestuous, enchanting and cruel force, but ultimately, it is what keeps us moving forward. These small aspirations are what propel us through the vast expanses of our lives. Caroline Polachek—who emerged as an introspective, romantic pop virtuoso—morphs this intricate, omnipresent passion into her muse in her remarkable album. She is acutely aware of how falling in love imbues us with limitless possibilities, and briefly transforms a dull world into something exquisite. Paying homage to the transformative nature of desire, her album cover portrays the singer on all fours in a gritty subway, surging ahead with a hunger in her gaze. On one end, she’s in the midst of a rat race; on the other, a vision of paradise within reach in the form of sand.

Kali Uchis has spent the better part of the last decade redefining what it means to embody and create Latin pop music, but the release of Red Moon in Venus indulges in the most sublime musical landscapes in her career so far. This otherworldly record weaves enchanting tales of love and unapologetically immerses itself in high-femme reverie, all the while retaining a sense of control. In Red Moon in Venus, the case is made for fully surrendering yourself to the diverse phases of love. Kali’s music is quickly becoming a route to a special kind of spiritual awakening, provided you are willing to embrace life’s most feminine vitality.

Illustration by Weiting Chen

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On Mitski’s stunning new album, she brings forth an alchemical creativity that transforms cumulus clouds into towering mountains; the sound of buzzing fireflies, rapid cars and freight trains zipping through the night. The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We evokes scenes of stark and otherworldly beauty, set to the sweeping orchestral arrangements of Drew Erickson, who was also responsible for his work on Weyes Blood’s cosmic And in the Darkness, Hearts Aglow. Her popular synth-pop proclivities are no longer, and the result this time is an album that emanates a warmer, more tranquil and authentically organic sound, placing the spotlight on her evocative songwriting. It’s been some time since she conveyed the sense of finally having ample space to pause and take a breath, and it has resulted in one of her best works yet.

On Olivia’s riotous sophomore album Guts, she compiles a range of spirited anthems that embody the spirit of a rebellious rocker chick, paired together with soul-searching ballads that would seamlessly fit with the soundtracks of classic high school dramas (more specifically, 10 Things I Hate About You). Although Guts seems to be tailored to Gen Z listeners, anyone willing to give Guts a chance will hear pulls from the music that defined their youths: from Blondie and Hole, to Avril Lavigne and The Veronicas. Olivia confronts a familiar set of adversaries that come with entering your twenties, including but not limited to problematic boys, social anxiety, self-esteem issues and an intense, competitive fixation on other alluring women. This is an album for the people.

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Written by Carmen Chin

‘Unholy’ singer and international pop star Sam Smith will be making their grand return to Australia for the Gloria Tour, in support of their fourth studio album of the same name. It will be Smith’s first tour of the country since 2018. Adelaide-based singer, songwriter and multihyphenate Divebar Youth—also known as Vinnie Barbaro—will be making a stop at Collingwood’s The Gasometer Hotel as part of his ongoing tour of Australia. The tour will be in support of his September-released EP ‘SONDER’, which includes six new tracks. Nine-piece K-pop act TWICE will be returning to Melbourne for an encore show as part of their recently concluded ‘Ready To Be’ world tour, after performing sold-out shows in May this year at the Rod Laver Arena. American alt-pop band The Aces, hailing from Utah, US, will be performing two nights at Stay Gold in Brunswick as part of their ongoing world tour in promotion of their 2023 album I’ve Loved You For So Long, which was released in early June. They have opened for the likes of 5 Seconds of Summer and have had hits on the Billboard Alternative Indie charts for songs like ‘Stuck’ and ‘Physical’.

Electro-pop and hyper-pop musician and producer Sam Gellaitry—who has worked with artists such as PinkPantheress and Kaytranada—will be arriving in Melbourne mid-November as part of his tour of Australia in promotion of his latest body of work, Under The Illusion.

Layout by Weiting Chen

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88rising’s Joji will make his debut headline tour of Australia and New Zealand this November with the Pandemonium Tour, which will see him perform at Melbourne’s Rod Laver Arena for the first time. He will be joined by Sam Gellaitry and rapper SavageRealm as his opening acts for his one-night-only show.

Grammy Award-winner Paramore—composed of frontwoman and vocalist Hayley Williams, Taylor York and Zac Farro—will touch down in Melbourne as part of the Australian and New Zealand leg of their world tour. The band will be joined by indie artist Remi Wolf as their opening act, with the tour marking their first shows in the continent since their sold-out East Coast gigs in 2018. A portion of ticket sales will go to food rescue organisations OzHarvest (Australia) and KiwiHarvest (New Zealand) in a bid to help reduce food waste.

Morrissey—better known as the frontman of The Smiths—will be performing at St. Kilda’s The Palais Theatre for the 40 Years of Morrissey tour. Widely renowned as one of the most influential figures of the Britpop scene, the show is set to bring back fan-favourite songs spanning from the early days of The Smiths to the band’s and the singer’s most recent albums.

‘Bunny is a Rider’ singer Caroline Polachek will be bringing her The Spiralling Tour to Melbourne’s The Forum this December, coming off the back of the release of her most recent album, Desire, I Want To Turn Into You. Hailed by Radio Fodder as one of the best albums of the year, Polachek is one of the most promising newcomers of the alternative pop scene, with hits such as ‘So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings’ and ‘Sunset’ under her belt.

The 21-year-old Filipino-Australian musician will be performing for Melbourne fans this December, after having found hits in songs such as ‘Cherry Wine’, ‘(Only) About Love’ and more. His penchant in acoustic performances fused with touches of R&B and bossa nova is his speciality, and is an upand-comer to keep an eye on.

Barrett—who initially made her claim to fame as a Tiktoker—will be making her debut headline tour of Australia and New Zealand this December following a series of successes with albums pretty poison and young forever, which include hit singles such as ‘Pain’ and ‘La Di Die’. The ‘Church Club for the Lonely’ tour will be in support of her recently dropped EP hell is a teenage girl, headlined by lead single ‘american jesus’. Barrett will also be joined by opening act Oliver Cronin.

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Content Warning: mentions of drug & addiction.

Writing Back to Music: Interview with Eddie Ink on new ‘Daydream’ album and celebration of sobriety. Written by Harrison George

Tin shed / Nuff said;” the first words sung by blues troubadour Eddie Ink to the intimate crowd encapsulated his matter-offact approach to songwriting. His second record, Daydream at Nighttime, forgoes the anxiety of the artist's sophomore venture; at 75, the Eddie Ink act serves as a medium to express a lifetime of story and hardship actually lived, a scarce gem on the fringe of Melbourne’s assertively young music scene. On April 30, after a triumphant performance to the attentive room, I spoke to the resilient songwriter about Daydream, and his journey through community art organisations that brought him back to music. Performing with Amy, his Wild at Heart songwriting mentor, by his side, Eddie exemplifies the need to preserve the independent artist voices “painted over” by the continuing gentrification of Melbourne. So where did the Eddie Ink moniker emerge? What motivated your shift into music at this point in your life? Well it actually came about in 2004. Eddie Ink emerged from the alcoholic blur and drug abuse and everything, Eddie Ink was born then, as it were. Then I progressed into doing stuff with Roomers and Wild at Heart, which got me here. As I said earlier I’ve been sober for 19 years. I’ve always been a writer, I’m a writer not a musician, I’m not really a guitarist either. I’ve always written—I ran my own amateur theatre company when I was sixteen and I’ve written plays. The last contract I had before coming to Australia was to write four episodes of The Bill, which I couldn’t do because I was coming to Australia. When I emerged in 2004 [as Eddie Ink] I did a little bit of stand-up comedy, which was a Five minutes of Fame thing. Now I’ve met the Roomers people, who run creative writing classes for rooming house people. Could you tell us about what Roomers do? It's a great organisation. They publish a magazine every so often. That’s when I started getting back into writing. With them I did Melbourne Writers Festival and ABC Radio National. From there I met the songwriting group Wild at Heart, which caters for people on the edges of society, with mental illnesses and stuff like that, so that’s when that started. So your musical journey came from recovery? Very much. The funny thing is that a lot of musicians get into the drugs after they’ve started the music. With me, the drugs started after the music. And of course age comes into it as well. I’m 76 next month, and I'm starting to feel that age… I hope I haven’t got dementia.

Your music adopts a folksy blues style. How did this come to be? It’s the style I sort of got into as a player, because it’s three chords, it’s pretty easy. But when I went into the Wild at Heart Songwriters group, Amy (backing singer), she was one of the mentors there and I worked with her and that’s where I developed the music writing into more than three chords, and got some depth into it. The writing naturally matched up, the two came together, it was a natural thing. Blues is so basic, so uncomplicated. If you want to tell a story, use three chords. You can get the story across in just three chords, you don’t need all that other stuff. So really, the blues is storytelling—it’s a positive thing, not a negative thing. My music is not really for young people. It’s for people who want something slightly different. A bit more of a Leonard Cohen. It's the words that are important, not the music. You have to have the music, because it is a music; it's the lyrics, the words that are the most important thing. Your home in St Kilda is a recurring set piece on Daydream. What place does St Kilda hold for you as an artist, and in the album itself? I’ve only lived there now for 26 years. It's a great place to live, you know; You’ve got two different tram routes, three supermarkets and you're living near the beach. I’m still living in a rooming house, you know, but the rooming house has really cleaned up. Some of the people who were really abusive have died now, so we’ve been left with the people who, you know, are fine to live with, so I’ve stayed there. Gael, off ‘Gael’s Song’, lived in the same rooming house. There’s still a nice mix of people sitting on the street drinking wine with their hat out for money, as well as people driving their Hummers and, you know, there’s a nice mix of the two. Eddie stands as a testament to the importance of organisations like Roomers and Wild at Heart in bringing forth voices marginalised by the insularity of Melbourne’s music frontier. Daydream at Nighttime is Eddie’s formidable celebration of the work such community organisations do to convert struggles that may handicap artists into works of art themselves. Daydream and Eddie’s other releases can be found on Eddie’s BandCamp. Roomers and Wild at Heart can be found at https:// youtu.be/G9KtxR6TvBk

ART

Made In Installation, Commentar y

Art by Kianna Juma

FEATURED ARTIST: DISABILITIES FEATURE

Eleanore Arnold-Moore

CFS: Dispirited Black out // poetry with no words // spared From living Anything but this half-life // I can’t lift

Bloom

This cup of lead to my lips Anaesthetised to everything

Your childhood was aches

But pain // swimming

and shrieks, faces blurring

Against an endless tide

with your fantasies, a time

Anything could be beneath // the waves

where bare skin was serenity

Of exhaustion

and your breath embraced

Ripping chapters from my autobiography

prophecy. But diaphanous days

Of fog // distorting every

dissipated into lethargy

Body on the shore

and moss overgrew the joy

Don’t be the body on the shore

of scraped knees. Butterflies lead you to purgatory where motheaten hopes

Bones waiting to be picked

gasp in reverie. Follow your dreams

Clean of recognition // Am I

and drown in their honey, the horror

The shipwreck in the black // screen?

will meld with the heavenly.

My name scraped off the stern

Nostalgia will gild your memories

A spine of tattered sheets, a

and the monstrous will hide

Jagged yawn

in your apathy. The dark water

Through a future // void

will taste like clemency. Tell me,

Bunkered in my fourposter

why does bliss always atrophy?

This rupture It stole my // self away from me And tossed my thrashing into disquiet

FEATURE

Id If I could eat thoughts for breakfast, then I would never starve I would always be swallowing. If I could make dreams for dinner, then I’d never sit down to eat I would always be stirring the pot. If I could get drunk off hope, then I would never be sober I would always be swaying. There’d be a never-ending trickle down the back of my throat, easing the throbbing and parching my lips. But instead, I nibble on the corners of my cardboard reality and lick the salt running from my eyes.

I’m lying in bed listening to my mind growl in hunger and sitting outside in the grass,

in the dark, coaxing a creature that never comes.

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Head Full of Snow Written by Mal Priestley feel

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Illustration by Jacques CA

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Layout by Weiting Chen

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before the coffee gets cold Written by Jessica Fanwong

Ekphrastic poem responding to ‘Before the Coffee Gets Cold’ by Toshikazu Kawaguchi take a sip – there it is! the rising steam is swirling, brewing over cacao beans coal-fired, steamed-engined coffee you cross through many realms by the creamy white froth of this rich cappuccino you traverse through many times to relive the reveries the hot cocoa mourns, to foresee the fate the latte fears, but come back! drink up, before your mug cools you’ll find a cold espresso grieving for the ghoul in your stool go forth through the span of time, caramelise your memories, but return, spare no dreg nor drip, – live while the cup’s still warm.

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Content Warning: Themes of death

Cracks

in between

Written by Astara Bell

If you, while loitering along a quiet street, let yourself slip through the moss covered cracks you’ll find yourself trapped? In a Limbo between Dark and Light. At first you won’t know if you’re frightened or free… Then you will see everything so

clearly…

Illustration by Michelle Yu

To your left:Hell

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your right – Heaven… Soon, they will move together in a sort of monotone, zombie waltz around around

around around

a hypnotic, haunting flirtation And when at last, they kiss the two will

Blluurr

you will ask, aloud How is there this — agreement? How is there a place where these stark binaries can coexist? And it will call back, tell you of an innately drawn symbiosis, of the hideously beautiful place

in between

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Content Warning: Themes of abuse and death

The Swan

Written by Chloe Pigneguy

Her name did not exist in your tongue, so Father labelled her 27 in recognition of those who came (and failed) before her. Dragged from a muddy river, perhaps she should have been grateful for her displacement at Father’s worn hands.

A cape of red velvet strung up between two young oaks marked the beginning of our worth, a semicircle of ordinary grey stones placed on the forest floor highlighted the end of down-stage 27 was just as long-necked as the rest of us, which pleased father. She didn’t try to bite him when he plucked her, and for that he smiled wider. When we are clothed only by our feathers, instead of enclosed and shielded by them, he is happiest. For a time, she was Principal. Resentment was easy to come by in those days, often hisses would emerge out of those of us who waited in the wings. Under the boughs of trees we would sibilate our displeasure and disgust with her lack of grace. Father never taught us how to jeer or snipe only how to dance, but we managed. Under Father’s eye, 27 performed. Under Father’s hand, goose flesh became flesh became skin became something like porcelain. Under Father’s lips, feathers ruffled. Behind Father’s back the corps was restless: our skin puckered and slipped down our cheeks. On opening night, we knew our places. Alongside 27, we dragged our failing limbs onto that dirt stage to role-play as women. The choreography had us move on feet shaped like ovals, into the air and back again. On the lift, the final lift of the evening, we moved as one to place 27 above our heads; resting on featherless, ageing hands. As one, we pushed her into the inky sky to let her be carried away on an errant wind. As one, we watched as the last of her feathers fell from her wing-like arms and she tumbled not into the waiting hands of an airy current but onto the protruding limb of the tallest oak, she let out a squawk of surprise as the jagged tip sailed through her chest soon Father would make his way back to that muddy river.

Illustration by Zhuzhu Xie

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Dreamscapes and childhood Written by Nalini Jacob-Roussety

Flickering lights at the back of my throat never-ending corridors in my belly footsteps scamper someone whispers in

ear

I can’t find the voice it’s somewhere deep inside leave, wake up now or you’ll never survive

She stares me in the mirror a broken torch for a face wearing unicorn pyjamas from a faraway place

Who are you I want to say are you lost? but I know and she knows—

Illustration by Jacques CA

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Content Warning: References to blood and death

In Absentia On a relationship’s carnage and carcass. And revenge.

Written by Andrew Darling

i. You are Isadora Duncan’s scarf. You are an eclipse of the entire sky. You are writhing worms beneath my skin. A potholed highway where tender travels die. You are a claw raked blackboard, a turnkey of silences, an unwished-for world of shadow-grasp. You are relentless sets of waves that never break. You are gristle in a soft, marbled steak. ii. Iron tomb of austere memory. Iron filings spill from speech. Molten iron poured in empty eye-socket. Iron-collared to dollars’ sensual scent. Ironing burn scarring favourite suit. Leg irons allowing not quite full gait. Iron gates shudder shut with harrowed heaving hate. iii. Forgiving finery—dark intent robed in art. Claustrophobic passage carved to early morning sight. Writing through, excavating dawn’s tormented light. Unseen revenge. Unswerving poison dart.

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maladaptive daydreaming Written by Stephen Zavitsanos

I dreamed you appeared in my room in the corner furthest from the door

You never looked so good in life but here you made me gawk– then I thought even in this world you’d never step foot in here again but there you are as bright as ever grinning in my room to my face

saying you've missed being

my friend and that’s when I knew for certain it was a dream because the real you’d never admit that.

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Content Warning: mention of blood, death, child kidnapping, cannibalism, hell, body parts

One dash of sweet mushrooms for your delicious stew? Written by Michelle Yu

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Illustration by Emma Bui

Content Warning: Sexism towards child

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Poems Written by Sophie He

Daughters Need Not Apply A rude child. Chided – Navel-gazing lewd child. The day drags. The night slides – that clean white sun Morningtide. Grandmother – wanted sons. Mother’s side.

Bee sting A bee sting. To be stung. To bee stinged. Sting stung sting. To be stunned. To be runned. To be runned to the chemist in search of some In search of some sun Some sunburn spray in a little white gun. Stung sting stung. To yell, “Hey doc, watcha got? Watcha got for a girl stung hot?” To receive, “What have I got? What have I got not? Take these pills! Here, take the lot!”

Stung sting swat.

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Content Warning: Mentions of death

plastic bag Written by Imogen Grace

strung out body like / grey melted skulls seeking wind like / wind-walking sand boiled to glass like / white lanterns like / fruit bodies of shame like / flies flocking to handles like / the full stop marking borders there like / . / little signals of immediacy like / signs to slow down like / clots in consciousness like / shredded flags tickling air like / the sound of feathers flapping like / saggy balloons of stale death like / stairs too much like / lungs speckled and clad with wanting like / mottled mould on membrane like / torn holes in tomorrow like / being bodied like / the marrow of another’s breath taking hold

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tell me my hair looks like starlight Written by Claire Le Blond

Illustration by Duy D

Content Warning: Mentions of death

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The soil our mother Written by Nalini Jacob-Roussety

The soil knows you’re here.

No, don’t walk that way—

The leaves beat like drums,

they may be pretty but

ferns brush skin like

they’ll dance men like you

a pretty white dress

to death.

A pretty white dress

Petals in their hair,

leaving cuts in its wake;

bones made of blood,

soft scalpel against

you want them for their pretty things,

your hard flesh

you want them for their love—

Like longing lips, like greedy hands

Sunrise for eyes,

you stumble—

heartache for teeth,

this place wasn’t

the women in these woods

meant for you.

are not what they seem.

Can you hear the women singing far off the map? Their songs catch flies like tongues, like traps

Leave your legs where you found them— return your heart to your mother

The forest sprouts women in the pale grey dirt; and now watch them blossom like flowers

Illustration by Harriet Chard

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Content Warning: Mentions of blood and death

The Service. The final mourners have dispersed. Murmuring condolences as the emerald-painted door closes with a resolute thud. For a moment all she can do is hover in the empty foyer. Flexing her hands, unused to not holding another’s. They long for something to occupy the stillness. Two coats are hung on the brass hook before the door. One to be never worn again. It seems unfair, she believes it should not be abandoned. She places the faux fur around her shoulders and lets it swallow her. It brushes the hardwood floor of the hall—it had to be chemically cleaned and the carpet burned before the wake. She is still so unpractised in this solitude. One step after the other is all she can muster. The first time she was alone in this house was when they carried the body away. The body. Not him. Her beloved. No longer possessing the soul she was never two metres from since their meeting. Gone was the breath she felt on her neck in the night. Gone. She lingers in the arch of the lounge. His piano, always slightly-out-of-tune, sits in the corner. He was so obsessed with it—or rather, what he could make with it. “I want it to sound like the water, sweetheart,” he would say with a distant yet tender voice. Why? He would not answer, but she would always encourage his eccentricities. She cannot stand to look at that damned thing any longer. She hears it in the dining room. His heartbeat. He must have returned. She almost trips on the hem of the coat running towards him. Throwing open the door the realisation throbs sharply. It was just the grandfather clock above the mantel. White roses float in a glass bowl, but they do not mask the smell of bleach. The air is still thick with death. She had only left for a moment, to bring him more coffee. He showed no signs of the end, as always he was muttering about his music. The mocking ticking consumes her, telling her that time is hurtling away from when he last held her. A metronome conducting her carnal scream when she found him slumped over the mahogany. Dictating the rhythm of fallen chairs as she dragged him towards the door. Bloody remnants for the police to examine. The hourly chime jolts her from her descent. She puts her shaking hands into the pockets of his coat, searching some other reminder of his existence. A peppermint. His blue-checkered handkerchief. A slimy strand of waterweed. She holds it before her eyes in disbelief. He was mad. That she always knew. She will return it to its origin. A task that might glean some final insight into his mind. Or at least occupy the time without him.

Written by Elysha English

She stumbles between rabbit-holes and overgrown grass, the garden a project of theirs always delayed. Never begun and forever unfinished. After breakfast he would stroll alone to the lake, returning an hour later with an unnerving light in his eyes. It was one of the few things she could never unlock. Heavy clouds build above the oak trees, the humidity becoming almost unbearable. The ticking follows her muddied feet as she runs to the bottom of the garden. It only grows louder. Arriving at the lip of the lake, she is disappointed. He is not here either. It is smaller than she remembers. Silver and undisturbed. This is what he wasted those hours of his short life on, away from her? On her knees, she prays for something she cannot have. They did not believe in God, but he believed in the water, so prays beside the reeds. How could she possibly endure when she is trapped in the body that held his corpse? When she can still feel his blood between her palms? She does not get the luxury of rebirth, of regeneration. She is stuck in this form. Leaning towards the deity, no reflection joins her in the still water. This fury, this devastation—it all burns too hot, and she cannot breathe. Desperate for relief, she breaks the surface. Plummeting and revelling in the rippling. It is so heavy, this fabric, this dress, this feeling. Crashing over her knotted hair, it forces her further into the depths. For a moment it is silent. Relief. Until her foot catches on something solid and she upturns in fright. A wine glass shattered, contents blooming on the tablecloth. Their dining table sits at the bottom. Table legs protruding from the silt, schools of fish weave between the chairs. The company silverware tucked in the best napkins, lined in neat rows along each end. Lit candelabra holds rank in the centre. And then she hears it. The thrumming, the echoing clang. The crescendo courses through this place of worship and echoes in her blood. A haunted hymnal. She understands him now. The flame sputters. The mirage shudders and vanishes. A mossy tombstone with one familiar name, space left for another to be carved when the time arrives. The music swells and consumes her wholly. Wrenched from the holy vision she is spluttering, gasping and retching up water that spills upon the varnished wood. Unaware of her muddied knees soiling the tablecloth, she all but falls from the surface—the flowers scattered and are crushed beneath unflinching feet. Frantic to begin, she rushes to its alter. The candle still burns as she presses her fingers to the keys. The clock counts her in.

Content Warning: References to death and destruction

Written by George Line

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What does the burning house think

I watch our house burn and as the blinding flames rise

like the tendrils of some immense organism I find myself thinking not about the plane that crashed as though it wanted to hug our house or about the rickety radiator that sputtered to the very end its mechanical pleas ignored —because just like a bird, a snake, or even a unicorn, it was only acknowledged once it had traversed that bourn of the undiscovered sort from which no traveller returns— and I most certainly do not seethe and denounce the arsonist who with malice in his heart exalts in his version of art like a mother who for the first time lays her eyes upon her creation

instead I wonder what (if anything) the house is thinking as it turns to ash— on the one hand it could be sad that it will never see us again— but on the other hand, and what is more likely, it is glad to be rid of us, for we were not very caring or grateful even the slightest bit for the roof over our heads.

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Content Warning: Mentions of death

wicked soiree Written by Akansha Agarwal a skeleton visited me in a dream was strangely loose warm white inside black black voids a lonely lantern victorious in Alexandria juiced heart on a page flew, white robes glistened intricately gluing a cut, sang, cusp of revolution lifetimes later, at my bedside she awakens

“disturbing.”

chamomile bubbles froths explodes steam ralaca-mena-mo drinking the elixir day turned night dark alley a hunger ravages Shapeshifting madly in a mirage until light breaks he takes large strides shoulders back creature furry-chested is terribly big and terribly scared of a full moon

“crazy.”

“horrible.”

“ugly.”

rotting smell feels too much until an emptiness sits A terrible encounter till speech departs what’s the point?

“inhumane.”

deep deep in the sea green glimmers a monstrous betrayal broken blue beneath beauty tail shimmers and a strand of gold

“terrifying.”

“disgusting.”

Illustration by Chelsea Pentland

Content Warning: Mentions of death

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Winter Written by Akansha Agarwal

Ice makes a home under skin frigid fractals piercing to form flowers.

Ravens, halos, rotting, slowly

fingertips blush blue, fall out.

Heart turns to Ice.

Illustration by Tina Tao

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Illustration by Raven Zhang

Content Warning: Mentions of death

Red Mum Written by Mal Priestley

I stand on a platform, just before the yellow line, looking down the line. From out my socks root tendrils reach toward the rising water on the tracks, where schools of fish, with ears and toes, all browns and pinks and reds float. I want to call out to them, for them to hear, but my mouth is full of leaves. In the sky a dark spot grows bigger, and we are all lost in the splash. White, white is all I can see. And orange and red. My mother in red, a Soviet uniform, standing tall even though it drapes her five foot frame like a burial shroud. She does not see me or hear me crying curled up at her feet. I will die there while she stands, looking off into the fire.

Content Warning: References to blood and death

Written by Rhylee L.

A creator’s sacrifice

The king chained me to a rock, for humanity.

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Bleeding Marble: Prometheus

With an odious bird that comes each day It gnaws and eats at my liver – renew

I am the titan of prophecy

I can only persist and bleed.

The fall of my blood-kind; rise of gods I can only persist and bleed.

My brother and I remained still at the feet of gods Our kin slashed and damned eternally I can only persist and bleed.

We were spared and tasked with creation The gifts of gods onto each living creature I am the titan of prophecy.

I made man last, from rich soil Crafted them upright to stand tall like gods I am the titan of prophecy.

But they arched their backs, cowered from all Man trembled silently, in the dark I can only persist and bleed.

I gave them fire, watched their steps dominate Spine and flesh, straightened with power I am the titan of prophecy.

The king of gods asked for sacrifice I stood by my creation, and fooled him of his prideful greed I am the titan of prophecy.

Divine ruler stripped my men of fire In rage – left them nude, cold with inability I can only persist and bleed.

I climbed the holy peak to steal Fire – man rose yet again to be I am the titan of prophecy.

Illustration by Harriet Chard

Content Warning: Themes of sex and religion

C r e at i v e C o l u m n : M e t r o D i sj u n c t i o n

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666: Angel Numbers on Street Signs Written by Ledya Khamou You’re an atheist sometimes, and an agnostic when you don’t want to get into an argument with your extended family. You read theories about existentialism and absurdism and nihilism, and every other -ism that decides something about life for you, that finds concreteness in desolation. You cannot subscribe to a philosophy that makes you feel good about the world. You can pass as a socialist. So can every other educated young person. Although, deep down, you believe in the inherent badness of the human species; disproving the essential sentiment of socialism. Imagine the hell that humanity would construct without the restrictions of some mythological or political overlord. You’re a realist, bordering on cynic. Soulmates don’t exist: Love (the feeling) is a biological response to stimuli, a series of chemical reactions unrelated to souls or intrinsic connections or other halves. Love (the concept) was constructed by people in suits to sell you products you don’t need. Polyamory is the way forward (if there is a way forward) because everybody cheats on everybody, animals humping any other animal who triggers a neurological excitement, which cannot be controlled. If aliens do exist, they are likely a cluster of cells which can loosely, in strictly scientific terms, be classified as “extraterrestrial”. Astrology is not real and your individual horoscope is applicable to every other astrological sign. Stars are dead. Black cats are just black cats and ladders are just ladders and open umbrellas indoors are just umbrellas that are open indoors. You can knock on every wooden surface and throw every pinch of salt over your shoulder, but the bad things will keep coming. It will all keep hurtling toward you, a jumbled mess of disconnected consequences to actions you cannot reverse. Beside the Flinders Street clock tower, two men in acid wash jeans, with indistinct features, are selling free books on a table decorated with a silk sheet. You step closer, enticed by the laminated, Comic Sans font paper pasted to the front, but you don’t recognise the titles. You take another step, and the men smile at you, but don’t say anything–one of them is on his phone, and the other stands watching, his hands clasped behind him. On the books’ front covers, old white people smile at you, under titles promising you “happiness”, “divinity”, and “life beyond life”. The man with his hands behind his back asks you, “Are you a Christian?” Outside a squat shop with dim windows, seemingly nobody inside, a board on the edge of the sidewalk advertises “palm readings 50% off on select dates”. The “select dates” are scrawled in smudged Sharpie writing, crossed out, rewritten on masking tape–basically ineligible. You linger beside the board, trying to read the dates, already unconsciously figuring out which date would better suit your schedule. Maybe you’re heartbroken, or academically directionless, or housing a deep, unflinching distaste for the state of your life and the person you have somewhat incidentally become.

Maybe you want guidance, want a semblance of meaning in a life that seems like nothing but an unmediated tumble of random, cold-numb events–like a car sputtering just enough exhaust to keep going, like staring at the ceiling for a little too long in the morning, and suddenly finding yourself incapable of getting out of bed for the day. Regardless, you snap a quick picture of the board on your phone. As you get on your way, you shoot a cursory glance into the indistinct, dusty interior of the store again, and two eyes stare back at you. Your heart skips a beat. There’s a girl behind the counter—your gaze must have skipped past her when you first looked through the window. Was she watching you this entire time? Sunlight flashes against the window, crowded by silhouettes of passing pedestrians, and it’s hard to make out the exactness of anything. Either way, you’re already leaving, feet pointed decidedly ahead to your destination, fingers flitting quickly over your phone to delete the photo of the board. You hiccup over a speed bump just as the beat drops on a song you haven’t heard before, something on your Spotify Discover Weekly. The sun bleeds red over the skyline, behind the shabby bungalows and neon-lit shop signs and dark scraggly tree branches. Something inside you, right behind your ribcage, comes undone. You replay the song. At the next roundabout you take a U-turn, then make an illegal maneuver to find the same speed bump. A car beeps behind you, but it doesn’t matter. You hold your breath and drive over the bump again. The beat drops two seconds after you’re over the speed bump, at the wrong time. Your friend, who recently ended her long-term relationship over “differences in what we want in life”, keeps texting you photos of so-called angel numbers she finds throughout the day. License plates and coupon codes and receipts and street signs and coursework equations and tunnel graffiti. At first, she captions the photos with “!!!!!” and “Saw this just as our song started playing on shuffle” and “What is my guardian angel trying to tell me?!” You combat her earnestness with sarcastic jokes and dismissive emojis. When her former partner posts an Instagram photo with his new girlfriend, your friend stops captioning her angel number pictures. Though she keeps sending them ad nauseam, in unparalleled, obsessive tumults—you notice that the numbers in the photos are rarely “angel numbers” now, and more so any series of numbers standing close to one another. You try calling her, but she never picks up. She won’t stop blowing up your phone, so you mute her number, a sort of “soft block”, because you want to scroll on social media without feeling guilty about not wanting to confront her heartbroken delusions. It’s not until a couple weeks later, tipsy at a bar you do not want to be at, feeling sticky and gross and empty, swiping uselessly on your phone, that you accidentally click on her messages again. You find that she stopped texting you the very day you muted her messages. It’s 11:11 p.m. You take a screenshot of your home screen and send it to her.

Content Warning: Mentions of illness and death

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both sides now

New Age Written by Hannah Hartnett

Lucette opens a window outside it is dense with rain. She is rheumatic and her joints itch as the rain falls. Lucette likes this. It makes her feel important, like her body is prophetic. It is difficult/to feel important. The phone rings and she lets it go to voicemail. Bryn rings every week at the same time. Lucette often lets it ring out. She knows that this wounds her niece, or makes her suspect that she is dead in her flat. Lucette, for her part, has always planned to die outside. It’s better like that. She sticks her hand out the open window. Rain collects in her palm. She wants it to hit the nape of her neck and run right down to her anus. The idea makes her shiver. The phone rings and rings out. Lucette sighs. Bryn was heavily into new-age Christianity. Privately, Lucette finds this bizarre. She even speaks in tongues, glossolalia. This had never happened on the phone. Lucette removes her shoes, so that the soles of her feet press into the lino. This soothes her. Lucette was a tactile person. She would prefer that Bryn came around to the flat once a week and held her hand in silence. The evening drags, and Lucette takes herself to bed. There is a dull pain in her chest. *** Bryn had suggested a centenarians’ meeting several months earlier. It was held in the New-Age church. Lucette had enquired as to whether there would be any speaking in tongues. ‘There will be no speaking in tongues’, Bryn assured. The centenarians sat in a circle of plastic chairs. Some brought their own cushions. Women shared pictures of their grandchildren, most of whom were blonde. The men stared vacantly. ‘Centenarian’ was oval in Lucette’s mouth. It was a gimmick. Almost everyone was in their late eighties, early nineties. She and Willy were the eldest there. He was an alcoholic, who attended both the centenarians meeting and A.A. Willy had fought overseas/fathered two girls/worked in sales/married twice/ huffed solvent at the age of eighty-two. It is difficult to live so long, he said. *** Lucette wakes early. As she has aged her sleep has become fitful, like an animal. The pain has sharpened. She sighs and calls a taxi. Chest pain means hospital always,at this age. The magpies carol outside. There is a girl slumped next to her in Emergency. Her boyfriend paces about, going to the bathroom, bringing her cups of water. At one point he asks if they can leave. The girl looks at him. ‘You can leave,’ she says. The boyfriend’s face pales. He is obviously afraid of hospitals, Lucette thinks. Eventually, her name is called. The nurses run an ECG, stick little pads on her chest. Her heart blips on the monitor. The nurses keep her for observation. After a few hours, a doctor arrives. He checks her with his stethoscope, placing his palm on her back. His hand is very warm. She fixes her posture. Her skin has thinned with age, and it feels as though he has laid a hand on her spine. The doctor withdraws the stethoscope. ‘You’re fine’, he says. ‘Probably indigestion.’ Lucette rolls her eyes. The doctor recommends Quick Eze and discharges her. She walks out of the hospital, into the light rain.

Cover Art by eerieyre

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