2017 Edition 4

SCI-FI | SUSTAINABILITY | SECRETS

FARRAGO EDITION 4 2017

CONTENTS COLLECTIVE & CAMPUS 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 09 10 11 12 12 13 14 17 18

COMMENTARY

contributors news nuggets june calendar editorial home system 4 the curious case of the chemist in union house swept away swerf to avoid bs at the mbs a balancing act binary-ocracy access denied the budget explainer OB reports breaking the news unimelb ďŹ eld guide

19 20 22 24 26 28 29 30 32 33 34 36 37 38 40

just say yes (to drug reforms) wearing out the planet fodder jams the real worlds life in parkville 4 overthinking sick sad world desert dreaming pupils 4 radical is not a dirty word zero waste on the origin of strangeness 4 self-love is a revolution max and maureen and everyone in between how to cope with your estranged mother being in an accident in vietnam

CREATIVE 42 44 45 46 48 50 52 53 54 56 58 60 62 63 64 65 66 68

the secret lives of fruits and vegetables babel lilydale/belgrave line no toilet paper for dirty men the world is fucked pt.4 liminal march the cryptid collector morning malcolm y vincent empty empire recollections 4 rigging, sunday 3pm the urgent the picnic chroma for and against: sci-fi

ARTWORK BY KYAW MIN HTIN 02

COLLECTIVE

THE FARRAGO TEAM EDITORS Alexandra Alvaro Amie Green James Macaronas Mary Ntalianis CONTRIBUTORS Kergen Angel Ashleigh Barraclough Daniel Beratis Stefan Boscia Darcy Cornwallis Chelsea Cucinotta Alaina Dean Kareena Dhaliwal Martin Ditmann Scarlette Do Tilli Franks Ashleigh Hastings Chloe Hatzimanolis Esmé James Henry Leslie-O’Neill Jasper MacCuspie Courtney McMahon Claire Miller Alain Nguyen Jensen Ooi Ruby Perryman Elena Piakis Rebecca Pidgeon Jeffrey Pullin Tamara Reichman Morgan-Lee Snell Bridget Thompson Jessica Tsin Ti Peter Tzimos Sean Wales Lucy Williams Stephanie Zhang

SUBEDITORS Elizabeth Adams James Agathos Natalie Amiel Kergen Angel Harry Baker Amy Bartholomeusz Amelia Bensley Sue-Ann Chan Esther Crowley Noni Cole Esther Le Couteur Sebastian Dodds Katie Doherty Alessia Di Paolo Simone Eckardt Victoria Emerson Esmé James Annie Jiang Celine Lau Vicky Lee Maggy Liu Caitlin McGregor Sinead Medew-Ewen Ellen Muller Jeremy Nadel Jesse Paris-Jourdan Ellie Patton Sarah Peters Ed Pitt Lara Porczak Jeffrey Pullin Claudia Seers Alf Simpson Felicity Sleeman Morgan-Lee Snell Reilly Sullivan Caleb Triscari Peter Tzimos Matt Wojczys Alice Zeng Stephanie Zhang

GRAPHICS

Charlotte Bird-Weber Ella Hope Broadbent Edie Bush Leung Chin Ching Ewan Clarke-McIntyre Cornelius Darrell Anwyn Elise Veronica Fernando James Goh Minahil Munir Hamdani Ilsa Harun Darus Noel Howard Kyaw Min Htin Carolyn Huane Lauren Hunter Winnie Jiao Clara Cruz Jose Esther Le Couteur Sarah Leong Sarah Fang-Ning Lin Lisa Linton Hanna Liu Lilly McLean Rachel Morley Amani Nasarudin Sam Nelson Wasinee Phornnarit (Gwen) Elena Piakis Ruth Simone Rathjen-Duffton Amelia Saward Nellie Seale Morgan-Lee Snell Sophie Sun Selena Tan Caleb Triscari Jasmine Velkovski Reimena Yee

ARTWORK BY ELLA BROADBENT 03

COLUMNISTS Madeline Bailey Anwyn Elise Ilsa Harun James Hazeldine Carolyn Huane Claire Longhouse (online) Tessa Marshall Harry McLean Monique O’Rafferty (online) Ed Pitt Danielle Scrimshaw Claudia Seers (online) Benjamin Smart (online) Linus Tolliday WEB Jenny Huynh Jack Kaloger Cathy Weng SOCIAL MEDIA Elizabeth Haigh Ilsa Harun Annie Liew Monique O’Rafferty Acacia Pip Ramone Taanya Rohira Mega Safira Maddie Spencer COVER Sarah Fang-Ning Lin Farrago is the student magazine of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), produced by the Media Department. Farrago is published by the General Secretary of UMSU, Yasmine Luu. The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of UMSU, the printers or the editors.

Farrago is printed by Printgraphics, care of buff nugget Nigel Quirk. All writing and artwork remains the property of the creators. This collection is © Farrago and Farrago reserves the right to republish material in any format.

CAMPUS

NO CUTS, NO FEES Students around the country have rallied against the changes to higher education detailed in this year’s budget on 17 May. Students were angered by the $2.8 billion worth of cuts to the sector as well as the changes to the HECS system.

NEWS NUGGETS TOO LITTLE TOO LATE End Rape on Campus Australia says that victims of sexual assault on campuses around Australia are being made to wait unreasonably long times to access university counselling services.

Survivor, Nina Funnell, has called for a new 24/7 1800 sexual assault hotline for people within university communities who are impacted by sexual assault, to be staffed by trauma counsellors at Rape and Domestic Violence Services Australia. The proposal has been backed by the National Union of Students.

GSA ELECTIONS Graduate students at the University have elected their representatives in the Graduate Student Association’s Council Elections. Yali Zhao, Xu (John) Zhang, Sareh Naji, Peng Kuang, Yue Sun, Kezhan Zhang and Adele Guille have been elected for two year terms, while Smriti Ghimire, Shirley Jackson, Max Bergh have been elected to one year terms.

UMSU INTERNATIONAL ELECTIONS After UMSU International’s Annual General Election, a new team of representatives has been elected. Zhu Xuan (John) Hee took out the role of President, with Wei Lee Ong and Jiayne (Ivy) Zhao filling the role of Vice Presidents. Zi Shan Wee will fill the role of secretary.

CHECK UR PRIVILEGE UMSU has formed a report after holding their first 'How Privilege Manifests in Tutorials' event during the University’s Diversity Week. Suggestions for improvements in tutorials include consistent application of content warnings for subjects, representation of diversity in content and staff and the construction of guidelines around the use of slurs in academic writing and spaces.

OVERLOOK HOTEL Two new student accommodation projects are cropping up in Melbourne’s CBD. The tallest student accommodation precinct will overlook RMIT University, whilst a ‘University Square’ property will appear in Pelham Street by 2018.

CALLING IT A DAY-VIS The hunt for the new Vice-Chancellor is on, with Glyn Davis refocusing his career to scholarship and teaching. He is set to be replaced by the end of 2018.

NEW LEADERSHIP Melbourne Law School Dean Professor Carolyn Evans has been appointed University of Melbourne Deputy Vice-Chancellor and Deputy Provost. She will be in charge of graduate education.

BILL LOVES YA Bill Shorten has opposed the proposed changes to higher education in Labor’s budget reply speech. “We believe a university education is an opportunity you earn – not a privilege you inherit,” he said.

Group of Eight Universities have also opposed the cuts to funding.

KNOW YOUR RIGHTS Students are being reminded that authorised officers do not have the right to demand evidence of identity through bank apps without express permission from travellers.

This comes after one man allegedly witnessed inspectors demanding to see an international student’s banking details.

AUSTRALIA'S NEXT TOP MODEL Simon Birmingham has assured UoM chancellery that the Melbourne Model will not be compromised by this year’s budget measures. Changes to the funding model may impact the number of CSPs available, deterring some students from undertaking higher study.

ARTWORK BY RUTH SIMONE RATHJEN-DUFFTON 04

CAMPUS Happy Winter holidays!

Fill in the blanks.

SWOTVAC Monday 29

Tuesday 30

JUNE CALENDAR EXAMS

EXAMS

Monday 5

Monday 12

Monday 19

Farrago Edition 5 submissions close (11.59PM June 4)

Farrago Edition 6 submissions open

International Sauntering Day

Tuesday 13

Tuesday 20

Tuesday 6

EXAMS

International Sewing Machine Day

Wednesday 31

Thursday 1

Friday 2

Wednesday 7

Wednesday 14

Wednesday 21

International VCR Day

Emerging Writers Festival opens

International Yoga Day

Thursday 8

Thursday 15

Thursday 22

Farrago Edition 4 launch @ Tsubu, 4.30pm

Global Wind Day

International Onion Ring Day

Friday 9

Friday 16

Friday 23

International Donald Duck Day

Above Water submissions close

Farrago Co-editor Alexandra Alvaro's Birthday

Farrago Co-editor Mary Ntalianis' Birthday Eve

05 Reverse this calendar to see Anwyn Elise’s ‘Home System’. Each edition will piece together to form an eight part artwork.

CAMPUS

EDITORIAL (Curtain up on the University of Melbourne Student Union. Media officers JAMES and AMIE are center stage. JAMES shreds a guitar.)

AMIE: Why did you just put a guitar through the paper shredder?

(Enter ALEX stage left.)

ALEX: Why did we start the editorial with such a bad joke?

JAMES: Because we’re halfway through the year and it’s time for some serious stylistic experimentation.

ALEX: (hands on hips) Pretty sure property damage doesn’t count as serious stylistic experimentation.

(Enter MARY stage right, singing that her hands are now glass. ALEX frowns.)* MARY: What?

ALEX: This is what happens when we let James write the editorial.

(Rap-yodelling starts to play from a stray loudpseaker and ALEX, exasperated, exits.)

MARY: Was it something I said?

AMIE: Nah – it’s Week 12. And two weeks post-Eurovision. We’re cooked.** (AMIE, MARY and JAMES begin to weep uncontrollably. ALEX re-enters stage right, chewing on a naked banana***.)

AMIE: But – but you hate bananas!

ALEX: We’re halfway through the year and it’s time for some serious stylistic experimentation.

MARY: (nodding) Repetition. I like it.

If you – thus far – don’t like this editorial, there are a plethora of other things to read in this fourth fabulous edition of Farrago: In ‘BS at the MBS’ (p. 9), Ashleigh Hastings explains why the Melbourne Business School might not be all it’s cracked up to be, while ‘Access Denied’ (p. 12), by Alain Nguyen, gives you a rundown of what UMSU is doing to target your cheeky lecturers who don’t record. In the commentary section you can check out Tilli Frank’s ‘Radical Is Not A Dirty Word’ (p. 33) or Scarlette Do’s moving and involved ‘How To Cope With Your Estranged Mother Getting Into An Accident in Vietnam’ (p. 40).

Definitely read Jensen Ooi’s darkly comic ‘No Toilet Paper for Dirty Men’ (p. 46) and Kareena Dhaliwal's quietly beautiful ‘Rigging, Sunday 3pm’ (p. 63). and make sure to stop along the way and take in the wonderful, wonderful artwork. Our sparkling cover was done by the fantastic Sarah Fang-Ning Lin. MARY: What just happened?

JAMES: (panicked) Style shift. The editorial is collapsing.

ALEX: Finally.

(She shreds a guitar – for reals this time).

ALEX, AMIE, JAMES and MARY: Now go fuck yourself.

(They wink roguishly at the audience and run of stage to go take their editorial photo. Curtain.) *In fairness, due to a Friday morning campus drinking game, Mary is, at the time of writing, rather drunk. **It is expected that Amie will also be rather drunk sometime after this editorial has been written. ***Naked banana: colloquial n. 1. a banana (pulpy yellow fruit) that has been entirely removed from its peel prior to consumption.

BACKGROUND BY JASMINE VELKOVSKI RENAISSANCE PAINTING BY CALEB TRISCARI 06

CAMPUS

THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE CHEMIST IN UNION HOUSE WORDS BY MARTIN DITMANN AND CHELSEA CUCINOTTA ARTWORK BY ELLA BROADBENT

WHY STUDENTS NO LONGER HAVE AN ON-CAMPUS PHARMACY

P

arkville students have likely lost the right to a campus pharmacy, following an 'unauthorised' business move linked to controversial pharmacy giant Chemist Warehouse.

Students lost the long running Union House campus pharmacy business in November, along with its adjoining pharmacy license.

The pharmacy had recently changed hands before the move.

Because the government only grants limited pharmacy licenses for each area, the move will also likely block students from having a new pharmacy close to the University.

Farrago can reveal that the campus pharmacy license has passed to a figure closely linked to Chemist Warehouse.

Union House’s then-landlord, MUSUL Services, has alleged this move breached lease agreements and contradicted initial business plans.

This is not the first time Chemist Warehouse or its associates have grabbed headlines for contentious expansion practices.

Until recently, the University-owned MUSUL Services managed Union House leases, including the pharmacy space. They alleged the new ownership submitted a business plan that “indicated that they intended to continue to operate the leased space as a pharmacy”.

According to MUSUL CEO, Simon Napthine, the new owners went back on that promise.

“A few months after the transfer of the lease, the new tenant left the premises, which was in breach of their lease obligations to remain open and operate as a pharmacy,” said Napthine.

According to MUSUL Services, the pharmacy license previously based in Union House was moved “850 metres away in Elizabeth St”.

That would place it at the new Chemist Warehouse on Elizabeth Street at the Victoria Market.

Farrago is not alleging that Chemist Warehouse or any associates were necessarily involved in any untoward activity. Nor is it making any allegations about who was aware of, or initiated, what happened.

Instead, it notes that they have been the apparent beneficiary of the pharmacy license previously based on campus.

A spokesperson from the Federal Department of Health was also unable to provide advice as to whether this scenario would satisfy the requirements of the Pharmacy Location rules, emphasising that there are a number of factors that would need to be considered.

Currently, the closest pharmacy to the University is HealthSmart Pharmacy on Grattan Street, an estimated ten minute walk from Tin Alley. This can be inconvenient for students between classes, who were once able to rely on the accessible campus pharmacy.

The pharmacy giant It is unknown what the motivations were behind the move of the pharmacy. Chemist Warehouse and associates have failed to reply to Farrago’s requests for comment.

What is known is that Chemist Warehouse, and its associates, have a track record that includes overcoming location loopholes that otherwise limit the number of pharmacies a pharmacist can own or operate within a given state or territory.

“Chemist Warehouse 'controls' about 300 pharmacies with annual revenue of $2.7 billion,” wrote Tony Boyd in the Australian Financial Review last year.

A range of smaller pharmacies have complained, in media coverage over the years, that Chemist Warehouse is an overly aggressive player in the pharmaceutical industry, but the company says it is merely offering consumers a good choice.

The future MUSUL’s response to the pharmacy closure in November was swift, with the organisation immediately putting out a strongly worded letter. In mid-March, Simon Napthine told Farrago that MUSUL had taken action.

“MUSUL initiated legal actions against the tenant about breaking the conditions of the lease. This matter is close to being settled out of court but on terms satisfactory to MUSUL and the access to the space formally handed back to MUSUL at the end of this month,” he said.

Napthine has now confirmed that it had been settled.

“I can confirm that the pharmacy store matter was recently finalised and settled with the tenant, who has surrendered the lease,” he said.

MUSUL itself recently ceased operating Union House tenancies, with the University now directly managing them. Now that they control the lease it seems likely a new business will emerge there soon.

Will it be a pharmacy? Napthine says the relocation and strict pharmacy rules mean it probably won’t be.

“The University is starting to move onto other options that will be appropriate for this space,” he said Farrago has made multiple attempts to reach Chemist Warehouse head office, the store on Elizabeth Street and associates, who did not respond as of deadline.

The regulations Farrago contacted a range of pharmacy figures around the issue, including Aaron Bawden, the Registrar of the Victorian Pharmacy Authority.

“If a pharmacist wishes to establish a pharmacy at the University of Melbourne, they would need to make an application to the Authority, and the Authority would approve the application if it meets the requirements of the Act and Authority guidelines,” said Bawden.

With the existing pharmacies in the greater Parkville and Carlton area, including the Chemist Warehouse in Elizabeth Street, the University may struggle to get a permit and therefore, another pharmacy in Union House.

“This will be contingent upon another permit being granted, which is proving difficult to obtain,” said Napthine.

08

CAMPUS

SWERF TO AVOID WORDS BY PETER TZIMOS CONTENT WARNINGS: TRANSPHOBIA, SEX WORK DISCRIMINATION AND SLURS

A

number of posters and stickers around campus promoting radical feminist group, Angry Sheilas, are being torn down as tensions flare between feminist groups at the University.

Posters have been found in Tin Alley and Royal Parade over the last few months, bearing messages such as ‘Prostitution is the world’s oldest oppression’ and ‘All women united’.

The group, named after radical feminist, Sheila Jeffreys, has in the past been criticised for harbouring anti-sex work and transphobic attitudes.

Other on-campus feminist groups have dubbed their members SWERFs (Sex Work-Exclusionary Radical Feminists) and TERFs (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists).

Members of The University of Melbourne Student Union's Women’s Department urged others to remove any posters they find due to their exclusionary rhetoric .

SWEPT AWAY WORDS BY JASPER MACCUSPIE ARTWORK BY WASINEE (GWEN) PHORNNARIT

S

tudents at the University of Melbourne’s Burnley campus are outraged over the cancellation of the Associate Degree in Urban Horticulture (ADUH), a degree offered solely at Burnley, from 2018.

The move to completely remove the course without any similar replacement offered has prompted the Burnley Student Association to declare its support for the degree in a statement addressed to students. It follows the changes to the study load which meant that students would only be able to study the degree full-time.

“The ADUH was developed in close consultation with industry representatives and provides undergraduate students with a broad base of horticultural skills and knowledge,” the statement read.

“The course content balances practical education with sound scientific study and we believe there is no equivalent degree offered anywhere else in Australia.”

Dean of Science, Karen Day, cites low retention rates for the degree’s cancellation.

“From 2010 to 2015, the number of students graduating only just

“There are a bunch of Angry Sheilas posters up in Tin Alley between the gym and Royal Parade if anyone wants to help dispose of them. Angry Sheilas are a collective of SWERFs and TERFs on campus,” read one post on the group's Facebook page.

Vixen Collective, the peak body overseeing sex worker rights and safety in Victoria, stated that calling the tension between radical feminists and sex workers a ‘discussion’ is inherently problematic.

“Human rights are inalienable – sex workers get them because we are human. To act as if we should have to justify our right to access them, or make a compelling argument to be included, is wrong,” a spokesperson said.

“Groups that oppose the human rights of sex workers, such as the Angry Sheilas and other anti sex work groups, contribute to the stigma and discrimination that sex workers face in Australia.

Attempts to silence our community are toxic and must be recognised as such.”

Trans student at the University, Emily*, expressed her concerns for the trans community regarding the promotion of feminist groups like Angry Sheilas.

“Knowing that TERF groups are openly advertising at our usniversity is demoralising at best. I mean, the fact that they’re advertising by putting up stickers that are almost impossible to remove should be a red flag.” *Names have been changed to protect sources.

eclipsed the number withdrawing, with most of those withdrawals having completed only a handful of subjects. The course did not offer a sound path to graduate study,” Day said.

“A new major in the Bachelor of Science (BSc) with an Urban Ecosystems focus will begin in 2018. This new major will make horticulture more visible and accessible to the 8,500 students enrolled in the BSc, and provide a clear pathway to the Master of Urban Horticulture,” she explained.

The University will enable students currently enrolled in the degree to complete their degree over the next four years, in a fulltime study plan. However, for students such as first year ADUH student, Tessa Kum, this is a cause for concern.

“Living with a number of chronic health conditions, I am unable to enrol in a full-time study load,” she said. “I was intending to take four years to complete the course. The discontinuation allows for four years, but only if I fail nothing and have no major life upheavals during that time, including further health complications.”

Another first year ADUH student, Claire Young, is frustrated by a lack of University communication.

“The University needs to actually start communicating with students about the teach out plan as well as provide opportunities for current students to bridge into either the Masters of Urban Horticulture and relevant courses.”

“I worry that access to horticultural knowledge will become limited and unduly restricted to those with backgrounds in these related fields,” she said.

09

CAMPUS

BS AT THE MBS? GROWING DISCONTENT WITHIN THE MELBOURNE BUSINESS SCHOOL

S

WORDS BY ASHLEIGH HASTINGS ARTWORK BY LEUNG CHIN CHING

tudents undertaking the Master of Management (Marketing) at the Melbourne Business School (MBS) are questioning whether their course is worth the cost, citing outdated and impractical content, subject overlap and low English language standards for international students as key causes for concern.

Every student Farrago spoke to mentioned a significant overlap in content between different subjects.

“Probably 20 per cent of the content in any subject is in other subjects,” second year marketing student, Tom*, said.

Second year MBS student Indiana* suggested that this problem was due to a lack of communication between different subject administrators, who she claims have "no understanding that students are being taught the same content ad nauseam".

A large overlap between subject content might mean the course could be taught in much less time.

“This course is on track to being one semester's worth of subjects overpriced,” fellow Master of Management (Marketing) student, Massimo*, said.

Students are also concerned about arriving at the workplace without the digital skills expected in entry-level positions.

“You expect to leave that course knowing tools like Photoshop or these tools that employers when we walk in on day one expect us to know and we have no kind of background in at all,” Indiana said.

“Copywriting, social media management, email marketing, website management, marketing collateral, lead generation, Google AdWords and Analytics, reporting, basic graphic design and SEO are all foundational responsibilities for an entry-level marketing position, all of which are not taught in this course,” Massimo said.

“They market themselves as being this world leader…that’s the illusion it gives off but then when you’re actually inside it’s like everything they teach could be a marketing course from 20 years ago," Indiana said.

Deputy Dean Nasser Spear said that he thought the balance between theory and practical learning was about right. He pointed to one subject called Digital Marketing which “squarely focuses on the areas listed” by Massimo, and claimed that most other subjects include emerging digital topics either directly or indirectly.

“We can always argue as to how much focus there should be on specific emerging tools and technologies versus coverage of other topics,” he said.

Despite their own issues, the students were also worried that international students at the MBS had it far harder than they did. They spoke of an MBS divided on racial lines with a high proportion of Chinese international students whose English was so

poor that domestic students avoided engaging in group work with them.

“It’s not a melting pot, despite the huge number of international students. People stick to their own kind and it makes me very uncomfortable,” said Tom. Massimo said the current English requirements are unfair on the students themselves.

“I have witnessed students copy and pasting entire lecture slides into a translator seemingly just to actually understand what is being taught during the lecture,” Massimo said.

Spear defended the capabilities of international students.

“We’re talking about highly capable international students who can contribute significantly to the learning environment of the University and the faculty,” he said. “You have to understand that yes this is a challenge, but it’s also an opportunity to learn how to engage under difficult circumstances.”

Spear said the MBS provides student employability and enrichment programs for students lacking communication skills in addition to support provided by the University of Melbourne.

"Those programs are offered free of charge to all the students, and we ask that students attend them. They are not mandatory. The participation rate is not 100 per cent, it’s not even 50 per cent. So we are trying to get more students to engage in those programs.”

President of the University of Melbourne Student Union International, Sander Brendal, said he is frequently approached by international students who are reluctant to use these resources.

"One reason that has been cited is fear of not being allowed to continue their studies if it comes to show that their English proficiency is not in line with their English language scores. This is not true. Students who struggle with English will not lose their enrolment," Brendal said.

"Students might be hesitant to take use of services because they feel uncomfortable admitting their struggles. Stigma may be a cause of this," he said.

Spear said he could not deny that the MBS has a diversity issue.

“Can you fix somebody’s communication skills within one semester? You can’t. But I do the welcome speech and I do the graduation ceremony and the graduation dinner. I can see probably in no less than 80 to 90 per cent of the cases there is a huge difference between where the international students come in at and where they end up at.”

The degree is set to have two reviews in 2017/2018. *Names have been changed to protect sources.

10

CAMPUS

A BALANCING ACT WORDS BY CHELSEA CUCINOTTA ARTWORK BY SARAH FANG-NING LIN

M

WHAT IT'S LIKE BEING A STUDENT AND A PARENT

ore parents with young children are taking advantage of the opportunity to continue or return to their studies. For some parents, studying offers a break from the stresses of parenthood and can be a liberating experience.

Yet being a parent can be difficult at the best of times, and when adding the responsibilities associated with studying, it becomes a whole new challenge.

Rebecca Fregon, a mature age student and mother to three children under the age of ten, says that she enjoys coming into university as it gives her some time to herself.

Upon returning to her studies, Fregon notes the added difficulties she faces.

“You have to be super organised because you simply don’t have the luxury of time that you had when you were younger. Looking back, I was a pretty slack undergraduate,” says Fregon.

“But now I don’t get much time to study at home, especially since my youngest has given up on his day sleep, so I make the most of the days that I come into university.”

For student parents, the class environment can also pose a challenge. Group work, for example, becomes even more difficult, especially in finding a time to meet up outside of class. There are also assumptions made about the type of student in a given class.

“I think for the most part, lecturers have a particular type of student in mind. That is, a young person for whom university is the main focus. This makes sense because it’s true for the majority.

However, it can make things a bit more complicated for parents,” said Fregon.

This presumption by lecturers and tutors alike may create stigmas for student parents like Fregon, and stresses the need to re-evaluate what the 'typical' student looks like.

There is early childhood education and care for student parents at the University of Melbourne, a service funded by the Student Services and Amenities Fee. Low-income students are offered a student rebate for the service, making it more accessible.

Caitlin McGregor is a young parent at the University. Her son

attends childcare at the University five days a week.

“I treat study, as well as the from-home work I do, as a nine to four job.

I try to restrict work outside of the house, so that I can give parenting my full attention when my son is with me.”

McGregor says that she feels supported by the University, and that when she fell pregnant in her first year of studies, she had no problems arranging a year of leave. Since returning to studying, McGregor says she has been able to study part-time or full-time loads at different stages as it has suited her.

Fregon has not used these services, and considers herself very fortunate in the support she receives from her family. She says that studying part-time makes things more manageable for her.

“For a younger parent however, who may be at university for the first time without a lot of support, it would be much harder,” she said.

In addition to the early childhood education and care that the University provides, there is also the Graduate Student Association’s (GSA) Family Study Space. Family Officer for the GSA, Smriti Ghimire says that the study space is a “room in the 1888 Building with desks and two computers for student parents, toys and equipment for children, and a comfortable couch”.

The space is only available to graduate student parents, but Ghimire hopes that it can be a pilot test, and that other parts of the University will look to it as an example, and in effect create other spaces for student parents and their children.

Despite all of the demands that come with parenthood, study and even work, both mothers agreed that studying is something they really enjoy.

“Being a university student is a relatively flexible lifestyle, as opposed to a full-time office job; I like being able to study from home if I need to, and to choose my own hours,” said McGregor.

Fregon says that studying sets a great example to her children.

“Studying as a parent is really, really valuable. It gives you something to focus on outside of your family, and can be a way back into the workforce for mums like me. No matter how old you are, there is always something new to learn.”

11

CAMPUS

BINARY-OCRACY

ACCESS DENIED

WORDS BY RUBY PERRYMAN ARTWORK BY CAROLYN HUANE

WORDS BY ALAIN NGUYEN ARTWORK BY CAROLYN HUANE

G

ender diverse students at the University of Melbourne may not be able to receive Youth Allowance payments to which they are entitled from Centrelink because of their identity.

In late 2015, the University added a ‘trans/intersex/other’ category to the gender identification section of student enrolment.

This was widely accepted as a step towards inclusivity and celebrating diversity on campus, despite the incorrect suggestion that ‘trans’ is a gender.

The Centrelink system, however, does not provide any nonbinary gender identification options. Centrelink uses University enrolment records to confirm that individuals requesting payments hold a current student status.

But as gender diverse students are forced to select either ‘male’ or ‘female’ on their Centrelink enrolment, the two enrolment documents do not match. Thus, they are rejected from the Centrelink system. As a result of this issue, gender diverse youths may fall below the poverty line. Centrelink claims to be addressing the issue within a multi-year project establishing inclusive gender guidelines throughout all Federal Government departments.

Department of Human Services General Manager, Hank Jongen, declined to confirm exactly how long this process would take.

“Because of the scale and complexities around the department’s forms and ageing IT systems, changes are being made progressively,” Jongen said.

University of Melbourne Student Union Queer Officer Evelyn Lesh believes that this issue needs to be dealt with immediately.

“It's a violation of the Sex Discrimination Act, and a failure to comply with the Australian Government's guidelines on gender,” Lesh said.

“July 2016 was the date set for meeting these requirements, including the requirement to have a non-binary gender option, so they're now almost a year late,” they said.

Lesh believes this lateness is evidence of the government’s unjust disregard for gender diverse people.

“We currently have a government that believes trans people are a joke, and that we don't have the same right to exist and access services that everyone else does,” they said.

“Bureaucratic nightmares and Centrelink-related issues aren't a surprise to any trans people, or any queer community that is transinclusive. Those of us who are non-binary also know that we pretty much cease to exist in society's eyes.”

T

he University of Melbourne Student Union’s (UMSU) Education (Academic) Department is lobbying the University for a fairer lecture recording policy.

The Department wants current policy strengthened, with clearer grounds for lecturers to opt-out of lecture recording. This means establishing a midpoint between recording and opting-out.

One example is creating password-protected lecture recordings, available only to students with a legitimate reason for their absence.

The current policy has been operational since 2016. It stipulates that all subjects – barring “valid” reasons – must record and upload all lecture recordings on to the Learning Management System site for students to access. “Valid” reasons for opting out can range from guest lecturers not wanting to be recorded, or “interactive” sessions making substantial usage of discussion-based activities.

UMSU's Education (Academic) Officer Caley McPherson stressed the importance of having a flexible option for lecture recording.

"We’re very aware of how crucial access to lectures is for students who have barriers that prevent them from attending in person. We don’t intend that any lecturers currently making lecture recordings available will switch to password protecting them, but we hope it may provide a better option for lecturers currently opting out of recording altogether.”

One student, who has asked to remain anonymous, says one of their lecturers in a currently enrolled class only allows students to view recordings by request.

“The problem with this is that it feels like you have to justify yourself to access it. What if you have social anxiety? What if you have reasons, such as parenting or distance, that would subjectively be seen as not reasonable grounds?” the student said.

In 2016, Dean of the Melbourne Law School, Carolyn Evans, sent an email to students saying the school had rejected the move to recordings. In 2017, the decision was overturned in order to accommodate for those with medical conditions or carer responsibilities.

President of the Later Law Students Network, a group representing mature age law students, Laura Blanthorn, believes this is not enough to cater for students that have other circumstances restricting attendance.

“In a postgraduate courses, it's unrealistic to have classes from nine to five. Seminar recordings are one thing but having the option of evening classes will benefit the diverse law school community especially later or mature age students,” she said.

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THE BUDGET EXPLAINER WORDS BY RUBY PERRYMAN, SEAN WALES & ASHLEIGH BARRACLOUGH ARTWORK BY SOPHIE SUN

THE EIGHT THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT #BUDGET17

5. Centrelink will be drug testing some welfare recipients Beginning 1 January next year, people who claim Centrelink payments, including students on Youth Allowance, may be drug tested. Those who test positive for drug use, including marijuana, will be given a welfare card that limits their payments for up to two years. 5,000 people per year will be randomly drug tested in three undetermined locations around Australia. Those selected will not be informed that they are taking a drug test. Centrelink with send them a letter requesting a compulsory meeting.

Results will be drawn from saliva, urine and hair follicle tests.

If a person tests positive twice, they will be referred to a medical professional.

1. There will be cuts to the higher education sector There were no surprises in the 2017 Federal Budget when it came to higher education funding, with the Coalition Government having already released their Higher Education Reform Package the week prior to budget night. $2.8 billion will be cut from higher education funding and students are being asked to pay more for their degrees, with a 7.5 per cent increase in fees by 2021. In addition, students will have to start paying back their HECS debt when they are earning $42,000, rather than $55,000. However, Commonwealth Supported Places will be introduced for other university sub-bachelor programs such as diplomas, advanced diplomas and associated degree courses.

6. A new demerit system could leave some without welfare Centrelink will also introduce a demerit point system for all payments. People receiving payments will begin with no points on their 'Personal Responsibility Phase' log, a system similar to a drivers license demerit point scheme. Points will be accumulated if a person misses a Centrelink meeting or interview without providing a satisfactory excuse.

If four demerit points are accumulated in six months, a person enters a three strike ‘Intense Compliance Phase’. One strike equals a 50 per cent reduction of fortnightly payments, two strikes equals 100 per cent of fortnightly payments taken away for that fortnight, and a third strike cancels payments for one month.

This will save the government $632 million over five years.

2. The government is tackling the housing crisis After ongoing debate early this year, the government has announced that first-home buyers will indeed have the option of sacrificing part of their superannuation in order to buy a house, from 1 July 2018. The government has titled this 'The First Home Super Savers Scheme'. Those taking advantage of the scheme will be limited to use $15,000 a year and $30,000 in total from their superannuation. Many have criticised the Coalition Government’s refusal to touch negative gearing.

3. Regional mental health services will be recieving more funding The government claims it will use $9.1 million to improve access to mental health services in regional, rural and remote areas over the next four years. They will do this via telehealth, which refers to using information and communication technologies to overcome a patient’s distance. $15 million will also be provided to support mental health research programs.

In addition, Lifeline will be able to strengthen its suicide prevention services with a further $2.1 million increase in funding.

7. Climate change didn’t get a mention Environmentalists and scientists have expressed concerns over the Budget’s lack of action on climate change. The National Climate Change Adaptation Research Facility, which received $50 million in 2008 and $9 million in 2014, will be given only $600,000 to share with CSIRO. From 2018, funding for the facility will cease.

The government did devote $30 million to research on the impacts of fracking, and an equity investment of up to $110 million for a solar thermal project in Port Augusta. The government has not mentioned providing any funds for improving the water quality of the Great Barrier Reef.

4. The Medicare freeze is thawing The freeze on the indexation of the Medicare Benefits Schedule will be lifted. This means that a range of health services, including those accessed by university students, will continue to be subsidised by the government. They government will also be reintroducing bulk billing for diagnostic imaging and pathology services. There will be a 0.5 per cent increase on the Medicare levy for those who earn over $20,000.

8. The government is still obsessed with the plebiscite The same-sex marriage plebiscite is still on the government’s agenda. The Coalition will set aside $170 million for the plebiscite “as soon as the necessary legislation is enacted by the Parliament".

The Coalition is standing firm on their stance that the only way Australia will see same-sex marriage enacted is through a plebiscite, a proposal which was swiftly knocked back by the Senate last year.

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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS PRESIDENT | YAN ZHUANG Orange you glad another semester is over? I know I am! I hope you’ve handed in your essays on time, aced your exams and generally had a great Semester 1. But in case you haven’t, the UMSU Advocacy Service is always available (and 100 per cent free). They can help with special consideration applications, assessment disputes and guide you through academic misconduct processes. The advocacy service is to students what smashed avo is to any Melbourne hipster's diet. You can find them here: umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/advocacy/.

At UMSU, we’re gearing up for WinterFest, our mid-year orientation festival. Look out for hot drinks, hotter activities and probably a lot more snow motifs than is realistic. Not gonna rye, it’ll be eggcellent. And as I say every time, my door is always open if you want to chat. Just come up to the UMSU offices on Level 1 of Union House! (also pls don’t be like me – eat your breakfast).

GENERAL SECRETARY | YASMINE LUU Just like that song from The Breakfast Club, Don’t you… forget about UMSU… whilst on your winter break(fast)! UMSU is not like milk, it’s not going to go out of date! We’ll still be your butter half during the break(fast). UMSU will be open bright and early, jammin’ and working hard. So I have nothing to really report on, my main job as the General Secretary is to ba-constitutional, I’m not even yolking. But remember, that if you ever want to egg-spress yourself, you can do that in many different ways here at UMSU! Volunteer, join a club, get involved! Much like breakfast, it’s never too late! I don’t want to keep waffling on, so I’ll let you get back to your exam prep/post exam fun. Remember to have a balanced breakfast! secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au

EDUCATION (ACADEMIC) | CALEY MCPHERSON & ROGER SAMUEL Exams are peeking through the curtains, and we’re ready to rise and shine. Stress Less Week was a great way to relax before SWOTVAC and the assessment period, with our screening of Inside Out, hot chocolate and a very special canine guest. The next few FlexAp green papers should be released soon, and we’re eggs-cited to dig in and provide the University with feedback on them as we did with the first four. This month we’ve been talking about content warnings, student disengagement, assessment feedback and supporting students through assessments.

EDUCATION (PUBLIC) | SINEAD MANNING The proposed changes to higher education in the Federal Budget are cooked. A 2.5 per cent funding cut and 7.5 per cent fee increase are going to negatively scramble the quality and cost of tertiary education. Like the eggs we cook for breakfast, students won’t be able to hatch into adults as they will be forced to start repaying their HECS-HELP debt once they start earning $42,000 a year. You can make this money as a McDonalds shift manager: “Would you like some debt with your hash browns?” While the budget is a breakfast mess, come with UMSU Education to brunch. Brunch is the sophisticated, cool, and hip way to fight back against the budget. Get in contact to sip mimosas and call MPs, join a phone bank whilst munching on french toast.

Together, we can be the breakfast club that beat the budget.

WELFARE | RYAN DAVEY & TERESA GORNALL Behold the Breakfast Gods! We don’t yolk about breakfast – we’re here to help students’ bacon-structive.

Cereal is our jam. Jam is our jam. Pancakes are our jam. Toast is our jam.

Eggscape end of semester blues with Stress Less Week – come along to our Hoola Hoop Workshop and Stress Less Carnival. Check out our Facebook page for the full list of events!

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DISABILITIES | ALSTON CHU & CASSANDRA PRIGG Another assessment period looms. While there's temptation to (shrimp and) grit(s) your teeth and push on unassisted, don't forget that university services are still there to help you.

If things aren't going great, don't get your (huevos) rancheros in a tangle – there isn't much that's arepa-irable with the right resources! It's been great to see that people are keen for our next round of Auslan classes; get in touch fast for the remaining places! Same for dosa you who want to help us choose books to expand the department library.

On a more solemn matter, we are disappointed to see continued neglect for welfare from the government's 2017 budget and to to see such extensive scapegoating of people living with substance use disorders. We intend to incorporate this into the ongoing campaign for better service from Centrelink.

INDIGENOUS | MARLEY HOLLOWAY-CLARKE & WUNAMBI CONNOR

Our last major event of the semester has just passed with great success. With amazing food, drinks and company it was a fantastic night.

We are well into our exam period with every student stressed and tired. With many students forgetting to eat breakfast it's important to look after yourself. Everyone have a safe break as well. First week of the break the Indigenous UniGames are running, hosted

by Deakin University in Geelong. Lots of hard work and effort has gone into organising UniGames and excitement levels are at a high, so stay tuned to see photos and our results.

We look forward to seeing everyone fresh and rejuvenated for the start of next semester.

Follow us on Facebook and Instagram by searching 'umsuindigenous'.

PEOPLE OF COLOUR | ELLA SHI & HANANN AL DAQQA The inaugural semester of the People of Colour Department is done and we’ve had an eggcellent time! As part of Respect Week, we held an International Student Discussion Panel which was a huge success. We’ve written up a report of the issues discussed and we hope to work on making some changes. We also held a booth on South Lawn and it was a great way to interact with students. On 17 May, we joined the student protest against the increase to uni fees and we’ll continue to be a part of this campaign. It’s been amazing meeting you at events.

What to expect next semester: Asylum Seeker Awareness Week, a new publication and anti-racism workshops. POC collective and Race and Diaspora reading group will be back of course. In the meantime, best of luck on your exams and hope you have a restful break.

QUEER | BLAKE ATMAJA & EVELYN LESH Greetings fellow teens, rather my harboured fears, and of course Goldie, without whom I would be a puddle of office bearer than the somewhat functional human I am! We’ve finally hit the examination period – the point where you realise maybe it’s all pointless – and a steady diet of Netflix, indomie and instant soup is the deciding factor between a pass and a higher pass. Queer of course wholeheartedly condones this diet, coupled with a better diet of knowledge and muesli and all of the events we still have rolling into the mid-semester break! You’ll still be able to access the Queer Space on Level 3 for all your study time needs + we’ll have some smaller events in the lead up to Semester 2. In the meantime however, take a break. Exams are fast aproaching, so get as much sleep as you can now! The REB waits for no-one.

WOMEN’S | HANNAH BILLETT Oh dear, this is not the best time of year. Everyone is sick, exams and assignment are allconsuming and it’s always raining. But before my depressing waffle gets you down, remember that the Women’s Room is here for you. The kettle and microwave will keep your food and beverages toasty, while the couches, beanbags and blankets are perfect to snuggle into. So come use the space during SWOTVAC and exams to study in peace, as well as during the break to check out our eggs-cellent feminist book collection. Be kind to yourself and take advantage of the help available during these stressful weeks. The Women’s Department will see you next semester – sunny-side up and ready for WinterFest!

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ACTIVITIES | JACINTA COOPER & LYDIA PAEVERE Semester one was tea-rrific!! Week 10 trivia and Cocktail Party were eggcelent and we are so eggcited to share even more activities with you guys next semester! We donut know how to top the Sleepover at the start of the year but we can promise that Union House House Party will come pretty close! Stay tuned for info on ticket sales, make sure you donut miss out though! We are so eggcited to plan all the bands for Tuesday BBQ’s, if you have any suggestions or are in a band yourself, head to our Facebook page or email to let us know! Sorry for our lack of creativity when it comes to breakfast puns, we are better at throwing parties we promise! As always like us on Facebook to keep up to date with all the activities! Xoxo Gossip Activities

CLUBS & SOCIETIES | GULSARA KAPLUN & KAYLEY CUZZUBBO While y’all have taken a break from uni between the semesters, us in the C&S office have been frying up a storm. On the Thursday of Winterfest we will bring you a balanced breakfast buffet of clubs with our Semester 2 clubs expo. Over the last semester we had a bunch of students scramble together some new clubs – so keep an eye out. And don’t you forget about about all the regular club events as they will provide a chance to stay toasty and warm with winter.

CREATIVE ARTS | HARRIET WALLACE-MEAD & SARA LAURENA What a scramble! Pot Luck Open Mic night, botanic and life drawing, arts collective and ToOYA – a tasty bowl of events in Semester 1, as we lead up to our favourite biennial festival of student art. The Production team have been frying it up in the Creative Arts kitchen, getting ready to HATCH the well poached works of student artists on campus at this year’s Mudfest! Our program of music, visual art, film, performing arts and dance works is cereally exciting – and its almost time to serve up. Check out the artists – explore our events – get involved! There is much room on the Volunteer team for all sorts of baked beans like YOU! For all the details and more, go to: https://www.facebook.com/mudfest2017/

ENVIRONMENT | ELIZABETH NICHOLSON & KATE DENVER-STEVENSON So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me, SoS (Students of Sustainability) The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, SoS (Students of Sustainability) When you're gone How can I even try to go on?

Get your tickets to the best conference in town, Students of Sustainability. Held on Awabakal and Worimi Country. So-Called Newcastle. 30 June-4 July. UMSU will reimburse the cost of your ticket. Email environment@union.unimelb.edu.au for details. Breakfast included in the price of the ticket. BYO bowl/mug.

BURNLEY | JESSICA PEELER First, bad news: it seems that the cancellation of the Associate Degree in Urban Horticulture is final, with the Academic Board approving the teach-out plan in May. We’re really devastated by this but will be doing our best to support existing students, and advocating to the Uni to continue undergraduate education at Burnley in another form.

While we haven’t had time for much else amidst this, we did hold a get together with delicious food from the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre, and we’ve been rehoming spotted marsh frogs from a PhD project! Get in touch if you’re keen to adopt a couple, and keep an eye out for our holiday workshop where you can learn how to take care of them.

Somehow another semester is over, and after exams we’ll have some time to relax. If you’re doing an intensive during the break and need anything, we’ll still be around!

VCA | NICHOLAS LAM Nicholas Lam didn't submit an OB report. Silly Nicholas. You can draw him on the left.

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BREAKING (THE) NEWS WORDS BY CLAIRE MILLER ARTWORK BY SELENA TAN

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FARRAGO MEDIA TO CUT JOBS AND EMPLOY BOTS

hree quarters of the Farrago editorial team will be replaced by a team of bots as part of an overhaul to the University of Melbourne Student Union’s (UMSU’s) funding, as the magazine moves solely online.

The Media Department, currently staffed by four editors, responsible for Farrago, Radio Fodder and Farrago Video, will be staffed by a sole office bearer in 2018, who will accompany the bots.

To ensure a smooth transition, UMSU is encouraging a voluntary redundancy program.

UMSU General Manager, Justin Bare, cited prioritising innovation as the reason behind the staff cut.

“The whole magazine bit feels a bit niche, I believe the student community would benefit more from Farrago being an online source of information about campus happenings and UMSU events.”

Following cuts to 80 per cent of the Media Office’s budget, the portion currently dedicated to printing will be re-allocated to web design and bot development. This will lead to a greater focus on Farrago’s online presence and will see the current Web Team grow from 3 to 25 members.

A group of third year Computing and Software students have created a trial bot in collaboration with current Farrago contributors. Third year Computing and Software student, Rani Samarth, commented on the progress of one of the bots, affectionately known as Randy.

“So far with input from contributors and data from UMSU, the two most popular quizzes Randy has created are ‘Which Union House Hash Brown Are You?’ and ‘Tell Us What Major(s) You’re Doing And We’ll Reveal How You’re Gonna Die’."

Samarth commented that Randy would be able to eventually receive facts from student journalists and compose stories. Samarth noted the bot is developing competence with words and imagery.

Whilst Randy is being programmed to compose journalism pieces, he has an inclination for poetry which could be developed with more programming,” Samarth said.

Despite the radical changes, Vice-Chancellor Glyn Davis championed the move as an opportunity for great minds to collide.

“Universities bring brilliant people together, and this presents a unique opportunity for students completing the Computing and Software Systems major and Farrago contributors. We will however, still rely on a human editor to make informed decisions about which trends in the meme market students should know about.”

Current students vying for the sole role of Media Officer will be put through a series of challenges to prove they are up to date with meme culture. Candidates will also have to prove they can run all different aspects of the Media Office by simultaneously releasing campaign videos, radio announcements and regular social media updates prior to and during election week. UMSU believes the role’s emphasis on multitasking will prepare the candidate for the real world expectations of the modern journalist.

A memorial service will be held for Farrago’s print edition whereby anyone can submit a zine in homage to Farrago using a range of programs and techniques including collaging, MS Paint, charcoal and blood.

'Breaking (the) News' is Farrago's satire column and is not to be taken seriously.

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COLUMN BY MADELINE BAILEY ARTWORK BY REIMENA YEE

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EDITION 4: GIBLIN EUNSON GREENERY

here are forty pot plants in the Giblin Eunson Library. They are placed on the shelves, and above the study desks. Their leaves look glossy. You cannot tell if they’re plastic or alive.

Before he was a Flora Inspector, he majored in plant science.

He also spent eight years in gardening, and co-authored a book on evolutionary ecology. He understands intraspecific variation, so he knows that plants morph to meld to their localised conditions.

He knows that each plant in the Giblin Eunson is unique. There is one on the first floor who has grown to love linguistics, as it is placed above the desk where this second-year always sits while he’s studying phonetics, and it reads over his shoulder. It soaks itself in the language.

On Wednesdays, a man arrives to water them. He appears at 10am wearing a fluoro vest, like the vests ticket inspectors wear on trams while checking Mykis (when they aren’t disguised in trackpants and wool beanies). The man also wears a badge. It is silver and it says Flora Inspector.

He flashes the badge at students who tell him the plants are fake.

Students always tell him the plants are fake — he appears at their desk, holding his retractable hose (with the nozzle that has fourteen pressure settings), and they laugh. They ask him if he’s an actor.

The librarians do not believe him either. They are polite when he is around, but one time — while behind a shelf — he heard them all agreeing that the plants are artificial. They still smile and ask him about his weekend. But he now knows that they think him superfluous. They think his job a waste of time.

Some plants in the Giblin Eunson specialise in economics.

Others are nourished by business, or pedagogical theory. There is one with spiked foliage who is quite fond of Marxism — and a soft, flowering one obsessed with impressionist painting.

Perhaps we are this absorbent. (Or — perhaps — the plants are plastic. In which case, we are all wasting our time.)

He’s discussed this with the woman who waters the plants on Thursdays, and she’s told him that he shouldn’t think about it. She says most people don’t know much about plants. They probably couldn’t tell a palm from a peace lily.

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JUST SAY YES (TO DRUG REFORMS) WORDS BY STEFAN BOSCIA ARTWORK BY CHARLOTTE BIRD-WEBER

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hree people died and a further 20 were hospitalised after ingesting a synthetic substance in January. All of the victims were under the impression that they were buying crystal MDMA from their respective dealers. However, the batch of caps doing the rounds at Revolver, and other Chapel Street venues, were in fact, filled with the potentially lethal synthetic drug 25C-NBOMe. Recent statistics point to an alarming trend towards a greater hospitalisation rate for recreational MDMA users, signalling a serious need for policy reform. The 2016 Global Drug Survey revealed that the number of Australians who sought emergency medical attention after using ecstasy doubled between 2015 and 2016, with the number of related deaths also increasing.

Considering the usage of ecstasy was more or less stable during this period, these numbers suggest a marked increase in potentially harmful additives being used in place of MDMA during the production of ecstasy.

users can test a fraction of whatever substance they have within a matter of minutes. These rudimentary tests reveal whether several different active ingredients are present and can indicate potentially dangerous drugs. If a pill is tested and considered potentially harmful, a clearly visible sign will be erected so that other patrons can see the warning. A similar system could be implemented in Melbourne venues with great ease and at very little cost.

However, it would be unwise to think that venue-provided drug testing kits are a silver bullet solution to the overarching problem of lethal substances infiltrating Melbourne clubs. The entire culture and consensus around illicit drugs needs to be drastically altered for any material change to occur in the longterm. It is essential that governments and law enforcement begin to have adult conversations about drug use and not dismiss progressive policies as left-wing-hippy nonsense. By preserving the societal stigma against drugs, law enforcement agencies are only exacerbating the underlying problems present within drug taking communities. By continuing to spend money and resources on a mantra of prevention and intolerance, Victoria Police have unwittingly contributed to the number of deadly drugs circulating in Melbourne. Kitchen sink drug producers using cheap, dangerous chemicals have been able to thrive thanks to incompetent measures from the authorities.

Honest discourse and education through state sponsored programs could very well improve drug quality and create a safer culture of drug taking for users. One only needs to look at a country like Portugal, which has a far lower rate of drug related deaths than Australia. Their solution? Complete decriminalisation of substances considered drugs of dependence. I’m not suggesting that this is the only way to achieve better results,. However, it is indicative that progressive drug policies have been far more effective than our own in harm reduction.

Former Victoria Police Officer and Executive Officer of Yarra Drug Health Forum, Greg Denham, has been emphasising the need of drug reform for over 10 years now. “Drugs can be risky, but they are made even more risky because of drug prohibition. When you make something illegal, you are going to make it more dangerous,” Denham commented.

“If you look at the way politicians and others talk about illicit drugs, they talk about them as being illicit because they are fundamentally dangerous when that’s not the case. If you say that long enough and loud enough then people will believe it.”

The moralistic stance of the Victorian Government is only putting more and more young people at harm every weekend, with no changes to policy outlined by the Andrews cabinet in the near future. Instead they continue to reiterate that policies like drug testing only normalise drug use. Refusing to implement actual policies for harm reduction on the grounds of an antiquated mindset that all drugs are bad in every circumstance will surely cost more people their lives over the next several years. Maybe if decision makers had adopted a more pragmatic approach to the issues of drug use in our city, then those three people who tragically passed in January would still be walking among us today.

In many venues, it seems that every second person will have no qualms about asking complete strangers if they “have anything” or if “they’re on”.

Admittedly, people who make a conscious decision to take drugs from unknown sources are taking a risk with their own health, but the consequences seem to be unfairly balanced. While I don’t personally condone drug taking, can we really sit back and condemn those who want to escape the pressure of their lives on an odd Saturday night?

Anyone who has ever been to a festival or found themselves stumbling into a club in the wee hours will have seen firsthand the pronounced culture of fearless drug taking in Melbourne.

In many venues, it seems that every second person will have no qualms about asking complete strangers if they “have anything” or if “they’re on”. Some friends assure me that they stay safe by consulting the website Pill Report before taking drugs that they’ve bought at a club,. However, this is hardly a foolproof method. Firstly, the website only reports on pills, and secondly, it does not have a report on every brand of ecstasy circulating at any given time.

The calls for pill testing facilities at Victorian festivals and nightclubs have grown increasingly louder over the past decade and have reached a crescendo after the aforementioned incident in January. On-site drug test kits help determine what chemicals may or may not be present in a sample, and can potentially save people from taking a dangerous pill or snorting a bag of mystery powder on a night out. I’ve seen firsthand the effects of poor quality drugs, watching in terror as friends have fallen violently ill after taking a suspect substance. I know for an absolute fact that if they had known, via testing, that their pill was potentially dangerous that they would have thrown it straight into the bin.

In cities such as Amsterdam, pill testing facilities are available at many of the mega clubs and dance festivals for patrons that are unsure about the quality of their gear. Areas are set up where

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WEARING OUT THE PLANET WORDS BY ELENA PIAKIS ARTWORK BY ESTHER LE COUTEUR

ETHICAL CONSUMERISM AND SHOPPING FOR SECONDS

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hat top, it’s fantastic,” was the first thing the barista said to me when I entered the Brunswick café – the type of place where The Smiths mellow the crate-furnished, many-a-pot-plant matchbox of a room. “Thank you,” I replied, but really, I was thanking Savers. My oversized T-shirt, a gem of a garment featuring a trio of (stoned, I like to believe) cats playing jazz before a full moon was only three dollars from the recycle superstore – a true bargain for such a masterpiece. But sadly, this isn’t a story about hipster fashion finds.

It’s a satisfying thing paying for clothes with a couple of coins, especially when these clothes end up spending more time hanging on your shoulders than in your wardrobe. Purchasing cheap secondhand clothes causes less trauma to the hip pocket of the financially scrambling student, but the effects of such an (albeit partly fated) shopping custom are far greater.

"In a society in which the narrow pursuit of material self-interest is the norm, the shift to an ethical stance is more radical than many people realize."

My decision to shop only for seconds wasn’t reached solely as the result of a deficit-resolving incentive, but was also a reaction to a spell of gruelling self-evaluation courtesy of Peter Singer.

Singer’s book How are we to live? invites a headache of existential crises, severe cynicism about the state of humanity and a sense of hopelessness about the future. It's painful to accept, especially for tragic optimists like myself, but nonetheless crucial to acknowledge.

"In a society in which the narrow pursuit of material self-interest is the norm, the shift to an ethical stance is more radical than many people realize," he ventured. Convincing? I thought so. But, alas, and as Singer reminds adamantly, sometimes desire is simply too overpowering to acknowledge the bigger picture. The people in third world countries, the environment and future generations, aren't always visable.

Australians have become uncontrollable shopaholics.

Collectively, we are among the largest cosumers of small textiles, buying around 27 kilograms per capita each year, we are among the largest consumers of new textiles, second only to North America.

According to the ABS, between 2009 and 2010, 293,000 tonnes of textiles and leather was thrown out. Where does it go? Landfill.

So, what do we do? At some point we start to embody (almost as well as Audrey does) Holly Golightly when she peers lustfully into Tiffany’s, craving that one item or two items or three items that we think will satisfy our retail-hungry souls. We’re scared of those outfit repeats, we wonder whether we have enough shirts to go with that skirt, or whether that dress we wore three years ago should ever be worn again.

Meanwhile, we may play the ‘do I really need this’ scenario in our heads. Cue the unrolling of a film projector where we imagine the item-in-question’s production process: the cotton fields in Sri Lanka, the factories in Bangladesh filled with women in shawls they wear all year-round, the toxins and dyes seeping into rivers, the black fuels of the crate-mounted ships and the trucks lined up at the docks, ready to take them to the store. Then you come in. You see the item and you fantasise about how you’ll wear it, where you’ll wear it and who will see it. You buy it. And you wear it; once, twice, thrice. But then, months later, you forget you own it altogether and it ends up squished in a heap at the back of your drawer.

What, you don’t imagine these things? Well, maybe you should.

Of course, I’m not suggesting we buy seconds and only seconds.

Although I’m now almost entirely devoted to the thrift shopping regime, I know how frustrating it can be browsing through poorquality rubbish, so I’ll still do a sneaky browse of labels online, or go for a ‘harmless stroll’ down Gertrude Street. We can, however, seek out other sustainable options , do some research about our favourite brands via a quick google of ethical fashion guides* and be prepared to ditch them in the event they’re shit for the environment or for the people they employ. We could shop the smaller local labels, who often source sustainable materials and don’t use cheap labour, and buy vintage or boutique seconds (where they’ve already picked out the groovy stuff for you to optimise that Brunswick look), and if we’re really feeling creative – make the clothes on our own.

It will make a difference. Already, having realised that their customers want guilt-free garments, companies are inching towards more sustainable means of production, with 20 per cent more companies working to trace where their raw materials are coming from since 2013.

So, let’s invest a little more thought into where our clothes come from and how much of them we buy. *A good one, particularly for labour status, is ‘Behind the Barcode’.

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COMMENTARY

FODDER JAMS WORDS COLLATED BY CLAIRE LONGHOUSE ARTWORK BY RACHEL MORLEY

FRIENDS OF RADIO FODDER DISCUSSES INFLUENTIAL ALBUMS The Runaways, The Runaways Acacia, Radio Fodder’s Social Media Officer The Runaways’ debut self-titled album meant a lot to me when I was younger. For fourteen year-old me it was an album that really inspired me to learn guitar, take up singing and start a band. I wanted to be Joan Jett, with her androgynous eff-you attitude. As young women playing in the male-dominated world of '70s rock music, The Runaways were powerful figures who made me feel that I also had a place in the scene. They embodied the idea that women can be loud and angry and take up space. Later I read accounts from the band members about the sexism, manipulation and abuse they experienced whilst in this band. While disrupting the somewhat romanticised perception I had of The Runaways, this more informed perspective only strengthened what this album symbolises – women’s efforts to keep carving a bigger space for themselves in the rock music industry. All hail the Queens of Noise!

I

t was a great exercise of reflection to try and pinpoint one record that greatly influenced my trajectory in life. It also proved the power that music has over my emotions, thought processes and overall satisfaction. As such, I posed the challenge to my colleagues at Radio Fodder – I asked them to choose one album that has been greatly influential for them. Whether that be in terms of constructing music taste, soundtracking a pivotal moment in their lives, shaping their Radio Fodder show or adopting a new philosophy. The team open up about some of their most personal musical memories.

The Libertines, The Libertines Claire, Writer of The Fodder Blog As a child I was somewhat of a ‘normie’. I dove into any trend that seemed to be permeating at the time. Wherever the bandwagon went, I wouldn’t be far behind. But at the age of twelve, I stopped buying overpriced surf brands and Scoobies. I started to embrace the kookiness that I’d learnt to suppress. This shift coincided with my first listen to The Libertines’ self-titled album that my sister recommended to me. I was overwhelmed by a soundscape that was so unlike anything I’d previously heard. It was gritty, daring, unclean and overwhelmingly charismatic. The Libertines sparked my journey of music exploration and intense fixation that continues to shape a very large chunk of my identity. For the very first time, I became absorbed by lyrics and melodies, and found comfort in a favourite album or song. I even picked up a guitar for the first time. The Libertines started it all. Discovering new genres and personalities, everything from Prince to Patti Smith, allowed me to realise that the bandwagon, for the most part, isn’t all that fun.

Sufjan Stevens, Carrie and Lowell Conor, Presenter of A Currant, A Fair I remember sitting at home in early 2015 pretending to do my year 11 history homework when I first heard the blissful opening notes to ‘Death with Dignity’, the opening track from Sufjan Steven’s seventh studio album Carrie and Lowell. I discovered it through my Discover Weekly playlist on Spotify and I recall being so captivated by the gentle guitar line that guided me through the opening bars of Stevens’ album that I lay down and listened to the whole thing twice (Spotify advertisements included). Stevens said in an interview with Triple J’s Zan Rowe that he tends to find “emotional therapy in [his] writing,” and at sixteen, I experienced intense feeling from an album for the very first time. Stevens’ raw and honest exploration of his experience following his mother’s death in 2012 struck me and led me to new artists and albums for the first time that are still on high rotation.

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COMMENTARY

Lou Reed, Transformer Alice, Presenter of Down The Rabbit Hole It’s eye-opening, enchanting and eclectic. It’s the glammest Glam Rock that provides everything I need to dance around my bedroom.

It was the first vinyl that my dad bought for me. He explained how influential it had been for him in transitioning from a traditional farming background to accepting other sexualities and gender identities in his own punk music scene. This album advocates for a decrease in discrimination. Lou Reed and David Bowie have inspired me to know that it is okay to not shoehorn yourself into a set identity. All the songs on this album are beautifully crafted.

They’re heartbreaking yet uplifting and so self-confident that it is difficult to not love the character of Lou Reed – someone who does not care what others think of him.

Gorillaz, Demon Days James, Presenter of The Mein Event Gorillaz’s Demon Days was the first album I owned and also the most influential album I’ve listened to. I first listened to the album when I was nine, too young to comprehend the complex themes of inner demons or society’s self-destructive nature, but I loved the album for it’s mixture of weird instruments and sounds, dope raps, as well as the animation. Today, when I listen to the album it serves as a reminder as to why a comedy radio show is so important.

Without laughter and joy, the world is how the Gorillaz paint it: broken and melancholy. But a smile is the beginning of defeating any of your worst demon days.

Bleachers, Strange Desire Gilbert, Presenter of The Mein Event Strange Desire by Bleachers is a huge influence on how I approach my show. Features of the show take inspiration from their eclectic style. This is shown mainly through the mix of music that we play, and through our cutaways and sound bites; all of which feature occasionally distorted and altered samples of the voices of our friends, which is also a recurring technique Bleachers use to tie the whole album together. Thematically, the main message I draw from the album is that you need to grab whatever life throws at you. Whether it be good or bad, embrace it, learn from it, and push yourself to be better. I feel my show, where my brother James and I compete in various debates and challenges, follows that mantra.

We take our sibling joys and rivalries and relieve them in a one hour time slow, and ultimately try to be better. Or at least better each other through our banter.

Nelly Furtado, Loose Hamish, Presenter of The Trash Hour When I was asked to think of an album that greatly influenced my musical taste, I knew there was only one real answer. My life can be divided into two distinct categories: pre and post-listen of Nelly Furtado’s explosive LP Loose. Released in 2006 as a mesmerising force of Latin dance and sensual charisma, Nelly Furtado’s Loose blew out onto the Australian Top 40 Charts in a hurricane of pop and raw sexuality. I was first introduced to Loose by the single ‘Promiscuous’. As a big beat anthem endorsing sexual freedom, it was the perfect expression of Furtado’s vocal passion and Timbaland's cut-throat production. Followed immediately by the seductive ‘Maneater’, the album was instantly toxicating.

It’s impossible to quantify how influential this album was on my emotional development. The first album is an important one; something to look back on and say ‘part of my identity began here’. As a young man, Loose began a journey of self-exploration that remains unfinished. Even today when I hear the opening bars of ‘Promiscuous’ burst onto the radio, my heart skips a beat and I know deep down that a special part of myself with forever belong to Nelly Furtado.

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As evident in the responses, music is super important to many of us at Radio Fodder. What an incredible sensation it is when you hear the first few bars of a favourite song and you’re instantly transported to a particular time or place, or you simply feel at ease with the world. As such, we need to savour any kind of platform for sharing and appreciating the magic of music. Radio Fodder is just one way that we can do this. It also has the added bonus of comedy, interviews and commentary.

Tune in to Radio Fodder online at radiofodder.com to hear more musical discussions and explore the newly established online blog for album reviews, gig guides and similar pieces dedicated to the lively world of Melbourne’s music scene.

COMMENTARY

THE REAL WORLDS WORDS BY DANIEL BERATIS ARTWORK BY CLARA CRUZ JOSE

IN DEFENCE OF REALITY TELEVISION

R

eality television is supposed to be real. That’s the appeal, after all. Reality television involves real people in real situations with real voices making real confessionals to real cameras for real reasons. It’s a hyper-real environment, and yet.

There’s a lot of flak coming for reality television, and often.

Because hyper-reality is sometimes interpreted as exactly the opposite of what it appears: it’s ‘contrived’ and ‘overblown’ and ‘staged’. Hyper-reality is almost unreal, and sometimes, that just means it’s fake.

But let’s backtrack.

There are things wrong with reality television; many deep and gruesome things. There is a culture of exploitation that too often reigns, especially as reality television approaches the slice of life quality of Real Housewives and Kitchen Nightmares. Too often, producers feel compelled to bring things down to their base level – explain everything, leave no room for subtlety and lean completely on archetypes. So, some are going to come for reality television. And that’s fine.

Nobody told Wade to be religious.

Nobody told him to say that someone getting betrayed and voted out was “God’s will”.

But reality television allows us to experience things that no other genre of television on the air can. No drama can provide the unscripted glance into how people actually work, and yet, reality television is there. No comedy can consciously capture the unconscious rhythms of life to perfection, and yet, reality television

is there. The full potential for reality television to explore areas that are otherwise unreachable by scripted television is limitless and still untapped. Vapidity and hyperreality, coexisting, is how reality television works.

Real things do happen on reality television. You’ve got Ben, the winner of Big Brother Australia in 2012, proposing to his boyfriend immediately afterwards. Reality television often has a chain of events to follow, and that broke right out of the established ‘someone wins, then someone gets interviewed, then we cut to break’ pattern. And their marriage may not as yet be real, legislatively; but their love was and that moment was. Nobody told Ben to be gay, or to fall in love with his boyfriend or to feel compelled to symbolically unite as he did while overcome with Big Brother-winning-related emotion. He simply acted as he was.

There’s Survivor: South Pacific, an entire season of maroonedon-an-island based competition which sketched, in sometimes extreme detail, the effect that religion can have on groupthink and small societies. The ferocity in which Ben 'Coach' Wade, himself hyperreal, acting as the leader of ‘The Family’, used his faith to manipulate and control the other members of the alliance created deeply uncomfortable and polarising viewing, but it is a choice that he made. Nobody told Wade to be religious. Nobody told him to say that someone getting betrayed and voted out was “God’s will”. He simply acted as he was.

And this, of course, is juxtaposed with the mundanity and vapidity of reality television. As if real life were any different! One too many drinks on a Friday night, an entire day lounging around a house with no entertainment or distractions, deeply personal and uncomfortable moments – these things happen in life.

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COMMENTARY

Reality television does edit around them, sometimes. Those producers, they frame things how they want things to be seen, according to the story they wish to tell. It isn’t reality, after all – it’s reality television. But this framing reflects real life. When a contestant was outed as trans on Survivor this year, the ‘edit’ was significantly changed from what we might have seen 10 years earlier. There was no extraordinary othering, no ‘unmissable special event’ – it happened, and then we promptly moved on. The show itself just showed peoples’ outrage that it could happen – that it did happen, and moved on: something unthinkable 10 years ago, when the advertising may well have been very different.

Reality television cops a lot of flak. But its singular ability to be what life is must be treasured.

Was it the right thing to do at all, to treat it as simply another ‘thing’, air it, and move on? Different people have different answers.

But, for all its televisual influence, reality television still reflects reality, albeit in an edited way. It has to. Vapidity, meet hyperreality.

But, at the end of the day, it’s just a genre that focuses on people behaving badly, or doing dumb things for money, or making fools of themselves on national television. Right? In real life, people grow, and reality television doesn’t allow that to happen.

Some shows fit that, especially when their runs are short. But others allow their characters to flourish under the light of a yearslong run. Cirie Fields, a four-time contestant on Survivor, began as ‘the woman who got up off her couch’. In her first air time, she was scared of leaves. On Survivor. And she’s widely considered one of

the greatest Survivor players to never win, having come third and become the last member of the Jury twice.

How does a person contain those contradictory multitudes?

Growth, simply.

Cirie, along with any other reality television character, or any other person, did not become a terrifying force overnight. One episode, it’s being scared of leaves. The next, it’s making fire. After that, three months down the track, the woman who almost got voted out first is busy playing all sides against each other whilst feeling at home on the beach, missing out purely because of a tie-breaking string that wouldn’t burn from the fire she lit.

And years later, when she would come back, she would no longer be scared. She would treat the island as if it were her home.

As if she had grown.

And that happens over and over on reality television. Because, characters need to grow on television, but reality’s advantage is that these characters are real. No matter what the cameras show, what the producers leave in or throw out, every frame is a real moment.

Every frame is a window into a unique experience that, for one person, will never be replicated and never be forgotten.

Reality television cops a lot of flak. But its singular ability to be what life is must be treasured. It’s vapidity meeting hyperreality.

And life is vapid, but also real. And we’re constantly privileged to view reality as we do.

We lose nothing from appreciating reality television and what it stands for. Confining ourselves to just books would be a loss, all round. Reality television is supposed to be real – and for all of its vapidity, it succeeds in capturing something so very authentic about real people living real lives in a way that no other media format has managed.

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ARTWORK BY SARAH LEONG

SICK SAD WORLD COLUMN BY ED PITT ARTWORK BY HANNA LIU

I

INSIDE THE WIKIPEDIA COMMUNITY

'd always viewed Wikipedia as a bit like the pyramids: a mostly unexplained monument of mankind and something that's just there, drawing in millions of visitors. This status, as a contemporary wonder of the world, is curious at the least.

Wikipedia hosts nearly 5.5 million articles in English and millions of articles in a host of other languages. Its net assets amount to $91 million – all through volunteers and donations. And, apart from founder Jimmy Wales, Wikipedia’s board of trustees are almost all unknown, odd for the world's fifth most popular website. Who were these people – the 'Wikipedians' – and what motivated them?

As luck would have it, Wikipedia's parent organisation, the Wikimedia Foundation, was holding elections for its board in May. And what better time to speak to the media than during a campaign! Cynicism aside, I spoke with two candidates who were generous enough to share details about their experiences, efforts and plans for Wikipedia.

I got the distinct feeling that Wikipedia was less of a community and more a collection of individuals.

I talked with Chris Keating, a London-based thirty-six year old naval history buff, and James Heilamn, a thirty-seven year old physican. Keating states that he will work to ensure the Board is listening, effective and open – an issue he confronted during his time as chair of the UK's chapter of Wikimedia. Heilamn wants to see greater equality within Wikimedia, as well as ensure Wikipedia's independence. Like most mission statements, these desires were vague and broad.

Both candidates, however, elaborated on these desires. Heilamn is particularly worried about the impact of ideological or paid editing, whereby individuals alter content on Wikipedia to fit their worldview or their employer's world-view. Similarly, Keating noted that his time with the UK's Wikimedia chapter saw a board member include reference to Gibraltar 17 times in a month of Wikipedia's front page – raising concerns of financial inducement. Just as the rest of the rest of media has been confronted with 'alternative facts', so, too, has Wikipedia – something I've dabbled in (sorry highschool Wikipedia article).

But, on this issue, Heilamn notes that despite the scorn academics hold for Wikipedia, the site is highly reliable, with a number of bots that monitor for vandalism, 'new page patrollers', as well as millions of users. So reliable, in fact, that the Oxford University

Press published a medical textbook which copied and pasted sections from Wikipedia. In Heilamn’s view, the criticism from academia is founded by a scepticism of change and perhaps, even some jealousy.

Looking through the rest of the candidates, I did notice a distinct trend – predominately male, mostly white, most from developed countries and all proficient in English – something that is reflected by Wikipedia itself. On this issue, Keating stated that Wikipedia's articles simply reflect those who create them – “mainly men from wealthier countries”. He noted the work done by individual chapters to bring more women on board – but said that there wasn't a definitive solution to this issue. Heilamn, however, stated that Wikipedia's biggest struggle is its coverage of the developing world – due to a lack of primary sources.

During these discussions, I got the distinct feeling that Wikipedia was less of a community and more a collection of individuals – working autonomously and occasionally butting heads. There seemed to be relatively little in the way of actual interaction. Heilamn has noted that in his field, medicine, the core community responsible for the majority of edits was small, with a large number of high quality articles developed primarily by one or few users. Keating, on the other-hand, pointed to the highly collaborative nature of editing, with proposed changes to noteworthy articles being debated and reviewed before implementation – which can be seen in the 'talk' section of any page (something which bet most have never looked at, and fewer ever contributed to one of these sections).

Interestingly, Keating later drew a comparison to the encyclopaedias of yore.

“In the old days, you'd get the encyclopaedias off the shelf, and read the article feeling reassured that it had been written by an expert and therefore the article was right. With Wikipedia, all of that authority is missing.”

However, rather than being a fault, Keating implied that this flattened the traditional hierarchies associated with specialist knowledge, and noted that Wikipedia requires critical thinking and that individuals need pay attention to the sources (which is perhaps a tad optimistic).

But, although Keating and Heilamn are now heavyweights of Wikipedia, they started out writing the odd article, making changes here and there – a sense of accessibility pervades – both to the website, and to the board (something which can't be said about a particular Australian purveyor of knowledge found at most universities).

Both candidates seek to maintain this accessibility, Heilamn noting that the strength of the Wikimedia movement is their many volunteers.

Last election, however, saw only 5,000 Wikipedians vote – a paltry figure compared to Wikipedia's audience.

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CREATIVE CAMPUS

DESERT DREAMING WORDS BY TAMARA REICHMAN ARTWORK BY LILLY MCLEAN

MY MONTHS AS A DATE-PICKER IN THE ARAVA, ISRAEL

I

t was one of my first weeks as a volunteer in the desert ecovillage of Lotan, as the relentless sun scorched onto my tanned shoulders and I was 20 metres up a date palm, up to my elbows sorting sticky, squashed dates. It was 2 pm, nearly time to climb onto the tractor that would take us back for a hearty lunch of three different types of pasta, two types of tomato sauce and one type of salad: Israeli salad. The other volunteers and I were participating in the usual end of work banter, until Yaki, the kind, father-of-four, Neil Patrick Harris lookalike, communist, rap-loving, crazy boss of the date plantation scaled our tree with his bare hands and said something that would guide my journey in the months to come.

“The desert is more than what you see. The desert is what you feel in your heart.”

you’ve ever been. A place where you can see the best and the worst of people, everything laid bare as the sandy plains.

I’ve never experienced highs like these, hours when my face hurts from smiling as much as my hamstrings hurt from picking.

Or the windy desert cold, blowing me into the endless, melancholy hours when I can’t leave my bed. I’ve told everyone at home this place is Gan Eden, the Hebrew word for heaven. And towards the end of my time, the Garden of Eden had grown thorny and neglected. But Genesis tells us that Gan Eden was never perfect. Its beauty was a façade for its role in a story, the first story ever told.

This place is so full and so empty, this place is a fantasy, but this barren moonscape is more real than anything.

One evening I took a lonely walk to the Jordanian border, the tears streaming from my eyes quickly whipped away by the dry desert air. On my way back I bumped into Judith, perched on a I’ve told everyone at home this place is rock like the Cheshire Cat with a cigarette. She was still wearing Gan Eden, the Hebrew word for heaven. the impossibly well-fitting overalls she wore to the date fields.

"Mon ami," she purred in her Parisian slur, "sometimes, it is good Though it is a small community, Lotan contains many hearts to be alone". With a kiss on my cheek, she was gone into the dark and feelings. The people here are either crazy or lost, or both. I’ve blue night.

Lucia was seven years older than me, and added an never met kinder people, stranger people, or anyoneWORDS more free. ABY PETER TZIMOS affectionate Italian suffix to my name, which she called several place where background, age and appearance become irrelevant ILLUSTRATIONS

BY GRAPHICS CONTRIBUTOR times per meal across the dining room where she worked. She and all that matters is your spot on the couch in the zula, translated was also eight years older than Judith, who had fallen desperately, to 'the place where everyone chills', or if they’ve run out of the tragically in love with her. One night, we crashed a kibbutz crappy hummus in the dining hall. A place where you can look member’s the fairy-lit pool and lay on each other's THE FUTURE OF UNION IS ONwedding THE at(CHOPPING) BLOCK around and be surrounded by people wanting to hear yourHOUSE story stomachs on the grass, intoxicated from the moon. They played and know your soul, or look at the sky and feel more alone than

BREAKING (THE) NEWS

As plans for demolition have been in circulation this past year, the future of Union House has finally been decided: in 2017, The Block will be taking over.

With an episode of Channel Ten’s Masterchef filming in the University car park last year, the Provost has decided to take the next step and host the renovation show at the dilapidated Union House. With four teams and four levels, it will be a race to prove who can create the best selling apartments in a mere six months.

Over the course of Semester One, students will be able to meet contestants as they endlessly paint, hammer random objects, and dramatize regular conversations for the camera.

Scott Cam may also be seen scaling the walls of the building, as Farrago has been informed that promotional videography will take place throughout O-Week.

Included in this year’s contestants is the classic best-friends/ mums team, a bearded Fitzroy boutique carpenter and his vintageloving wife, an aggressively homoerotic male duo who are almost always shirtless, and an elderly couple who plan to use the prize money for a third negatively-geared property.

When asked about how filming will affect the daily life of students, UMSU President Yan Zhuang insisted that the presence of the show on campus may prove more beneficial than initially thought.

“It will give anthropology and media students something to observe for final assessments, and environments students will be able to observe the real-life machinations of the construction industry. Also, I really want to meet Shelley Craft, preferably while wearing a hard hat.”

The location of a new student precinct is also yet to be confirmed, but some changes have already been made. Most significant is the cancellation of the popular Bands and Bevvies live music event, to make way for a giant chalk scoreboard that has been fitted with pyrotechnics, and multiple cardboard cut outs of Scott Cam smiling without his teeth.

From an administration perspective, Vice Chancellor Glyn Davis is concerned about the aesthetic of the renovation, and has made some special requests of the team as they design their apartments to fit within University guidelines.

“I really hope they put in one of those cool sinks with motion censored taps. Or those industrial globe lights, that would be nice.

I’m just excited for work to get underway. Tools down!” he laughed.

The construction site of Union House will soon be filled with the echoed screams of Shaynna Blaze, and the constant dragging of furniture and university students by local tradies. Filming begins on the 17th of February, with more details still to come.

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CREATIVE CAMPUS

games in Romance languages, but could only communicate in English. In the end, Lucia could never love Judith as much as Judith loved being in love.

I’ve talked about politics and poo, I’ve roared with laughter over decibels of voice, and I’ve star-gazed in silence so deep and dark I felt like I would be swallowed whole. I’ve sung Ed Sheeran too loudly at Karaoke night in front of parents and children. I’ve danced to brain-numbing trance music like no one’s watching, at 3 am with two other people I’d never met in the Friday night pub. I’ve made friends to wash dishes with and to race in the idyllic blue pool, and I’ve made friends that were just for that night when they got stung by a scorpion and I had to wait with them for the paramedics.

Dark things happen in the desert, but the sky is too clear, the sun is too bright, refracting its light onto every grain of sand, every blissfully green blade of grass, blinding off that heartbreakingly blue pool, where one afternoon my heart broke. Love is strange in the desert, so pure and so distorted, stroking hands and tired eyes, happily married Rabbis hiding too many secrets to fit into their small white houses. They spill out sometimes, like the rainfall, making rivers of the sand, so soon dry.

In Lotan, sleep is what you do when everyone else has gone, but I was never gone. One night I shook and wept to my friend and her lover, as they watched me draw all over my legs with permanent marker. At 2 am, I always became a master persuader, using my wit and my music to coax someone to stay, just stay up with me for a while. Every single day I was so completely tired that I was dizzy up those trees, a hazy, hollow desert consciousness.

I ignored my obligations like a child, and created new ones for myself, ones that were more poetic. I couldn’t wash my clothes, but I could languish on the swing attached to that big tree on the grass, my sun-bleached straw hair flying on the wind, and imagine that I was something else.

The desert wind makes time twist and turn. I knew then how to make five minutes into twenty-five and how to make a second into a moment. How to spend 2 am to midnight talking on someone’s couch and how to lose myself in the wind slapping my cheeks in the back of a tractor and how to say goodbye in that moment before the bus drives away, through the ghostly mountains, up the highway home. The second it’s over, everything becomes a memory. This place will be a memory for me, but I will be much less than a memory in this place. Maybe my ghost will haunt those One night I shook and wept to my friend lonely late night paths between the trees, trying to find someone, anyone awake. and her lover, as they watched me draw all I am no longer a stranger to this desert. But now I’m sitting over my legs with permanent marker. on the volunteer grass and I don’t really know who I am anymore or what the world wants from me or how to be with people or how I’ve lived a double life: a daily 5am wake-up, eight hour work day to be with myself. And I still struggle to understand how I am grind, caked with sweat and dirt and dry morning lips, sticky with my perceived, and how to see, and it’s all just secrets that the world is breakfast of dates, my coffee-stimulated heart banging against my hiding from me, and I think I never learnt how to seek. I am empty ribs. I’ve fallen into bed after lunch with my skin shades darker than and spinning but what I am full of is questions and love. it was in the morning. And I’ve lived in a dream, my heart beating for There is a desert inside of all of us waiting to come out, if only the sunrise and sunset, and my pupils dilating for the vivid pink and we let it. Maybe not everyone should have their heart floating 20 yellow of the sky and the muted gold and brown of the sand. My eyes have burned with the rising of the October super moon with the arms metres up a date palm, tears falling onto the sandy earth below, while aTZIMOS fellow Israeli volunteer continues her work bemusedly, of friends around my shoulders. I have kissed in andWORDS I have pissedBY off PETER Bruno Mars. But I have felt the desert in my heart, and ILLUSTRATIONS the old watchtower, left over from the days when the army was BY hereGRAPHICS to singing toCONTRIBUTOR it is growing. And I sit here now, in a city desert of my own, more protect the kibbutz from Jordanian terrorists. And my skin has filled untethered than ever. But the date-thorn scar on my ankle will with goose-bumps from the cold, and also from those two-minute snippets where someone’s soul is showing, bare as those sandy plains, remind me to taste those fruits in my memories, dancing and crazy FUTURE OF UNION IS andON lost. THE (CHOPPING) BLOCK that turned myTHE always bare feet to stone.

There was a time HOUSE where I didn’t wear shoes for six days, a hunter-gatherer of dreams.

BREAKING (THE) NEWS

As plans for demolition have been in circulation this past year, the future of Union House has finally been decided: in 2017, The Block will be taking over.

With an episode of Channel Ten’s Masterchef filming in the University car park last year, the Provost has decided to take the next step and host the renovation show at the dilapidated Union House. With four teams and four levels, it will be a race to prove who can create the best selling apartments in a mere six months.

Over the course of Semester One, students will be able to meet contestants as they endlessly paint, hammer random objects, and dramatize regular conversations for the camera.

Scott Cam may also be seen scaling the walls of the building, as Farrago has been informed that promotional videography will take place throughout O-Week.

Included in this year’s contestants is the classic best-friends/ mums team, a bearded Fitzroy boutique carpenter and his vintageloving wife, an aggressively homoerotic male duo who are almost always shirtless, and an elderly couple who plan to use the prize money for a third negatively-geared property.

When asked about how filming will affect the daily life of students, UMSU President Yan Zhuang insisted that the presence of the show on campus may prove more beneficial than initially thought.

“It will give anthropology and media students something to observe for final assessments, and environments students will be able to observe the real-life machinations of the construction industry. Also, I really want to meet Shelley Craft, preferably while wearing a hard hat.”

The location of a new student precinct is also yet to be confirmed, but some changes have already been made. Most significant is the cancellation of the popular Bands and Bevvies live music event, to make way for a giant chalk scoreboard that has been fitted with pyrotechnics, and multiple cardboard cut outs of Scott Cam smiling without his teeth.

From an administration perspective, Vice Chancellor Glyn Davis is concerned about the aesthetic of the renovation, and has made some special requests of the team as they design their apartments to fit within University guidelines.

“I really hope they put in one of those cool sinks with motion censored taps. Or those industrial globe lights, that would be nice.

I’m just excited for work to get underway. Tools down!” he laughed.

The construction site of Union House will soon be filled with the echoed screams of Shaynna Blaze, and the constant dragging of furniture and university students by local tradies. Filming begins on the 17th of February, with more details still to come.

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COMMENTARY

RADICAL IS NOT A DIRTY WORD WORDS BY TILLI FRANKS ARTWORK BY JASMINE VELKOVSKI

'H

ERASURE IN COLONIAL HISTORICAL NARRATIVES

istory is written by the winners,' wrote George Orwell.

I would rephrase, rather, that history is written by the privileged – those who have the power to decide the ‘truth’. Often, both the ‘winners’ and the ‘losers’ are replaced by carefully cultivated narratives steeped in political agendas and the struggles they fought for are lost in the muddy waters of elitism.

Since the Cold War, most historians have moved away from such polarised phrasing like good versus evil; the heroic West against the villainous Communists. Post-war culture in the West has been built around globalised capitalism and depends on the debasement of alternate political structures. Sections of modern academia have tried to strip away the layers of propaganda and mythical benevolence – to shake our unshakeable truths – so that we may see the world through clearer eyes. Unfortunately, this is not always the case. Bias is inherent in any historical account and they can be as much a product of the present as of historical fact, but there is a deep societal need to revise the way we have written our past so far.

We replace ‘invading’ with ‘colonising’, we write that Captain Cook ‘discovered’ Australia.

We blatantly rewrite parts of our history so that we can forget the atrocities by which our nation was conceived. On Australia Day, we wave our flags and celebrate our national pride on the day that marks the commencement of Indigenous genocide. ‘Don’t let people make you feel guilty for celebrating the country you live in!’ writes an acquaintance of mine on Facebook, as he goes on to extol Australia’s virtues and the opportunities it provides for us.

But, you see, as a white Australian – particularly as a nonIndigenous Australian – my privileged life here in this country is completely built upon the foundations of white supremacy. It’s not one single day that we ignore Indigenous history and their culture.

We deny it every day: in our judicial system, in our government, and in our media. Australia provides opportunities, yes, but for a few.

And we ensure that. We replace ‘invading’ with ‘colonising’, we write that Captain Cook ‘discovered’ Australia and we try to take away what is left of Indigenous land. So where is our guilt?

We don’t like feeling guilty for the life we lead. We like to look back on the people and policies who set the foundations for our luxuries with fondness. We don’t want to think critically, because it means admitting we live in a society based upon oppression. To upset or challenge this could mean relinquishing the privileges we believe we are entitled to. So we trivialise it and we build new narratives to suit the maintenance of our social hegemony.

The 2016 musical, Hamilton, for all its progressiveness, turns the four slave-owning Founding Fathers into a literal song and dance.

Thanksgiving largely ignores the slaughter of Native Americans, much like our own Australia Day. Further still, the film Stonewall, which centres on the LGBT+ rights movement in the United States, replaces the original leaders, transgender women of colour such as Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, with consumable cisgendered white men. Our culture is built upon the bones of the oppressed.

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A lecturer once commented on an essay of mine that I had over-criticised the ‘revolutionary’ French National Assembly (FNA); that I had downplayed their role in the abolition of slavery and the foundations of women’s rights. Perhaps this is because we are indoctrinated with hero-worship of those who have defined Western history from a young age. Perhaps it is like learning that our parents are people with faults and flaws. Yet if we ever want to live in an equal society without minority and racial oppression, it is critical to recognise the diversity in our history. To correct what has been recorded by imperialists and the supremacist elite.

Radical is not a dirty word.

Winston Churchill supposedly once observed that ‘if a person is not a liberal when he is twenty, he has no heart; if he is not a conservative when he is forty, he has no head’. But to many people, being ‘radical’ is not a choice, an opinion or a phase. It is inherent to their identity. By virtue of being a social minority, your very existence is political. For me, the persistent protests and popular insurrections staged by the Haitian slaves in the French colony of Saint-Domingue were far more revolutionary than the forced hand of their bourgeois owners, the powerful white men of the FNA for the FNA, the Haitian's freedom was merely a bargaining chip reluctantly pooled in return for allegiance against an advancing invasion.

As a girl who was constantly told she was too loud, too bossy, too outspoken, the women who fought for their right to vote are so much more radical than the men who silenced them when they rocked the boat a little too far. History is interpretive, but it’s crucial to question the narrative we were fed from tainted palms.

Our history is brighter and more complex than the narrative of Western innovation and revolution we have been given.

As a lesbian, I am in debt to the actions of trans women of colour and to the women who threw bricks and stones and fought for me to live openly and happily. I will not erase them for ease of simplicity and compliance. I owe them; the LGBT+ community owes them.

People who have never suffered from institutional oppression and violence seem to believe we should be grateful for the small victories which are afforded to us. When juxtaposed against their absence, the achievement of rights is perceived as a gift. Often, people forget they are rights rather than privileges. Haitians, and women, do not need to look back on the French Revolution and thank the National Assembly for ‘allowing’ them to prise their freedom from the FNA's cold, dead, white hands.

We need to recognise the real heroes of our history and not overstate the radicalness of men who had a different definition of humankind. Visibility is pivotal in moving forward. Perhaps when we learn that this world was built from privilege, we may see how sections of humanity have rebuilt their lives and their cultures from the ashes colonisers left behind. Our history is brighter and more complex than the narrative of Western innovation and revolution we have been given. Let’s scrub at the veneers of bigotry which have coloured historical accounts white for centuries. If we ever want to truly move on from the horrors of our past, we can start by acknowledging the oppressed individuals who struggled against the odds to change it.

COMMENTARY

ZERO WASTE

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WORDS BY LUCY WILLIAMS ARTWORK BY NELLIE SEALE

ou know those times your grandparents start ranting about how everything was so incredibly superior back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth? Well this time, they might be right. The Zero Waste Movement harks back to the days before individually wrapped fruit slices and floating plastic lined our oceans, encouraging a lifestyle where as little as possible ends up in your bin.

For all the things that plastic and other packaging has allowed, they contribute to the death of thousands of animals each year, have a significant impact on our environment by way of pollution and can take over a thousand years to break down. The recent campaign to #BantheBag, pushed by Clean Up Australia and The Project, has highlighted the worrying impact of single-use plastic bags – advocating for a ban in New South Wales, Western Australia and here in Victoria. Alisdair Wells of Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) Tasmania (where the ban was implemented in 2013) explains that while there were initial worries the community might not get involved, most people “bring their bags to the supermarket or simply pay for re-usable bags at the counter”. Despite bans in most states, Australia still uses around 10 million bags every day.

Many will end up in the sea as eight million metric tons of plastic waste does each year.

Clean Up Australia continues its two-decade fight to ban them nationally and Chief Executive, Terrie-Ann Johnson, believes we will see movement soon, now that more states are on board. Dale Martin from Plastic Bag Free Victoria explains that “Victoria is the only state in Australia to not bring in either a plastic bag ban or container deposit legislation in the last 10 years,” so change is certainly overdue.

Beyond plastic use, the Zero Waste Movement attempts to reduce waste of all materials, and to discard rubbish through recycling, upcycling or composting, rather than sending it to landfill. One of the most important ways to limit the rubbish you produce is to be aware of your waste. Lauren Singer, a New York based environmentalist, explains that this process of discovery “highlights specific trash problems” for which you can come up with an environmentally conscious alternative. Another mantra of the movement is one coined by Bea Johnson, a key personality within the Zero Waste world, that of the five R’s: Refuse, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle and Rot. You’ll notice the movement isn’t just about recycling – it promotes a wider approach that begins with an honest re-evaluation of what we need. Melbourne advocate Erin Rhoads argues that recycling alone “is a Band-Aid solution,” in the sense that “while our recycling levels have increased, so has our consumption”.

I took it upon myself to look through some trash, because my life is very exciting. Here are some of the most common categories of rubbish produced by University Of Melbourne students and ways to reduce these types of waste.

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COMMENTARY Toiletries and Cosmetics Many in the Zero Waste Movement do pretty well with bar soap, which can be bought package-free, as well as hair products bought in bulk or in recyclable bottles. Try out some homemade toothpaste and mouthwash to use with your compostable toothbrush. For special occasions you can even break out the beetroot juice blush or burnt almond mascara.

Technology E-waste is often an element of rubbish we forget, so when the next iPhone version is out, ask yourself: do I need this? If your shopaholic tendencies get the best of you, make sure you look for your nearest technology drop-off facility before you update.

Clothes Both the production and the transport of clothing produces significant waste, so switch to op-shopping, which is good for the earth as well as your pocket. A capsule wardrobe full of versatile pieces is more economic and ethical than the trend-driven, ‘fast’ fashion alternative. Also, do you really need a third near-identical skirt? (From experience I know your brain is telling you yes, but it’s lying.)

Those Things We Just Don’t Need Put up a no-junk mail sign and gift your friends experiences rather than things they’ll never use.

Newspapers and Books As much as I love the feel of unfolding the morning paper across 10 different tables, I have recently been converting to electronic versions. If that seems too drastic a measure, there is always the library or you can share amongst your friends.

Broken Umbrellas Make a rain jacket for your dog! (Gorman eat your heart out.)

Cleaning Products The news is out, you don’t actually need ten types of bleach and a lifetime supply of disinfecting wipes. Some vinegar, dish soap and essential oils can clean most surfaces, along with a microfibre cloth to replace the disposable wipes. Melbourne-resident that you are, you can scrub your coffee grounds with some soap on grimy baking trays to leave them sparkly and fresh. See the housewives of Pinterest for more DIY cleaning gold.

Sanitary Products Check out the large range of sustainable alternatives to traditional products, from sustainable cotton pads and tampons, to reusable cloth pads. Menstrual cups in particular are growing in popularity and in the long run can save you some serious dosh.

Food and Drink Ditch the evil that is the plastic bottle and get a reusable one instead. You can buy package-free veggies and fruit at a farmers' market and in most supermarkets. Pantry essentials, meat and dairy can be bought from delis and wholefood stores and packaged in jars. There are several zero or limited waste stores popping up around Melbourne so definitely check those out, and when you must buy something packaged, recycle or reuse. Last but certainly not least, compost your food waste and make some wormy friends!

Evidently this isn’t something one can adopt overnight and it may be more difficult for some than others, especially if you rely on plastic packaged medications or if your budget is tight. However, there are little changes that everyone can make to increasingly cut down on waste and after some initial investments in items you can reuse, like cloth napkins or a stainless steel drink bottle, they very quickly pay for themselves. While we get ever closer to banning one of the major pollutants in Australia, the plastic bag, make like your grandparents and begin your own Zero Waste journey today.

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COMMENTARY CAMPUS

ON THE ORIGIN OF STRANGENESS COLUMN BY TESSA MARSHALL ARTWORK BY EDIE BUSH

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4: PIGS WITH DENTAL PROBLEMS

n the forest of the Indonesian island of Sulawesi lives a creature that has inspired artworks and folk tales for thousands of years (and a range of tacky souvenirs). Traditional demonic masks incorporate this forest-dweller’s menacing tusks into their design, terrifying generations of small children – including me. My grandfather was gifted one of these masks while working in Indonesia, and he proudly displayed it above the mantelpiece on the second floor. For years, I was too scared to venture upstairs alone, where the mask’s soulless black eyes watched my every move.

But my fear was vanquished one night staying over at my grandparents’ house. As usual, I took advantage of their Foxtel account by watching TV all night – a rare event in the days before Netflix. Around 1am, in a short Animal Planet segment, I discovered the inspiration for that terrifying mask: the babirusa.

The babirusa is also known, in less majestic terms, as the ‘deer-pig’. A distant relative of the This animal is the dream domestic pig, the babirusa resembles the leatherypatient for any Brighton skinned offspring of a boar and a hippo, with deerdentist – the dental fees could like legs. With this odd combination of features, even the platypus makes a more convincing hoax. fund a small yacht.

To top it off, the adult males sport distinctive tusks. The lower canines are typical boar tusks. But the upper canines are unique among animals: they grow upwards, piercing the skull, then the skin, finally erupting from the male’s snout and curving backwards towards the head. This animal is the dream patient for any Brighton dentist – the dental fees could fund a small yacht.

The purpose of these bizarre tusks is unconfirmed. Popular legend incorrectly alleges that males use them to hang from trees until a female passes by. But a more realistic theory proposes that the tusks are weapons. The babirusa’s favourite hangout is the mineral lick.

Here, babirusas lick the soil to get their fix of nourishing salts, pamper themselves with a rejuvenating mud treatment to eradicate parasites and drink mineral water straight from the springs of Sulawesi for a five-day detox. But the lick isn’t just a day spa. It’s also social, and the perfect place to find a mate.

This, in theory, is where the tusks come into their own, to fight for a female. Using the lower tusks for offensive sparring, and the upper as defensive structures to protect the eyes, it’s a clever strategy that makes you marvel To a female babirusa, there at the wonders of evolution – except that may be nothing sexier than a babirusas don’t use their tusks much in man tough enough to withstand fights. When fights escalate, babirusas stand on their hind legs and ‘box’ with their the discomfort of his own teeth front hooves, as if acting in a bad Rocky drilling into his skull. remake. Moreover, the tusks are brittle and easily broken, rendering them an impractical weapon. They can also be dangerous to their owner when they don’t stop growing: sometimes, the upper tusks curl over so much that they re-pierce the skull and grow back into the babirusa’s head. Now that case would buy our dentist a proper yacht.

So here we have an animal that expends significant energy growing elaborate tusks. But they’re an unworkable weapon: they’re too brittle for fighting and a potential danger to their owner. However, there is an alternate explanation to justify their existence. Perhaps the tusks, like the peacock’s ornate plumage, are a symbol of fitness. To a female babirusa, there may be nothing sexier than a man tough enough to withstand the discomfort of his own teeth drilling into his skull.

Learning about the babirusa from my grandparents’ comfortable recliner, it was hard to fear the mask upstairs anymore. Instead, the mask reminds me of a slightly ridiculous, yet endearing pig whose tusks remain a mystery.

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COMMENTARY

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COMMENTARY

MAX AND MAUREEN AND EVERYONE IN BETWEEN WORDS BY RUBY PERRYMAN ARTWORK BY MORGAN-LEE SNELL

CONTENT WARNING: DEATH OF A FAMILY MEMBER

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wasn’t around when Max was a pup, but there’s a photograph of him and my grandmother Maureen up on the fridge. Max is small and spotty with floppy ears and sits on Nana’s lap. Nana’s eyes crinkle at the corners. The picture was taken when Nana and Pop drove their caravan from Adelaide all the way to Kununurra to visit, Mum says.

Max is bigger now, and likes to crawl underneath my house to escape the afternoon sun. He is independent and uninterested in children, so I don’t get to pat him often. He is very handsome, though, and he protects my family.

One afternoon, when I am age six, Max doesn’t emerge. We place his stiff, curled-up body in a hole beside a mango tree and I cry because Mum and Dad are crying. I peer under the house the next day, expecting to be greeted by Max’s wagging stump.

He isn’t there.

“He’ll be in the ground forever,” Mum says.

Puzzled, I check for him under the house for quite some days after.

Bob, a plover with dysfunctional wings that we’d adopted from the local vet, was Max’s right hand man. With Max no longer around to protect him, a clan of bigger birds maul Bob in the backyard. He is placed in the ground with Max. I’m not sure where my pets have gone.

Aside from a few mice and fish, the next to go is my grandfather. A cranky old conservative with an everlasting beer in his hand, I lack many fond memories of Pop’s time alive. When he passes I am age fourteen and have just come home from school.

School is tough, but not as tough as dealing with death. Mortality is not a concept that can be learnt by rote.

I rush to my room in tears.

“Why exactly are you upset?” Mum asks.

I am disgusted, and loudly let her know that I am upset because Pop died! She suggests that I didn’t know Pop all that well, and that maybe I’m upset because all of the grown-ups are.

But my tears are not a confused imitation now, as they were over Max’s passing. They’re the product of realising that my time

with Pop has come to an end. My time to make any fond memories with him has come to an end.

A week before he died, we’d visited Pop in the hospital. His liquor-filled organs had called it quits and it’d been showing for a while now.

“You look more beautiful every time I see yah,” says Pop. I cry some more at his funeral (my third after Max and Bob) when I realise that I forgot to say I love you at that last visit. I was ridden with guilt for many years, until finally I decided that family does not automatically equate to love.

Pop was uninterested in children too, and he treated Nana like a servant. Like Max and Bob, he was once a part of my life, and now he is not. And perhaps that is that.

I am age seventeen and all grown up and at a music festival when Nana passes away. She is a plump little lady, usually dressed in floral. She begins to tap her feet whenever music plays, regardless of the genre, and she chuckles like melted butter.

Cancer is a bitch and left Nana so frail that a fall in the kitchen kills her.

Festival reception is sparse, but we’re able to speak briefly on a mobile. I tell her I love her and she says she loves me too. We mean it. My tears fall for Nana, the first person in my life to pass whom I will truly miss. My tears fall for the rest of my loved ones, who one day, will pass too.

Mum doesn’t speak for three days. Maureen was my father’s mother, but my parents were middle school sweethearts, so she’s been present for most of Mum’s life. One day my mother will die.

One day, so will I. And nobody knows which one of us will go first.

I finally understand, and I am frightened.

Pop’s ashes had sat in a plastic can under Nana’s bed since he’d been cremated all those years ago. There’s another tin now.

It’s a windy day by the South Australian seaside, and I have just turned eighteen. My family wade into the water, salt from our tears mingling with that of the waves. We huddle in a pool of ash, Nana and Pop sticking to our legs. They don’t want to let go.

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COMMENTARY

HOW TO COPE WITH YOUR ESTRANGED MOTHER BEING IN AN ACCIDENT IN VIETNAM WORDS BY SCARLETTE DO ARTWORK BY ANWYN ELISE

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CONTENT WARNING: MENTIONS OF BLOOD/GORE

tep 1: Assume that this can happen anywhere, anytime. You don’t have to climb the Grand Canyon in the rain or trek a Cambodian jungle for your mother to cut the back of her leg.

You can simply go to dinner in downtown Ho Chi Minh City and her Achilles tendon can be caught by the escalator. Even in your wildest imagination, you’d never thought the first meeting in years would result in severed muscles and artery. But life changing in the blink of an eye is a cliché you should not give into. Read on to see how you can manage the situation.

Step 2: Don’t assume somebody will save you. Despite your cries for help and for assistance from anybody with medical experience, chances are, no-one will respond. They will stand far enough to not get involved, but sufficiently close to bear witness.

Everybody wants a story to tell.

While travelling in a third-world country, expect the ambulance to be busy or stuck in a traffic jam. Expect their refusal to come and aid you. In that case, ask someone to call a taxi while you stop the blood.

Use the restaurant’s poorly-equipped first-aid kit to block the veins.

Try your best to recall those survival-style, militant movies, and how their characters improvise in similar situations. My personal favourite, for reference, is Saving Private Ryan (1998). Without morphine to ease the pain and Tom Hanks to offer wisdom and comfort, you need to grab bandages and start wrapping. Use serviettes, tissues or cloths as padding as you unroll the scroll. Add loads of pressure. Count on your mother to be as resilient to unspeakable pain as she was while delivering you into the world.

Step 3: Choose your hospital carefully. If possible, transport your mother to the nearest private specialist clinic. Taxi drivers are your best friends. They will carry your mother in and out of their vehicle, cautious of the wound on her leg. They will rack their brains trying to find the fastest route around the gathering crowd of scooters. Their taxis will nevertheless be rendered an immobile beetle among ants hoarding downtown for dinner. At the end of the trip, they will flick on the ceiling light to find the correct change, averting their gaze from the pooled blood on faux leather.

And you find yourself wishing that they had said something sympathetic, that someone had cared enough to offer a hand, or at least, a glance of worry. A city of eleven million people. Eleven million fucks not given.

Step 4: Keep her awake and alert throughout the drive. You will be stuck downtown for at least half an hour. In your arms, she grows colder. Her breath fades to the beat of your quickened heart.

Her skin pales and defuses the neon lights reflected on it. Ask how she is feeling. She will undoubtedly avoid the question and instead inquire about your siblings, but don’t give up just yet. Talk, as if all these years of separation had never existed, as if your lives were joined. You both have learned to live without one another, but now, talk as if you could not survive without her.

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Step 5: Hold her. Tighter.

COMMENTARY Step 6: Clean the blood with wet wipes. Time will stretch while you wait at the hospital. You will find yourself staring at your crimson palms and studying the dyed creases. The number you called is unavailable, the automated voice speaks for the fifth time after the beep. Your father’s mobile does not even ring. In that silence, you find anger. And loss. Anger for circumstances forcing you to take responsibility. Loss for an opportunity to have a mother, to be her daughter. You were never ready to grow up.

Someone offers you wet wipes to clean up the blood. Not far from your seat, the night guard urges his young apprentice to mop the floor. The improvised bandage has come undone as your mother is wheeled into the emergency room. Her thinned blood spurts like water from a lawn sprinkler, rather than gushing out as it had before. Your skin cells can recall the difference in viscosity.

Even though they crawl at the memory, you remember anyway. You remember how the wine-coloured fluid (its shade more of a shiraz than cabernet sauvignon) surged through her fingers and yours as four hands compressed the wound. You remember kneeling at her ankles, trying to stop your hands from shaking, and failing. Your hands shook so much that the first round of bandaging went inside the wound instead of over it. You remember how the cloth was effortlessly swallowed by layers of skin and muscles and the similar ease with which the cloth was returned when you pulled it out. You remember the fluid’s warmth pouring all over your thighs in those mere instances of bewilderment. And you remember the unused wet wipe in your hands.

Step 8: Let your mother know you love her, even if you have to lie.

The operation will last approximately three to four hours, depending on not only the complexity of the wound, but also the capability of your doctors. When they finally let you in the recovery room at 2am to see her, she is barely alert with eyes half-opened. Her once pale face now carries a multitude of textures and colours. Her skin is pigmented mustard by betadine, and stretched so thin with age that blue veins seem to be embroidered on it. While the skin is mostly hardened by the harsh southern sun, there are smooth tear stains and tracks so fresh that they glisten under the cold tungsten lights.

You wonder why she has cried – is it a) the physical pain, b) anger at a fate so particularly cruel to her, or perhaps c) fear for tomorrow?

You realise you want her to feel d) none of the above, and decide to distract her momentarily with, Mum, I love you, so much.

While you cannot remember the last time those words were said, she has said them often enough in those Christmas cards and birthday texts. She cannot afford to call you but you can afford to leave her on read. Looking at the battered woman, whose body is too scrawny to even fill up the smallest hospital gown, you realise you had forgiven her the moment you saw each other for the first time in years. You had forgiven her before the operation, the inner city traffic jam, even before the escalator. You realise that you meant what you said.

Step 9: Anticipate panic attacks as you recover from the event.

As your trip to Vietnam draws to a close, your mother will be able to move from her bed to the toilet assisted by cast and crutch. While she loses sleep over unemployment, unpaid hospital bills and unmedicated pain, you will be the one to hyperventilate when faced with memory triggers of the evening. And that is okay. You don’t have to explain to your boyfriend why you have a fit the moment Lorne Malvo dresses his leg wound in Fargo (2014). In fact, you are under no obligation to talk to anybody about what happened, what you felt that night, how you still see flashes of blood pouring out from the cut when you close your eyes. But internalising these thoughts is no better than wrapping the wound up, then leaving it unchecked. On how to effectively deal with your emotions without talking about them, check out the final step!

Step 7: Ensure that you can pay for an immediate operation.

While the doctors take X-rays of your mother’s leg, the hospital’s clerk presents you with a bill for the initial evaluation of the wound and the temporary stitch-up work. It is, of course, absolutely natural to be confused when you first encounter this pink slip. "Shouldn’t this be covered by the government?" you query, all the while thinking of your 24/7 Superclinic that bulk-bills AND accepts PBS. It is also natural for the clerk to be confused when confronted with such a myth. In her mind, she contemplates the illogic behind a universal and accessible healthcare scheme funded by a socialist republic.

Anyway, she says, this is just for now – when the doctors finish looking at the wound, they will give you an estimated cost for the operation. ‘And I must pay it now?’ you ask the clerk incredulously.

As soon as possible so the doctors can begin the operation, the clerk replies and introduces another pink slip. There is not enough space on the dotted lines to fit seven zeros. I don’t have any more cash on me, I used it all for the last payment, you manage to utter.

We take cards, too, the clerk says, matter-of-factly. You shiver again, from fear and anger. But an emotional outburst will only result in your expulsion from the waiting room.

Gather yourself and follow these instructions: borrow someone’s internet data or buy a SIM card from a street-side vendor. Contact a relative for cash or transfer money into your bank account using 3G. For tips on budgeting post-traumatic-event, check out our trending guide on 'How to Maintain Your Affluent Hipster Aesthetic at Uni with an Emptied Bank Account.'

Step 10: Write, to process your memory of the night. Having experienced the trauma alone, it only makes sense that you work through the memories by yourself, by putting the recollection into words. Visiting a particular phrase over and over again will help make sense of the events, sans confusion. In refining and rewording your sentences, you will be able to the determine the most important and resolute aspect of the night: your ability to make it through, alone.

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CREATIVE

THE SECRET LIVES OF FRUITS AND VEGETABLES WORDS BY MORGAN-LEE SNELL ARTWORK BY ANWYN ELISE

A

banana is prone to bumps and bruises. Mark Twain said 'the peach began as a bitter almond,' as it evolved over 3,000 years into a sugary sweet symbol for long life and celestial powers.

The eggplant grew from something that resembled a sour yellow egg.

In Chinese, the word li means both 'pear' and 'separation'. The skin of a plum ages and wrinkles like human flesh. Plants are more than just their flavours and textures. They have personality, chemistry. They hold history and mythology. They hold culture and symbolism. Produce is vital and complex and by the time our fruits and vegetables make it to the supermarket, they’ve already lived out the greater part of their secret lives.

The Coconut The coconut is the distant cousin of the full moon, oozing with sugar water instead of with silvery light. The coconut is a motherly bosom, leaking milk from feathery brown ducts. The coconut is a severed head, a thick, brown skull filled with thick, white marrow. It’s very name is derived from the Portuguese word for skull – coco.

In New Britain, the coconut skull grew from a boy, swallowed whole by a shark, save for his head. In New Guinea, the coconut skull grew from a fisherwoman who removed her head voluntarily so that the fish could swim through her veins. In India, the coconut skull grew from a simple seed and then floated itself around the world, swimming through the ocean, being smothered by its great watery kisses. The coconut can float for one hundred and ten days. It can swim for four thousand eight hundred kilometers. The coconut is a traveler of lands, a swimmer of seas. The coconut loves to feel waves washing around it. The coconut loves to spread its fibrous roots through sandy soils and stare into the sun, furry and gaping, with two round eyes and a tiny ‘o’ for a mouth.

The Beetroot The world of beets is dense with purple blood and melancholy.

Buried like rubies in black soil, their leafy sails reach skyward, laced with mystical potency and burgundy veins. The beet is like a human heart, a beating muscle, a passionate stain. The beet is what, when eaten in excess, will turn your piss red. They evolved from the wild seabeet and the Greeks offered them to their sun god. They are said to have grown in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in 800 BC. It is the beetroot to which Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love, attributes her romantic powers and, in early Celtic culture, it was powdered beetroot that women used for rouges and lipsticks when colouring themselves with romantic aura. Everyone knows that if two people eat from the same beet they will fall in love.

There are, of course, white beets too. Beets that bleed the sugar that provides twenty per cent of the world’s sugar production. Beets like the mangel-wurzel (or mangel beet or field beet or fodder beet) with its large, yellowed, swollen roots. Mangel-wurzel, the source of the name for Melbourne’s six-piece jazz, pop, scuzz, krautrock, punk, grunge band. Mangel-wurzel, the main ingredient in Jitterbug Perfume. Mangel-wurzel, German for ‘lesser root’. These white beets are less feverish and red, but they are beets all the same.

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CREATIVE

The Pumpkin The pumpkin is the guardian of the human realm, scowling and auburn, warding off dead spirits as October comes to its end. A long time ago, when the turnip married the melon, the pumpkin was born. The pumpkin is the middle child in a family of three sisters.

Its older sister, corn, grows tall to support their youngest sister, the bean, by providing its stalk as a natural trail for beans’ vines. The bean shoots the earth full of nitrogen for the corn. They provide for one another. The pumpkin has raging middle child syndrome, always feeling left out, always feeling forgotten. The pumpkin works for its sisters even though they do nothing for her, providing shelter to keep the moisture in. The pumpkin is technically a fruit. She represents underappreciation.

She represents loss. She is the Christian soul in purgatory.

The pumpkin is the spice added to the foamed milk of the White Girl. Columbus carried the seed of the pumpkin back to Europe to feed the pigs. Selfless, she is dropped into the dirt for the plump, pink snouts to guzzle her up.

The Pitaya The pitaya is the lusty, magenta egg of an alien fallen to earth. It is a strawberry pear, a red artichoke with lime green scales that, when cracked open, reveals a translucent flesh dotted with black kiwi seeds.

It grows, bitter, leathery skin on a climbing cactus, birthed from a moonflower called ‘Queen of the Night’. Bats and moths pollinate the plant in the evenings, slipping through the stars to shower and spread its spores.

The pitaya is commonly known as the dragon fruit. It was birthed into existence thousands of years ago during a battle between humans and dragons. When the dragons spat fire at soldiers, the fruit spilled from their throats. Once all the fire-breathers had been slain, the fruit was gathered up and presented to the Emperor like precious garnets.

There is a whole world of invisible qualities to the produce we eat every day, all rooted in secrets and lost, forgotten amongst the calories and nutritional densities and numbers. Every fruit and every vegetable offers us truths that we can only access if we travel outside the confines of our own minds.

43

CREATIVE

BABEL

WORDS BY DARCY CORNWALLIS ARTWORK BY ILSA HARUN If the sky should hit me soon it would be fine, I think.

To have Creation shatter on my skull and leave me in a Carlton gutter shaking in the wreckage of the night.

It should be fine, I think.

The city towers are a jagged staircase, Stretching up and ever up, a rough-hewn ziggurat of grey and glass, glinting darkly.

Surely you, of all people, should know what confusion shall crawl from our throats dropping like serpents from our mouths and slithering away, surely you should know what a chaotic miasma of screams will rise when those awful piles pierce the Heavens and some chunk of broken cloud strikes me dumb.

Yes, it should be fine, I think.

Life flakes from spectral trees. shadows huddle round the harbour, the sky darkens: the dead are rising from the sea.

44

CREATIVE

LILYDALE/BELGRAVE LINE WORDS BY CHLOE HATZIMANOLIS ARTWORK BY ELENA PIAKIS it’s 5:56pm a tin of sardines in suits talking into earphones a multitude of tongues and tones words that journey across the city

imagining myself traipsing across the sleepers sleeping across the rails scrawling graffiti on the walls my head jerks up –

the rails grate against my chosen soundtrack the passing scenery flickers and i find myself drifting floating along with words around me

i wouldn’t do that, i couldn’t words buzz around my skull carefully placed against the window the scenery turns to black

45

CREATIVE

NO TOILET PAPER FOR DIRTY MEN WORDS BY JENSEN OOI ARTWORK BY EWAN CLARKE-MCINTYRE

“O

ne of the most jolting days of adulthood comes the first time you run out of toilet paper,” Mason’s grandpa used to say. “Toilet paper, up until that point, always just existed.” Now, sitting in silence with his pants around his ankles, Mason contemplated how he’d gotten himself into this situation.

He surveyed his stall. Four grey walls. No paper to be had. There was a ‘toilet etiquette’ poster on the stall door, below the hook where he’d hung his holster and pistol. He would have used the poster, if it wasn’t covered in various colours of bubblegum.

It occurred to him to check the other stalls. What were the odds that all three were out of toilet paper? Embarrassment be damned. He got up – pants still around his ankles – and reached for the door. But as he went to unlock it, he heard the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Someone was outside. The footsteps gradually drew closer, then Mason heard whoever it was run in and take refuge in the next stall along.

Mason had just sat back down when the newcomer let out a piercing shriek, giving Mason such a jolt that a few remainders splashed into the water below him.

“PAPER! WHERE’S THE DAMN PAPER? Oh my god, this can’t be happening right now!”

“You better believe it buddy,” Mason said. “Mine’s out too. What are the odds?”

“Once I get out of here, I’m gonna kill the old man AND his damn janitor,” said the man, rummaging around in his stall, looking for paper.

Mason was quietly interested. Could this man be here for the same reason he was? “What’s your name?” he asked. “Do you work here?”

The man let out a huge sigh before answering. “I’m Bobby.” A short silence ensued. “Um, I’m just a guest here… Looks like we’re gonna be in here for a while.”

“Well I don’t plan to stay here forever with crap on my butt. I’m going to check the other stall.” Mason pulled himself up the divider. The copious amounts of snot put there by the previous tenants left greasy stains on his Hawaiian shirt but he had more pressing issues.

As he lifted his head above the divider, Mason was greeted by a pair of large, empathetic eyes. It was an old man. He was very small, almost like he had a child’s body, and was wearing a yukata despite his Caucasian appearance. He and Mason stared into each other’s eyes, each of them praying that the other had toilet paper to give. But the old man’s roll was empty too. A moment passed, then Mason lowered himself back down.

“Are you still there, man?” asked Bobby. “Any luck with the toilet rolls?”

“Nope. Just an old man,” Mason replied. He turned his attention to his new neighbour. “How long have you been in here, old-timer?”

“More than two hours,” the man replied, with a noticeable tremor in his voice.

“Don’t give up, old man. We’ll find a way out of this. God hasn’t forsaken us yet,” said Bobby. It sounded as though he was playing with a pocket knife. A chill went down Mason’s spine.

Once again, they heard the crunch of leaves. Both Bobby and Mason shouted to get the attention of the outsider. There were more footsteps and then a man’s voice.

“Mr Dollarworth? Is that you in there?”

There was immediate silence. Mason stood up and pushed his stall door ajar. Bobby got down on the floor and peeked through the gap. Both of them saw a man in a smart black suit and sunglasses, his shiny hair slicked back and complemented by an immaculate goatee. Everything about him screamed ‘generic henchman’.

“Hey, old man,” said Bobby. “You wouldn’t be Alfred Dollarworth by any chance?”

“I was curious as to why two strangers would be in my estate’s outdoor washroom at this time of night,” Alfred admitted. “My head of security did warn me of potential assassins, though I never expected us to meet under these circumstances.” His eyes drifted to his holster, which he too had left hanging from his stall door.

46

CREATIVE The bodyguard reached for the pistol tucked into his belt but Mason was faster. He snatched his gun from its holster and unloaded half a clip into the bodyguard, who dropped to the ground with a thud. Alfred and Bobby froze.

“NONE OF YOU FUCKING MOVE!” Mason shouted, backing out of the stall with his pants around his knees. He saw Bobby still lying on the ground, face pressed to the filthy floor, and noticed he was shirtless.

“Why the fuck are you naked?”

“I take better dumps this way!” Bobby shouted back. An awkward silence built up. “Who the fuck hired you to kill this geezer anyway?”

“None of your concern. I’m the one asking questions here. Who hired you?”

Alfred tried to take advantage of all this commotion. He slowly rose and crept towards his weapon, also with his pants around his ankles.

Bobby saw him move. “You better sit the fuck down, old-timer! Just stay there!

I’ll kill you after I’m done with this asshole!”

Mason fired a warning shot past Bobby’s head. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

Bobby could just see his pistol, dangling above him from his stall door. He could try to reach for it but Mason would put a bullet in his back before he could even get close. Then he remembered his knife, still in the left pocket of his jeans.

But his jeans were beside the toilet, out of reach. He tried to hook them with his foot, simultaneously attempting to stall for time.

“You wouldn’t shoot a man with a dirty ass, would you?”

Almost there.

“I got a dirty ass myself, so I don’t care,” said Mason. “Also, you better keep quiet if you don’t want me to kill you first.”

“Don’t you have any honour, young man? To shoot a man when he is at his most vulnerable and filthy?” asked Alfred, taking a stack of notes from his wallet and proceeding to wipe himself with them.

“Shut up, old man,” said Mason. “I could shoot you right now but I have principles to follow. I’ve got to look people in the eye when I kill them. It’s how I get my kicks. If I had known it was you before, I would have killed you then and there.” He took his pants off, readying himself to kick the stall door open.

Got it.

Bobby unsheathed his pocket knife, took aim, and threw it – directly at Mason’s unsuspecting, hanging member.

The following scream was like that of an animal. A primal scream that transcended Mason’s humanity. His agony, pain and anger melded together into a shriek that would make any prey run in fear.

Alfred was stunned. Bobby, still naked, jumped to his feet, grabbed his pistol and shoved the door open, then fired five shots into Mason’s chest. Mason fell to ground, and as the life left his eyes, so did tears of pain.

“I’m sorry about that, man. It’s just business.” Bobby said. He turned towards Alfred’s stall. Without wasting any time, he kicked the door in.

As the door swung open, Bobby was greeted by a fully clothed Alfred and a flurry of bullets. He stumbled back and tripped over Mason’s corpse, holding onto his wounds in an effort to stop the bleeding. He struggled to raise his pistol, but Alfred just kept firing shots into his chest.

Alfred watched Bobby draw his last breath. Then he put a round into each assassin’s head. He dropped his gun and tightened his yukata. As he walked towards the exit, he tilted his head and spoke, as if the souls of the dead men were still present to listen.

“Tainted men can never harm those that have cleansed themselves.”

47

CREATIVE

COLUMN BY DANIELLE SCRIMSHAW ARTWORK BY SAM NELSON

I

PART 4: WAKE ME UP BEFORE YOU ROW, RO

t was the middle of the night and I was racing alongside Mordialloc Creek – at least, it used to be a creek, before the Apocalypse had transformed it into a wide, flooded trench of sewage – attempting to be stealthy as I hid from the YOMG kids and any other groups that camped out along the water’s edge, while I tried to find a boat that wasn’t a complete wreck.

Eventually I found one; a small rowboat tied to a pole. It was rotting at the edges and I was worried that the wood wouldn’t hold my weight, but it was the only one that I could find that still looked like an actual boat.

I was about five metres away from shore when I noticed George, now fully clothed, running towards the water. It was dark but I would know his hysterical movements anywhere and in any light – he looked between me and the water separating us, pacing back and forth in agitation as I slowly drifted away.

“Ro!” he shouted, jumping up and down and waving his arms frantically, as if he were in a Jetstar ad but all the passengers were having a panic attack mid-jump.

“Go away, George.”

He was offended by this and began to wade into the creek after me. The murky water came up to his waist by the time he got to me and I reluctantly pulled him into the boat.

“What the fuck do you think this is? Lord of the Rings?” I screwed my face up and shifted to the edge of the boat. “You idiot, you’ve got shit all over your – is that a skirt?”

He glared at me. “Don’t be sexist. David Bowie wore skirts.”

I hadn’t studied gender theory since the pre-Apocalypse days, but obviously that Arts degree is deferred for a semester, or a year or… forever. Either way, I felt that George was going to mention Judith Butler at any moment, and I decided that, if he did, I would jump overboard and swim back to shore in Mordi’s collective shit, Tinder Girl be damned.

“Are you really going to start lecturing me on sexism? I was just questioning your choice of style, dude.”

He scoffed and muttered, “I left in a hurry.” He gave me a pointed look, raising his eyebrows in this condescending Thanks for that kind of way. “Why are you taking a boat to find your maneater anyway?”

Ignoring the cannibal dig I said, “Boats are very practical,” and passed him the paddles. Truth be told, it was more because our bike had been left at the beach.

I put George in charge of rowing seeing as he forced himself

onto my expedition. He was shit, but not any better than I would have been, and – slowly but surely – we made our way towards Aspendale Gardens.

What might have been a short boat ride in the days of the pre-Apocalypse quickly became an excursion that drifted into drowned trolleys and downed tree trunks for most of the night, our coordination and sense of direction more awful than usual in the dark. I couldn’t tell how far we had gone, or if we were even outside Mordialloc yet, but after getting sick of George bitching about how sore his arms were, I suggested that we return to shore.

As we approached land, George pointed out a guy who had stumbled out from behind some trees, waving his arms and shouting something at us.

“Is that your Tinder match?” asked George.

I was starting to think that George’s cannibal theory was correct, and that this Tinder match thing was just a lure. “Jesus, I hope not.

What the hell is he saying?”

We both paused to listen. The man shrieked, “Stop the boats!”

“Is that… is that Tony Abbott?”

George sighed. “And I thought that man could sink no lower.”

I mean, we thought it was Tony Abbott, but really he kind of looked like… Gollum, if Gollum was taller and wore speedos. He was hunched over and scuttling along the edge of the water, beginning to push us away once we made it close enough to shore.

“No!” he spat. “No more boats! Go away!”

George and I jumped out of the boat before he pushed us into the water, then backed away slowly.

“Uh – Mr. Abbott. Tony. This is a creek, mate.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think he understands us. He’s deranged or something.”

Tony Abbott grunted and turned back to our rowboat, continuing his attempt at pushing it away and muttering, “Must – keep – Austraya – safe.”

He had a Country Road bag slung awkwardly over his shoulder, and as he bent over to shove the boat, onions began falling out of it.

There were many thoughts going through my mind in this moment – mainly, what the fuck is Tony Abbott doing in south-east Victorian suburbia – but there wasn’t really enough time to process anything or try to grasp at an explanation.

I turned to George. “I say we take his onions and run.”

“I hate onions, but okay.”

49

CREATIVE

LIMINAL WORDS BY BRIDGET THOMPSON ARTWORK BY VERONICA FERNANDO Do you think it’ll hurt?

Shawn is standing, hand outstretched, at the edge of the neighbour’s paddock. In front of her is a fence, wire wet and drooping with a sign attached: DANGER ELECTRIC FENCE KEEP OFF – KEEP AWAY

Gill smirks and says I know it’s not a big deal Then why do you want me to do it so bad?

You asked me to dare you You don’t have to push it, though. You always push me I don’t. I’m not. Just do it or don’t

She takes a step back and the frosty grass crunches beneath her boots.

Alright

I don’t want it to hurt, she says, looking back at Gill, who is holding herself in the cold.

Shawn walks to the fence, hoping she looks confident. She thinks about the animals that must come in to contact with electric fences all the time, and they’re alright. There was a horse in the paddock, off in the distance.

Just get it over with, Gill says. It probably doesn’t work anyway Shawn looks back at the fence and wonders if it makes a difference that she’s wearing gloves or that the fence is wet. She tries to remember what her mother told her as a child, about what to look out for with electric fences.

I reckon I can hear it buzzing, she says. This isn’t true. The morning is muffled with drizzle and frost and all she can hear is both their breathing. Shawn begins to panic. She wants to be the type of person who doesn’t care about the fence and about the possibility of pain because she knew that was the type of person Gill wanted.

Gill sighs and says don’t worry about it – let’s just go, hey? It’s fucking freezing. Your parents are probably up now, anyway. She starts walking back to the house.

She extends her pointer finger and she makes a nervous squealing noise in her throat and then touches the wire. The small muscles in her finger contract and the shock passes through the surface tissue for approximately 90 microseconds. It feels like a wasp sting, but coming from the inside out.

Fuck!

On the way back to the house, Gill says I hope you’re not mad at me.

I didn’t know it would be live.

You didn’t know it wasn’t, says Shawn.

Shawn imagines them going back there, sitting down to breakfast and chatting with her parents. Her dad would laugh at what they had just done and say that of course the fence wasn’t live, it hadn’t been for years and then Gill would look at her, giving her that look and she would feel stupid. She’d feel as though she made a big deal of nothing and ruined their morning. So she pulls off her gloves (the ones Gill had knitted her last Christmas) and stuffs them into her pocket.

Fine, she snaps. I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal

50

Neither did you, says Gill.

Either way, says Shawn, I knew it would hurt They’re walking side by side up the gravel garden path now, their hands close but not touching. Shawn’s finger is dully throbbing still, under the gloves Gill knitted her for Christmas last year. She puts her hand in her pocket and continues up the path.

ARTWORK BY KYAW MIN HTIN 51

CREATIVE

MARCH WORDS BY STEPHANIE ZHANG ARTWORK BY AMELIA SAWARD mother comes home from the supermarket smelling of strangers’ cigarette smoke. that’ll be her activity of the day; then she sits at home and yells at us father is drunk on his own ego; he likes to throw things: the metronome, against the wall. like a god, for he has frozen time there’s little room for our antics and no room for little girls.

I am not a child, and they are not adults for they throw tantrums like a toddler. we are a family of paper dolls held together by the thin excuse of blood I tip-toe around their bedroom doors but they march through mine like an afterthought we grow up; we grow up I become an adult okay with too many things, silent with neurodivergency and queer identity, body stained with unfulfilled revolutions we grow up; we grow up you have fled to the other side of this earth and I remain lost at home waiting for my time to come.

52

THE CRYPTID COLLECTOR BY REIMENA YEE 53

CREATIVE

MORNING WORDS BY COURTNEY MCMAHON ARTWORK BY AMANI NASARUDIN as more press in from the openings, the newcomers blinking slowly as if adjusting to darkness, arranging themselves in various positions to fit the human jigsaw puzzle. The tram crawls through the congested traffic into Parkville.

The takeaway coffee in her hand ebbs warmth into her skin like a small animal. People press in on her from all sides. She wishes she had a friend’s clothing to wear, the smell of them to overpower the sweat of strangers and salami. She clasps the cup to her chest, feeling the warmth against her fingertips and sternum: the limits of herself.

The doors slide open. She steps off the tram and into the yellow light. The caffeine has taken her body. She is fading again.

9:22am_ The morning after the dog disappeared, the girl sits on the back porch with a plate of peanut butter toast, drinking coffee. The sun comes down hard and bright against the back wall of the shed.

Washing hangs stiff on the clothesline. Lena sits nearby on the porch, rubbing her eyes.

“Jamal asked me to come to Sydney,” says Lena.

“Will you go?” asks the girl.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. It’s all so dumb.” Lena puts her head between her knees.

“It’s dumb,” the girl agrees.

Jamal is not coming back to Melbourne. The girl knows this. Lena knows this. Still, Lena is always waiting. The two housemates like to laugh about it together on the lounge room floor until they prefer to talk about something else. They talk about ants instead. How can creatures so tiny exist?

After Lena retreats inside the girl sips the coffee and watches the sunlight hit the tiny hairs of her arm. Caffeine races through her veins like quicksilver. The abrasive aftertaste of peanut butter clings inside her mouth. Sunlight sets the hairs of her arms alight. She is an apparition, a ghost hovering in the sunlight, phantom-limbed.

Her fingertips fade and fade into infinity. She reaches out to touch the beams of the porch. Wood slams against the pads of her fingers.

Finite, she is inarguably finite.

She finishes the coffee and wonders where the dog is now.

10:27am_ Backpack nestled in the rubber-mesh nook connecting the two tram cabins, the girl turns her head to face the sunlight coming through the window. Her body is slim and shapeless in the large t-shirt and boy’s shorts, flat enough to fold like paper against the rubber.

Her gaze flicks from face to face in the cabin. Locks of hair, angles of jaws, hollows of eyes – one, pale-skinned with a dark oily fringe, gazes out the window on the other side of the tram. Skinny in jeans and thin worn coat, skin perfect and unblemished, brow angled, dented like a rat’s. There is something of Him, the boy she is looking for, in the darkness of the hair, the shock of it against the pale skin. Him? Who? Who is she looking for? – but the stick-body, the rat-brow, belong to someone else.

The tram is stuffy and crowded. The air smells of boot feet and salami. People cling to green vertical poles like barnacles, swaying from overhead handles like clumps of seaweed in the current. The tram slows and the doors peel open. People shuffle slowly inwards

3:35pm_ A series of wide paths cross the expanse of lawn at the university.

People bare their limbs bravely to the potent sun, walking languidly across the paths on their way to late lunch or afternoon classes. Fatleaved trees fringe the lawn. The shade there is cool and swollen.

The sun cannot reach its fingers beneath the branches. In that coolness, the girl laughs, resting her finger at a point on the page.

“So, that’s where Milo comes from,” she says.

Ben glances up from his textbook and looks at the girl with a halfsmile. She has learned that half-smile already, in the short months that they have known each other. His lips stay closed, his neck juts forwards like a bird, his eyebrows peel back towards his scalp.

“What?” he asks. “‘Milo was a prodigiously strong wrestler from Croton, in Italy.’

I guess that’s why it’s called Milo. The drink, I mean. Because it makes you strong, or something.”

He laughs. “Oh, sorry. I had no clue what you meant.”

She laughs, and apologises too. They apologise to each other a lot. He apologises when she misinterprets the point of a story he recounts. She apologises for following aloud whatever abstract train of thought comes to her head. It is a game of sorts: to assert and backtrack, then pick apart the meaning of each other’s sentences as if they could be dissected like the small prone bodies of rats. It is the game that comes before the sex. But what will come after that?

Attempts to express something deeper, something... but he will misinterpret, and the game will go on.

Silence eases back in. A breeze rustles the pages beneath her fingers and throws shadows spinning across their backs. The sun disappears behind a cloud.

“The dog is gone,” the girl says after a while.

“What dog?”

“Lena’s dog, the one that was at our house.”

“Oh, that one.”

“It’s weird. The house feels so vacant without it.”

“Wasn’t it only there for a few days?”

“Yeah, but I got used to it being there. He was so dumb, but I got used to him.”

“Oh.” A group of students come and sit on the benches nearby. A girl loudly asserts that she is giving up carbs. She is going on an allprotein diet. She is good at regulating her portion sizes. You don’t burn fat if you eat carbs.

54

CREATIVE She jumps up from the couch and pours cereal into a bowl. The sound of flakes hitting the edges comes like hard rain.

12:01am_ Her message box is empty. She stares at the blinking cursor for a long time. Then she types: Poem for a Boy I Don’t Know.

Today Ben has brought the girl iced coffee in a plastic cup. She likes the coolness against her fingers, but the caffeine, at three in the afternoon, makes the edges of her brain feel spiky. Blood pulses thinly through her temples. The voices of the students come loud and jagged. Ben’s body is too close to her on the grass. She cannot concentrate on the words in front of her.

The sun reappears. She looks out across the lawn at the pale faces passing by, one after another. Inside the margins of her book, she has secretly recorded the words of the girl on the bench, to keep something for herself.

6:46pm_ The house is silent. The makeshift water bowl, an old takeaway container, still sits by the back door. The girl goes into the lounge room and sinks into the couch.

The dog was dumb. Not in the sense that it was unintelligent, but in the way that it forlornly wandered the house, seemingly incapable of coming to terms with its new surroundings. After Lena’s mother had dropped it off, Lena, seeing its shaggy matted hair, took a pair of scissors to it and trimmed all its hair. But it looked all choppy and more mangled than before. The girl listened to the clack clack clack of its claws against the hollow floorboards as it went up and down the hallway. After Lena left in the morning, it sat for hours on her bed barking at minute noises on the street. It only stopped when the girl got up from her desk and placed her hand on its small shivering body. She couldn’t help but find it pathetic.

One day, it was dry and hot enough to soak through the walls. The girl felt bad for leaving the dog in the house, so she took it outside with her for a walk. It stopped every twenty seconds to sniff at brick walls and halted, mute and anxious, when other dogs passed nearby.

Its name was Jet, like the rock band. She said the name aloud as she walked alongside the dog down the hot street. Strangers seemed less strange with the little dog around; concrete footpath and brick walls less imposing, less abrasive. She talked to the dog, talked emptily, but talked nonetheless. It was comforting, to have the little being following behind as she crossed the empty ocean of the park.

55

2:59am_ The garbage truck is back. It isn’t Monday yet but the truck is grinding against the pavement outside, only a handful of meters from her bedroom window. She lies in the half-space between consciousness and sleep and wishes away the coffee she had that evening. The squealing and banging comes in through the doona pulled around her ears and bounces around inside her skull. She is counting rabbits, brown rabbits that dart by one after another out of nowhere, counting the hours left until the morning when she can have her next coffee, counting to one hundred to lull herself to sleep and beginning over again when she still isn’t. Bang – the rabbits scatter. She jogs after one, reaches down to touch it, finds choppy and mangled hair. The little dog is following beside her as she walks the length of a long dusty road, the stars swinging in an enormous arc overhead. Why has the garbage truck come when it isn’t Monday? Ninety-nine, one hundred and four... she backtracks and begins again at zero. The squeal of the truck fades into the night. The little dog trots quietly beside her. Either it knows where they are going, or it plans to follow her wherever they are going. Either way, that seems good enough to her. She speaks its name aloud: Jet. The word goes out across the empty expanse and disappears. Overhead, a clear half-moon giggles as it creeps across the sky, winking knowingly at the slowly-spinning earth below, where she lies low and waits for the morning.

CREATIVE 2

1 INT. COURTROOM - MIDDAY

JUDGE (incredulous) What?

The judge stands and reveals they are holding a spatula.

A JUDGE sits at the bench while MALCOLM Y and the DEFENDANT sit opposite each other at their respective tables.

JUDGE (CONT’D) You mean I’ve been flipping burgers this whole time for nothing?

JUDGE It has come to my attention that Malcolm Y has been deemed a dope motherfucker. With that, we must move into round two of the Justice Game.

Time for cage fighting!

A pile of uneaten burgers sits beside the evidence.

JUDGE (CONT’D) The only way to determine this case is a good old-fashioned burger eating contest!

DEFENDANT Your Honour, this is an outrageous abuse of your power! The only difference between me and Malcolm Y is that I’m a person of colour and he’s not!

MALCOLM Y Now this is some democratic process I can get around!

JUDGE Don’t you dare try to turn this civil rights trial into a matter of race! If you can’t stand the heat, get out of my kitchen.

Malcolm Y retrieves a fork from his jacket pocket and a knife from the evidence.

He proceeds to consume all the burgers as the others look on in horror.

MALCOLM Y But your Honour, this is a courtroom, not a kitchen.

3

4

DEFENDANT He’s a monster – an eating machine! May God have mercy on us all!

MALCOLM Fuck you, Popey, I’m Lord of the Vatican now!

Malcolm snatches Popey’s Pope-hat (that’s zucchetto to all you religious folks out there).

The decapitated head is kicked back inside through the open window.

MALCOLM Y I am God, motherfucker.

Malcolm Y slings the knife across the courtroom and through the defendant’s throat, decapitating him instantly. His head flies out the window and into a nearby field where children proceed to kick it like a soccer ball.

POPEY, JUDGE and DECAPITATED HEAD All hail Malcolm Y. A newspaper spins onto screen with the headline: “Malcolm Y Wins Burger Eating Contest, Becomes Pope, Saves the Children”.

JUDGE I consider this case closed.

Another spins over top with the headline: “Malcolm Y Survives Assassination Attempt Malcolm X Never Could: Here’s 10 Reasons Why! Number Six Will PERPETUATE and VALIDATE All Your Unconscious Racial Prejudices!”

POPEY $T NICHOLL$ enters.

ALL Popey $t Nicholl$!

In the corner, a much smaller article reads: “Civil Rights Victory, I guess”.

POPEY Yes, ‘tis I, your spiritual king. I now anoint you Saint Malcolm, El Presidente of the United States of Racial-Equality-Land, otherwise known as America.

56

CREATIVE COLUMN BY LINUS TOLLIDAY ARTWORK DARUS NOEL HOWARD

E

ver seen a film and thought it was good, but could have been great? That's what remakes are for! Malcolm Y will be a remake of the film Malcolm X (Lee, 1992) but this time with an all-white cast. This one’ll be sure to rake in the audiences, presenting the same political message of racial tolerance, but without making white conservative audiences uncomfortable! Who ever said that whitewashing had to be a bad thing?

It will be directed by and star Mel Gibson as Malcom Y, who must be a great guy because he was nominated for an Oscar a few months back. You may be wary at this stage, but just wait until you see the scenes Gibson improvised – he didn’t even know the cameras were on!

57

CREATIVE

VINCENT WORDS BY REBECCA PIDGEON ARTWORK BY RACHEL MORLEY CONTENT WARNINGS: MENTAL ILLNESS & SUICIDE

When I first learned of Van Gogh, I stumbled across the knowledge that his final words were “this sadness will last forever.”

An overwhelming sensation of familiarity filled my chest, the ache resonating all too well.

I think of all the words that could have been said, of all the words that have been said to me, deciding none of them would have been enough to save him.

If only I had a chance to tell him no, it won't.

If only I knew him to say no, it doesn’t.

This sadness is not permanent.

Yes, it remains, hidden in our shadows, but you learn to see past it.

Everyone wants to paint their pain, but Vincent, you channeled that awful torment into beauty, you saw the beauty in the shoes, the bedroom, the weeds and the washers.

You saw the beauty when it wasn’t pretty.

It is funny how someone who created so much beauty could not find any in himself.

In painting a future, ending his life seemed more promising than hope.

So in that wheat field, his chest kissed the bullet of a revolver and he walked patiently towards death.

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CREATIVE

To suffer is human, but to transform the banal into the magical is something only you could do.

Vincent, Didn’t anybody tell you it gets better?

Didn’t anybody ever say that even if it doesn’t, you can?

You made entire galaxies out of the night that we will spend lifetimes finding ways to admire its beauty.

I know this world can be cruel.

I know that flowers turn to dust and the sky turns black, but even you could see stars in the darkness.

Vincent, this sadness wasn’t made to last forever.

Flowers regrow and bloom again even brighter than before, and before you know it, spring is here.

I wish you could have seen it.

There will be another starry night.

I know, because I have seen it.

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CREATIVE

EMPTY EMPIRE WORDS BY ALAINA DEAN ARTWORK BY CORNELIUS DARRELL

“L

ook,” his father said, and that was what William did. He looked down at the vast valley below him, at the tops of the trees that were smudged grey and purple in the fading light.

“Can you see it?” His father asked, sweeping his hand across the horizon. “Can you see our empire?”

William looked at the scrubby land, at the dark shadows of birds and owls and bats that flitted from tree to tree. He squinted.

He could not see the empire, but nodded anyway, desperate to please his father. His father smiled, his teeth appearing beneath his stiff moustache. He clasped William’s shoulder, his hand lingering on his collarbone. “Son, together we’ll build the largest pine plantation anyone’s ever seen.”

And they did. Young William worked beside his father and his father’s workers, ring-barking the tall, ancient gum trees. The sun burnt the back of his neck, and his hands blistered day after day until the skin was callused and thick. Each day when they stopped for lunch, unable to understand the conversation of the men, William would sit slightly away, his back against a damaged tree.

As he ate his sandwich he would watch the galahs nod their heads at each other, oblivious to the fact that the trees they sat in would soon be withered and lifeless. His father would call out to him each day, his face flushed from exertion, “Look at our empire, son! Look at what we are doing. We are revolutionising this forest; we are bringing it into the future!” And each time William would muster his strongest voice and reply, “Yes Father.”

Once while ring-barking a tree, William found a small possum curled inside a hollow branch. It watched him with wide, yellow eyes and William reached in to pet it. The possum lashed out with its tiny paw, carving a deep trench in William’s arm that quickly filled with blood. His father bound it tightly with cloth and told him to be more careful with his axe. William did not tell him about the possum. He did not tell anyone about the possum.

The sun had smothered William’s nose with freckles by the time they had ringed all of the trees and his skin was brown when they began to clear the land. He watched in awe as the huge dry trees came crashing to the ground. His eyes followed the last galahs as they rose from their roosts and flew towards the sun. His father stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the bare land. “Yes,” he murmured. “This is our empire.”

William was sent to school to receive the very best of educations. He would return each holiday to help plant rows and rows of tiny pine trees. Dirt caked his fingernails as he pressed the saplings into the ground, and to pass time he would imagine his empire, forever green and teeming with life. He would arrive back at school smelling of the country and would regale the other boys with tales of his faraway empire.

He completed his education and returned to the plantation to join his father. The pines were taller than him now, straight and green, but he did not take much notice. He was young, and the trees didn’t hold the same excitement the city did. His father saw his restlessness and told him, “Go. Our empire will wait for you.”

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CREATIVE

their honeymoon, making the plantation their home.

“Look,” William said, and that was what Eva did. She looked down at the vast valley below them, at the blanket of dark green.

“Can you see our empire?”

Eva nodded, smiling. She could see the empire, stretching to the horizon and further. A continuous sea of green. The sky was clear, and the sun shone brilliantly down on them. She looked up at William, and was shocked to see him frowning. He watched the pine forest with wide, staring eyes. And then he started walking, walking down from the hill and into the forest. Eva followed him, their footsteps disturbing the dense layer of brown pine needles on the ground. William walked until they were surrounded by tall, impossibly straight trees so high they almost blocked the sun. The air was still and thick and heavy with the scent of pines. William stopped, his shirt sticking to his shoulders with sweat.

William looked above him. He turned slowly around, watching.

He kicked at the blanket of pine leaves with his foot, sending up a cloud of rotting needles. He clapped his hands, once, twice, three times. The sound echoed clearly. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

Nothing lived except for the trees. The scar on his arm, faded by the years, itched. He remembered the possum, hidden in the hollow of the gum tree, hissing and swiping. He remembered the galahs, chattering and flying, flashes of pinks and greys. But now there were no possums, nor any birds. Nothing lived in this forest. He turned to face Eva, stricken.

His empire was empty.

And so William went and enjoyed the constant movement of the city. He grew into a man who wore fine clothes and had fine, articulate manners. Amidst the grey buildings and carriages and people, the vividness of his forest empire faded into a dim memory he rarely reflected on. His empire would wait for him, the vast expanse of pine trees would continue to grow in his absence. He wrote regularly to his father, but rarely visited, because the journey was long and the city too enticing.

He returned after a number of years in the city, beckoned by his ailing father. William sat by his father’s bed side, watching as he seemed to shrink away from life. His wrinkled skin was still a dark brown from the many years toiling in the sun, and his hands, despite his age, were tough and strong. William looked at his own pale hands. The calluses, tokens of his childhood spent in the forest, had long since faded away due to his years of idleness. William looked out of the window, absorbing the enormity of his father’s forest empire. He saw the uniform green liveliness of the trees, but failed to notice the lack of birdsong.

William stayed for his father’s funeral, and then fled to the city, leaving a man in charge of the plantation. William spent his days sailing and swimming, drinking and talking, and it was there in the city that he met Eva. It was there, surrounded by grey, that he fell in love with the girl with eyes the colour of new pine needles. And it was there, in a grand church that he married her, looking deep into those forest eyes. And he felt the pang to return home, to take his bride and show her their empire. They didn’t return to the city after

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carolyn column

62

CREATIVE

RIGGING, SUNDAY 3PM WORDS BY KAREENA DHALIWAL ARTWORK BY BONNIE SMITH “They’re called barn doors,” she tells me.

The four flaps in front of the light – barn doors, as if the light is an animal.

Each living in little enclosures.

Actors in the wings.

“Do you want to put this one up?”

She pats the ladder It rattles with each rung. Higher, higher toward the lofty ceiling.

“Watch out for possum piss.”

The safety chain goes on first.

Keep one hand on the ladder for support.

Three points of contact.

She turns on the light so I can focus.

I open the barn doors and free the animal.

Everything stops.

Specks on dust become stars.

The theatre holds its breath.

63

CREATIVE

THE URGENT WORDS BY HENRY LESLIE-O'NEILL ARTWORK BY WINNIE JIAO

P

edestrian crossings beat as my heart. A probably boy and girl speak a language I don't understand or maybe it's just too far away. A taxi and then another car honk intime. Without them I wouldn't know. I didn't think they were necessary but now I missed the light two times I don't listen to my heartbeat but I wouldn't cross roads without it. All goes red then half green then not the same taxi turns the corner and youall look at me like I'll speak.

A crane ontop of a tower screams for the Olden Age above the city in the same way that Foxte isn't a company but it makes for a damn fine opening line the light went green again but I didn't look but besides anyway I don't need to get there. Bryan's family could've made a buck and they have but then they went and spent it and we're back where we were but less. I'm back when I was (and less) and all these leaves are jumping and going for it because what might be worse than a squirrel more a possum or an old cold magpie isn't.

Me, I want to live in concrete. Up the road with eighthundred other urgents chasing ends. Everyone gets one colour and other than that it's all concrete. We don't sit and let them come to us. My ma should've told us it's better to live next to something beautiful than in it, and I should apply that to mostthings. Better look than live. Better look but it's still red and I must've missed it again, again.

So let's all how about we sit down sit there just next to Bryan he'll show you around I'm sure and then be peaceandquiet and I'll tell you something. No yes right I hear you so how about let's all we reconvene in fifteen minutes; I make that twentyfive past. That gives us enough time to do something. I'll step twenty or twentyone steps that way and roll and smoke like it’ll be good for me. Crush a leaf like I'm manual decomposition. I'll listen to my heartbeat and be the heart of Beat City. Fuck it, I'll take twentytwo. Might lose count. Might go far away where I just don't understand anything. Might get gone before these squirrels show up like besides what would I say to you like what good's a red light and what city needs a heartbeat anyway?

64

CREATIVE

THE PICNIC WORDS BY ESMÉ JAMES

Something not quite Something not quite right, just something quite quiet something quiet, kind of quite something quite something something quiet a kind of quiet quite quiet kind of kind of quiet quite quite something right? something right, no.

Something quiet.

Something quite quiet Not right, not right, kind of wrong, quite quiet. Something.

Something wrong Something on, gone.

Gone.

Something quiet.

Something gone, kind of.

Gone kind of, gone.

Something off.

Something gone off.

Something gone.

Kind off. Kind of gone off. Off, quite.

Quite gone off.

Something wrong.

Something quiet.

Something gone.

65

CHROMA GREEN ARTWORK BY SCARLETTE DO CURATED AND DESIGNED BY ILSA HARUN

Each edition of Farrago will include a photoset of a different colour.

Check out the next edition’s colour on the content list tab of facebook.com/Farragomagazine.

Submit your photos through farragomedia2017@gmail.com.

66

ARTWORK BY JAMES GOH 67

FOR AND AGAINST SCIENCE FICTION

ARTWORK BY MINAHIL MUNIR HAMDANI

S

FOR BY JEFFREY PULLIN

cience fiction opens a portal through which we can glimpse the previously unimaginable. It shows us both fantastical worlds, and futures that we can strive towards. Without science fiction humanity would be cut off from the boundless possibilities of both the future, and the here and now.

Science fiction has the possibility to show us visions of worlds and ideas that we alone would never have dreamt of. These visions open our minds, expanding our horizons and giving us an altered and often keener perception of the here and now. When we take a Journey into the Centre of the Earth, for example, we are both amazed by the mastodons and giant mushrooms and forced to wonder about what is really beneath our feet and whether there still remain marvels to be discovered on our well charted planet.

Looking outwards, some ideas, such as the meeting of humanity and an alien race, can only be examined through fictional exploration. Rendezvous with Rama, for example, which follows a team of scientists boarding an alien spaceship, captures the potential for an alien race’s incomprehensibility and monolithic indifference in ways that are mind blowing. Without science fiction our minds would be closed to such powerful and significant ideas.

Science fiction is often the best guide we have as we step boldly into the future.

More than just the fantastic and the immense however, science fiction also shows us the future near at hand, both the possibilities we should strive towards and the pitfalls we must be weary of. As we increasingly move into a software ruled world, for example, we need to be aware of the challenges that this may pose. Fortunately, science fiction writers have been exploring and confronting these challenges for a generation. The climactic scenes of 2001: A Space Odyssey show us the potential horror of being powerless inside the very machines that we have made. More practically, the work of Isaac Asimov confronts questions of artificial intelligence head on, raising valuable lines of inquiry and issues of concern as we transform the ideas that Asimov knew as science fiction into reality.

Science fiction is often the best guide we have as we step boldly into the future.

Science fiction allows humanity to see the world around and the world that could be. Without it we would be closed off to titanic ideas and the heights that we can reach.

D

AGAINST BY KERGEN ANGEL

ear Science Fiction, You’ve had a good, long run my friend. Your humble beginnings rocked our world as we realised the impossible (spaceships, robotics, supersonic travel) was not only possible, but at our fingertips. You conjured such emotions that some now truly believe in the existence of aliens or governments that are attempting to drill their manipulative metaphysical fingers into tinfoil-covered heads. You once gave us hope in a world greater than our own and the motivation to conjure that greatness into reality.

You have let more fetishes flourish than Tom Cruise ever could have foreseen in Minority Report.

As such, it makes me sad (and mildly disgusted) to see what you’ve now become. A sucked-dry genre that enables generations of people to vanish into quasi-realistic sci-fi worlds – a Matrix of their own creation – rather than exist in our current one. You have let more fetishes flourish than Tom Cruise ever could have foreseen in Minority Report (if you’ve ever wanted to see an Andorian and a Ferengi go at it, feel free to google it). Sci-fi unleashed a cultural plague upon our society, the fallout of which is not easily eradicated from our ethos.

What I see now in ‘sci-fi’ (if you can even call it that anymore) are washed up authors trying to perpetuate a formula to see how long they can keep things alive. The pinnacles of your genre – Doctor Who, Star Trek, Star Wars, Jurassic Park (or World, or whatever) – have lived through their glory days. The distinct realities they brought to our society were spectacular, but their refusal to die has brought shame to the genre and a mess bigger than Skynet could ever have achieved. The same formula is being used in all these works – character arcs, narrative twists and world building – and the mainstream focus now seems to be, ‘if it makes money we will make it’, with precious little of the spunk that sci-fi used to be known for.

If anything, the future of sci-fi lies in its fiction element. Sci-fi mutants like Rick and Morty, Westworld, The Hunger Games or the Marvel Cinematic Universe are dominating the space that greats like Back to the Future, The Twilight Zone or The X-Files used to own. The border that delineates then from now lies in their believability – hark the catchphrase, “I want to believe!” – and I just don’t see that anymore. I only see a genre that tries to stamp its foot into the boot-mark left before it in the hope that it will make something new.

From a former lover, Kergen.

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UMSU and the Media OďŹƒce is located in the city of Melbourne, situated at the heart of Wurundjeri land.

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