Publishing the University of Melbourne’s student writing and art since 1925
FARRAGO
Edition 4
Acknowledgement of Country
In 1925, Australia’s now-oldest student magazine was founded here at University of Melbourne. For 99 years, this publication has aimed to be a voice, a creative outlet and a source of information for the increasingly diverse collage of culture here at University.
In 1901, the Commonwealth of Australia was formed, and the colonisers unified their invasive settlements under one banner. In the 65,000 years of First Nations culture leading up to that moment, it has now been discredited, disrespected and ultimately, politically conquered by federation. Resistance must never stop.
Before history began, there was an overwhelmingly cultured and developed people living on the biggest island in the world. There were over 250 unique Aboriginal nations. There were just as many unique languages, and amongst that, 800 distinct dialects. Because of colonisation and concerted efforts of erasure, the First Peoples’ way of life has been irrevocably forced to change. For too long, they have been denied a voice and their multi-generational wisdom has been silenced.
Farrago therefore acknowledges the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, on whose lands we write and study, as well as to the Boonwurrung, Yorta Yorta and Dja Dja Wurrung peoples, on whose lands the University also operates.
Farrago stands with First Nations people globally and in so-called Australia. We affirm that sovereignty has never been ceded and pay respects to elders, past and present. We call for truth-telling, treaty and above all decolonisation of all areas of society.
Contributors
Editorial
General Secretary and GSA
President
Enzhe (Kevin) Li and Ethan Chou
UMSU Welfare
Divyanshi Sati and Joshua Stagg
Clubs Awards
Clubs and Societies
Notice of election
Stephen Luntz
Prosh
Prosh judges
The Students on the Frontlines Against Weapons Manufacturing
Siena Rigazzi
“You will never get them back”: Melbourne’s live music venues crumbling as economic pressures overwhelm industry
Chelsea Pentland
Youth of Kenya protests controversial Finance Bill Khaleel Lalji
Aspiring Indian Doctors At Risk: India’s Prestigious Exam Hit By Corruption
Scandal
Arya Meghrajani
Student Food Insecurity: Is the Corporate Food Charity Model the Best Solution?
Katherine Everest
A consult with the SPIR IT MEDIUM/ORACLE
Michelle Yu
Aurora Australis
Nimrada Silva
daphne & blue
Lily Davidson
I am not a whole heart
Pluto Cotter
Your Kind of Woman anon
Daddy Issues
Remi Lequevre-Akker
Flies Age Faster After Witnessing Death
Aaron Agostini
remnants
Elysha English
Swarm
Oscar Maklund
Open the door
Annabelle Dillon Nocka
Positioning
Michelle Yu
Headlock Love
Fibonacci poem
Carmen McKenzie
Fire
Matthew Lee
(Settlers of) Catan
Elle Harkaway
The Dispatch From Table Four
The Cusp of Understanding: A Conversation with Peter Rose
Sebastian Hugh
William Shakespeare goes to MUSE: Three Nights at the VCA’s Stunning Student-led Performing Arts Festival
Claire Le Blond
Hill House Has Eyes
Donna Ferdinando
Omnis-phóbos (or) the fear of all: Nosophobia, the fear of disease
Wildes Lawler
The “Chasing That Feeling” Diaries: Myself and The Horns
Lani Jaye
One Unimelb Year:
Semester 2 — Week 1 bluehour
Odds & Ends
Ashlea Banon
All Aboard
Rashdan Mahmood
Featured photography
Weiying (Irene) Lu
Laiken Jackson
Nimrada Silva
Stephen Zavitsanos
Nathan Pham
Puzzled
Tommy Hill and Azalea Rohaizam
Formula One: By the 1%, For the 1%
William Kenyon
‘Girl, so confusing’:
Charli XCX and Lorde’s exploration of female friendship
Angelica Santini
God’s Own Country vs Ammonite: Where Did it Go Wrong?
Ledya Khamou
Vampires and Why Characters Should Suck
Rashdan Mahmood
Straight Actors, Gay Characters and the Politics of Representation
Fergus Sinnott
Moon Face
Ailene Susanto
Praying Chiaki Chng
Lost and Found in Translation
Jesse Allen
26 by Mannik Singh: a reminiscent exploration ofthe self from adolescence to twenty-six
Aroma Imran
Le Vourdalak: A Friendly* Reminder That the Horror Genre is Built on Violent Prejudice
Jocelyn Saunders
Metal Skin: Worthy of Fiendish Worship?
Tom Weir-Alarcon
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Gunjan Ahluwalia
Jessica Fanwong
Joel Duggan
Kien-Ling Liem
COVER Aroma Imran
MANAGERS
Disha Mehta
Emily Hope
Harrison George
Hayley Yeow
Phoebe Sava
Ruby Grinter
Stephen Zavitsanos
Weiying Lu
CREATIVE SUBEDITORS
Aditi Acharla
Ailene Catherine Susanto
Amelie Staff
Bronte Lemaire
Charlotte (Charli) Davies
Cushla (Cush) Scanlan
Danielle Holden
Emily Ta
Fantine Banulski
Felicity Yiran Smith
Fergus Sinnott
Hallie Vermeend
Isaac Thatcher
Julianne O’Connor
Kartiya Ilardo
Kaz Bueman
Mary Hampton
Matthew (Matt) Chan
Olivia Brewer
Sophie He
Veronica Kwong
Wei Si (Erica) Liu
Yu Zhong
COLUMNISTS
Akanksha Agarwal
Ashlea Banon
Donna Ferdinando
Iza Jablonska
Sabine Pentecost
Lani Jaye
bluehour
The Provocative Inklings
Rashdan Mahmood
Sebastian Moore
Olivia Camillin
Wildes Lawler
Xiaole Zhan
CONTRIBUTORS
CONTRIBUTORS
Aaron Agostini
Ailene Susanto
Angelica Helena
Annabelle Dillon Nocka
Annabell Fender
Anon
Arya Meghrajani
Astara Ball
Carmen Mckenzie
Chelsea Pentland
Claire Le Blond
Elle Harkaway
Elysha Kaye
Isaac Thatcher
Katherine Everest
Khaleel Lalji
Liliana McRae
Lily Davidson
Matthew Lee
Michelle Yu
Nimrada Silva
Oscar Marklund
Pluto Cotter
Prosh Judges
Remi Lequevre-Akker
Siena Rigazzi
Timothy Loveday
ILLUSTRATORS
Agustin Coscolluela
Amber Liang
April Park
Chelsea Pentland
Emma Bui
Felicity Yiran Smith
Georgia Bartholomeusz
Grace Hamilton
Harriet Chard
Indigo Jessell
Jennifer Nguyen
Lauren Luchs
Lee Chan
Leilani Leon
Letian (Lydia) Tian
Maleea
Mel
Ngochan Lam
Tina Tao
Thomas Weir-Alarcon (Cowry) Yanche Wang
NON - FICTION
SUBEDITORS
Ailene Catherine Susanto
Amelie Staff
Aroma Imran
Asimenia Pestrivas
Audrey Goodman
Bella Farrelly
Chamathka Rajapakse
Chelsea Browning
Emily Macfarlane
Emma Berg Kaldbekken
Isaac Thatcher
Isobel Connor-Smithyman
Janice Hui
Layla Zain
Lilly Sokolowski
Maddie Barron
Madeline Barrett
Mary Hampton
Momoka Honda
Neera Kadkol
Rebecca Ramos (Becca)
Samson Cheung
Sheriline Lay
Srihari Mohan (Harry)
Stella Mcdonald
NON - FICTION STAFF WRITERS
Ayva Jones
Chiaki Chng
David Dodson
Elizabeth Browne
Elizabeth Pham
Fergus Sinnott
Iloé Caillard
Jayden Seah
Jesse Allen
Ledya Khamou
Linh Pham
Maria Quartel
Rashdan Mahmood
Srihari Mohan
William Kenyon
Zoe Quinn
PHOTOGRAPHY
Alain Nguyen
Chatarina Hanny Angelita
Teja
Nirmalsinh Bihola
Piper Jones-Evans
Yurong Xu
REPORTERS
Alan Nguyen
Anastasia Scarpaci
Annie Karkaloutsos
Arjun Singh
Ayva Jones
Billie Davern
Buena Araral
Chelsea Browning
Ravin Desai
Romany Claringbull
Sam Irvine
Sana Gulistani
Finley Monaghan-Mc Grath
Hanane Seid
Ibrahim Muan Abdulla
Mathilda Stewart
Meagan Hansen
Mia Jenkins
Pryce Starkey
RADIO FODDER PRODUCERS
Anushka Mankodi
Dom Lepore
Isolde Kieni-Judd
Jack Loftus
Tom Weir-Alarcon
SATIRE
Aaron Agostini
Alexia Shaw
Eden Cater
Jasmine Bills
Jonathan Chong Lucinda (Lucy) Grant
SOCIAL MEDIA
Duy Dang
King Shi
Larissa Brand
Thanh Thanh An Quach
Alan Nguyen
VIDEOGRAPHY
Christina Arthur
Deidre Chloe
Nirmalsinh Bihola
EDITORIAL
Jessica:
This has been by far the edition with the most submissions and so juggling this alongside the onset of Below Earth competition has been no easy feat. The month-long delay of Edition 3 and early opening of Edition 5 submissions meant that at one point we were simultaneously doing 3 different editions at the same time. But on the other hand I can’t be more proud of how much Farrago is flourishing and the high volume of submissions is testimony to how much engagement we’re getting from the student community.
Kien-Ling:
With Edition 4, our Farrago community is really starting to come together. I’m starting to recognise more faces and learn new names, and it’s heartwarming to see people getting together outside of Farrago. Things have been incredibly busy, but here are some highlights of the past few weeks: hosting Media Collectives, a very successful Non-Fiction Editing Workshop, Rodeo Fodder, and by the time this is published, Battle of the Bands! I’d also like to give a massive shoutout to Stephen and Irene, our photography managers, for working incredibly hard on our upcoming Farratography exhibition on the 29th. Everyone get down for free drinks and food!
Joel:
I am writing this editorial right before I go on a break for a week lol. Hoping to get into that quickly, so this will be a short one!
The News section for this edition is the usual mix of cool student life and more serious, sober journalism. Always a pleasure to bring news writing like this to the student body. Alright, only got a few more months left to push through. Time to lock the fuck in. And remember -GOD FORGIVES. FARRAGO DOESN’T.
Gunjan:
It’s week 6, and these three emojis perfectly capture my life right now: . While I’m slowly burning out, this semester is bursting with Media and Fodder events—from Rodeo Fodder to writing workshops, Bands and Bustles, and the Farratography exhibition. It’s been amazing to see the media community come together and create something vibrant on campus. We’ve completed 4 out of 6 editions, and as we near the end of our term, I can’t help but feel bittersweet. While it makes me sad, I’m also incredibly happy to see all of our events and editions come to life. More of this in the coming editions... catch ya later. yeehaw
This magazine is made from 100% recycled paper. Please recycle this magazine after use.
Farrago is the newspaper of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Farrago is published by the General Secretary. The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of UMSU.
If you want to raise an issue with the union and with the university, please contact the President and General Secretary. president@union.unimelb.edu.au secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au
The unglamorous work of the secretariat might seem unending, but I am getting through it nevertheless. Whilst updating the website, running meetings and maintaining records and minutes does not make for great report material, it is happening and there are other fun stuff to talk about! Working with Activities, the POC Rep on Council, and the POC department, we are putting together the biggest and best at the university yet! Stay tuned for the mooncakes and performances! It is past time that UMSU and the University took proper effort to enfranchise and celebrate its biggest cultural community (over 66% of international students in additional to many domestic students are of a Chinese Background!). It is heartening to see the first foreign language submissions appear in Farrago last edition; for so long it was only the autonomous publications such as run by the POC department that supported these communities—now the media of UMSU has finally begun to reflect the cultural and artistic expressions of so many of our members..
On Advocacy work, Academic Integrity policy has moved out of WG stages and is now past initial consultations, given that it contains a number of extremely concerning clauses despite continuous strong representations against it by myself, the presidency and advocacy, including the complete removal of student panel members from the decision-making most academic misconduct
cases in a move towards a single professional staff member making these decisions, which can include penalties as serious as failing subjects. There are other broad issues that we see as seriously threatening to the rights of students in the current draft, including the refusal to enforce consistency of standards on notice, penalties, investigation, across faculties; and the insistence that less serious allegations not reaching the level of a formal allegation should also be taken as consideration for future penalties, these can include things as minor as Grammarly or even referencing errors in the current draft.
Although much of our feedback has been adopted into the draft, including the insistence that there is at least some student representation retained at the central panel which deals with more serious penalties such as suspension, or to at least ensure that any professional staff members involved are at least properly trained, and to ensure that educative responses occur for new students who do not yet know the rules, one would expect some of these points to be at least brought up by other members of the group but regretfully this is the state in which we are in.
I am working tirelessly with Advocacy and the Presidency, who have been amazing and hardworking, and the only people who consistently have a channel with the university through meetings and other key stakeholders to ensure that we can coordinate a response as this policy is now moving forward to be considered by academic board. The uni’s timeline did not take into account the fact that us student reps and advocacy are busy during a little thing called the exam period and as a result, our ability to give feedback has been hampered. We want to make sure that these risks we see with the current policy draft are properly addressed at this venue with help from the president and advocacy.
On the other hand, I am now working with the Uni’s new academic integrity team on producing some materials to distribute to new students around basic know-hows and tips regarding good academic integrity practices. It is a very small step but I am happy to at least see and be a part of the uni’s plan to increase education around this issue, particular for new international students, a very small departure from the mode of imposing ever harsher penalties without dealing away the root issue.
In the first few weeks of Semester 2, GSA has been actively engaged in our O-Week activities. We’ve continued with traditional events such as the 1888 Building Tour, Grad Groups Expo, Speed-friending, Arts & Crafts, and well-being sessions. This semester, we also introduced our inaugural International Fiesta, which allowed students to share their cultures through performances, art, and cuisine. Additionally, we celebrated our 30th Anniversary with past Presidents and a spectacular light show on the 1888 Building. On the advocacy front, we began the semester with an event connecting graduate students with their elected representatives. These representatives, who support various student groups including LGBTQIA+ students, researchers, and students with families, were eager to engage with their peers and are currently using their feedback to guide their initiatives. Furthermore, in response to feedback from last year’s GSA Grad Survey,
we have launched The Rental Toolkit to assist students with navigating the rental market in Victoria. We have also published an updated Placement Report, advocating for enhanced support for students undergoing placements.
General Secretary Enzhe (Kevin) Li
GSA President Ethan Chou
UMSU Welfare
by Divyanshi Sati and Joshua Stagg
UMSU Welfare has launched into semester two with the ambition of expanding our initiatives to meet the overwhelming demand at our university.
Cost
of Living Report launch
Monday the 5th of August 2024 marked the launch of A Campus in Crisis: A Report on the Cost of Living Crisis at the University of Melbourne Edition 1, 2024. This report is based on a survey run by UMSU Welfare over four weeks in the first semester of 2024. In total, there were nearly 1700 responses. Joshua and Divyanshi, the Welfare Office Bearers for 2024, spoke about some of the most alarming statistics to emerge. Over 88% of students responded that they earn an income equal to or below the poverty line in Australia. Just over 80% of students are experiencing ‘housing stress’ given that they spend above 30% of their income on rent. Nearly 30% of students either agree or strongly agree that they have considered dropping out of university due to the cost of living crisis.
The full report can be found in hardcopy around Building 168 or online at https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/welfare/colr/.
UMSU Welfare submission to the Food Insecurity Inquiry
UMSU Welfare, in collaboration with Sara Guest, produced a submission to the Legislative Council Legal and Social Issues Committee’s Inquiry into food insecurity in Victoria. This submission built upon findings from the Cost of Living Crisis Report to cover issues common across all Australian universities. UMSU Welfare, Sara Guest and Disha Zutshi, UMSU President, have been invited to present to the Committee in person later in the semester. This provides a valuable opportunity to advocate for the reforms our community needs The submission can be found on the Parliament of Victoria website.
Cost of living reforms
In 2024, Union Mart expanded to serve over 6500 students per semester with four days per week at Parkville and one at Southbank. We implemented the Points System to give students more choice when they pick their items. Welfare Brunches continue to serve around 300 students with a free meal each Thursday. We replenished the budget for UMSU’s free PTV and grocery vouchers.
During these times of rising prices, our volunteer base has expanded to over 300 active members. On Saturday just prior to week one of semester 2 we ran our new volunteer orientation and training. We had a great turnout with all attendees learning about the Points System, our procedures, opportunities to gain accreditation, and more!
Harm reduction
As of semester 2, the UMSU Welfare Department has revitalised the Safer Partying Initiative. Our first harm reduction workshop will be running on the 16th of August and will provide a presentation by Dancewize. All attendees will receive a free token to be exchanged for a multiple-use pill testing kit at Harm Reduction Victoria.
Club Name
Soil and Plant Society
Youth Charity Society
Award Category
Best Club Event (Under 50 Participants)
Best Club Event (Over 50 Participants)
Arts Students Society and Science Students’ Society Highest Attended Event
Mandarin Language Club
Bhakti Yoga Club
Melbourne University Tamil Sangam
Drawing and Painting Club
Film Society
Data Science Students Society x CISSA x Hack-
Melbourne x MISC
Swifties’ Society
Coffee Appreciation for Enthusiasts
Melbourne University Psychology Association
Pokemon Observation, Knowledge and Evolution Nation
Malaysians of Melbourne University
Apollo Music Society
Women In Tech
CISSA
Apollo Music Society & Engineering Music Society
Passionfruit Projects
Least Successful Event
Most Environmental Sustainable Event
Most Creative Event
Most Creative Initiative
Friendlist Club
Best Joint Event
Most Likely to Impress a First Year
Most Likely to Spend Money on Coffee
Most Likely to Spam the UMSU Clubs Inbox
Most Likely to Visit the Clubs Office
Most Likely to Upset Fiona
Funniest Visual Marketing
Graphic Design Award
Best Video/TikTok/Reel
Best Friends Award
People’s Choice Award
NOTICE is hereby given of the 2024 University of Melburne Student Union (UMSU) annual student elections. Positions to be filled include (i) Officebearers, Committes and the Students’ Council, (ii) delegates to the National Union of Students, (iii) the student representative on University Council, and (iv) several vacant positions to be filled through by-election for the remainder of 2024. This is your chance to help shape the future of the Student Union.
The formal notice of the election, including a full list of positions, can be found at the Election Website (see link below). The website also contains a copy of the Electoral Regulations, under which the elections are governed.
Information for voters
All students are eligible to vote. The election will be held online on the 2nd–6th September. You’ll be sent an email with instructions on how to vote, and we’ll have polling help points at Parkville, Southbank and Burnley during the week.
election guide:
The Farrago election guide will contain policy statements from candidates and tickets, and be available online and at polling help points.
Information for candidates
Nominations were open until Friday 9th August 2024. Information for candidates including forms and deadlines can be found on the Election Website.
Where to learn more
The election is run by an independent Returning O�cer. More information, including contact details for the Returning Officer, can be found on the Election Website, below.
umsu.unimelb.edu.au/elections
returningofficer@union.unimelb.edu.au
Prosh Week: Unimelb’s Worst Kept Secret
by the Prosh Judges
Prosh Week 2024 ran from 19 to 23 August (Week 6). Prosh? What’s Prosh?
Every year, uni students (and not uni students) come together at UniMelb for five days of furious competition, witty and gruesome challenges, fabulous costumes, astonishing milk-crate usage, and shared insanity. For this one glorious week in the second semester, classes are skipped, and leave is taken off work, all in the name of making a whole lotta mischief.
“Social anxiety fears Prosh.” - Anonymous Prosher
This year, Prosh is raising funds for Transcend Australia. Transcend Australia’s vision is that trans, gender-diverse and non-binary children are affirmed, supported and embraced, and given every opportunity to thrive and flourish.
Prosh is a charity initiative organised by six Judges who were selected from the preceding year’s winning teams. Your team can win Prosh by collecting the most points, which are granted by the Judges throughout the week. While competitors seek out the honour of being crowned winner of Prosh Week, the stakes are low and the irony is high: many people take part to just be themselves and do dumb shit in a safe environment. Some might say that the real prize of Prosh is the crazy stories and the friends you make along the way.
To best describe the week as it is known today, Prosh is a series of unique events that run across the days of Prosh Week. This year Prosh Week was on the 19 to 23 of August.
The first event was a tremendous Opening Ceremony in which teams intimidate us all with their breathtaking (super silly) dances and costumes.
Other events include the traditional billy kart race around uni, ‘Proshession’, a 24-hour road trip across the state, and the 24-hour Scavenger “Scav” Hunt. Scav starts promptly at 10am Thursday to 10am on Friday, with teams spending hours making, collecting, finding, building and improvising the hundreds of Scav items, all to be presented one by one to the Judges
on Friday. The collective delirium-induced creativity of this display is truly astonishing (and truly horrific).
“The Judges love repetition. Repetition, repetition, repetition…” - Proshua
It’s often told down the grapevine that the word ‘Prosh’ stemmed from the word ‘procession’, and originated from public student processions that began in 1905. These spectacles involved satirical tableaus on trolleys and carts moving through the streets of Adelaide, followed by concerts, academic caricatures, variety acts and farces. In the 50s and 60s crowds would flock to watch marches of up to 30 or more floats around lunchtime on Procession Day. Adelaide students published a satirical Prosh newspaper from 1954 onwards. Today, Prosh keeps many of the popular traditions and is constantly birthing new ones too. The Prosh that exists now continues to build a community that is safe and accessible.
Each Prosh is unique, and made its own by whatever new ideas and silliness Proshers bring to the table.
Photos of Prosh from a ‘67 Farrago.
The Students on the Frontlines Against Weapons Manufacturing
by Siena Rigazzi
*Mia’s name has been changed to maintain anonymity of the person.
For months now, members of the community, including students from the University of Melbourne, have been gathering in industrial zones from Dandenong to Thomastown, resolute in picketing the factories that feed the supply chain of weapons used in the ongoing genocide of Palestinians in Gaza.
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun has risen, they can be seen playing music, waving flags, cooking breakfasts on portable stoves, pouring each other hot coffees and teas and forming lines in front of factory gates, calling on workers to stand with them and resist carrying out the work taken on by their bosses to manufacture weapons used for genocide.
After months of political campaigning that called on governments of all levels to intervene in the local manufacturing of weapons used by the state of Israel in their bombardment of Gaza being met with no adequate response, human rights advocates have resorted to picketing to interrupt the supply directly.
In Thomastown, on Wednesday 24 July, protesters met outside Electromold, a factory that specialises in “defence, aerospace, and commercial related processing and surface coatings”, working on projects with both Boeing and Lockheed Martin. One weapon Electromold helps produce is the Boeing Joint Direct Attack Munition (JDAM) bomb guidance kits, which are sold to the Israeli Air Force. On July 13 2024, the Israeli Air Force dropped a total of 8 JDAM bombs in Al-Mawasi, injuring at least 300 and killing more than 90 Palestinians in an attack
targeting a “designated safe zone”.
The factory also works on the Lockheed Martin F-35 Lightning II. Victoria is the manufacturer of over 700 parts considered critical in the production of the F-35, which has been deemed the worlds’ most advanced f ighter jet. Israel recently signed a deal to receive 25 more of these jets over the next four years.
Following the establishment of the picket lines outside the factory, there was a steady increase in police presence. The initial contingent of regular Victorian Police officers were joined by dozens of the Public Order Response Team. Mounted officers were also deployed, bringing multiple horses into the suburban streets.
7 News’ reporting on the incident claimed that "police were forced to use pepper spray to control the rowdy crowd."
However, Zara, one of the many students from the University of Melbourne present at the protest, gives a differing account of the events that unfolded. She claims that the excessive use of force was not deployed as a means of de-escalation or defence, but rather, as an assault on people “in a passive picket line” in order to force them to leave while they were “trying to prevent the production of weaponry and machines of war”.
“I have had my rib cracked and have been pepper sprayed many times, all by groups of male police officers, all larger than me, all of them armed, while I have been empty-handed, arms down, passively standing in a peaceful protest line,” she says.
According to Zara, police at the scene intentionally targeted the protective gear worn by protesters before deploying pepper spray at close range.
“I had a police officer violently pull my hat
and protective goggles from my face, yelling ‘no goggles!’ before pepper spraying me directly in the eyes.”
Another student from the University of Melbourne, Mia, had a similar experience.
“I was always told that police are meant to serve and protect, but all they did that day was hurt people.” she says. “They did not seek to de-escalate or negotiate, they immediately went to the use of violent force intended to cause harm.”
To Zara, police violence has not only been used to “silence peaceful protest in this country” but to “attempt to distract us from a genocide”.
As a Jewish woman, she refutes the parroted claims that there are any discriminatory motives of the protesters that could morally justify the repression, saying “there is nothing antisemitic about opposing genocide and getting weapons out of Naarm.”
This is not the only front that Mia, Zara and their fellow students are facing repression on. The two are among the 21 students which the University of Melbourne has pursued disciplinary action against over their participation in the Gaza Solidarity Encampment and the sit-in at Arts West/Mahmoud's Hall.
The encampment and sit-in were also in opposition to weapons manufacturing and its impact on the Palestinians, with the University of Melbourne maintaining partnerships with multiple companies that supply weapons to Israel, including Boeing and Lockheed Martin.
To Mia, her experiences with the University didn’t feel all that different from the brutality she faced from the police. “Both these institutions, who say they care about us, do not, and they will do anything to stop the right thing if it goes against their interests or orders.”
Photography by Kyle Stutz
The students involved say that despite how traumatic these experiences have been with the police, they remain empowered to return thanks to the clear sense of community.
Following the confrontation, Zara says that there was “medical support there to stay with me and decontaminate my skin and eyes”. Organised care teams also prepared meals for people to take home who might have been too tired to cook for themselves that day, or to alleviate some financial pressure for those who missed work to be there.
Despite the continued dead ends with political advocacy and the repression from the police, students and the wider community remain determined to continue with their protests against the complicity of Australia’s government, universities and weapons manufacturers in the genocide of Palestinians.
“There is a genocide taking place in my lifetime and I won’t let any of my actions support that,” Mia says. “Anything I can do is something I have to [do].”
The pickets follow months of political campaigning, with hundreds of thousands of Victorians working on council motions, contacting their local representatives, and attending peaceful protests in the CBD, which have been ongoing for more than 40 weeks.
While the government has recently imposed sanctions on seven Israeli individuals in the West Bank, no effective steps have been taken in the past 10 months to hold Israel accountable or end Australia’s own complicity through weapons exports used in the ongoing genocide in Gaza.
In spite of the widespread support, neither the government nor the opposition of Australia’s two-party system currently recognise that a genocide is being committed.
“You will never get them back”: Melbourne’s live music venues crumbling as economic pressures overwhelm industry
by Chelsea Pentland
The coloured mural, chalkboard act list and two-storey, slightly peeling façade of Fitzroy’s Old Bar have long since stood as a vital part of Melbourne’s live music scene. The bar’s dimly-lit rooms and band-poster-covered walls welcome performances by small bands and artists of all genres, as well as local crowds keen to drink beer and hear new acts and old favourites. Open seven days a week since 2007, the bar has hosted Melbourne music giants such as Cash Savage and King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard in their early days, standing amongst the Tote, Shotkickers and The Gem as coveted venues for local musicians to get their start.
However, the enormous economic pressures facing live music venues in a post-pandemic landscape are threatening to sink the industry. It has been a “really, really difficult two years,” said Old Bar co-owner Liam Matthews, as skyrocketing public liability insurance costs and the increased cost of rent, stock, wages and payroll taxes push venues to breaking point.
“Any forward-facing business at the moment is really suffering because we can’t just jump the prices up… as much as we need to,” said Matthews. “We’re really stretched at the moment.”
Public liability insurance hikes are one of the most pressing issues faced by venues over the last two years. Old Bar’s premiums jumped from $10,000 per year in 2021 to $60,000 per year in 2022, and similar hikes have been seen across the industry. “That’s with no warning, that’s with no claims being made… we didn’t
do anything wrong,” said Matthews. “It’s really hard.”
Melbourne institutions the Bendigo Hotel and Whole Lotta Love both closed their doors in March this year due to similar insurance hikes and debilitating economic pressure, with the Bendigo’s closure notably leaving avid metal fans without their keystone venue.
This came just before the Victorian Government opened applications for its Victorian Gig Fund in April, an initiative which will provide live music venues with grants of up to $10,000 a year over the next four years, and aims to “create more paid opportunities for local artists” and “make it easier for venues across the state to host great local gigs.”
However, Matthews said in April that the “poorly written” grant, which requires venues to hold at least 20 gigs and pay artists $250 each per gig, would actually leave the Old Bar around $20,000 out of pocket, and therefore they would “probably not” be applying.
“We do not want grants. They do not help us,” he said. “What we want is policy change to make our businesses more sustainable and ongoing.”
The federal government’s ongoing inquiry into challenges faced by the live music industry is also seen by Matthews as “a total gesture,” time-consuming and “at the whim of the government.”
“In that time, we might lose ten venues. They just don’t understand that you won’t get those ten venues back.”
The inquiry received 117 submissions in March and April and began public hearings in June, with further hearings scheduled for this and next week.
Matthews is instead calling for policy changes such as increasing payroll tax thresholds in line with wage increases, and is pushing for the state government to underwrite insurance through the Victorian Managed Insurance Authority, which already underwrites domestic building insurance for the state.
This proposition is supported by the Victorian Greens, with arts spokesperson Gabrielle de Vietri MP stating in April that the government are currently “proposing short-term, band-aid solutions that won’t provide the security the live music scene needs.”
In addition to venues, musicians are also facing economic insecurity, which has been “exacerbated” by COVID-19 but has always “been an issue” in the industry.
“The pressure is just growing and growing,” said Melbourne artist Kate Alexander, who has played consistently in Melbourne for the last 15 years as both a solo artist and band member, at venues such as Old Bar, The Gem Bar and The Curtin.
“It’s a thing that privileged people can do,” said Alexander. “I wouldn’t be playing music as much as I do now, if I didn’t have full time work.”
Alexander has performed at “well over a hundred” gigs at the Old Bar, including in April this year. While it was “a great night”, she said that after paying her band, the supporting bands, the merchandise seller and the photographer, she’d be “lucky to break even.”
“I don’t know many, or any… independent artists who can do it as a full time job,” she said. “I don’t know
Photography by Christie Deandria
anyone who isn’t struggling.”
The ongoing death of small venues is also devastating for the next generation of musicians, who are rapidly losing the venues designed to help them break into the industry.
“It’s a real ecosystem,” said Matthews, describing the natural progression from house parties and first gigs, to small-to-medium venues such as the Old Bar and the Tote, to larger venues such as Richmond’s Corner Hotel.
“You have to go through all of those stages. Otherwise, you’re not going to end up with the next big bands,” said Matthews, citing Courtney Barnett, King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard and Camp Cope as some of Melbourne’s most recent worldwide exports who followed this trajectory.
Furthermore, while “bands will keep being bands,” Matthews argues that pushing them out of controlled, licensed venues such as Old Bar and into “completely unregulated” parks and warehouse venues will only create “massive future problems” for the government.
Alexander further underlines the importance of small venues as a place where community and lifelong friendships are forged amongst musicians.
“Almost every close friend I have, I have met through playing music at those venues… so it’s a lot more than just gigs,” she said. “It’s a really strong community and scene.”
“We do this for the love, not for the money,” said Matthews. “We’ve built a real community. I think that we’ve earned our place in this system. It’d be a shame for us to lose it because it just becomes too hard.”
Youth of Kenya protests controversial Finance Bill
by Khaleel Lalji
Following a controversial finance bill threatening to raise the prices of basic commodities, an unprecedented number of youths took to the streets of Kenya in protest.
The bill, introduced as a measure to finance the increasing government debt, threatened to increase the costs of basic necessities such as bread, sugar and hygiene products.
The introduction of the bill was feared to place an undue burden on the shoulders of citizens already struggling with the high youth unemployment rates, deepening poverty rates and the widening gap between the poor and the elites in Kenya.
The spark that ignited the movement began on social media on 18 June, where the youths of Kenya rallied together under the hashtag #RejectFinanceBill. The protests, branded as a ‘Gen-Z’ movement, gained traction as it continued to expose the corrupt and often extravagant expenditures of Kenyan politicians.
Among the information that was made public, a key discovery was the proposed 800 million Kenyan Shillings (approximately AUD $9.3 million) allocated for renovations to the President's home. The youth, citing fiscal irresponsibility by the government, argued their futures were jeopardised for personal gains by the nation's political elites. The misuse of public funds by the political elites of Kenya while the country continues to grapple with economic challenges added fuel to an already raging fire of public critique of the government.
Divided between accommodating or repressing the protests, the government of Kenya met the protestors with live ammunition and tear gas in an attempt to disperse the crowds, killing two individuals and injuring many others. Following the heated confrontations on 20 June, the President of Kenya William Ruto floated the possibilities of negotiations.
However, with MPs set to vote on the controversial bill on 25 June, tens of thousands of protestors from major cities to rural villages mobilised urging legislators to rethink passing such a controversial bill.
What began as a peaceful demonstration on June 25 quickly escalated into chaos as police in Nairobi fired tear gas and water cannons into unarmed
crowds. While most protesters remained non-violent, a faction resorted to setting public property ablaze and storming the parliament. This shift in the protest’s dynamics prompted a harsh response from the police.
With the Minister of Defence declaring a security emergency, and President Ruto describing the events as “treasonous”, he vowed an expeditious response to the protests. While the protests escalated and participants stormed the parliament, MPs who had voted 195 to 106 in favour of the finance bill were forced to seek safety in the basement of the parliament before being smuggled out.
The police crackdown resulted in up to 39 civilian casualties. While reports on the exact number of deaths varied, it is evident that the toll was significant, with many lives lost in towns such as Githurai.
The unrest left a profound impact on the daily lives of Kenyans. Between businesses shutting their doors amidst the chaos, followed by widespread looting, and the police brutality towards the protestors, tensions in Kenya remain high.
The epicentre of the protest was the Nairobi Central Business District (CBD), but the demonstrations rippled outwards, affecting several large towns and rural villages across the country. In each location, the events that unfolded were similar in accounts with initial peaceful protests spiralling into confusion, chaos and concluding with clashes with law enforcement. Despite the turmoil, the movement achieved its primary objective. By the end of the day, President Ruto in a televised address said “I concede and therefore I will not sign the 2024 Finance Bill and it shall be subsequently withdrawn”.
Despite the withdrawal of the controversial Finance Bill, the public’s anger was not easily soothed. With President Ruto swearing in a new cabinet with senior opposition political candidates to quell public anger, protests continue to fill the streets of Kenya.
The recent uprising in Kenya has been linked with many other such uprisings in the African region, including in Nigeria and Uganda, where people continue to protests the high costs of living, the high unemployment rates and the growing rates of poverty.
Aspiring Indian Doctors At Risk: India’s Prestigious Exam Hit By Corruption Scandal
by Arya Meghrajani
A crucial medical examination in India has sparked national outrage in the country with students and parents criticising the Indian government for paper leaks and misconducting the medical exam.
Since 2016, the National Eligibility Cum Entrance Test for Undergraduates or NEET-UG has become a nationwide Indian entrance examination whose score is required to get into all the medical colleges in India. The exam was initially conducted by the Central Board of Secondary Education, a national level board of education in India for public and private schools. However, it later began to be held by the National Testing Agency (NTA), an autonomous agency under the Department of Higher Education of the Ministry of Education of India which was established in 2017. According to the marking scheme of NEET-UG, every student gets 4 marks for a correct answer and a negative mark for an incorrect answer. When a question is not attempted by the student, they are not rewarded with any marks. The maximum possible marks in the exam are 720.
Since 2016, out of all the students that appeared for NEET-UG, only 1 to 3 students secured full marks in it and in some years, none at all. But this year the challenge is somewhat different. Out of all the 2.4 million students that took the exam to compete for 110,000 available admissions in medical colleges, an unprecedented 67 students got the perfect score of 720 marks, pushing down the ranking system and presenting a challenge for top performing students to secure admissions in medical colleges. Moreover, out of these 67 candidates, eight students TOOK their exam from the same institute in Haryana, an Indian state, and had largely similar roll numbers which has heighted the suspicions of a paper leak. Adding to the controversy, two students who got All India Rank 68 and 69, secured 718 and 719 marks, which is not mathematically possible due to the marking scheme of NEET-UG. Moreover, in Rajasthan, another Indian state, a few candidates were given question papers with pre-marked answers and students from Hindi
medium schools were given English papers to solve. The Junior Doctor’s Network of the Indian Medical Association raised another issue stating that every year before releasing the results of NEET-UG, the NTA provides the students with their answer sheets. This is done to give the students a fair idea of what their scores will be. However, this year the marks of several students differed from their score cards when compared to their answer sheets. Students witnessed that their marks on the score cards were less than their marks on the answer sheets.
In response to the aforementioned allegations, the NTA stated that this year India witnessed a high number of top-scorers due to an increase in the number of candidates that took the exam. The number of participants increased from 2 million in 2023 to 2.3 million in 2024, with 1,563 students securing high marks since they were given compensatory points for the loss of time during the conduct of NEET-UG in six exam centres of India. Responding to the NTA statement, students and parents stated that according to Indian law, compensatory points cannot be awarded to candidates sitting for engineering and medical exams. If the students did experience a loss of time during the exam, then the duration of the exam could have been extended by a few minutes to make the examination and its results fair for all the students. Furthermore, candidates and their parents also claim that declaring the NEET-UG results on 4 June 2024, ten days earlier than the scheduled date, was a strategy of the NTA to cover up a scam. This is because 4 June was the day when the results of General Elections were announced in India—hence, the media was preoccupied in covering the election results instead of the NTA controversy.
In response to this controversy, the Supreme Court of India instructed the NTA to conduct a re-test for all the 1,563 students awarded with compensatory points on 23 June, 2024. However, the NEET-UG aspirants and their parents believe that this decision does not address the larger issues, such as paper leaks and systemic corruption.
Student Food Insecurity: Is the Corporate Food Charity Model the Best Solution?
by Katherine Everest
As tertiary students across Australia experience growing levels of food insecurity, amid a cost of living crisis, major supermarkets have been reporting record profits. Coles and Woolworths have come under fire for price gouging and unconscionable conduct toward suppliers where both suppliers and consumers have become more vulnerable than ever due to the increasing costs of living. To address increasing student food insecurity and industry food waste, University of Melbourne Food Relief operates a corporate charity model; with indirect partner Coles driving the very issues Food Relief is trying to alleviate.
In 2021, a team of experts and students from the University of Melbourne Social Equity Institute received a Student Services and Amenities Fees grant to research hunger and food insecurity among students at the University. The research’s project summary report highlighted “alarming levels of persistent food insecurity among students and high levels of hardship, frustration and anger within the student body at the University of Melbourne and more generally across Victorian universities.”
Gyorgy Scrinis, Associate Professor of Food Politics and Policy at the University who worked as a researcher on the project said “when COVID hit, food insecurity became a really obvious problem for many students, and particularly for international students.”
“At the University of Melbourne, quite a few students are still using the food relief programs, boththe University’s frozen meal, and fruit and veg program, as well as the student union’s food pantry,” says Scrinis.
Currently, the University of Melbourne channels funds into two food relief programs for its students: the Frozen Meals program—previously SecondBite Frozen Meals, a charity which Coles is a principal partner—and
the Fresh Food Project. When asked how much funding was provided to the food relief programs, and how many students were currently accessing these services, the University was unable to provide figures.
Coles continues to be investigated for leveraging its high market share to price gouge consumers, and the same inquiries have scrutinised Coles’ unconscionable conduct toward suppliers that leads to food waste.
A Senate inquiry on supermarket prices and an inquiry into unfair pricing by the Australian Council of Trade Union’s (ACTU) confirmed Coles’ engagement in price gouging and unconscionable conduct towards suppliers. These findings come amidst an ongoing Australian Competition and Consumer Commission (ACCC) supermarket inquiry into Coles’ behaviour.
Telisa, a student from the University of Melbourne who has been accessing the Frozen Meals program, says her family have been implementing strategies such as growing their own vegetables to manage the pressures associated with inflationary food prices. She feels that Coles’ participation in price gouging and the effect it is having on people’s capacity to afford food during a cost of living crisis such as the one we face now is quite unfair.
“Lowering their prices would not affect them at all. Especially when they used to have the [campaign], ‘Feed your Family Tonight for $10’. And now, you can barely get meat for $10.”
Issues with the Corporate Food Charity Model
Under the Corporate Food Charity Model, businesses contribute surplus food to charities working to alleviate food insecurity and food waste. This relationship allows
businesses to claim they are fulfilling what is known as a corporate social responsibility agenda.
“Like other universities at the time [during the pandemic], the University of Melbourne took on the role of a food charity by partnering with food relief organisations like SecondBite. SecondBite is itself part of the corporate food system, as it partners with Coles supermarkets, and redistributes the food waste they generate in-store,” says Scrinis.
“This corporate food system contributes significantly to the problems of both food insecurity and to massive amounts of food waste.”
In April of this year, the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) correlated recent grocery price inflation to a national reduction in food consumption; particularly that of fresh fruit and vegetables.
Meanwhile, major supermarkets have been criticised for deliberately encouraging overproduction of produce to lower the purchase price of fresh fruit and vegetables, leading to food waste and affecting farmers’ incomes.
“The operations of the central market system allow for unplanned and additional volume to be dumped on the market on a daily basis, leading to systemic oversupply, depressing pricing [which] can lead very easily to oversupply,” reads a submission from Confidential Party #8 to the ACCC 2024-2025 Supermarket Price Inquiry.
Furthermore, a report released by the Australia Institute in 2023 found that cosmetic standards for fruit and vegetables imposed by major Australian supermarkets contributed to 10 per cent of post-harvest food waste across Australia. The report states that “[f]armers insist that perfectly edible food is rejected by supermarkets due to appearance alone.” The Corporate Food Charity Model affords both Coles and the University reputational and financial gains. Reputationally, each party can claim they are working towards alleviating food insecurity and food waste, while, financially, they can save costs and forego the need to implement alternative measures.
In a 2018 study, a respondent claimed supermarkets financially benefit from donating to food
charities by reducing their transport and landfill costs.
“Many retailers [were] spending millions and millions on waste every year; obviously their number one motivation is to provide a return to the shareholders, so they’re looking at their costs. How do they reduce those costs? One [way] would be [diverting] food waste [from landfill to food rescue organizations].”
Additionally, as SecondBite is endorsed as a Deductible Gift Recipient, Coles can secure tax write-offs by contributing to the charity.
Meanwhile, despite the Student Union’s calls to introduce a subsidised canteen with affordable food options on campus, the University of Melbourne has continued to rely on privatised food outlets as its main form of on-campus food provision for students.
“Most universities in Australia have privatised food outlets, and universities profit by charging high rents to commercial food businesses. This in turn leads to high priced food on campus, and therefore contributes to student food insecurity. It would be nice to see our universities re-introduce university-run, affordable food outlets, as is common in many other countries,” says Scrinis.
When asked about the suitability of partnering indirectly with Coles through SecondBite to alleviate student food insecurity and food waste, a University of Melbourne spokesperson responded, “the University acknowledges that many students experience hardship and supports students in urgent financial need through both food relief and our Financial Aid service.” Alternative measures that could be introduced by the University to address student food security as recommended by researchers from the 2021 Melbourne Social Equity Institute project include developing an on-campus canteen with subsidised food, incorporating food security as a directive in University wellbeing programs, developing a Student Food Security Policy and encouraging further study on the issue.
SATIRE IN BRIEF
Why I Stopped Telling People We’re Trying for a Baby and Start Having Sex in front of Them
When I told my boss that my husband and I were trying I was met with the expected follow ups: how long for, what’s your preferred position, how many pumps until finished. At this point we’d wasted an hour of company time and my throat was dry as a Southern desert; getting him in on the action next time was much more efficient for the both of us.
- Emily Hope
Staunch Abolitionist Leftie Apparently Bleeds Green And Gold Come Olympics
“Yeah, my thesis was basically about how Australian nationalism can’t be separated from white suprem– oh hang–” James stands, screaming at the pub screen, “C’MON AUSSIE, LET’S FUCKING DESTROY CHINA!”
- Lucy Grant
Landlord Can't Fix Your Leaking Ceiling But He Sure Can Fix The Price Of Rent (He Just Doubled It)
Renters who reported a constant and powerful drip in their living room ceiling were informed that nothing can be done to fix that love. On a totally unrelated note however, they will need to fork out an extra two hundred dollars a month to cover the cost of something very important (just general costs). Don’t forget how lucky you are to have this house in the first place!
- Eden Cater
Julian Assange’s Return To Australia Postponed As His Jetstar Flight Back is Cancelled
“What do you mean there isn’t another flight out of here for a week? And I can only rebook on the website?” Assange said to the abashed Jetstar service worker at the gate, as the editor’s bureaucratic nightmare truly began.
- Oscar Marks
Chappell Roan Revealed to Be Industry Plant, Specifically Thai Sweet Basil
The herb is delicately crafted into the shape of a Midwestern woman, unafraid of vulnerability and wearing fun clothes.
- Aaron Agostini
Lana Del Ray Takes Americana Aesthetic Too Far; Joins Military & Kills Innocent Civilian
“New Lana Album Love You Like My First Amendment includes tracks such as “my man strikes at dawn,” “victory pussy” and “trust me, they have nuclear weapons underground, babe.””
- Lucy Grant & Emily Hope
Process of Becoming a 'Certified Freak' Found to Indirectly Discriminate Against Lower Income Applicants
A recent internal review at the Western Academy of Progress (WAP) revealed a significant bias against applicants from historically lower-income areas. Chair Margaret Yuun vowed to address this issue, acknowledging that institutionalised oppression is not a new concept. However, her determination to nurture the next generation of baddies has been reignited with renewed vigour.
- Aaron Agostini
“Sorry I Just Say it How it is” Says Woman Who Just Circled The Parts of Your Body She Would Have Surgically Altered
“Women really can’t deal with how blunt I am,” Jess explains, placing the cap back on her red permanent marker. “I would rather say my opinion than be a doormat,” she continues, jiggling your stomach fat and making pig noises.
- Emily Hope
Photography by Weiying (Irene)
A consult with the SPIRIT MEDIUM/ORACLE
by Michelle Yu
An extract from To The Moon and Back, an upcoming Melbourne Fringe Festival performance, premiering October 14th - 20th at The Motley Bauhaus.
HER: They’re so special… but never meet up with me…
ORACLE: So, you only talk to them once in a blue moon.
HER: Yeah! Always at a distance… because they have their own life… and I should have mine. I’ve been staring at them for so long… dreaming … of a hug.
Dreaming of someone who tells me I am loved, And it’s not just a one-way street.
ORACLE: Why do they attract your energy? Are they pretty? Or just smart?
HER: I don’t know, I don’t know… despairing, desperate, confused… (with passion) Be still, my beating heart!
ORACLE: Like a moon, then. We can feel its radiance… but it never, ever, comes down from the sky. And we’re here on Earth.
HER: Well, when you put it that way. I don’t think we’ll ever get closer. I shouldn’t be silly… Wishing so hard for what I can’t have. (with pain) Shh!
ORACLE: You know, the moon gets closer to the Earth sometimes. When it’s going round the Earth, sometimes it spins closer…
(Phone notification sounds)
HER: Oh, I have to go! (exits)
ORACLE: (to herself) The moon pulls closer, and it goes further sometimes… but it never, ever touches the Earth.
Though is that what we do, every time we make a wish? Ask for something the universe cannot give?
Follow To The Moon and Back’s production process and get notified about ticket releases on Instagram: @ToTheMoonAndBack.Play
Aurora Australis
by Nimrada Silva
Apparently, it is quite rare for night skies to light up that way even here in outskirts of Melbourne and still, they must have last night I wonder if you had seen it, but I do not know how to ask you anymore I wonder if it was spectacular as it seems in photographs, and I wonder if I will ever live to see one in this life because last night, I missed it
Because I was sleeping because I had not slept for about 36 hours and that small of my back and left side of my heart and that place on your neck where those lymph nodes are they hurt, and I had no energy left to keep myself upright or to walk out that door and run into a starry sky and still I think about this poem “Great Things Have Happened” and she was talking about rockets landing on the moon that very first day and how she could not recall any of it because she was far too busy eating burnt toast with honey with people that she loved
And I remembered that, and I could almost picture it those sides of toast slightly crumbling off and that honey ever generous ever sweet seeping into corners And I think about that night and how it was almost a fever
Those nights that bleed into day and you cannot tell them apart when did the night end and when did tomorrow begin
And though I have never witnessed an Aurora Australis or any auroras for that matter I remember thinking that it did not matter
Because if I close my eyes now I can still you those forearms of yours slightly tanned and ruthlessly freckled that I love with a passion it seems absurd that I could love them that much after all they are just a pair of arms and don’t even get me started on the nape of your neck that place snuggled just below your ears somewhere above your shoulders how it smells like milk and hope and freshly washed linen and your scratchy beard and those Irish eyelashes too thick too dark how they make you seem introspective and kind and sentimental
I HOPE this does not make you smug, but you have to know
That if I had a time-tuner someway to wind back time and not miss those aurora lights
I would still choose to wind up back in your bed by that huge maple kind of tree Arms bare now and birds chirping their songs because what are moons and stars Compared to your black coffee and slightly overcooked eggs
daphne & blue
by Lily Davidson
daphne
hit him again cupid, with that lead arrow send me back to my unholy apollo. this time i’ll kiss that saccharine icon and knot myself down by vine, just to be caressed bronze and warm-blooded by his luminous orpheus to my eurydice.
turn me from the laurel tree, in gold-fleck reverence i’ll kneel at the shrine of saint apollo, who holds up my melting body to worship. cupid - send this body back to vienna without the exorcism, etch his sweet breath into my skin.
yes cupid send me back, rendered flightless to be eaten limb by limb.
oh boy you towered like a blue angel beaming down oh when you first tried to hide a little wonky tooth i’d never seen anything so blinding blue in my life i changed seats to see my blue crush from the side certain i might miss those shoulders springing gossamer wings oh i could throw myself in the dust on how your kiss finally made mine blue too your lips were cooler than blue lashes bluer under the eye of our moon your electric fingertips radiating blue flame oh boy who once rushed to open doors for me you knew all those doors were portals to blue heaven oh i should have bottled that wonky blue grin i’m still blue out of breath behind my eyes lives my blue boy’s body blazing by mine for that brief blink in time oh blue oh boy.
blue
The Kiss – Gustav Klimt (1907-1908)
I am not a whole heart
by Pluto Cotter
Content warning: references to body dysmorphia, emotional abuse and trauma
I am not a whole heart parts of me have been chipped away like those well-loved plates that live in your old cabinets; the chips along their rims tell a story of a life worth living, the chips off me tell a story of a body not worth loving.
Parts of me are still possessed by others; lost to me when they staked their claim upon my skin, marking me with a territorial flag that brands me as broken, battered, damaged.
I wake up crying and shaking begging you to let me go, you hold me tighter, as if your love can prevent me from slipping further into the chasms of my mind that you long for me to escape.
I have not been loved in the way you love me.
You hold me tenderly as if your warmth will bring sunlight to the cold, darkness behind my eyes, you whisper sweet nothings in my ear; a desperate attempt to soothe those demons in my head.
They are stronger than love.
You try to remind me that I will be okay, I will get through this, tomorrow will come, you will be here, we will fix this.
You won’t fix me.
Your love may be strong but you are incapable of fixing something broken into so many shards. Your love will not heal me, it will not change me; it will not pull me from the memories of consummation that ache to consume me.
Illustration by Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen
Your Kind of Woman
by anon
yourelaborate decadency paints me blue your name scars civilunrest forevery word divinerevelation that callingmebrokenandwhenwepart bendmyself your speak straight orso i thought , for asingle rib bone. every impulsive whim. how could i say no when you to my we are one i am cast from your heart’s cage sculpted out of soul
feeds mytongue in violenthues my chest causing when you speak,icry islacedwith heraldsmyheart in somanyways i jumpatyoursign,, to yourwill,,
Daddy Issues
by Remi Lequevre-Akker
Content warning: references to homophobia, emotional abuse and violence
Our housemate made a gesture with his hands Like loading shells into a shotgun.
“You two loading the nukes?” He chuckled.
That was the first time you didn’t care I was crying.
When the tears stopped rolling, I tried to set the dining table.
I don’t know why I picked another fight.
You said something I can’t recall, then I yelled,
“You make me so angry I just want to throw something!”
“Go on then!” You dared me to throw that stapler.
As it shattered across the floor You screamed in my face,
“Do that again and we’re done! My dad used to throw things!”
Suddenly I was six again In my dad’s blue Falcon.
We were talking without eyes While he drove I don’t know where.
He said something I can’t recall, then I yelled,
“All I’m hearing is:
‘I’m gay, I’m gay, I’m gay!’”
My dad never threw anything. God, I wish he had.
Instead he left me All alone with Mum.
Though the tears stopped rolling I never sat in that car again.
He texted me years later. It was something like:
Delete this message, And the ones after it.”
“It’s all going to be OK. I know it’s hard with her.”
“It’s not your fault. Delete these texts.”
Now I was picking out staples From under the fridge.
You’re older, I’d thought. Maybe you’ll be like him.
Now you were leaving Too.
And I don’t know why You took so long.
Illustration by Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen
Flies Age Faster After Witnessing Death
by Aaron Agostini
My mother, on our recent trip to Hawai’i, refused to throw out the leis.
She said, I’ll take them home.
You can’t, they’re biological material. I’ll give them to little girls landing in the airport.
We won’t be in arrivals, we’ll be in departures.
I’ll press them in my novel and use them as a bookmark.
They have dogs that will smell them.
It’s sprouting with irony, really. Flowers being the quintessential symbol, a stereotype even, of fleeting beauty.
The whole point of a flower is that it dies.
Poets and 9-to-5 gas station attendants have appraised flowers as a symbol of humanity’s fragility for centuries.
And they probably will continue for centuries to come.
And yet, here is my mother, with a bag of half-brown flowers in a Ziploc in our hotel fridge.
It’s an understatement to say that my mother has trouble letting go.
She collects trash— receipts,
packaging, j elly jars— because it burns her to think that she has ever wasted anything.
She collects t-shirts like how a brow collects sweat digging holes in the yard on a hot day.
She’s jealous another girl got a Pearl Harbor t-shirt and she didn’t.
How else will she remember she went?
She microwaves leftovers (god, there are always so many leftovers) in Chinese takeout containers saved from before I was born.
The black plastic all around the edges delaminating like petals off a rose.
She gets mad when she can’t remember the name of a hotel, or one of my friends from 10 years ago, or that I like shrimp now.
SORRY!
I forgot you told me. I never told you. Also, stop apologizing. There’s something quite nice about the gentle exit of being forgotten. Almost like an exhale. Almost like a cloud. Almost like a bag of fading flowers accidentally left in a hotel refrigerator on the way to a flight home.
1 The title ‘Flies Age Faster After Witnessing Death’ refers to a study where researchers found that when a fruit fly saw another fly die, they began to age at a significantly faster rate. This is fascinating because it suggests that the flies aren’t cognitively aware that the experience is affecting them. This phenomenon isn’t exclusive to flies. Humans, too, often don’t fully recognize or understand how exposure to certain ideas or events can profoundly affect us.
References Gendron CM, Chakraborty TS, Duran C, Dono T, Pletcher SD. Ring neurons in the Drosophila central complex act as a rheostat for sensory modulation of aging. PLoS Biol. 2023 Jun 13;21(6):e3002149. doi: 10.1371/journal.pbio.3002149. PMID: 37310911; PMCID: PMC10263353.
remnants
by Elysha English
ceiling spider always suspended—in the corner of a memory—watching dust growing—not the girl I’m seeking—but—the strum of the guitar —‘songs to make you feel safe and ok’—through an old laptop on the windowsill—school corridor—my cobwebs slipping from the crown moulding—cold brick—downstairs—empty air and vinyl couches leaves on the perimeter—a lilac sunset—the moon—silver sliver— dewy underfoot—blindly stumble down to where the lawn disappears— into black water—waiting for her—fire crackling and yachts bobbing with the hum of it —and she’s gone.
autumn’s curse another dream—or fabrication—two women in an alleyway—nearly forgotten—it was the passage—of time—silent pools of fallen rain—words struck from the record at first utterance—no witness to recall them—dying leaf fluttering unseen between empty streets—only footsteps and a car backfiring in the distance—because—even then—I knew what this was—a one-night lie—like my mother gutting stone fruit—a gentle kind of violence.
Swarm
by Oscar Marklund
Swarm
Ekphrastic poem. Watch
Swarm - A McGloughlin Brothers Film / Music by Max Cooper https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9C3QygvMdbQ
As seen from the sky in the sea and your eye are die-cast granules of stellar flares –solar sighs suspended in radiation wherein syncopated byte sirens sound the hive-like frequency of humanity’s plight at warp speed.
There in the topology of oil-drowned histories is a cultural ratio, carved in and into corporate Fibonacci cubes – databanks housed in funhouse mirrors that skew any real sense of the golden mean as seen in labour-saving census-taking that out-source citizen screening to Google Street View.
O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound.
Let your eyes and vices be colonised by pretty, pacifying poisons perfused in settlers’ ethanol solution. Desiccated beneath the architecture of water wheels are crop circles that would make a conspiracist cry.
Contrail signatures cite citadels of skyscraped symmetry: the urban refrain in the wild. Undertows of silicon pheromones glissade down cyber streets fractally stacked like silent records of cymatic crackle in dark matter. Substrates in suprasecular veins seem to splay like neural pathways bled from arteries or insect wings: the creator in the synthetic things.
Our human flesh stretches over digital drums and cracks across Chladni plates at the cost of 102 biota per minute, quantised into Darwinian lines by ritual if not molecules as mercurial and staid as the wise tarns that bore in the swarm of us
all.
Open the door
by Annabelle Dillon Nocka
At the end of the hall, I see a door with eight square windows through it I can see green grass
A dam in constant motion
A roo and her joey
A mama and papa duck with their seven fluffy lings the sun is out there
But i can’t feel its warmth
I’ll have to open the door for that
Illustration by Felicity Yiran Smith
Positioning
Michelle Yu
Content warning: references to emotional manipulation and toxic relationships
I had slithered in, like a sightless, toothless snake, into the net of our relationship. Was I just too cold? Desperate for heat. You were the source of heat; and snakes get cold easily. Did you know that? Maybe you did, and held on ever the tighter.
When snakes get too hot, they have to get out of the heat quickly, or they’ll die of it. But perhaps not the inexperienced ones, or the young ones, maybe they’re not so good at it. Not so good at positioning themselves just in the sun, half of their thick, leathery, sinuousy body in the shade; so that when it’s too hot and it’s time to cool down, they’ve got somewhere to go. If they’re not so good at it, they might not know which direction to go and they would get too hot and they would just die, even though shade was only two feet away. Either way, you were the sun and you held onto me with your heat and didn’t let go and you took me with you when you were angry disturbed upset
angry
you held on and on and on and on and didn’t let go, I never knew how I could get out of this clutching heat and into the cool safety of some shade.
Until the day I curled round your fingers with my thick rippled body, and crushed your fingers till they turned red and purple and you had to let go and give up. hisss, defeated.
Give them what they gave you, that’s the only way they’ll go.
Goodbye, you clutching, grabbing beast. I know what makes you tick. I know where to squeeze you till it hurts too much to think.
Now, I’m free to go wherever I want, hot or cold, sun-warmth or shade.
And there’s nothing holding onto me, screaming, screaming, never letting go, plunging into the heart of a plasma-hot sun, you intent on bringing us both crashing down into that lava hot molten star with your grip on my body, crushing, crushing, so I can’t go.
Fibonacci poem Headlock Love
by Carmen McKenzie
Feint
Grip
Stumble
Stubble stud
Tackle-me embrace
Pleasure and boundary, headlock love.
Rough but seems to be held, seems to cradle the body.
Muscle, skin, sweat, challenge-me eyes, tender but so careful to touch without that gentleness. We pretend we are all the way inside each other and play along each time – the most serious lie we pull when we feel the most urgent.
Saw-toothed caress, soft dip, sharp edge. Strong guard, strained and tense, our bare-mouth fight. Cold metal kiss. Daring lips don’t offer sweetness. Unless we feel dangerous, unless we feel completely desperate. Then we could love like this, blow-by-blow.
Fire
by Matthew Lee
She emerged from the darkness with her arms full of branches and dumped them by the fire. She sat down beside me. “Not bad!” she said.
“Should keep us going for the night,” I said.
I moved the branches away from the fire with my feet.
She pulled out a packet of biscuits.
“Want some?”
I picked up a biscuit. It was round and covered with sugar crystals.
“Reminds me of the last time we came here,” she said.
“How old were we, five, six?”
“I can’t remember,” I said.
I finished my biscuit.
“We made a fire just like this.”
Pause.
“It’s strange how…” she began, but did not finish. Pause. I picked up a biscuit. It was star-shaped.
“Remember that night we snuck out of our tents and—”
“Let’s not talk about that,” I said.
“Why not?”
Pause. I finished the biscuit.
“Still scared of the dark?” she asked. Long pause.
“What am I, five?” I said at last. She made a sound, but I wasn’t sure if it was a chuckle or a sigh.
I picked up a biscuit.
“What do you want to talk about, then?” she asked.
“Why don’t we sit and enjoy the fire?”
“Okay.”
Silence. I finished the biscuit. I picked up a biscuit. I finished the biscuit. I picked up a biscuit. I finished the biscuit. I picked up a biscuit. I finished the biscuit. I reached for another, but felt only the plastic package. I reached further. I touched something soft. Her hand. I jerked back. She laughed.
“That’s it,” she said. “No more.”
She opened a bottle of wine. We finished that too. Silence. Nothing more to be done. I looked at the fire blankly.
“Do you remember when you told me about death?” she asked.
“When was that?”
“When we were kids,” she said. “We were playing by that bridge, the one made of stone, going over that dried up creek next to the gas station, you told me that everyone
dies. Remember?”
“No.”
“I didn’t believe you, and I tried to prove it to you by jumping off the bridge.”
“Oh.”
“I was scared to my guts, but I had to prove you wrong. No way you knew something that I didn’t. So I climbed over the railing.”
“I stopped you,” I said.
“You did,” she said.
Long pause.
“I think about it,” she said. “I think about how.”
Pause.
“You have to… do something,” she said. “Do you get what I mean?”
Pause.
“Maybe,” I said.
Long pause.
She stood up and sat on my lap.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Let me stay like this.”
She was warm. It reminded me of that time when we were children and we snuck out of our tents into the night and we were laughing and I laughed so much that I felt light-headed but I didn’t even care because I was so happy and excited and free but soon we got lost and I was scared to my guts my body froze up my chest tightened my vision blurred so I grabbed her in the dark and touched her bare skin and I was confused and I couldn’t see and I touched her more and more and more— I touched her leg. She didn’t react. She stared at the fire blankly. I kissed her neck.
She suddenly stood up.
“I’m getting a little tired,” she said. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Okay,” I said.
Long silence.
She sat back down beside me.
“I lied,” she said. “Maybe it’s easier this way.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Can you put some more wood into the fire?”
“Okay,” I said.
I put more wood into the fire.
Silence. I looked at the fire blankly.
Her head fell onto my shoulder. A feeling stirred within me, and I wasn’t sure if it was love or hatred.
(Settlers of) Catan
by Elle Harkaway
Content warning: references to colonisation, misogyny and themes of patriarchy
“The game is simple,” Theo said, ripping a zip lock bag open and spilling its colourful contents across the table with a clumsy clatter.
All night, Angie had been on her best behaviour. With her boyfriend, Max, squeezing her knee reassuringly under the table, she’d played her part perfectly, nodding and laughing at all the right cues. But Max’s friends treated conversation like tennis, smacking banter back and forth with a speed that made her speechless. Resigning herself to her role, she leaned back against her plastic chair to watch like a spectator.
As the beers were skulled from their bottles, the conversation became frothy. The night had darkened around the hot white light of the lampshade, and what could previously be called their wit had devolved into a string of references, quoting podcasts and memes. Angie had almost tuned them out, preferring the static of her own mind. But now, Theo had Angie’s attention. These words, spoken directly to her, were finally for her benefit.
“It’s even easier than Monopoly,” Theo said, smirking for the benefit of his mates, seemingly at mere mention of such a juvenile game.
Angie felt the hot blood in her face. She didn’t bring it up, he did—and yet, somehow, the joke was at her expense. As if they’d taken one glance at her mini skirt and gold earrings, and assumed she was a complete novice. If they’d bothered to ask, they’d know that Max had long-since given up on competing with her at chess and scrabble, insisting it was boring that she always won. Had they really mistaken her silence for stupidity?
She glanced back at Max, with an arched eyebrow, wondering if he’d correct the narrative. After all, she couldn’t brag on her own behalf. But he was oblivious, smiling placidly, sucking down another beer. Now, Angie was determined to win. Her lipstick rimmed glass of wine was now warm, but still half-full. Their minds were compromised, but hers was clear.
Each of the boys seated at the table began counting out their materials, collecting wooden blocks resembling roads and cities in the palm of their hand. From the corner of her eye, she caught Max jiggling them, like a merchant weighing coins.
“The aim of the game is to get Victory Points,” Theo said, pointing at an instruction card.
“And how do you get Victory Points?” Angie asked.
“And how do you get the most settlements?”
“Having the right resources,” Theo said.
“Or trading for them,” Max added.
“Or stealing them,” Theo said, pointing out the sanctioned figurine of the robber.
Three years in a politics degree, and Angie had never heard it expressed so simply. But Theo’s expression was devoid of any wry self-awareness—a curled lip acknowledging the colonial context. These were the rules of the game, and he accepted them for what they were.
As the tiles were laid, the world was carved up, neatly, into resources: wood, brick, wheat, sheep, and ore. Angie imagined this was how the world must’ve looked to the British and the Belgians, to the French and the Dutch, to all those nations that pushed a pin into a map, drew some borders, and then plundered everything inside them. But the boys beside her were studying the board, optimising the placement of their settlements for yield. Finishing off degrees in Commerce and Science, they had been trained to think in numbers—success only existed in what could be quantified. Clutching her settlement between her thumb and forefinger, Angie allowed her magpie eyes to swoop across the board in search of glimmering fortune. This was no time to imagine a new world, to stake her victory on a coastal city, rising like a lighthouse from the waves, shining the way forward to peaceful trade. Despite racing to build settlements and cities, she knew no-one was supposed to inhabit them. The fun was conditional on this being a land without people. Terra Nullius. No-one could be left to wander the shores, sharing stories of ocean-gods disappearing into myth like sea spray or civilisations that crumbled like sandcastles. No—to win, she had to play by the rules. Staking out a spot between the wheat, wood and ore, with high odds, she gambled on infinite upwards expansion. After a few rounds, Max was flailing, wasting his limited supply of wood on a fool’s mission to build the longest road. Theo had intercepted them, encroaching on Max’s territory by inserting settlements at the edges of his borders. The other boys were out of luck, groaning after each roll of the dice whenever it wasn’t the number they needed for wheat and ore. When Theo cut Angie off from
the interior, she doubled back to the coast, establishing other way to access sheep and clay, without paying the her latest settlement by a trading port. She figured there was no breaking into the boys’ club, and she needed anextortionate rates they never demanded from their mates.
“I reckon trading ports are pretty pointless,” Theo said, “you’d be better off building in a spot with more resources.”
“If any of you were offering me half-decent trade, I wouldn’t need to,” Angie said, “but I get it, it’s not in your interest to help out the strongest competitor.”
“For all you know, I’ve got an army saved in my cards, and I’m about to rob you blind.”
“I’d like to see you try—it’ll only give me another reason to retaliate.”
But the dice, so playful with their rat-a-tat in safety of cupped palms, fell from her fingers at an odd angle, landing like bombs to obliterate the cities beneath. In an instant, they were knocked from their carefully chosen crossroads and scattered across the board. Angie started muttering her apologies, instantly and instinctively, as she reached across the board to slide the pieces back into place—until a crystalline shatter announced the right angle of her elbow as it knocked the wine glass straight from its precarious perch.
“Fuck’s sake,” Theo said, standing up from his seat to assess the shards of glass strewn across his floor.
“I’m sorry,” Angie said, laughing to lighten the mood, “that was really clumsy of me.”
“Well, can you at least clean it up?” Theo said, already sitting back down to reassemble his empire.
None of the boys around the table met her gaze. Even Max kept his hands busy, fiddling with putting his pieces back into place.
“I don’t know where you keep your cleaning stuff,” Angie said, keeping her voice steady.
“In the kitchen,” Theo said, waving her away, “under the sink.”
Searching the back of the cupboard, she found a single, scrunched up rag. She doubted it had ever been washed, based on the lingering scent of mildew and bile. Gritting her teeth, she lowered herself to her hands and knees and held it at a distance as she mopped up the floor.
Collecting delicate fragments of glass in the palm of her hand, her mind returned, unbidden, to the Illustration by Ngochan Lam
F carnage she’d seen through the safe distance of a screen. rom that other city by the sea, encircled by a border. When bombs are dropped, the rubble cannot be so easily rebuilt, the shattered glass of blown-out windows swept away. Without enough ambulances to go around, it is not the wailing of sirens, but inconsolable mothers, grieving fathers, traumatised toddlers, that fills the footage. Even when Angie forces herself to watch, she now automatically mutes the sound. How many more times would the story pan out this way, with powerful people learning to play politics like a game—only to leave a mess of things for someone else to try and clean up?
“Angie, hurry up, it’s your turn to roll,” Max said.
“Go on without me,” Angie said, getting to her feet, “I’m not that keen on finishing the game anyway.”
“Don’t be like that,” Theo said, “we’re almost finished. Just roll! I’m like a turn or two away from winning anyway.”
After dumping the rag in the sink, Angie sighed and dried her wet hands against her skirt. Max dropped the dice into the palm of her hand, and she gave them a quick flick across the table. With a smug snort, she realised she could not have rolled any better. Collecting her bounty, she started upgrading her remaining settlements to cities.
“Yeah, well, you’re still two Victory Points away,” Theo said, crossing his arms.
Slowly and deliberately, she locked eyes with him as she flipped over her hidden cards, revealing the remaining Victory Points, stashed away.
“Oh wow, she cooked you,” Max said, already siding with the winning party, attempting to share in her triumph.
“Beginner’s luck,” Theo insisted, already setting up for another game.
During the car ride home, Angie didn’t feel like a winner. Curled up in the passenger seat, she scrolled past post after post of desperate people pleading for donations, for a ceasefire, for their stories to be shared, for someone, anyone, to give a shit about what is happening to them. Max kept his eyes on the road, nodding instead of listening, as she tried to explain the things she was seeing. Through the car window, the sky hung heavily overhead, starless and dark. Angie had spent years learning the rules of the game, and yet here she was, convincing herself she was powerless to change any of it.
The Dispatch From Table Four
The Cusp of Understanding: A Conversation with Peter Rose
by Sebastian Hugh
“What interests me is the cusp of a relationship,” Peter says, sipping his drink.
I am having coffee with Peter Rose—poet, writer, editor and CEO of the Australian Book Review. We are sitting in a meeting room in the building where ABR is headquartered. When the building was a girl’s high school, this room was the principal’s office. There is an austere quality to the space; something left over from the days when it was used to educate, or punish, the daughters of Port Melbourne dockside workers. The light filters in from a single window, coating the room in a blue wash.
As Rose talks, I think about the word cusp again. A point of transition. The abandoning of knowns, the transformation of self.
In 2001, Rose published a memoir surrounding the 25-year-long struggle of his brother Robert with quadriplegia after a car accident, and the ramifications of this event on his family, and himself. Robert was a promising athlete, a VFL player for Collingwood and a talented cricketer. Rose’s memoir captures the gruelling destruction of a body wrecked by quadriplegia; the purgatory of a person built for action resigned to bed.
“A shrewd and great publisher John Ironmonger encouraged me to write a memoir,” Rose explains. “It was all new and I had never written non-fiction. I had never taken the reader into my confidence. That within itself was the artistic challenge. Then there were ethical considerations. Our parents were still alive—they had gone through twenty-five years of difficulty. His [Robert’s] former wife was alive, and his daughter knew very little about the early years. Negotiating those was the core of the challenge.”
Rose’s memoir is at once profound and arresting as he describes his own position within his brother’s tragedy–self-need in the face of another person’s suffering. Describing an intense period in the late 1970s when Robert’s care began to impact his parents, Rose writes, “Part of me—consciously, subconsciously—resented the demands Robert inevitably made on them. Part of me wanted it to end, I suppose. Sons fear for their parents as much as for their brothers. But I was sickened by my disloyalty.”
I ask Rose about the impulse to conceal or evade one’s own faults when writing a memoir. He replies, “any memoirist who seeks to disguise the truth about their experience is bound to fail because readers insist on the truth and sniff out evasion and avoidance and compromise very quickly.” For Rose, writing memoir was not a drawnout exploration, but a considered pouring out. “Somehow, I began. I sat down one day and told myself, ‘If I don’t start this bloody book, I will return the advance and go back to my poetry’,” and out it came. I wrote the book in four months. It depends on how powerful the story is. I think the story… needed to tell itself.”
The conversation turns to a discussion of Rose’s youth and adolescence.
“It wasn’t happy,” he begins. “I made the wretched schlep down Springvale Road for six years to Haileybury, which was still a pretty severe Presbyterian all-boys school.”
In his memoir, Rose uses his diaries to build the impression of a bookish teen, frustrated in suburbia. In the friendship between Rose and the character styled ‘A’, the reader sees how a hostile school environment can fracture sexuality and identity. Again, the word cusp comes to mind; a point of transformation in life; the moment one gives in to something, something inside oneself that is not yet known, not yet understood.
“Even before you became fully aware of your sexuality, it was menacing and undermining at every level.” As Rose wrote in his diaries around that time, “I must impress upon you the importance of this feeling of dread that I have.”
I ask Peter a question I have often asked myself: how did you get through it? How does anyone survive that time?
“If you have any spirit, ambition and courage you get through it. Ultimately it is about friendship. You couldn’t look to family for liberation, however fond they were, because they were blighted.” Looking back, Rose describes his experience of understanding and accepting his own sexuality as one of personal comprehension, rather than protest. “Some people were brimming with confidence and provocation, and I look back with
great admiration for those people who said, ‘Fuck it.’”
Studying poetry in high school, Rose discovered his love for the craft. “I recognised something in poetry before I knew what poetry was. I had a brilliant teacher at my school who introduced us to new poetry and difficult poetry. He got us all writing, but he recognised in me some germ of potential. Even for those long years when I was bumbling along and unhappy, I kept writing. It was a slow apprenticeship. I wasn’t Keats or Rimbaud. I didn’t publish a poem until I was thirty—thank God, the early ones were shocking!”
“The hardest part is learning the technique, trusting your ear and finding a subject. An unhappy love affair was the liberating thing that got me writing. I needed to be hurt.” A pattern of common subject matter has defined Rose’s poetry. He admits, “I’ve got a limited repertoire as a poet: loss, epistemology, and satire. I’ve written a lot about family and what happened to us. My brother.”
“I don’t think you ever know when you become a writer. One is never finished, and one is never qualified. It is the doing to me that is important. To me, my constant work is as a poet. It’s such a weird business attempting poetry. It is the greatest privilege because it forces you to think unlike others. When you are in it, it is so difficult. The difficulty never goes away. But you take things and use them. A phrase of music. A work of art. Something on the street that will trigger something. Unhappy lovers parting. Curiosity on the tram. It is taking that to the desk and forming a rhapsodic swirl of ideas. That for me is when I know I am a writer.”
William Shakespeare goes to MUSE: Three Nights at the VCA’s Stunning Student-led Performing Arts Festival
by Claire Le Blond, MUSC
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
–Henry V, Act I, Prologue
Good tidings to you all. The William Shakespeare here. The real one. God save the queen and all that. Naturally, after recovering from those peculiar taverns the good people of Fitzroy call “gay clubs,” I took it upon myself to indulge in some honest to goodness theatre. Alas, I discovered that Melbourne refuses my farthings and shillings unlike in my quaint dwellings of the latter half of the 16th century. Fortunately, with the assistance of my overburdened guide, the Right Dishonourable Claire Le Blond (who is thankfully not French, I was thus informed), I happened upon a festival! Many of its participants are also frequent visitors to the taverns of Fitzroy, so I was guaranteed revelry. Reader, I am thoroughly delighted to declare that those three nights at the Victorian College of the Arts were some of the most delightful nights of theatre I have ever graced. My guide insisted on a series of works-in-progress called Mess. It began with Twink-le Little Star, a striking excerpt of devised performance art reflecting on the experience of “how black and curvy bodies are often forced to perform at the pleasure of everyone else except themselves.” It was a powerful piece. Then, several people in large hats with a plethora of charisma took the stage. I’m told cowboys came after my time and I am thoroughly hurt that there has yet to be a cowboy adaptation of Twelfth Night, but these large hat people proved delightful. We moved on to Roll4Roll, where the dice controlled all. It reminded me of being amidst the Globe’s groundlings, what with the chaos that ensued and its joyful spontaneity. In particular, that poor ginger lad they kept sending upside down demonstrated remarkable skill. While waiting, we listened to Umeda, a “dee-jay” set. I don’t quite exactly understand what a DJ set is other than that you spin plastic circles to make music, and the music was lovely. The only things people spin in my glorious England (Claire keeps telling me to stop saying nice things about England) are tomatoes at the lads in stocks. We moved to Tincan. I’m still unsure of what a train is but I am sure of the utmost excellence of this piece. An ingenious fusion of sound, lights, and stories, the evocative depiction of multiple plotlines coming together seamlessly. From this, we took a detour to the dance piece [UNTAMED]. Very different to the dances of my time (but then again, I am four hun dred and sixty years old), with extremely skilled dancers. Finally, Is Blood thicker than milk? A family drama
that had me chuckling, so completely absurd despite my lack of affiliation with modern references. Also, an abundance of milk. What a magnificent beverage. Moonstruck showcased a star-crossed romance between a possum and the moon. The script closest to verse of my time, had me in tears. I wrote myself in Othello that “it is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.” What is love but its absence, the light the dark, the going to the places we fear most. We moved to a Between My Legs, which Le Blond explained was adapted from my own work. At first, I was flattered. Upon finishing I was utterly flabbergasted, bewitched. From forth the fatal loins of the two performers, my Hamlet and my Ophelia came to life in a provocative new reality and I adored it. Disco is Dead presented several participants in what Claire reminds me is now regarded as “drag.” Packed with exquisite dance numbers, superb comedic timing, and literal packers, I cackled and caterwauled. The dance performance Cthulu conjured images of the legends of yore that the seafaring folk whisper amongst the London taverns. Birdwatcher took on a genre after my time, where the actor presented a multitude of sublime characters. The third instalment of Mess commenced with Ghosts. It is not my place to speak on its content so I will affirm that the performer was captivating, raw, and alluring, some of the best stage presence I have been fortunate to witness. The subsequent music of EVE was poetically beautiful. Poetic, even. Le Blond then introduced me to the interactive set The Dive. I was escorted into the deep sea only to provoke the wrong deity and be kicked out of the room. Enjoyed the revelry, nonetheless. Studio 5 presented a cruelly wonderful piece of theatre about painting—“it’s not cerulean, it’s barely Prussian blue!”—work ethic, and soul-crushing conformity. Indescribable feeling of captured some deeply absurd relations mostly from the perspective of an unfortunate canine, a delicate and heartfelt piece on how we love as the flawed unpredictable little beings we are. In contrast, What’s not to love? resembled an exceptionally remarkable Commedia Dell’arte intermezzo with much about votes for women. What a peculiar concept (upon me stating this Claire gave me what she assures is a deserved slap round the cheek). Ah well. Love is but a box of soup. To conclude the festival, we bore witness to BLAME. An incredible piece. No words can fully capture the staggering intensity of BLAME’s tremendous calibre. Alas, we missed three or four shows but I’m certain they were brilliant. In conclusion, I, William Shakespeare do wholeheartedly affirm my endorsement of these performers and do so truly hope to see them in my Globe Theatre some day in the near-distant future.
Illustration by Amber Liang
Hill House Has Eyes
by Donna Ferdinando
Whatever being walks all solitary along the hallways of Hill House, distinctly not sane nor for the sane, must be a marvel to behold. Its impending arrival is paved with motifs that exude brilliancy: a teacup spangled with stars, a field of crimson poppies, and the old gothic turrets, towers and concentric circles of a house upon a hill whose architect was evidently snorting something, whether that substance be of supernatural or mundane origin. Mike Flanagan takes Shirley Jackson’s motifs a step further in his adaptation of her work. The star-spangled teacup remains, but its brilliancy is now haunted (quite literally) by a series of ghostly Grecian statues peeking around corners and down corridors. Instead of crimson poppies, Flanagan creates a red room, the belly of Hill House that lures its occupants in and digests them before regurgitating its victims’ souls into the hellscape that is its architecture. For, the architecture of Flanagan’s Hill House is worse than the concentric circles of Shirley Jackson’s Hill House. Each room is a moving puzzle piece that morphs with every new form the red room takes, whether that be that of a reading room, a gaming room or a tree house. While Jackson’s house is walked by the one being, however, Flanagan’s Hill House is walked by a series of beings. One cannot draw a direct correlation between either. Jackson’s is a solitary creature. The facets of its personality—its tendency to violently shake sleeping women out of their beds, to bang at doors and rattle at door knobs, to make the walls bleed words and bait poor Nell into a violent death—are fragmented by Flanagan and assigned into his individual beings. Flanagan’s Nell is the author of her own tragedy, cursed to haunt and taunt her child self as part of her afterlife. Each living Crain sibling is further subject to hauntings by a series of ghosts during their childhood and well into their adulthood. The core of the hauntings in Flanagan’s Hill House, however, is the red room, and it is the red room that holds the only direct correlation to Jackson’s unnamed being, for it is the red room that moves its victims-turned-spectrals around its architecture as if they were its own appendages. Here, Flanagan transforms a house, a literal construction of wood, brick and mortar, into something spectral. Unlike Jackson, whose being and whose house
do interact but exist as entities separate from each other. It isn’t the first time a haunted house has been realised, instead, as a house that haunts. A haunted house, in all its adjectival glory, implies a stationary hollow structure populated by the [fucking terrifying] spectres of the living. A house that haunts is an entity in itself whether it houses ghosts or not. Stephen King’s Overlook Hotel was realised as an entity in itself, and Stanley Kubrick only exacerbated its sentient qualities. It too collects its victims through a series of ghosts that serve as its puppets to psychologically torture and manipulate its victims into joining the Hotel’s ghostly ensemble. And indeed, so does Flanagan’s Hill House, extending its ghostly appendages towards the Crain children, persuading them through the visage of their dead mother to choose death over their lives. What sets Flanagan’s iteration of Hill House apart is that it seems to exist outside of the realm of time or space. It can, unlike Jackson’s Hill House or King’s Overlook Hotel, quite literally change its material composition to reflect its occupants’ desire, including, evidently, the view outside of a window. In the case of the red room’s transformation into a tree house, Hill House then can also morph the ground upon which it is perched, or rather, subsume the grass, soil and bark of its environment into its corridors, forcing its victim to believe that they have traversed outside and clambered up a tree, when, in reality, they are still stuck in the belly of the red room. Hill House can bend time, forcing Nell Crain to haunt herself, and can manipulate matter. Flanagan’s Hill House, therefore, is indeed a house that haunts and not a haunted house. However, it is not just a house that haunts. Hill House is also a Chthonic, Lovecraftian entity concealing its wide open maw in plain sight. The only option to defeat it is, of course, good, old-fashioned arson to reduce the beast to nothing but ashes. And even then, unlike typical haunted houses and even the Overlook Hotel, Flanagan’s Hill House doesn’t go down easily. In the end however, its foundations do come down and everyone, the Crain siblings, ghosts and viewers are left in bittersweet tears. Unbound as it is by space and time and like as they might, however, Hill House’s eyes still continue to roam.
Illustration by Emma Bui
Omnis-phóbos (or) the fear of all:
Nosophobia, the fear of disease
by Wildes Lawler
This is where you find the Minotaur.
Down the maw. The beginning end of a slackening throat. Into the black bile. The fleshiest labyrinth. At its core is a beast. This is where you find the Minotaur. In the heat, the white - hot heat. I think I might be a Minotaur. Living in the heat, having the heat inside me. It turns my head inhuman and mad. My gut turns meat-hungry. It eats, cannibalises, the only amount left in me. But it will not, cannot, stop. I tried not to mess with the bull. I still got the horns. I always get the horns. This is where you find the Minotaur. In my body - labyrinth I have no thread from Ariadne to set me free. What do I do when I am all of Theseus, his cold-steel, and the head it fells. When I am the labyrinth too.
ghosts
I am told that my pain only exists if it can be seen. Its source: an organ that thumps, ripped out, held up for appraisal to people who know nothing of its worth. Then it is thumpless, like the low body of a bird stunned into death—out of existence. Inside is where invisible pain never fails to manifest, symptoms acting out like ghosts on an even ghostlier stage.
5-4-3-2-1
night it was an effort just to eat the day it’s an effort to eat any day and anyway last time you said i’ll call it quits they rolled their eyes until all you saw was white well i can’t afford to look up that high i’ll see into my brain and that never does me any good i wax wane wax wane perhaps that’s what they need me to explain slack my skull open and show them look here the black the rot even the leech whispering and speaking things i’ve never and will never voice especially not now i had a bad month in april but jesus christ if they saw me in june where every lunch-time is a hang-time of will the punch to my gut come when will it come why hasn’t it come yet why hasn’t it come when we all ate dinner an hour ago so why hasn’t it come until they do i’ll take another pill those little valium bullets send me away like a little song thrum thrum thrum that’s what it was like when the cold june-knife came along grey and i loved the rain but the rain didn’t love me despite summer not loving me either the june-knife is an always-knife right now they’re looking at you they just asked you something breathe deep deep breathe then there’s less room for the sharpness to take up 5 see the wine my glass the time on the wall its ticking hand my hands slicked with sweat 4 feel my fork my seat my heavy high head my sweat-slicked hands 3 hear echoes ringing nothing 2 smell my breath my sweat 1 taste the blood i eat my tongue and
The “Chasing That Feeling” Diaries
Myself and The Horns
by Lani Jaye
It rained ever so often in June. Back home in South Korea, it snowed until the streets were white, but Melbourne winters only had rain. Here, there was no in-between: either there was torrential rain for days, or none at all.
Jun Choi had only handed in his final assignment a week ago, and was finally resting after what felt like the longest semester. He’d informed his friends in advance of his week of hibernation, promising to catch up after. The week was coming to an end, and he was excited to make plans with everyone again. It had been forever since they’d had their little picnic. He longed for a replay of that day.
The cold is almost unbearable this June, he thought, gazing out the window of his single-person apartment. Rain poured down to the rhythm of a heavy metal song.
He remembered dropping a text in their group chat a few days ago, eyes hovering over his bright phone screen, fingers laced with the tips of his faded pink hair in anticipation.
– Heyyyy my hibernation period is almost over! Do you guys want to watch Inside Out 2 next week?
Jun knew one of them had gone back to their hometown for the break, and that another was in South Australia for a two-week winter intensive subject. His heart was hopeful, awaiting an equally excited response from the two friends who were still in Melbourne. Maybe they could hang out indoors, this time, he had thought.
But they had already made plans to go see the movie with their high school friends.
– All good haha, he said.
And as he typed the words, his fingers fidgeted and fumbled from the impact of the avalanche of what-ifs. It’s cold, he told himself, it’s just the cold, it’s just the cold, it’s just the cold.
It just so happened to be the darkest day of the year, the winter solstice. And like Cernunnos, the antlered god born on a day like this, he felt horns sprout from where his natural dark roots had begun to show. He felt different. It was embarrassing.
***
Three days later, it was raining. It was 2pm, only an hour after Jun had woken up from his twelve-hour sleep. He texted the group chat he had with Hawon and Taerin, his high school best friends, while curled up under the covers of his bed.
– Making plans to watch Inside Out 2 made me realise my friends already have friends.
– Ifkr, Taerin replied first, probably still in bed too. Her sleep schedule was just as messed up as Jun’s. Jun smiled at her immediate response. Taerin had moved to Adelaide a month before Jun moved to Melbourne last year. Jealousy is a disease, she said. He smiled at the hint of sarcasm in her text. She was a state away, but at least he had her, he reassured himself.
– That lowkey made me sad, he replied, but whatever.
Hawon was online. It was 1pm in South Korea. Jun chuckled. Are you slacking at work again? he wanted to tease him. But Jun stopped himself—just this once. It’d been a long, long while since all three of them were online at the same time. We really went from seeing each other six days a week to almost never seeing each other again, he thought.
– You know what, Hawon had begun to reply after catching up with the messages he had missed, I’m only still friends with a few people from school… and haven’t made new friends for the last 4 years. Craaaazy.
– Marry us, please, Taerin replied to Hawon.
Hawon ignored her, completely unphased by her badly-timed sense of humour.
Jun shook his head, not that either of them would see him. It had only been the darkest, coldest day of the year three days ago, but this was the warmest the bed in his apartment had felt in the last eighteen months. It felt like home, for the first time. Home.
– It would be funny if I flew back home just to watch Inside Out 2 with both of you, or at least just Hawon, if Tae doesn’t join. He meant to say this as a joke. Home.
Deep down, Jun knew he meant every single word he typed in that text. He wanted to laugh, and he did. He felt the fresh pain at the base of the antlers that had sprouted from his head.
– Why are all my best friends either states away or an entire continent away?! texted Taerin.
– Why did you move so far? Hawon responded to her.
– First world country with LGBTQ protection rights, Taerin replied.
– Bye.
Jun thought of his friends in Melbourne. He had been the missing piece of a five-pointed star, and he fit in so well with the four of them. But not perfectly. Jun was still distinct, and this made him way more ashamed than he should have been.
***
He had fallen asleep again without realising. When he woke up again, the heavy metal beat of the rain had shifted to a much lighter pitter-patter. The rain and cold in Melbourne always lulled him to sleep. He let out a shaky sigh, and the antlers extending from his dark roots bled crimson. He missed winters in Daegu.
Illustration by Lauren Luchs
He missed looking forward to the first snow of the season, he missed planning things with Taerin and Hawon, he missed being his friends’ first choice, he missed the very place he had wanted to escape. Every second of missing his past reminded him how different he was from his friends in Melbourne, of how he, alone, had to build himself a home again from the beginning. Jun opened Instagram. His fingers found their way to the blue plus sign near his profile picture, and he typed what was on his mind. He watched as a green circle laced around his profile. He had posted it as a story on his Close Friends list, which only had Taerin and Hawon, the two people who knew him completely. He opened it, and it read: Man, moving out, being independent, and making new friends in another country is great until you realise your friends already have friends and you’re literally left with yourself. At the end of the day, you’re just the one friend who is an international student.
One Unimelb Year
Semester 2 – Week 1
by bluehour
I ride down the alleyway to the bike parking, eyeing the red vine leaves in the arches overhead as I speed through and wonder how far into autumn we are. I walk back out of the room I parked my bike in, breathing in and out as I think to myself that it’s another semester done and there’s just one more to go. I look around as I walk in the direction of Dodds Street, noting how silent the place is at night. It’s not like it’s much livelier during the day either.
I guess the students here prefer to stay indoors—it’s always been quiet enough for Lionel and I to talk about stuff outside. He would skate on that flat patch of concrete at the far end of the park, while I’d sit on the grass a few metres away from him working on the composition drafts on my computer. The grinding noises of his skateboard on the gravel were pretty damn noisy as were the clanging noises whenever he would do a mid-air trick and land the board on one of those metal railings. One of my ears would be plugged with an earbud allowing me to listen to what I composed and the other would listen to him. We’d chat about random shit ranging from European politics to shitty teachers to which band we wanted to go to see if they ever came to Aus.
I get to the performing arts building and again swipe my phone to get in. There’s an eerie silence as I go up the lift and get to his locker on the second floor. It’s easy to find the pack of guitar strings he wanted me to get—I grab them and lock it back up. On the way out I pass by the study space that we would spend the other half of our break times in—the one we’d go to when he was also in the mood to get some computer stuff done. The table there is
huge, but he’d sit so close to me that our shoulders would basically touch. Sometimes I’d get annoyed and ask what the fuck he was doing, but he’d always say that it was so he could peek over to make sure I’m not procrastinating. And after five minutes I’d catch him browsing through Insta on his browser, looking at scantily clad girls or workout inspo and double clicking every time he saw something he liked. A pervert slash gym junkie with ADHD. I get back down to the ground floor and look around for a restroom. When I come back out, I end up taking a while to look at all the posters on the wall. Lionel would always get caught up reading through each and everyone of them whenever we’d pass by and I’d have to tell him to hurry up so we aren’t late to our respective classes. Cancelled? The musical? That sounds fun. Lionel had been saying for the longest time that we should watch one of the theatre productions on campus, but I guess we never made it because they’d always clash with my practices and assignments and stuff. He ended up not going to any, and I kinda feel bad because he’d always say he would prefer to go with me, even though sometimes like in this case it just never happened because I’m always busy doing something else. I tell him maybe he should go with our other friends, and he always says okay and then never does it. And then I ask him and he just says he stopped feeling like going. End of conversation.
I sigh as I walk out of the building and get my bike, my backpack now twice as heavy with all the extra stuff. I drive it out and I pass by Studio 3,
where Lionel would spend most of his time during semester bringing all those models he’d design into life. The gate is halfway up and I see some students working inside so I assume it’s busy all year round. Even as I rush by on my bike, the smell of sawdust, glue and solvent gets to me and I wince a bit as I ride onto the street.
Sometimes I’d buy coffee for both of us and I’d meet him just outside that workshop when he’d be giving himself a short break after spending hours tinkering away. We’d sit on that short brick ledge enjoying the coffee over a small chat. I’d be telling him about where I’m up to with my drafts and he’d be giving me progress updates and show me any of his projects, preferring to let me see the real thing if he could. Though I wonder sometimes, could all the years of inhaling whatever is in the air in these workshops maybe have contributed to whatever he has now?
It’s just a thought, but I don’t think I know any other reports of anyone suffering from the same thing, even in the other cohorts in his major. I know he’s a bit lazy wearing his PPE but he can’t be the only one, right? Fuck. Just thinking about it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m not his doctor and I can’t really do the guesswork for them. Plus, sculpting stuff is his passion and it’s not like he’s gonna stop doing it. Moreover, every workplace has its own hazards, I’d guess that cancer is also more of a chance thing than guaranteed because you were exposed. With that said, I just wonder.
by Laiken Jackson
Nimrada Silva
by Stephen Zavitsanos
by Nathan Pham
Formula One: By the 1%, For the 1%
by William Kenyon
While the roaring engines and star-studded crowds of Formula One keep millions entertained, nepotism and wealth play a crucial role behind the curtains in determining who makes it to the pinnacle of the sport. Since its creation in 1946, Formula One has cemented its spot as the world’s highest class of single-seater motorsport. It features technologically advanced, high-speed cars competing in a series of races called Grand Prix. The competition is held on various circuits worldwide, with only 20 of the world’s best drivers competing each year. However, financial barriers have increasingly undermined the competitive essence within Formula One, making the opportunities for drivers from lower and even middle-class backgrounds scarcer than ever. The development path for the average Formula One driver is a long and often highly expensive one. Most Formula One drivers will begin their careers by karting before their teenage years. In fact, the most recent world champion driver Max Verstappen started his karting career at only four years old. Whilst competing at a junior level should be a fun and inviting experience, the costs involved can often lead to substantial financial pressures. In Australia, karting at a junior level can set you back over $6,000 annually. This figure is immense compared to the fees involved with other junior sports such as football and basketball which will end up costing no more than $500 a season. Especially in this current financial climate, the average parent is simply unable to support a junior karting career that will typically amass to well over $25,000. Once they turn 15, talented junior drivers will be eligible to progress from karting to Formula Four, a nation-based open-wheel racing competition launched to allow young drivers to begin progressing to a Formula One level. However, talent is not the only barrier to entry. If you are one of the drivers who are talented enough to earn a spot in Australia’s Formula Four competition, the season will cost you over $150,000. This number only increases as you progress, with Formula Three and Two both costing upwards of $1,000,000 a season. The financial barriers to entry in high-level, competitive racing means that the highest level of the sport can only be accessed by the ultra-wealthy. Unless you are one of the uber-talented ‘wunderkind’ drivers who can secure a sponsorship at an early age, you will need to have wealthy parents or guardians who are willing to
commit tens and sometimes hundreds of thousands of dollars towards your junior career, a price that the vast majority of parents just cannot afford to pay. This culture of immeasurable wealth and nepotism bleeds through the ranks of professional driving all the way to Formula One. Almost every driver on the grid has forged their path to the top through financial aid from family or close connections to those within the industry. A prime example is current Aston Martin driver Lance Stroll. Lance Stroll’s father is businessman Lawrence Stroll, who is one of Canada’s richest people with an estimated net worth of several billion dollars. The real kicker? In 2018, Lawrence led an investor group to purchase the financially struggling Racing Point Formula One team for a fee of well over $100,000,000. A few months later, he signed his 20-year-old son to that same team, demoting promising French driver Esteban Ocon in the process. Despite showing many glimpses of racing talent, Lance’s career has been tainted with controversy related to his father since he was signed by the Ferrari Driver Academy. Ferrari’s academy is one of the most prestigious in all of the sport, known for hosting a plethora of junior talent over their many years. However, questions were raised when Lance was signed to the academy at only 11 years of age, especially given that his father is one of Ferrari’s most well-known collectors. Although this may have just been a coincidence, Lance had only been karting for less than a year when signed, which is a notably short period to develop the skills typically expected of a Ferrari academy driver. This trend continued when Lance was promoted from amateur karting to the Formula Four team Prema Racing not long after his father invested heavily into the team. Although Lance Stroll’s career is one of the more extreme examples, the fact is that a number of his Formula One competitors followed similar paths, either coming from wealthy backgrounds or being related to those in power in the industry. It is deeply disheartening to think of all the talented junior drivers who may have lost out on their careers simply due to a lack of wealth and connections. Yes, Formula One is an amazing sport—its high-speed drama and technological brilliance captures hearts all over the world. But for the average child watching at home, reaching Formula One as a driver will remain a distant dream unless they hail from the ranks of the ultra-wealthy. It is simply unfair.
‘Girl, so confusing’: Charli XCX and Lorde’s exploration of female friendship
Content warning: mentions of body dysmorphia and disordered eating
by Angelica Santini
Since its much anticipated release in June this year, Charli XCX’s BRAT has quickly become a cult classic. The initially dropped singles hyped up the record to be upbeat and full of charisma and attitude, with high-energy tracks like ‘Von Dutch’ and ‘Club Classics’. However, upon its release, BRAT proved to also be a transcending journey through the female experience, littered with internet and pop culture references. Simultaneously audacious and heartfelt, BRAT touches on a range of highly relatable themes encapsulating youth and womanhood, not shying away from the messy, complicated, and unflattering aspects of being a woman. A track which particularly piqued listeners’ interest was the compelling ‘Girl, so confusing’. The internet was quick to link the track to fellow singer and icon, Lorde. The track is clearly aimed at another woman in the music industry, and it’s not hard to see how the connection was made, with lyrics such as “They say we’ve got the same hair” and “Think you should come to my party / And put your hands up” (a reference to Lorde’s lyrics in her track ‘Team’). The track itself is bittersweet and cerebral, detailing Charli’s relationship with her peer who could either be a friend or a fierce rival who wants to see her fail. Within this highly unrelatable context, Charli manages to express something profound about a certain kind of female friendship, which can at once be tender and understanding, but also a wkward, insecure, and competitive. Charli expresses that complicated dynamic in a raw and powerful way, singing “Sometimes I think you might hate me / Sometimes I think I might hate you”. This complicated relationship is clearly situated in a broader social context. The lyrics speak to the expectation that they should compete with each other, because they are in the same field and somehow “similar”. The chorus brings back the relatability of the track with the lyrics “Girl, it’s so confusing sometimes to be a girl” inviting us to relate to these complicated feelings. This is followed by “Girl, how do you feel being a girl?” encouraging the listener to ponder this question. Then, just two weeks after the release of the initial song on BRAT, Charli releases a remix of the track, featuring none other than Lorde herself. The first listen of this track is truly an emotional experience. Both Charli and Lorde are vulnerable, going into their struggles not only within their relationship, but also as women who are frequently compared and pitted against each other. Lorde’s lyricism
Illustration by Grace Hamilton
is poetic, as she details her struggles with self-image, and feelings of jealousy towards Charli, who’s life “seemed so awesome”. She describes how the traumatic events of trying to “starve herself thinner” and being called a bitch at a young age then led her to project this unhappiness onto Charli—these struggles unfortunately speak to a common female experience. Ultimately, the two do, as Lorde sings, “work it out on the remix” where they humanise each other and find connection in the face of their shared experience of objectification and commodification by the music industry. Lorde ends her verse with “I’m glad I know how you feel / ‘Cause I ride for you Charli”, ultimately celebrating their newfound understanding and sisterhood. The pair have been at the centre of their fair share of internet pop-culture moments over the past decade. In an interview from October 2014, Charli—being mistaken for Lorde—was asked about the meaning of ‘her’ song, ‘Royals’ (Lorde’s 2012 breakout hit). Rather than correcting the interviewer, Charli played along and provided an on-the-nose description of the song’s message. Then later, in 2020, Charli tweeted about finally watching The Hunger Games movie series. This immediately blew up on twitter, mostly because Charli actually made a song for The Hunger Games: Mockingjay (Part 1), which was released in 2014. When fans questioned how she’d never seen the movies before—despite her having literally made a song on the soundtrack—Charli’s blasé response was that Lorde “sent her an email with the plot summary and vibe” and Charli just “went with it”. Given this history and the poignancy of the lyricism of both the original and remix tracks, it’s clear why the internet would completely “go crazy” about this collaboration. After only being released for less than 24 hours, the track quickly blew up online. Fellow it-girl and icon, Julia Fox, made a TikTok claiming that the song healed her “girl trauma”. In the TikTok, Julia, a certified girls-girl, reflected that women are “conditioned to see each other as competitors, when really [they] are teammates”. Lorde and Charli eloquently describe how society’s treatment of women can lead to disconnection and feelings of competition. They also show the power of communication in healing complicated and confusing relationships. The combined work of Lorde and Charli feels like the marker of a new wave of pop music; one which is self-aware, introspective, and culturally contextualised.
God’s Own Country vs Ammonite: Where Did it Go Wrong?
by Ledya Khamou
With his directorial catalogue of God’s Own Country (2017) and Ammonite (2020), Francis Lee has demonstrated an interest in telling tender love stories in remote landscapes. However, his depiction of queerness in God’s Own Country, a film that centres a gay relationship, varies significantly from the lesbian analogue depicted in Ammonite. In an interview with Melbourne blog In a Lonely Place about his first film, Lee claims, “I wasn’t consciously thinking about a canon of queer cinema”. Rather, he posits that he focused on “the truth and the authenticity of the world”. Nevertheless, the film itself was regarded by critics, reviewers and fans as an example of the emerging quasi-genre of “queer joy”. The Guardian’s Benjamin Lee argues in a 2018 piece that “LGBT cinema still needs more happy endings”. In the article, Lee references late-2010s LGBT films which deviated from the trope of traumatic endings for gay characters in films, such as Moonlight (2018), Carol (2015) and Love, Simon (2018). And, with its rural landscapes and minimalistic dialogue, God’s Own Country is often regarded as a revamped, happy-ending alternative to Brokeback Mountain (2005).
I don’t mean to minimise Francis Lee’s directorial intention with God’s Own Country by solely attaching it to the context of queer joy in cinema. While promoting the film, Lee frequently emphasised that the inspiration for the story came from the brutal and isolated landscape of the Pennines in West Yorkshire, where Lee grew up. This overwhelming, beautiful setting enriches the characters’ flaws as well as the nuances of their dynamic. Lee uses the love story between Johnny and Gheorghe as the centre from which tenderness blooms
across the narrative; the apathetic ridges of farm life are smoothed by loving hands. It is Lee’s concentration on the holistic impact of love, and his personal connection to the landscape, which allows for a compelling and poignant queer narrative. Lee illustrates that when love flourishes, unrestrained, it has a transformative effect. Lee’s careful consideration of the rich and nuanced aspects of the gay love story in God’s Own Country makes his clumsy direction of the lesbian relationship in his second film, Ammonite, all the more jarring. Following such trailblazing efforts as The Handmaiden (2016), Novitiate (2017) and Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), Ammonite borrows the surface-level hallmarks of the quiet, melancholic lesbian romance film—it’s all greyscale, desolate locations, lingering glances and crumpled white bed sheets. Beyond these cliched signifiers, however, Lee fails to pierce the skin of the romance between Charlotte and Mary. Richard Lawson, a writer for Vanity Fair, states that the film is “too remote to let us in”, and dubs it mainly a “mood piece”. With Lee’s methodical style of extreme wide shots, letting the setting suffocate and define the story’s characters, I find myself looking to the location as the precedent to the love story in Ammonite. In its dull, unimaginative depiction of Victorian dreariness, as compared to the loving shots of rural West Yorkshire, Lee betrays his lacklustre efforts to enrich the film in all aspects. So, the moodiness of the harsh sea, the hard rocks, the claustrophobically silent house—it rouses nothing spectacular or authentic. However, I also wonder whether Ammonite’s inauthenticity is merely a stylistic flop. The Guardian’s
Emma Madden describes the film’s romance as one of difference, “a thin phantasm of a … lesbian separatist sanitarium”, the lovers separated by wealth and age, only united by a maternal, “caregiving” conception of love. Charlotte and Mary’s cold distance within the movie is juxtaposed by the explicitness of their sex scenes. There is certainly a radicalism to showing explicit gay sex in cinema, reconfiguring it as natural, loving and pleasurable— Lee achieved a naturalness to the camera’s gaze with the casually explicit sex and nudity in God’s Own Country. However, lesbian sex in cinema is encumbered with a fetishistic history (see, Blue is the Warmest Colour, Chasing Amy, Gigli, etc.) which Lee does not necessarily shake off. Charlotte and Mary are never allowed the casual intimacy of Johnny and Gheorghe—they are either barely touching or violently embroiled in pornographic lust. It is as if Lee cannot imagine lesbian love as having more depth than the extremes of chaste, repressed longing or overblown, wild sex, as informed by the cinematic history of lesbian desire. Ammonite’s mediocrity highlights the omnipotence of the male gaze in lesbian cinema—the way lesbian love is caged in fetishistic tropes and prevented from being realised authentically. Perhaps this is a microcosm of the state of queer cinema as a whole. While gay desire is often legitimised via mainstream popularity, the distinct and rich experience of lesbian desire has too often been relegated to the shadows. Perhaps Ammonite would have been a better movie if lesbian desire was not so consistently sidelined.
Vampires and Why Characters Should Suck
by Rashdan Mahmood
I think writers are afraid of making their vampires suck.
Now I’m not talking about sucking blood. I’m not even talking about making them suck as people. Every writer’s been told to give their characters flaws and failings. No, I’ve seen plenty of good character drama, just not good vampire drama.
A big problem is the neglect given to action storytelling. Action is trivialised and seen as extraneous to the ‘real meat’ of a story – thematic engagements, emotional arcs of characters, etc. But I think both creators and consumers are missing out if they fail to consider action in integration with the more immediately cerebral elements of a story. Indeed, the incorporation of action serves to practically demonstrate the themes of a given work. If neglected, it can undermine the message a story was going for.
Consider the “power of friendship.” Many stories pay lip service to the idea that a group of people can achieve more together than any of them could on their own. Unfortunately, they often forget to represent this meaningfully when action scenes privilege single combat and sideline supporting characters. A main character is more likely to be hypercompetent (or grow to be hypercompetent) in combat than have weaknesses which need to be covered by their supporting cast. Put another way, the main characters of action f iction aren’t allowed to suck in any way.
This is an especially missed opportunity in vampiric action. Vampires are creatures defined in
measure by preternatural powers and supernatural susceptibilities. Yet, many stories neglect to capitalise on the tension between the terrifying strength of a bloodsucking, shapeshifting, immortal monster and their sundry list of weaknesses.
The dynamic writes itself whether the vampire is an antagonist or protagonist. In the former case, mortal protagonists have a fighting chance to confront the vampire, putting them in a collision course with the jaws of the beast and its capacity for horrific violence. In the latter case, a vampire protagonist is forced to find solutions to conundrums borne out of their various vulnerabilities, giving opportunities to demonstrate their cleverness or willingness to collaborate.
Where writers falter is in choosing weaknesses that properly balance a vampire’s strengths. Garlic is hardly relevant when a vampire is too busy chasing you to get tricked into eating anything. An inability to cross running water is setting dependant. Wooden stakes are boring, because it’s arbitrary as to when someone will successfully land the one hit they need to kill the monster. Sunlight is perhaps the most iconic vampire weakness in pop culture, and it’s for good reason. Thematically, it creates the strongest shorthand for the difference between mortal and vampiric existences. Vampires are at their most active in the hours where mortals (night owls excepted) are at their least. Emotionally, it’s a strong source of angst for vampires, whose
immortal lives are forever lacking due to the sun’s violent rejection of their being. Your vampire bestie can’t go on a day trip with you if the day will literally kill them. From an action perspective, it sets a hard limit for how long a vampire can be a threat and creates a clear “win condition” for mortal protagonists. Even if you can’t kill the monster, you can escape it by making it through the night and getting as far away as possible
However, when it’s the single genuine vulnerability of your vampire characters, all drama hinges on the hope or danger that it will be exploited. It’s like Superman’s weakness to Kryptonite. A single weakness, if repeatedly fallen for, risks getting old and makes the superpowered character seem incompetent. Conversely if the character only has one weakness, it’s easier to find ways to overcome it, and functionally treat the weakness like it doesn’t exist. Superman can wear a lead suit. Vampires can afford an umbrella. The solution I propose is to return to some underutilised weaknesses from classic vampire lore. Things like a compulsion for counting or needing permission to go through the doors of a household. I suspect the reason these don’t see a lot of play is that they’re “too silly”, while simultaneously being too big to ignore. After all, a vampire can avoid eating garlic but can’t ignore the door between them and their prey. Theoretically, one can’t fear a vampire if they stop everything to count the shards of a shattered vase or
wait in the rain outside your door like a sad puppy. Thus, these weaknesses are relegated to depiction in the comedic and the non-threatening such as Count von Count’s math lessons from Sesame Street and the scene in What We Do in the Shadows (2014) where Dracula struggles to hypnotise someone to open the door for him. My counterargument is that the writing challenge of making a vampire competent despite these weaknesses will produce more engaging heroes and more terrifying villains. Imagine the lead up to the monster of a horror film, where the fragile antiques are all suspiciously bolted in place. A vampire villain who has accounted for their vulnerabilities ahead of time is more f rightening, while still setting up the means of their destruction. Imagine a protagonist who needs supporting characters to get into places and grant them permission to enter. Now the vampire hero has people they need to rely on, who are also putting themselves in danger. To be clear, I’m not gatekeeping vampires (though you wouldn’t need gatekeepers if vampires needed permission to enter your home). Bram Stoker’s Dracula could live under the sun and Marceline from Adventure Time sucks up the colour red. You should tailor your vampires to the goals of your story. But if your story has action, be it a fight or a chase, try elevating it by giving it some more engaging stakes. Because the wooden ones are too damn stale.
Illustration by Tina Tao
Straight Actors, Gay Characters and the Politics of Representation
by Fergus Sinnott
At the 78th Academy Awards, Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain was snubbed for the Academy Award for Best Picture. At the time of its release, the film had been noted for its depiction of a homosexual relationship between two cowboys, and became both a critical and mainstream commercial success. After Brokeback Mountain’s sweepstakes early on in awards season, the Academy received backlash for allegedly awarding Best Picture to what was deemed the ‘safer’ contender (Paul Haggis’ Crash, which dramatised the aftermath of 9/11).
Years later, queer stories are not only more present in mainstream media, but queer interest films have also gone on to win Academy Awards (Moonlight; Everything, Everywhere All At Once). Despite this, the politics of representation in queer media continue to spark debate among critics and audiences, particularly whether or not the roles of queer characters on screen should be reserved for queer actors alone, and these representations relate to the lived experience of LGBTQ+ individuals.
In 1997, both Ellen DeGeneres and Ellen Morgan—the fictionalised version of herself DeGeneres played on her eponymous sitcom—came out as a lesbian on Season 4’s ‘The Puppy Episode’. The television sitcom Will & Grace, debuting in 1998, became the first primetime US television series to star multiple openly gay characters (namely the titular Will, a gay lawyer; and Jack, Will’s best friend). Ellen’s “The Puppy Episode” and the initial eight-season run of Will & Grace are both credited for shaping cultural attitudes towards members of the LGBTQ+ community in American society at the time. At the time, however, DeGeneres’ coming out on national television
was met with significant backlash, prompting a drop in ratings for the sitcom and the imposition of an “adult content” warning at the beginning of subsequent episodes. The show was then cancelled after its fifth season aired The question of how to best represent queer characters and experiences on screen has always been a topic of discussion. Some argue that queer characters should only be played by queer actors, which ensures the roles are performed by actors with lived experience as queer people. But this form of affirmative action in casting raises challenges of its own. To return to Will & Grace: while the character of Jack was performed by Sean Hayes, a gay man, Will was played by Eric McCormack, who identifies as straight. While McCormack has been a longstanding ally to the queer community, he denounced the idea of actors being required to disclose their sexualities as part of an audition. Andrew Scott, who has shared his own misgivings about the phrase “openly gay” as it pertains to him and other celebrities, reflected in an interview on how a number of people in Hollywood suggested it was in his best interest to keep his sexuality private. Numerous other celebrities, from Raven-Symone to Jim Parsons, Colton Haynes to Kit Connor, have expressed similar sentiments. So, is there a middle ground? On the one hand, there’s the argument that queer narratives should have queer actors at the helm. This would suggest a kind of moralistic value to having queer actors tell queer stories in what would be seen as an authentic manner. As Eric McCormack said in a 2024 interview: “There’s no part I’ve ever played where I wasn’t playing something I’m not.” And if queer actors are
able to find success in Hollywood today with a variety of acting roles, the inverse ought to be just as valid.
When considering queer media myself, three films stood out to me as personal favourites that each provided nuanced depictions of the queer experience. Those films were Tom Ford’s A Single Man, Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho and Andrew Haigh’s All of Us Strangers. What intrigues me about these films is that, while all are directed by gay filmmakers, only one features a gay actor as part of its film’s primary gay relationship (Andrew Scott in All of Us Strangers). All three films were well-received by audiences and critics, and the handling of their queer subject matter was highly praised.
So by this margin, it would appear that one answer to the issue of queer representation onscreen is to have queer directors and writers behind the camera, and then have actors selected solely on their performance ability. But this isn’t to say that there’s any perfect solution to this issue overall.
In the end, films and television shows are only ever approximations of reality and lived experience, and how a queer narrative goes about achieving this approximation needs to be considered on a case-by-case basis. That being said, decisions made in the process of casting a queer character should only ever be interested in achieving an accurate, nuanced depiction of the queer experience, in a manner that depicts its queer characters in all their humanised glory.
Moon Face
by Ailene Susanto
Content Warnings: References to eating disorders and mental illness
I have a moon face, a gift from Baba—or his family, at least. When my Yeye first held me in the hospital, he said I had a moon face. “How lucky,” he exclaimed as soon as I finished my first cry. The Chinese feng shui believed women with plump cheeks and chin had the look of luck: if a woman fulfills those criteria, she would make a good wife. Somehow, that was how they defined luck.
“This is my daughter,” Mama said to one of the many people that filled my grandparents’ home during the Lunar New Year celebration as she nudged me forward and whispered into my ear, “Say hi.”
“Hi,” I said, gripping tightly on the hem of Mama’s skirt.
“Oh, what a round face you have!” the woman replied. “Definitely hoki in the future.” Hoki means lucky. Mama would go around the house introducing me to another ten or so people and their comments were more or less the same.
“So hoki ya.”
“She’ll get a good husband in the future.”
“Very beautiful, just like the moon.”
The Chinese believe the moon to be symbolic of women and their femininity. So, did that mean the more resemblance I had with the moon, the more beautiful I was? It was a child’s fantasy. My fantasy. A child’s way to cope with something she didn’t want but was born into having.
Looking at old photographs, I realise my chin was so subtle that it hardly stuck out between my chipmunk-like cheeks. I loved it. I beamed at the resemblance I had with Eleanor from Alvin and the Chipmunks.
“Can I pinch your cheeks?” a senior of mine asked when I was in preschool.
I nodded, then she spent a few good minutes dragging my cheeks to my eyes and all the way down to my chin and back up again. Others then approached us asking to do the same. I said yes, not only because I had been a people pleaser ever since I was young, but also because I secretly loved the attention. My moon face felt like a blessing considering that it was, supposedly, something everybody wanted but not many had.
The line bordering having a moon face and being considered chubby had always been thin and progressively blurred as I reached my teenage years. In the 21st century where the beauty standards no longer revolve around a woman’s luck in finding a perfect husband, having a moon face no longer felt so hoki.
Once in sixth grade, my brother said to me one of his classmates thought I looked like a pig. It was the moon face and my slightly upturned nose that hadn’t fully developed then.
I felt like throwing up.
The Chinese do not believe in mental disorders. If it can’t be seen, it’s not there. Right?
“It’s all in your head.”
“Always with the imagination.”
It is a taboo to speak of mental disorders on the family dining table or anywhere near your grandparents’ presence because it’s a disgrace. They migrated to a whole new country, broke their backs to be where they are now and provide their three-generational family with a comfortable life without a single sniff of negative thoughts and what did you say? MENTAL DISORDERS?
“That’s insane.”
Literally. I had my first glimpse into eating disorders when I was thirteen. I watched my first K-drama series called My ID is Gangnam Beauty. The series, though it fell into the genre of romantic comedy, focused on the harsh beauty standards Asian women face and the severe actions those women are driven into taking. I watched as the “bitchy” character sprinted to the bathroom after eating her lunch, stuck two fingers down her throat and started projectile vomiting into the toilet bowl. Up to this day, six years later, I still can’t bring myself to watch it for the second time. I saw how badly it could affect people, but I didn’t know how bad it actually feels.
When I reached high school, everyone grew up to be conventionally attractive. The girls in my batch were beautiful and it was obvious the boys wanted them. The reality finally hit. Having a moon face was the furthest thing from hoki. It felt like a curse and I wanted to get rid of it. No matter what.
In 2020, Mama sat me down at the dining table. Her clothes were patchy with sweat but there was no food steaming on the table. I could tell it was one of those conversations where she spent her time cleaning the house thinking about how to best go about it without upsetting me. Nonetheless, I was upset. She told me she was sick of seeing me lose myself over a number on the scale. I was too. Cursing myself out for eating too much the day before was not an ideal way to start my day. Nor was the overwhelming guilt that forced me to lay out my yoga mat and exhaust my muscles even on my worst days. It was tiring. I was tired and Mama saw that. But I couldn’t stop. I was obsessed— (and helpless). So, I sobbed— (and prayed it’d be over soon). And I’d like to think then, Perhaps, the moon is crying with me too.
Illustration by Ngochan Lam
Praying
by Chiaki Chng
Content warning: mentions of religious trauma and violence
Scrolling through the Instagram account of American ironic-fashion label Praying is an experience that can be likened to talking with a mean, sarcastic friend. Items with pop culture references to films like Twilight and artists like Lana Del Rey serve to both outline the target demographic of the brand and create a sense of rapport with said audiences. Furthering this sense of relatability, the brand exudes an essence of ‘post-woke’ guilty pleasures—the words ‘SKINNY’ and ‘I LOVE MEN’ emblazoned on baby tees; the viral slip dress printed with slogan ‘GIVE GIRLS MONEY’. A carefully careless curation of messy Iphone photographs depicts feminine models in either seductively coquettish or coquettishly seductive poses, wearing garments printed with outrageous phrases like ‘ROTISSERIE CHICKEN’, ‘GOD’S FAVOURITE’ or, my personal favourite: a three-triangle bikini—printed with ‘FATHER’, ‘SON’ and ‘HOLY SPIRIT’, respectively. Then there is that name, which implies a shared understanding of the complex struggles of something greater—a deeply patriarchal and restrictive religious monoculture that many were raised with. A culture that shuns overt female sexuality, immodesty and deviance from the religious norm. To pray is to devote oneself to spirituality; to submit to God and seek divine forgiveness for sin. In Christian theory, anybody can pray—it’s believed that everybody should. However, those with church-related traumas know that in practice, this often isn’t the case. Art that sexualises religion to spite it or make arguments about its complicated dynamics in communities has always been around. The past couple of years brought about a trend in ‘Catholic Core’ and related conservative aesthetics, with the re-popularisation of white blouses, lambs, rosaries and Sotce-esque text posts on Instagram that expressed troubling aspects of girlhood. Unsurprisingly, the ‘Is filming a music video in a cathedral akin to spitting on the grave of Christ himself?’ discourse was also brought out from its dustless spot on the shelf. Whether you’d call it tactical rage bait or radical reclamation of repressive structures, our age of ironic, referential humour (a la ‘Jesus was a carpenter’) and consciousness of gender—especially femininity—has become the perfect incubator for a revival of religious aesthetics. Moreover, the performance of experienced identity and ‘wokeness’ has become a staple in pop culture, to the point where those desiring alternative, edgy identities scramble to (often ‘radically’ conservative) parts of the zeitgeist that help to maintain their sense of ideological and aesthetic novelty. In contrast, a taxonomy of earnest artists who create to explore true and diverse experience thus emerges, challenging minds in ways to which their subversion-for-subversion's-sake counterpart’s pale in comparison. For the former, I’d like to make an example of Ethel Cain (the pseudonym for Hayden Silas Anhedönia), a Southern Gothic artist whose album, Preacher’s Daughter, I became fascinated with during my final year of high school. Anhedönia’s discography is influenced by Christian and Gregorian hymns, with indie-rock sounds and glimmers of synth motifs. Portions of the album I can’t bear to
listen to because of sheer horror: low growls and whispers build to chilling screams for help in Ptolemaea, and I’m frightened but enchanted by the richness of its storytelling and lyricism. ‘You love blood too much, but not like I do’ refers to the victimised Ethel’s devotion to Christ, in opposition with her possessed-by-Satan lover, Isaiah. The songs are bound with a disquieting storyline of intergenerational domestic abuse, religious trauma, and sexual encounters with dangerous men which ultimately end in the fictional Ethel being cannibalised, lyrically speaking from the stomach of her lover in Strangers. It’s through this fictional character of Ethel Cain that Anhedönia creates an avenue for expressing her real-life grief, as a transgender woman who left church at 16 after coming out as queer.
“These crosses all over my body remind me of who I used to be.”
(Family Tree)
“And Jesus if you’re there, why do I feel alone in this room with you?”
(American Teenager)
And it’s why corporate endeavours like Praying leave a weird taste in my mouth. That, and the item that prompted this piece in the first place—a red and white hoodie sporting the label ‘MELANIA TRUMP’. Reading the comments under the product photo makes my head hurt a little. “Yooo unrelease this” asks one. “Is this liberal? I’ll buy it if it’s a liberal joke,” queries another. Most curiously, one observes that “the ones saying they love it look exactly how [they] expected them to look,” putting to question who Praying is really for: those poking fun at their own unfortunate circumstances, or those poking fun at others’ unfortunate circumstances? Looking again at the comments, the sentiment that those who don’t like it ‘just don’t get it’ is not an uncommon one—which seems to be precisely how the brand manicures its edgy, exclusive ethos. There’s another, less-criticised hoodie the brand sells: one with Chinese words and an awkwardly executed translation underneath: ‘Whole day I’m fucking busy only get a few money’. The cheap joke here obviously plays into the stereotype of foreigners who don’t speak English very well, but another evaluation of exclusivity and audience realises that Chinese workers, specifically, fall into another stereotype of cheap exploitation by Western corporations. It’s another signifier of who, and what the brand is. Perhaps, also, a signifier of what aesthetic s ubversion often tends to become. And this isn’t surprising—the ‘artification’ of striking material will always make room for people to cash in on alternative ideas and water them down into microtrends, usually as facile products or hit-or-miss marketing ploys.
But Ethel Cain—she will always be real to me.
“But I always knew that in the end, no one was coming to save me
So I just prayed, and I keep praying and praying and praying…”
(Sun Bleached Flies)
Lost and Found in Translation
Content warning: references to colonialism, religion
by Jesse Allen
“The limits of my language are the limits of my world”— so runs Ludwig Wittgenstein’s famous dictum. Anyone who has ever tried to learn a new language will know these limits all too well: whether it’s the frustrating inability to articulate a thought with the limited vocabulary at hand, or the tantalising charm of a foreign phrase which confounds any attempted translation. If language is how we articulate meaning and mediate between the self and the external world, then the specific vernacular into which we are born doesn’t really matter; though we might grasp for different words in doing so, all of us are, fundamentally, seeking to express the same things.
That was one of the conclusions at which Walter Benjamin arrived in his much-analysed Die Aufgabe des Übersetzers (The Task of the Translator), originally published in 1923. But he didn’t stop there. For Benjamin, this was evidence of an ancient, all-encompassing “reine Sprache” (pure language) or “wahre Sprache” (true language), in relation to which all the dialects to be found on Earth today are merely broken shards. The Tower of Babel casts a long shadow in Benjamin’s essay: as the perfect motif for a lost linguistic unity, it encapsulates the destructive fragmentation which ensues when we forfeit the ability to understand one another. Where much of modern translation theory centres around inter-cultural mediation, the task which Benjamin envisaged for those who traverse the terrain between languages has a distinctly mystical flavour. It is their responsibility to work towards an “integration of the many languages’’ into one which is whole and “true.” At the crossroads between two languages, they have a unique vantage point, where it is possible to catch a glimpse of their former wholeness. In his seminal work, Orientalism, Edward Said interprets the emergence of philology (the study of the history of language) in the early nineteenth century as the death knell for any serious, academic engagement with “the divine origins of language” (although, clearly nobody told Walter Benjamin). Speech was no longer a sacred gift bestowed in the Garden of Eden, but rather the product of organic evolution and competition. It became just another means towards establishing the supposed superiority of certain cultures over others. It is not difficult to see the ramifications of this paradigm shift in the world
today: the Nigerian author Ngũgi wa Thiong’o describes the reality of enforced “auto-translation” under British rule, and the suppression of his mother-tongue, Gikuyu, through a “coercive system of rewards and terror.” These considerations make Benjamin’s pining for a pre-Babel paradise all the more relevant and compelling; his very elevation of “wahre Sprache” to something godly and mysterious ensures a grounded humility in dealing with other languages in the present. To use Benjamin’s own image of a shattered vessel, all systems of speech are equally broken and incomplete: the trick is to see the shards as complementary—each offering something unique and meaningful— and not as competitors in a Darwinian battle royale. And if this all seems to be stretching Benjamin’s work beyond its original scope, then it is done so only with his (tacit) blessing, and with reference to another fundamental idea in his essay. “Fortleben” is a notoriously challenging term to translate, but in some sense denotes the “living on” of a text—as distinct from the commonly used ‘after-life,’ which implies a clean break with the past. Benjamin understood this as the dynamic state in which a text achieves its lasting and most comprehensive “Entfaltung” (unfolding). A new translation is one way in which this ‘ongoing life’ can manifest itself. The same might well be said for reappraisals and reinterpretations; Benjamin’s ideas carry a new weight in a world conscious of language as an instrument of both power and resistance. The contemporary Aufgabe der Übersetzer (to make the original title more inclusive) might therefore call for overcoming the limits which separate languages from one another, and to deconstruct the walls which uphold a false hierarchy. For all that his essay has become an enduring favourite amongst translation theorists, Benjamin maintained that the discipline as a whole is merely a “vorläufige Art” (provisional method) for dealing with mutual unintelligibility. In liberating the “reine Sprache” that was in the beginning, translators are slowly but surely carrying us towards a moment of future reunification. It is certainly a charming thought experiment: conceptualising a world in which the full wealth of language is open to all, and the very notion of translation—with all its potential for miscommunication and the pursuit of cultural hegemony—is itself a relic of a bygone age.
26 by Mannik Singh: a reminiscent exploration of the self from adolescence to twenty-six
by Aroma Imran
With streaks of child-like wonder, bashful adolescence, angst, relationships, and the crushing realisations of adulthood, 26 by Mannik Singh is a personal project at heart. An exploration of his life till the age of 26, Singh’s self-published feat is divided into sections of poetry with cleverly devised names that are a mystery to the reader but biblical to those who understand. When I picked it up, I was transported across the world; from a child blissfully building a fort in Chandigarh to an adult confronting himself and his notions back in Melbourne. The book is whiplash. Singh’s prose is evocative; it holds a unique quality that is forever tethering between literary and a hastily jotted down notes app thought. It is not this or that, it is uniquely him. 26 encapsulates the scope of human emotion beautifully, with an acute attention to detail. From depicting innocent, cloudy curiosity to the clear-cut, harshness of growing up, Singh writes like he has peered into hundreds of lives and taken extensive notes. “His poetry is wise, witty, quirky, cringey and cliché, but it works well for what 26 stands for.” His writing is a testament to his identity, encapsulating the experience of growing up in South Asia very well. Reading the book transported me back to my childhood in the bazaars of Lahore and the roofs of Gujranwala, just across the border from Chandigarh. The cliché and at times cringey writing of 26 preserves the intent of the book; after all an exploration of your life from child to adulthood, includes the dreadfully angsty, cringey teenaged years. In an interview with Singh with Radio Fodder, the author acknowledged his love for clichéd writing saying, “he embraces it”. Some poems pulled straight from
diary entries or first being birthed in the note’s app exude a casual quality that at some points contribute to the tooth-rotting, clichéd ‘cringey-ness’. In an interview with the New York Times, Leslie Jamison approaches clichés as a “consolation of company in a broken world”. I agree; clichés present an already established, tried and true order to an endless, jumbled stream of thought. But when is it too much? Jamison then states that this practice does not necessarily
make clichéd writing ‘art’. While I am not going to attempt to argue against the subjectivity of art, I understand Jamison’s intent. Originally very nuanced thoughts can be spoilt by clichés.While 26 features a few of these clichéd imposters, the opposite appears more often. 26 preserves a garden of nuanced and complex poems. The poems that tackle multiple ideas, that look out into the world and into himself, are spun to
create lovely strings of poetry that are particularly impactful. The poem, x? sticks with me even now, days after finishing the book. Transcending the mortal body, Singh almost takes to the altar of God and weighs his albeit vague and slight wrongdoings against those of bigger gravity. The poem is a wonderful critique on South Asian society and its wrongful loyalty to transgressors. Where Singh sandwiches his personal experiences with supernatural or religious themes, where his sense of place bleeds into the unexplored oceans, I sensed the apex of his prose. Writing from a personal position is confronting (emotionally and literally) and in a chronological order as prominent in 26, the work can become predictable. Of course, childhood is going to come before the teenage years and adulthood comes stumbling after, but Singh manages to keep it fresh. His work switches styles, physical formatting, references and even language at whim, forcing the reader to stop, ponder and have a crack at forming any sort of analysis (I attempted to read the poem Maverick as a Top Gun reference—I was dead wrong). Perhaps this is a homage to Singh’s inspirations, which includes Taylor Swift and her secretive ‘easter egg’-laden prose. 26 is a window into the past, a revenge note, a love letter, a breakup song, a happiness embedded into your bones, a sadness hanging from your limbs and most of all, it is an emotional, gut-wrenching exploration of the persona. I believe everyone will find a little bit of themselves lodged within its pages. I picked it up, consumed it, digested it, and I am curious to see what Mannik Singh concocts next. Kudos to a pretty sweet first book.
Le Vourdalak: A Friendly* Reminder That the Horror
Genre is Built on Violent Prejudice
by Jocelyn Saunders
*It was not a friendly reminder, I am Very Uncomfortable™.
You’re Marquis Jacques (Kacey Klein), a French courtier who traded his backbone for astounding self regard. While travelling to a foreign court, you are attacked by bandits. Searching for shelter in a hostile forest, you seek the help of Gorcha (Adrien Beau) and his family. Once arrived, you find Gorcha missing, but his eldest son Jegor (Gregoire Colin) offers you a bed and promises he will find you a horse the next day. One problem, there is a slight chance that Gorcha will return as a vampire that night and kill his family.
This is the plot of Le Vourdalak (The Vourdalak), a French film based on the 1839 gothic novella The Family of the Vourdalak by A. K. Tolstoy. No, not that Tolstoy, Lev ‘Leo’ Tolstoy was his significantly more famous younger cousin. The film itself was the 2023 debut of Adrien Beau, a small horror-focused director, first shown at The Venice Film Festival, where it almost won best film. It had less success at further film festivals on its journey to Australia’s Fantastic Film Festival, who very kindly gave me access to it.
I could easily write a scathing review critiquing Le Vourdalak’s rape-y sexism, uncomfortable colonial undertones, and villainisation of the LGBT+ community. Not to mention lack-lustre cinematography, costumes bought from a dollar store, and absolute lack of character, features that usually redeem the problematic 1970s films Le Vourdalak echoes. But the arguably more interesting question is, why do we, as an audience, keep watching films like Le Vourdalak, when we know they’re prejudiced? Why do they keep getting made? How did Adrien Beau change The Family of the Vourdalak?
To be blunt, watching Le Vourdalak was an unfriendly reminder that most monster horror is built off xenophobia and colonialism. “Take Dracula, which, simplified, is a fear of monsters from ‘uncivilised’ countries (Transylvania) migrating to and destroying ‘civilised’ England.”In Le Vourdalak, it’s never stated which country Borcha and his family are from, rather, they’re dressed in ste-
and they have conservative gender roles. The family is incessantly infantilised, including my favourite line, from Gorcha to the Marquis: “I love you. I never knew how to be better, you taught me too late.” Because I live in a British colony, sometimes I forget that the French are also colonisers, so thanks to this line for reminding me. This rampant racism so astounded me that I actually read A. K. Tolstoy’s original novella, just to see where the racism was based. My conclusion? The Family of the Vourdalak is so much less racist. It's honestly a fantastic read, and if you have the choice between watching Le Vourdalak and reading the original story, just read the original. For one, the country is named (Sebia) and we are actually told about Serbian cultural practices in a respectful way. The narrator compliments the family on their honour and love for each other. The story actually mocks French court values, rather than Serbian, which makes sense, given A. K. Tolstoy was a Russian courtier visiting France. Even from a storytelling perspective, A. K. Tolstoy’s novel is much more tragic than the movie. The characters are undone by their own affection for each other, rather than in Le Vourdalak where they’re undone by… not being French? If the racism in Le Vourdalak doesn’t actually derive from its source material, why are we, in 2023, making the decision to be racist in horror? If I hadn’t been writing a review, I would’ve left Le Vourdalak not completely faulting Adrien Beau, and assuming colonialism was just unavoidable in the source. It makes me wonder, how many other directors hide questionable opinions behind their source material being old? Le Vourdalak and Nostalgia for ‘70s and ‘80s Movies
Importantly we have ‘is-better-than-her-uncivilised-upbringing-sex-object’ Sdenka (Ariane Labed), who wholoathes her culture and wishes to travel to the ‘superior’ French court.
If there is one thing that Adrien Beau does well, it is to replicate the aesthetics of late ‘70s and early ‘80s movies. I double checked the date of this movie because it was so convincing. The grainy film quality, The Labyrinth-esque
puppetry, and even the shots, though not as spellbinding as The Shining or Bram Stoker’s Dracula, hold the same weird surrealism so distinct from modern cinematography. My filmmaker friend can (and has) talked for hours about how the 21st century marks ‘the fall of creativity’ in movies.Films like Le Vourdalak are certainly marketed in this way, simultaneously ‘a breath of fresh air’ and a return to the ‘purity’ of the old movie industry.
I’ve got to ask though, if the ‘70s was a time of unbridled creativity, why are there production tropes for Le Vourdalak to pull on? Surely there wouldn’t be a united ‘70s film aesthetic, because that would be a marketable formula, and only the 21st century has those, right? It’s easy to be blinded by novelty, and I warn the reader to always consider whether something is perfect or just new.
As well as the ‘70s aesthetic, Beau adopts the ‘70s rampant sexism. Safe to say, Le Vourdalak does not pass the Sexy Lamp test. For the uninitiated, the Sexy Lamp test asks the question, “If you replaced this female character with a sexy lamp, would it change anything?” This flavour of sexist movies is admittedly sparse in the horror genre since they’re usually trying to not die, and so are moving the plot. Rather, horror usually exploits female suffering for entertainment, unfortunately sometimes literally, like in The Shining, where Kubrick psychologically tortured the lead actress to get “more authentic” emotion. However, Le Vourdalak somehow manages to both have his sexy lamp Sdenka (Ariane Labed) and make that lamp suffer for entertainment, a depressing and begrudgingly impressive level of sexism. We return to our original question, why do films like Le Vourdalak appeal? Why does this film have seven goddamn stars? From Le Vourdalak being both more racist and more sexist than the material it’s a homage to, one has to wonder what we’re actually nostalgic for in gothic tales and ‘70s movies. At least I hope we have to wonder that, otherwise this movie was just a huge waste of my time.
Metal
Skin: Worthy of Fiendish
by Tom Weir-Alarcon
Content warning: Mentions of disability, abuse of disabled people
Let me preface this review with one fact: I knew next to nothing about this movie before watching it. Looking through the Fantastic Film Festival screenings list, my eyes jumped to a young Ben Mendelsohn in a car, skimmed the synopsis of the film and the details of a QnA screening with director Geoffrey Wright (which I did not end up attending) and decided “Yeah sure! Let’s go with this.” I didn’t know any of the director’s past work, I didn’t know who else starred in it, “I didn’t even know there would be satanic worship involved until an hour before I watched it! I just thought it would be a slick racing thriller with Mendelsohn at the leading wheel. For better or worse, this is not that movie. Wright’s 1994 Metal Skin is instead about four broken Melburnian youth in Altona, and their gradual decline into the world of cars, black magic and obsession. The actual lead is Joe (played by Aden Young), a teenager stuck caring for his brain-damaged father while dreaming of girls and muscle cars; a role-model type played by Dazey (Mendelsohn), womaniser, car driver, and a generally slick sleazebag who cheats on his girlfriend Roslyn (Nadine Garner). These three are tied together by coworker and Satanic worshipper Savina (Tara Morice), who lusts for Dazey’s attention while Joe desperately falls for her. Before we get back to the characters in this d rama, I want to discuss arguably one of the best aspects of the film—the atmosphere. The set design perfectly
Worship?
encapsulates the grime and despair filling the city streets of Melbourne, and says a lot about the kind of world these characters live in. A dimly lit packing station of a busy department store swept up in plastic sheets and peanuts. Dirty junkyards coloured with string lights and festival tents. Even Joe’s family home, filled with fancy European architecture and design once lauded, now dilapidated and beyond repair. Despite such urban and grounded locations, the film gives them an almost fantastical quality in its staging. This certainly helps when Savina’s Satanic rituals begin: some of those sets are downright terrifying. It also helps that the editing and direction for this movie can be kind of, for lack of a better word, insane sometimes. According to those who attended the QnA screening with Wright, he described the structure of the film through the ‘block theory of time’—essentially the idea that everything can occur simultaneously but we as an audience interpret it in a linear fashion. Thinking back on the film, it’s clear this concept became integral to editing major scenes, with lots of sharp cuts to different locations and settings in the middle of ongoing scene progression, or even just abrupt cuts to different takes of the same shot. It’s certainly jarring at first, especially during the workplace scenes, but I appreciated this stylistic choice (especially in representing the characters’ thoughts or plots parallel to the current
scene). It was great to see this extend to some unusual moments of cinematography as well, though perhaps not as exciting to see today as it would’ve been back then. That said, all of this came from a perspective of having never seen any of Wright’s other works, and especially not Romper Stomper, his sophomore hit about Nazi skinheads at war with Chinese immigrants. What I mean by this is that I didn’t know how Wright likes to write his characters—completely and utterly unapproachable. But while I’m sure that works well in a story about Nazis (which, even from the plot synopsis, suggests an internal conflict on their own ideologies throughout the film), I don’t think this approach works as well for a character drama about blue collar teenagers. Our protagonist Joe is an incel, lusting for any woman who shows a head turn his way. Then soon after being introduced, is shown to physically abuse his disabled father for embarrassing him in public. I should clarify that I don’t care whether the film shows strong morals or not. Half the film centres on Satanic worship after all. Wright does give explanations for Joe’s actions anyway, relating to his family’s immigration to Melbourne, and his desire to escape Altona to get rich off car engines. However, all of that feels crammed into a couple of scenes towards the climax of the film, and with not much else to him before (besides social ineptitude and wanting to drive cool cars) there’s little for us to get attached
to before his inevitable downward spiral later in the film. It’s a shame too, because Dazey, Savina and Roslyn get some really interesting character progression, especially with Dazey’s shift from suave womaniser to blubbering mess. Unfortunately, despite so much time spent on their love triangle in the middle chunk, their plots somehow feel disconnected from the main ‘Joe’ plot of the film. Hell, despite opening the film and being a major influence on the other three leads, Garner’s character is practically pushed side stage for most of the film until Wright remembers she’s in the screenplay! It doesn’t help that the pacing was so slow towards the middle—all the energy from the first half hour kind of fades and you’re left thinking how long is left in here, only to find you’ve still got an hour left. I think this is the most gross I have ever felt during and after a film. On a technical level, it has a lot of interesting ideas and visual techniques, with a tantalisingly greasy atmosphere. However, I also felt that grease in its characters, and unfortunately I don’t think it was always in the most compelling way. As someone who usually likes this kind of grossness in character writing, I think this missed a step somewhere, but I’m sure that its unique style and energy might still gravitate towards someone else.
Down:
1) Everyone wants one <3 (4,6) 3) All study, no lectures 4) Relocated burrito place 7) Generic study place 11) There’s one for everyone 12) Found upstairs in the old union house (3,3) 15) The only renowned singer with a dedicated UMSU club 17) Commerce student blobs 18) Establised in 1884 19) Lawn, not made of grass 21) College 23) Building with hourly charms
Across:
2) Conference building Melbourne ___ 2) ___
5) Home of Axil coffee 5) Home of coffee
6) Campus location 6)
8) __ Room, cafe embedded in design building __ Room, cafe embedded in design 9) Synonym for University department Synonym for 10) Hospital and Exhibition building 10) Hospital and building 13) Get a free one on the last day of your exam 13) a free on day your exam 14) Club Pub 14) Club 16) Street where you can find 22-across 16) Street where you 20) Recently reopened street Recently 22) Centre of student administration (4,3) 22) Centre student (4,3) 24) Campus location 24)
Illustration by Rashdan Mahmood
UMSU and the Media Office are located in the city of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay respects to the elders - past and present - and acknowledge that the land we are on was stolen and sovereignty was never ceded.