2020 Edition Two

FARRAGO EDITION TWO 2020

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Acknowledgement of Country In the midst of COVID-19, how do we best reflect upon the pain and suffering of our First Nations people?

I’m a Wiradjuri woman born away from country, raised in Naarm (Melbourne) on Wurundjeri, Boon Wurrong, and Wadawurrung land. On these lands, I am a visitor and I will forever be grateful to the elders of these mobs for their insights into their culture and traditions.

I never got to live, learn and play on the lands of my ancestors, yet I still believe I am guided by their spirit and wisdom.

In my time in self-isolation, I’ve had a lot of time to think about my own Aboriginality and why it’s important to me. I’ve had time to think about how self-isolation is the closest I will ever come to feeling the pain of being ripped away from my family and culture. Time to think about how I know this won’t last forever, and I will get to resume my life as normal. I do not presume to understand the pain of the people whose lands I now live on, I don’t have a right to empathise with the pain of my ancestors. However, in my time alone I’ve never felt closer to them.

It allowed me to realise the importance of hope. When we can hope for a better time, we have a reason to continue to live.

The government removed that hope from Indigenous people, it systematically ensured any ray of optimism was destroyed. My situation will never be comparable while I know this is temporary, however my identity as a Wiradjuri person has never been stronger.

I owe it to my Grandmother, I owe it to my Great-grandfather, I owe it to my elders, to continue to identify because they weren’t allowed to. They weren’t allowed to be proud of their culture and now I get to be proud for them because they deserve that much.

I acknowledge them, I acknowledge my elders and ancestors, the Wiradjuri people for their pain will not be forgotten.

I acknowledge the Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrong people whose lands I study on. I acknowledge they never ceded their sovereignty, and I acknowledge that I continue to benefit from their suffering through my presence as a visitor on their lands.

I acknowledge that this pandemic is not comparable to the outbreak of smallpox on this continent 250 years ago, and I acknowledge that I am privileged to never understand the pain and grief Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people have felt in the past.

In a time of uncertainty, it is easy to forget to acknowledge the First Nations people, but if you keep them in the forefront of your mind, their strength becomes an inspiration. Their strength and willpower will continue to guide you through this troubling time.

They deserve to be remembered for they are the only role models I or you will ever need.

Brittney Henderson, Wiradjuri

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Bethany Cherry Amber Meyer Sarah Peters Tharidi Walimunige

COVER

Michelle Pham

SOCIAL MEDIA

Cat Ingham Emma McCarthy Helena Wang Isabella Ross Janelle Wong Joy Ong Ly Luong Natasha Jose Kalath

ILLUSTRATORS

Abir Hiranandani Alice Tai Anya Wong Annette Syahlani Arielle Vlahiotis Cathy Chen Elmira C. Geraldine Loh Kitman Yeung Yeung Michelle Pham Myles Knight YukKei Lo Yuki Phuong Ngo Phoebe Owl Rohith Prabhu Rose Gertsakis Reann Lin Stephanie Nestor Sue Park Vivian Li Wendy Lin Wendy T Lin Yena Kim Zino Feng This magazine is made from 30% recycled paper, excluding the cover and gloss pages, which are 99% recycled. 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.

CONTRIBUTORS

Amy Wortmann Ann Khorany Angus Thomson Andrew Zylstra Brodie Everist Claire Yip Clara Tjiandra Cathy La Christy Chudosnik Evelyn Ranogajec Felicity Lacey Felicity Smith Isabelle Rieger Izma Haider James Robertson Jamisyn Gleeson Jasper MacCuspie Jean Baulch Joanna Guelas Jocelyn Deane Joe Murray Jane Goh Lucy Turton Lindsay Wong Mark Yin Natalie Chun Min Fong Pavani Ambagahawattha Phoebe Edwards Phu-Linh Tran Rebecca Fletcher Rohith Prabhu Samuel Arbace Sidonie Bird de la Coeur Selina Moir-Wilson Stephanie Zhang Stephanie Mortlock Vanessa Lee William Farnsworth Zahra Alzuraijawi

SUBEDITORS

Amelia Costigan AJ McFadden Anindya Setiawan Allen Xiao Ailish Hallinan Asher Harrington Claire Yip Charlotte Waters Dana Pjanic Elizabeth Seychell Evelyn Ranogajec Felicity Lacey Finley Tobin Janelle Del Vecchio Jo Oakley Lindsay Wong Lucette Moulang Markella Votzourakis Mark Yin Marcie Di Bartolomeo Nicole Moore Noa Abrahams Nishtha Banavalikar Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal Poppy Willis Rebecca Fletcher Rohith Prabhu Shahrizad Zaina Choudhury Stephanie Zhang Tessa Marshall Tiia Kelly Tom Shute Victoria Thompson Wing Kuang

MUSIC TEAM

MANAGERS

Alan Nguyen Emma McCarthy Finley Tobin Lauren Berry

COLUMNIST

Elmira Cheung Klesa Wilson Lee Perkins Tessa Bagshaw Tessa Marshall Tzur Ko Geen Rochvarger Sunnie Meg Wendy Lin

ONLINE COLUMNIST Annalyce Wiebenga Shaira Afrida Oyshee

PHOTOGRAPHY

Abir Hiranandani Andy Xu Alicia Christabella Andreas Alice Tai Ben Levy Ella Davidson Finley Tobin Helena Wang Jean Baulch Jing Tong Teo Jocelyn Deane Kashish Sandhu Ly Luong Mingyu Tan Nguyen Nguyen Rida Fatima Virk Stephanie Zhang

Bec Meier Choudhury Cat Ingham EVENTS Chelsea Rozario Kashish Sandhu Gina Song Lian Ren Jem Smith Kevin Yuan WEB DESIGN Lauren Berry Wei Wang Marsya Ali Shahrizad Zaina Choudhury

Illustrated by Elmira C.

03 04 06 08

27 The Curtain Calls for you to Think

54 Badass Women: Hypatia

28 Gran and Me on Tour

56 Summer Slumber

09 Feature Art

30 Sunset

58 Just One of the Boys

10 Growing up in the Climate Crisis

31 Photography/Art Posters

59 Love Knows No Boundaries: Toxicity in K-Pop

Editorial Calendar OB Reports UMSU Updates Jack Buksh

Zino Feng

Tzur Ko Geen Rochvagrer Jean Baulch

Zahra Alzuraijawi

Kashish Sandhu Alicia Christabella Andreas Alice Tai Mingyu Tan Jean Baulch Jane Goh Christy Chudosnik

Joanna Guelas

12 Feature Art

Rohith Prabhu

13 UMSU Condemns University Inaction on Racist Buildings Evelyn Ranogajec

14 Overcoming Gender Stereotypes to Attain Gender Equality Ann Khorany

16 Secret Spaces Angus Thomson

17 Police Investiage IMARC Protestors Brodie Everist

18 My Timetable Changes Jasper MacCuspie

19 Feature Art

Stephanie Mortlock

20 Weapons Manufacturer’s Partnership with University and UMSU Raises Tough Ethical Questions

Lucy Turton and Stephanie Zhang

22 Local Showoff Perfects Work-Life Balance Andrew Zylstra

23 Woah to NO

Rebecca Fletcher

24 Second to Last

Natalie Chun Min Fong

26 Addressing the Question: A Third Culture Kid’s Experience Klesa Wilson

39 Thoughts under the Fig Tree 40

Phoebe Edwards

(You)

Felicity Smith

41 The OTHER Theory of Evolution: Plague doctors Tessa Marshall

42 Missing (a found poem) Selina Moir-Wilson

43 Eternity and Time Isabelle Rieger

44 Poetry Selection Phu-Linh Tran Jamisyn Gleeson William Farnsworth James Robertson

46 A Buddhist Funeral on Reunion Day Claire Yip

48 Gutter Wine, and Shards of Stars: A Failed Recipe for Recovery Amy Wortmann

49 Devotion(s) Jocelyn Deane

50 The Last Free Man and Other Stories Charlotte Armstrong

51 Feautre Art

Abir Hiranandani

Illustrated by Annette Syahlani Illustrated by Zino Feng Illustrated b

Sunnie Meg Wendy Lin

Clara Tjiandra

Lindsay Wong

60 Keep Your Distance, Lori Franki Stackpool

62 Lonely Hearts of the Animal Kingdom Tessa Bagshaw

64 The Cherryman: Overneath the Cracked Hall Lee Perkins

66 Going Gently Pavani Ambagahawattha

68 90’s Pop Princess vs 21st Century Diva: Battle of the Mariahs Mark Yin

70 Feature Art

Franki Stackpool

72 Goodbye, Elton John Chloe Waddell

74 Notes from Underground Samuel Arbace

76 Tribute to Gordy Kim

77 Google Reviews of Places I’ve been dumped at Sidonie Bird de la Coeur

78 Twenties in the 21st Century Quill and Quilt Elmira C.

80 Flash Fiction: Fireworks Assorted Writers

81 Radio Fodder Playlist Radio Fodder Music Team

Correction Notice Edition One Annette Syahlani, p. 2 Hayden Williams, p. 7 Mitch Needham, p. 21

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EDITORIAL EDITORIAL

Bethany Cherry Let me explain privilege during a pandemic. The light just blew.

A world in sudden darkness is full of panic. The poor, the marginalised, the elderly, the casual and front-line workers fall the hardest. Your first instinct should be to offer them your hand and support. When everyone is standing, it’s time to change the light. You remove the broken bulb and install a stronger, more sustainable fixture.

That is privilege. To be standing in a room full of people face down. Pick them up, protect them and install a better system. Ensure no one is ever stepped on again.

Amber Meyer Confusion during these months can grow into fear and anger. This is understandable and very human. However, Farrago will not tolerate harassment of its contributors in the name of unchecked emotions. Those who bully and enable bullying are unwelcomed, anywhere. All media collective members — from reporters to interviewees to editors — deserve respect. The confidence and safety of the students are integral to this publication, and I whole-heartedly encourage the contributors to keep doing what they do. As such, I thank the massive and endlessly talented Farrago team, and extend my love to the online writers and the names in print.

Sarah Peters When we began Edition Two it was to coincide with Farrago’s 95th birthday. A few short weeks has turned worlds upside down. Articles have been moved around; many moved online to reflect COVID-19’s rapidly developing nature. We’re relieved to keep making this accessible to you, and continuing to be a space for you to share your experiences and works. Take care in this time, build forts in your dining room, bring out the soft toys and take slow steps in adapting. If Farrago can last 95 years, it will survive another one, and so will you. Warmth to you all. x Tharidi Walimunige If you’d told me last year that I’d be a Farrago Editor during a bushfire crisis and then a pandemic, I would’ve chuckled fearfully. But having persevered through these events, I’m even more proud to be in this position. It hasn’t been easy, but the works submitted to this magazine during these challenging times have been profound, honest and emotional. Change and conflict can inspire our best works and I’ve seen that in our inbox. So despite whatever 2020 throws our way, we’ll keep publishing student voices with pride. Reader, may you also find your silver lining.

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MAY MONDAY 4

Queer x Disabilities Zoom Collective 12-1pm

MONDAY 11

Queer x Disabilities Zoom Collective 12-1pm

MONDAY 18

Queer x Disabilities Zoom Collective 12-1pm

MONDAY 25

Queer x Disabilities Zoom Collective 12-1pm

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TUESDAY 5

WEDNESDAY 6

Enviro Zoom Collective 12pm Online Play With Your Food 5-8pm

Queer Collective 1-2pm

TUESDAY 12

WEDNESDAY 13 Queer Collective 1-2pm

TUESDAY 19

WEDNESDAY 20 Queer Collective 1-2pm

TUESDAY 26

WEDNESDAY 27 Queer Collective 1-2pm

Enviro Zoom Collective 12pm

Enviro Zoom Collective 12pm

Enviro Zoom Collective 12pm

THURSDAY 7

Education Online Zoom Collective 12-1pm QPOC Zoom Collective 12-2pm

THURSDAY 14

FRIDAY 8

POC x First Nations Media Online Channel 1-2pm

FRIDAY 15

Education Online Zoom Collective 12-1pm QPOC Zoom Collective 12-2pm

POC x First Nations Media Online Channel 1-2pm

THURSDAY 21

FRIDAY 22

Education Online Zoom Collective 12-1pm QPOC Zoom Collective 12-2pm

THURSDAY 28

Education Online Zoom Collective 12-1pm QPOC Zoom Collective 12-2pm

Illustrated by Phuong Ngo

POC x First Nations Media Online Channel 1-2pm

FRIDAY 29

POC x First Nations Media Online Channel 1-2pm

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JUNE MONDAY 1

Queer x Disabilities Zoom Collective 12-1pm

MONDAY 8

SWOT Vac Queen’s Birthday Holiday

MONDAY 15

Exam period If you have an exam today, good luck <3 :3 :D

MONDAY 22

Exam period At 3pm today, unless you are busy, take a nap.

MONDAY 29

Exam period June’s bloody exhausting.

Doing well.

TUESDAY 2

WEDNESDAY 3

Enviro Zoom Collective 12pm Online Play With Your Food 5pm - 8pm

Queer Collective 1-2pm

TUESDAY 9

WEDNESDAY 10 SWOT Vac Take your dog/cat/ fish/sibling/parent for a walk.

SWOT Vac Remember to brush your teeth and trim your beard.

TUESDAY 16

WEDNESDAY 17 Exam period Tell someone a story. Make sure it has a happy ending.

TUESDAY 23

WEDNESDAY 24 Exam period You are looking educated... doing something right.

Exam period Try herbal tea rather than another cup of coffee.

Exam period Work now so you can laugh later.

THURSDAY 4

Education Online Zoom Collective 12-1pm QPOC Zoom Collective 12-2pm

THURSDAY 11

SWOT Vac Give me 10 pushups.

GO GO GO!!!

THURSDAY 18

Exam period Put on a load of washing. It’ll make you feel on top of life.

THURSDAY 25 Exam period

You’ve finished? Hey congrats? Still going?

Better luck next

time.

FRIDAY 5

Last day to withdraw without academic penalty

FRIDAY 12 SWOT Vac Treat yourself.

Red liquorice is an idea...

FRIDAY 19

Exam period One week down.

Now down a peice of chocolate.

FRIDAY 26

Exam period You’re working hard... now go work hard on something else.

TUESDAY 30

Exam period That’s it. June’s over.

If you still have exams... sorry?

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OB REPORTS

President | Hannah Buchan

I hope everyone is holding up during these stressful times, and it’s okay if you’re not feeling okay. UMSU has been working extremely hard to ensure that students aren’t at a disadvantage this semester. We are continuing to advocate for students and we are going to continue to fight. When students come together, students win. Students now have different ways of accessing special consideration and have increased financial assistance. If you need any advice about your individual situation, please contact UMSU Advocacy for some free advice. Please stay up to date on the UMSU Facebook for up to date information.

General Secretary | Jack Buksh

In the words of Scooby Doo - “Ruh Roh”. This semester has really not gone the way that anyone had envisaged it. This is a really tough time for lots of students on many fronts. Both Hannah, myself and your other Student Representatives have been working really hard to make sure that every student is supported, especially here at University. There are so many things the University could be doing to make things easier for students - but often they are not. We have been meeting very regularly with Chancellory and taking your concerns and your voices to them. We’ve made some really significant progress, but the fight hasn’t stopped yet. Contact the UMSU Advocacy and Legal service if you need assistance with anything.

Clubs and Societies | Jordan Di Natale

Hey Hey Superstars! Hope everyone has had an amazing ‘superstart’ to the semester! Faculty clubs visited the commencement ceremonies and for SummerFest, 150 clubs enjoyed the huge crowds in the South Lawn Underground Carpark and Wilson Hall! The Welcome Back expo on Monday 2nd March was also enjoyable! If you missed out on joining a club, no worries! Have a suss here for some amazing clubs and their events! Also, Clubs are now doing online events too, so don’t miss out!

As always, Keep Being Superstars!!!

Creative Arts | Emily White and Olivia Bell

My bones hurt. I have rattling bones in my body. Bones, bones, bones. – A poem by Emily White and Liv Bell inspired by the 95th birthday of Farrago.

Despite the grief of having to cancel all of our events we still have enough energy to bring you much art. This month we have our Creative Arts Collective (as usual) every Friday at 3pm on Zoom. We also have some sweet sweet online events as part of our At Home Arts Festival, including PLOOM (Pot Luck Online Open Mic)! Keep an eye on our socials for more fun news and events.

Education Academic | Joshua Munro and Georgia Walton Briggs

Like a Lion stalking its prey on the arid savannah, Education Academic continues its quest to expose the injustices and devilry of the much-maligned University. Despite the Uni’s attempts to quash O-Week we spoke to thousands of students and handed out hundreds of immensely informative Know Your Rights booklets. Also in the spotlight has been the Uni’s new My Timetable, we’ll keep you posted on the survey results soon! Sadly many of our events have been paused due to the campus shut down, but keep an eye out for online updates and send us through any questions you have! We’re working closely with UMSU’s Advocacy Service to ensure no students are left behind in this crisis.

Education Public | Charlie Joyce and Noni Bridger

Ed Pub’s has been busy! We had so much fun at Summerfest and the Southbank Welcome Day chatting to students about our staunch activism coming up this year! We’ve shifted the majority of our events online but sadly, things like our camp and Ed Fest have been delayed. Education Action collective will be happening online and we’ll soon be pushing out a bunch of online activism for you all to get involved with! Take care of yourselves and hopefully we’ll see you online! Like our Facebook page for more updates!

Burnley | Kaitlyn Hammond

The Burnley team is sending out all the positivity we can in this challenging time. While many of our activities had to be put on hold, we are gearing up to start a virtual workshop series to keep students connected and engaged. We are here to advocate for you and support you in any way we can, so do not hesitate to contact us! Follow us on social media to hear about our new activities as we figure out this new virtual world!

Disabilities | Hue Man Dang and Srishti Chatterjee

Hello loves! Hope you’re all holding on okay. These are rough times and your Disabilities Department is here for you. We’ve put up an online support group on Facebook to discuss your favourite movies, tv shows, podcasts and what else is cooking in quarantine! We have been holding workshops and collectives as usual, via Zoom. We have also opened submissions for an online zine that is in the works- the first imprint of our department <3 If there is anything else you’d like us to do to support you, drop us a message on our Facebook/Instagram.

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Indigenous | Hope Kuchel & Shanysa McConville

People of Colour | Gurpreet Singh & Nicole Nabbout

It has been an incredibly busy time for the PoC Department! Even though we never expected all of our collectives and events to come to a temporary halt due to unforeseen health circumstances, we have seen the sheer strength, resilience and support of our PoC community. We, as a department, are here for you. You are not alone at this time. If you need access to mental health services, please find a resource kit attached to the PoC social media pages. Some of our collectives have transitioned online, and we are in the process of creating live Q&A sessions on social media to help support you. Please do not hesitate to reach out if you have any questions or concerns at all!

OB REPORTS

Heya! It’s amazing to see so many new faces among our Indigenous cohort. We started our social events off with a bang at our Bad n’ Boujee Welcome Back party. The evening was filled with laughter, good friends and a few cheeky games. We also co-hosted an International Women’s Day Panel with Women’s and POC. Our guest speaker, Celeste Liddle, an Arrernte woman, shared some amazing insights surrounding feminism, intersectionality, and decolonization! With restrictions now in place to prevent the spread of COVID-19, we have ceased our social events, and are focused on producing Edition 7 of Under Bunjil.

Activities | India Pinkney and Hayley Stanford

Activities had a hectic start to the year, with our inaugural Union House Twilight Festival being a huge success, despite the rainy weather. We also SOLD OUT our Start of Uni Party, so thanks to everyone who came, we hope you had a fun night and met lots of cool new friends. Unfortunately we made the hard decision to cancel our St Patrick’s day trivia and Tuesday bands due to social distancing requirements. We have however, been working hard on producing some online content for everyone at home. We had our first ever online trivia event, and are working with some bands to bring online streaming straight from the studio to you! We hope you all stay safe at home <3

Queer | Ciara O’Sullivan and A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni

Hey ya’ll! We had a blast meeting all our past events! We started the semester strong with our weekly collectives, but with the terrible current situation, we’re moving all our collectives online. Discord server: https://discord. gg/Uxd9Ay4. QxDis Collective are Mondays @ 12pm https://unimelb.zoom.us/j/263959014. Trans Collective; Tuesdays, 2pm https://unimelb.zoom.us/j/363528085 Queer Game Twimes, Wednesdays, 1pm https://unimelb. zoom.us/j/177667655 QPoC Mukbang, Thursdays, 12pm http://unimelb.zoom.us/j/189728175 QPoF Collective, Thursdays, 1pm. We have a secret group for this! DM us & we’ll add you to it ;) Our DMS are ALWAYS open.

Love, A’bidah & Ciara x

Southbank | Verity Crane and Hayden Williams

Hello homebodies! Some of us have been having a hard time of it, keeping community connections alive is hard and not everyone is blessed to live in a share house with a bunch of enthusiastic friends or a big family party. No matter your sitch we all need community. Jump over to our facebook page UMSU Southbank to see what we have in store. We are re-launching a facebook group for students at Southbank to talk shop in addition to touching base on ‘discord’, ‘zoom’ and ‘insta’. We hope to foster a strong community, have some good creative discussions, keep students informed and up to date on all that is Southbank 2020 in the age of COVID 19. We will keep talking to the fancy white wigged heads of the uni to fight for you.

Welfare | Declan Kerger and Natasha Guglielmino

Hey there <3 We hope you are safe and healthy after what has been an unprecedented semester so far. We wanted to let you know that we are working on ways to continue to support you off campus. We are working on a way to continue the Food Bank and other essential services. In the meantime, you can access up to $7500 through the uni’s COVID-19 Emergency Support Fund. UMSU Advocacy is also here for you, please see bit.ly/UMSUAdvocacy for more info. Also note that the uni’s COVID-19 support page has lots of helpful resources, please see: bit. ly/2R93ly9. This will be a tough semester but we will get through it together <3 You’ve got this!

Women | Aria Sunga and Naomi Smith

Thanks to everyone who came to our Intl. Women’s Day event with Celeste Liddle, and to the IWD rally! Since moving online, you can find us on Facebook instagram @UMSUwomens. Our weekly collectives are on Zoom - check our social media out for how to access those! Judy’s Punch Editor position applications and Women’s Mentoring Network applications will be opened soon. Find our opinions on a recent student payout online. We acknowledge survivors: we believe you and we support you.

Environment | Olivia Sullivan and Sophie Kerrigan

Enviro’s gone online! In the wake of COVID-19 and the social distancing requirements we’re attempting to transition our community online. Every week we’re running our collective via Zoom from 12pm - 1pm every Tuesday, we’re running weekly online workshops and we’re figuring out how to continue with our activism online. We want to keep our community going and growing online during this time so check out our Facebook page (UMSU Enviro Collective) or our Facebook group (Unimelb Enviro Collective 2020) for event details, we’d love to see you via cyberspace!

Photography by Ben Levy

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NEWS

UMSU UPDATES Written by Jack

While usually this page would be used to up-

date you all on UMSU’s Students’ Council, I instead wanted to use this opportunity to update you on our COVID-19 response. I’m sure by the time you read this, there have been more developments in many of these various areas. Please continue to watch UMSU’s social media, where Hannah and I are providing multiple updates every week.

COVID-19 has had an impact on everyone, and students are no exception. We firmly believe that the University and government should be doing everything they can to assist students, to make life easier – not harder. We’ve been taking the issues that students have told us need fixing directly to university management in our regular meetings with them.

As always, we have received mixed responses on some issues – while we’ve made some important progress on some issues, the university has also been very stubborn on others.

Some of the key achievements that UMSU has had recently: -Got a change to the census date, to allow students the time to assess whether they wanted to go ahead with this semester or not. You can now withdraw from a class with no financial penalty before April 30 and withdraw without a fail before June 30.

-Got the university to allow statutory declarations when applying for special consideration. This is important – many students cannot access a GP at this time (and the health system is under enough strain), and therefore will find it difficult to get to a GP to receive a medical certificate.

-Got the university to implement a financial support scheme. Students (predominately international) who cannot access government benefits are disproportionately impacted by a loss of income, as they are unable to supplement this with Centerlink payments.

UMSU repeatedly pressured the university to implement their own scheme, in order to provide financial assistance to students that are ineligible for government payments.

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Buksh

While the scheme isn’t perfect, and has issues that need addressing, it is nevertheless a step in the right direction. There are still many more issues that UMSU is fighting for.

A key campaign for us right now, is getting the university to put changes as to how they calculate WAM. We want the university to implement an Optional Non-Graded Pass and converting all fail marks to Withdraw No Fails. This allows for students to choose not to have this semester’s marks recorded on your transcript, in order to not have COVID-19 unfairly impact their studies.

We also recognise that some people will want their results recorded, hence why we are advocating for an opt-in system.

This is being implemented in campuses across the country, so UMSU is asking a very simple question to Melbourne Uni – why are we any different? Students have been getting involved in UMSU’s campaign on this: bombarding the university’s social media, writing directly to the Vice-Chancellor and our petition.

There are many issues facing students right now, and UMSU will always stand up for you. The only way we get any concrete achievements is if we stand together, and it has been so warming to see a mass movement of students building at our campus.

Keep an eye on UMSU’s social media for any recent updates, and if you have issues that you would like us to raise with the university, please let Hannah or myself know: president@union.unimelb.edu.au secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au Further, if you ever need assistance navigating university processes, or need legal assistance (especially tenancy issues), UMSU’s free legal and advocacy service is always here to help: suashelp@union.unimelb.edu.au Take care.

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Illustrated Art by Zino

by Name Feng

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NEWS

GROWING UP IN THE CLIMATE CRISIS Written by Joanna

My country is burning.

Ten years ago, this meant that the pavement was too hot to walk on when I was too lazy to wear slippers to put the bins out. It meant sausage sizzles and relatives drinking VB on the verandah. It meant that you could hear rain hiss as it touched the ground.

Ten years later, my country is burning and the pavement is still too hot to walk on in the summer.

But walking at all during the summer is unfathomable. No one has a sausage sizzle anymore under a total fire ban and state of emergency. There are no more VBs, and a rainy day is lucky, but it’s never enough to quell the smoke or fires. Sweltering, dry summers are an Australian icon. The profuse sweating, the smell of sunscreen, and the burning sand at the beach are all a part of our identity. But in the span of four months, it has morphed to evacuations, poor air quality and growing fear. In the span of four months, an estimated 1.25 billion animals have been lost and 2500 homes destroyed.

Of course, this didn’t all begin last October. I’ll be honest, I never understood climate change until I was 15. I knew that humans were polluting the oceans and the sky and the land but I couldn’t put a name to the disaster that was coming.

It was in year 10, when I did a group project on how soil temperature affects plant growth, that it clicked for me. Within our trio of radish pots, tampered in temperature, only the unaffected pot grew.

I imagine a lot of kids went through the same experience. Born right in the middle of a crisis and to never notice until you’re taught. According to a 2014 survey by Millennium Kids Inc., 77% of young Australians aged 25 or less believed that schools need to do more to educate students about climate change.

So, what does it mean to be young and live just five hours away from the bushfires? It means that I’m one of the lucky ones, that I only worry about keeping my younger brothers out of the smoke.

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Guelas

Like many people my age, I can donate if I have the money. I can raise awareness. I can volunteer. I can try to be energy conscious.

“I turn off power sockets and electrical appliances whenever I can,” said Matei, age 19.

“Sometimes, instead of heating, I just wear more clothes.” But, what does it mean to be young and have a future in Australia?

“I think a key part ... is this overwhelming sense of responsibility,” said Jordan, age 18.

“We’ve been saddled with the responsibility of being the next generation of politicians, scientists, activists and workers who are going to have to find the solutions.”

Today, less than 10% of young Australians agree that the government is “doing a good job to save the Earth”. Hence, for many students, to be young and have a future in Australia means to take the fight for climate change into our own hands. It’s no surprise then that an estimated 100,000 Australians gathered at the School Strike 4 Climate in Melbourne last September, inspired by Swedish activist Greta Thunberg’s own school climate strikes at age 15.

“A lot of people may disregard the gravity of climate strikes and construe them as the youth’s flippant attempt to be truant, but it’s the fact that we have this privilege to vocalise our trepidation about the future that renders it so important,” said Sonia, age 17, who attended the climate strike last September.

Illustration by Michelle Pham

“What initially compelled me to attend a climate strike was the indignation towards the Australian government’s insouciant response to the culminating environment crisis.”

“It’s quite daunting but [it’s] also an amazing opportunity to reshape human civilisation into an ecologically sustainable affair,” said Jordan.

82.4% of young Australians believe that climate change will continue to be a problem in the future.

Whether we solve the issue or not, I can’t help but wonder: what will “my country is burning” mean to the children we’ll pass the land onto next?

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NEWS

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12 12

Art by Rohith PrahbuOwl Illustrated

by Phoebe

CONTENT WARNING: eugenics, racism

Written by

On 13 February, University of Melbourne Student

NEWS

UMSU CONDEMNS UNIVERSITY INACTION ON RACIST BUILDINGS Evelyn Ranogajec

Union’s (UMSU) Students’ Council passed a motion titled “Stop celebrating eugenics!”. The motion requested the University to rename buildings named after eugenicists and acknowledge their racism. The motion “[reaffirmed UMSU’s] stance against racism” and “called upon the University to make some formal acknowledgement of [Richard Berry’s] role in eugenics”.

“We understand that this is a very distressing issue, especially for First Nations students on campus and at residential colleges.... However, as we have had a previous office bearer successfully change the name of a building, from Richard Berry to Peter Hall, we believe our other UMSU departments and allies on campus can be great advocates for change and fight this issue knowing what it means for us in particular,” said UMSU Indigenous Office Bearers Hope Kuchel and Shanysa McConville.

Said campaign, spearheaded by then Indigenous Office Bearer Tyson Holloway-Clarke and Dr Odette Kelada, happened in 2015 which successfully saw the Richard Berry building renamed to the Peter Hall building. The University released a statement in 2016 regarding the name change but gave no reference to why exactly it had been renamed. Richard Berry was a eugenicist and believed in producing a superior race.

UMSU President Hannah Buchan indicated that the motion could be the kickstart to a possible new campaign. “... a motion [was] passed recently at Students’ Council to initiate a poster campaign to alert students about the name of the John Medley building…

We are also going to initiate discussion with the University about this issue.”

Professor Richard James, the Deputy Vice-Chancellor (Academic and Undergraduate), mentioned the Reconciliation Action Plan (RAP). The plan is a document produced by the university to develop an “inclusive and two-way relationship between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians based on mutual responsibility and respect”.

The 2018 - 2022 RAP is the third document the University has produced that outlines Signature Projects.

James mentioned that the RAP incorporates a review into the naming of buildings in one of the projects. There is no direct mention of renaming buildings.

“The formal review process is underway with transparency and rigour of both the process and ultimately the University’s history, the aim. This will involve wide consultation, including with University students, staff, alumni and Traditional Owners and Elders,” he said.

“I am aware of the Reconciliation Action Plan, but the University has not been in contact with the Student Union to discuss students’ perspectives,” said Buchan. Inaction and slow processes of renaming buildings highlights the systematic racism that still impacts the University to this day. Buchan states that UMSU condemns the University’s inaction on this issue.

“The University has refused to rename buildings for years, but the MSD building was easily and quickly renamed to the Glyn Davis building when he left the University. This example shows that the University can change names when it wants to, so it needs to take a stand against its racist past. There is no excuse for racism, and the University needs to take serious action on this issue.” The University’s PR Department was contacted for comment but, Farrago has yet to receive a response.

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NEWS

OVERCOMING THE OF NORMATIVE GENDER

ATTAIN GENDER

Written by Ann

Khorany

There persists a misunderstanding between ‘sex’

and ‘gender’, which often has a negative impact when shaping and representing gender roles within society.

The Oxford Dictionary refers to ‘sex’ as the biological characteristics that define a person based on their reproductive functions. It refers to ‘gender’ more fluidly – with broader reference to social and cultural differences.

When these two terms are misunderstood, it can lead to negative gender stereotyping and cause society to conflate a person’s ability with their sex or gender. Kate O’Halloran, a Doctor of Philosophy in Gender Studies, notes that while there are people who don’t conform to gender norms and expectations, we still live in a “heteronormative, patriarchal and conservative world”.

This is evident in the “real threat or loss” that some privileged groups have felt, due to marginalised groups demanding more equality.

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So, how can we achieve gender equity without allowing it to negatively affect some? While there isn’t a clear answer to this question, O’Halloran explains that by examining gender, we can determine that

“

masculine norms haven’t actually benefitted a lot of men

In fact, we can link mental health problems in men to the impacts of social norms. O’Halloran notes that realising “how constraining and difficult gender norms are for everybody – not just for women” is an imperative aim of feminism.

One such case can be seen through Michael Ray – a single father who overturned a policy that denied fathers the right to access their daughter’s dressing rooms at Parkwood Dance Academy.

”

RIPPLE EFFECT STEREOTYPES TO

EQUALITY In 2016, Ray argued that without such a policy, his daughter Charlie would have been the only child backstage without a parent to help calm her nerves before appearing on stage. Despite his success in dismantling this preconceived notion of gender norms, Ray admits he still faces barriers today and sometimes feels “paranoid” taking his daughter to public bathrooms.

“We can’t find a change table in the male toilet, but we have syringe disposals. So, the thinking must be that men are more likely to be diabetic or drug users than parents”, Ray told Farrago.

A survey conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics showed that almost one in five single-parent households are now fathers and one in four stay-athome parents are now males.

Although a forceful wave of feminism has been created worldwide in the past few years in order to overcome gender inequality, O’Halloran says

Despite this growth, O’Halloran says there is a long way to go to attain true gender equality. A good first step would be to differentiate between the terms ‘equity’ and ‘equality’.

O’Halloran explains that “equality assumes that we’re starting from the same place; there hasn’t been a history of systemic discrimination and marginalisation”. Whereas, to achieve equity “it’s actually about acknowledging that level of systemic discrimination that historically existed and putting in place furtheror different measures to actually equal that field”.

To put “positive measures” in place, O’Halloran argued that we need people to acknowledge the fact that they are still living in a “deeply patriarchal [and] conservative world”. If not, then as a society we can’t overcome stereotypical gender norms, nor attain true gender equality, anytime soon.

Although a forceful wave of feminism has been

Illustrated by Anya Wong

15

NEWS

CONTENT WARNING: mental illness, psychological and physical trauma

SECRET SPACES: A REVIEW OF FROM HEART + MIND AT THE DAX CENTRE Written by

Angus Thomson

In challenging and uncertain times, art is a creative medium for staying on top of mental health and coming to terms with isolation and identity.

This connection between art and

mental health is the focus of From Heart + Mind, an exhibition which showed at the Dax Centre on the University of Melbourne Parkville campus last month.

The youth-focused exhibition featured works from eleven multidisciplinary artists drawing on lived experiences of mental illness to challenge ideas about trauma, stigma, isolation and inequality. The exhibition is often confronting, often comforting.

Entering the Dax Gallery, visitors are immediately drawn to a display case containing a smashed-up iPhone, and CT and MRI scans of a brain. Three striking canvases of smattered paint and marble hang behind, mirroring the black and white scans below.

VCA graduate Sean McDowell created this work in response to a traumatic head injury he sustained in 2015. He says his artwork allowed him to confront past trauma.

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“While the outcome of the work is extremely important, my personal objective is to work on my mental health and wellbeing, as well as sharing my story.” Exhibited works range from multimedia and video to sketches and zines, reflecting the diversity of the artists themselves – not only in their lived experiences but in the diversity of medium they use to explore topics ranging from trauma to neuro-diversity and identity.

Three pencil drawings by Melbourne-based artist Rebecca Pidgeon reflect on the artist’s struggles with mental health and her late diagnosis with Asperger’s syndrome.

“Art has always provided me with a method of coping and expressing how I feel. Art became a way for me to talk about myself and my thoughts in a way that I was not able to do verbally.”

The Dax Centre is a leader in using art to raise awareness and reduce stigma towards mental illness. The Centre also runs educational programs and houses the Cunningham Dax Collection of over 16,000 artworks created by people with experience of mental illness or psychological trauma.

Select works from the massive collection were included in the exhibition, and Gallery Coordinator Stef Harris says some exhibiting artists chose pieces from the Collection as a “point of departure” that inspired their work.

“Knowing that the Collection pieces were created by artists who had lived experiences of mental illness was something [the artists] either identified with … or were even intrigued or inspired by.”

While From Heart + Mind ended prematurely, Direct of the Dax Centre Charmaine Smith says the Centre will share images from the exhibition and the Cunningham Dax Collection on Facebook and Instagram.

Leaving the exhibition, visitors are invited to contribute sketches and thoughts to a wall-sized zine and reflect on the relationship between art and their own mental health. A task that is necessary now more than ever.

If you or anyone you know needs help or support, you can call Lifeline on 13 11 14.

CONTENT WARNING: police force

NEWS

POLICE INVESTIGATE IMARC PROTESTORS Written by

Brodie Everist

This article refers to investigations that happened in February 2020.

Police are investigating several Blockade IMARC

protesters for unlawful assembly and other charges.

Victoria Police have contacted at least ten protesters, requesting interviews and questioning them about their involvement with Blockade IMARC. Blockade IMARC spokesperson Jacob Andrewartha said police were attempting to charge protesters with unlawful assembly and obstruction of a public pathway. In a Facebook post, Blockade IMARC also said the police were intending to arrest protesters with besetting premises, a law to stop the obstruction of building entrances. According to Andrewartha, many of the contacted protesters weren’t arrested during the week.

“They’re going through lots of film footage, identifying protesters and trying to question them,” he said.

Blockade IMARC, an alliance of climate activists, disrupted the International Mining and Resources Conference (IMARC) at the Melbourne Exhibition Centre in October last year. 107 protesters were arrested over the three-day conference. Police visited activist Zane Alcorn’s Coburg house and informed his partner that Alcorn was wanted for questioning in relation to the IMARC protests. According to Alcorn, it is highly unusual for police to continue questioning protesters months after protests.

“I’ve been an activist for over fifteen years. I’ve been to several pretty full-on protests where the police have been quite full-on towards protesters,” said Alcorn. “But I can’t think of an example where there was this kind of follow-up where the police are coming to people’s houses.” Spokesperson for Melbourne Activist Legal Support (MALS), Anthony Kelly, said that police follow-ups are a deliberate strategy to impede protest groups.

“They’ve set up special units and they go after activists quite assertively with these sorts of charges,” said Kelly.

“What these charges and arrests do is disrupt protest movements. It means that people are caught up in legal processes that last 12 months or more.

It’s an impediment to public participation in protest activity.” MALS criticised Victoria Police for a heavy-handed response during the October protest, noting “multiple incidents of excessive, unnecessary and potentially unlawful uses of force”.

Police also mistreated journalists. Channel 7 reporter Paul Dowsley was shoved by police, despite following directions. Farrago reporter Ailish Hallinan was pepper-sprayed during the protests. Victoria Police could not be reached for comment at the time.

Photography by Stephanie Zhang

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NEWS

MY TIMETABLE CHANGES Written by

The new decade has seen the University adopt a

Jasper MacCuspie

new timetabling system, with MyTimetable’s preferential class allocations replacing my.unimelb. This change has been polarising.

A statement released online by the University indicates that the system is designed to confer an “equitable opportunity” for all students to receive their “preferred class timetable”.

“By following a preference-based model, students who have other commitments, such as employment or carer responsibilities, or who are returning or living overseas … aren’t disadvantaged,” the University said.

The University Student Union’s (UMSU) Education Departments have been polling student opinions on MyTimetable, receiving approximately 800 responses at the time of writing.

The average overall satisfaction with the new system has been 2.2 out of 6, with 45% of responses rating the system a 1, and only 3% a 6. Further, student satisfaction with the timetable they were assigned was also low, with 38% of responses reporting a 1 out of 6, and only 8% returning a perfect grade.

Office-bearer for UMSU’s Education (Academic) portfolio, Georgia Walton Briggs, shared some thoughts on the student feedback.

“The most disappointing part of the MyTimetable survey has been the lack of proper consultation with students in its creation,” Walton Briggs said.

“Many students have found the system to not be very user-friendly.” This is confirmed by the survey, where the average response on user-friendliness sits at 2.4 out of 6. Second-year Arts student, Marcie Di Bartolomeo, was critical of how long it takes to receive a complete timetable.

“It ultimately leaves students in limbo for several weeks after selecting preferences, which spells havoc for job interviews, auditions, and anything that involves disclosing availability over a semester,” they said.

Unfamiliarity on the faculty end also led to human error, as experienced by one second-year Computing student.

“One of my subjects forgot to stream out classes, so they ended up kicking us all out of our allocations … then opened it later in a first come, first served allocation without letting us know.”

Some students, however, like third-year Arts student, Lucette Moulang, appreciated the University’s efforts to mitigate disadvantages faced by some students.

“The old process needed students to be sat at a computer at a very specific time and be able to quickly work out logistics,” she said.

“So many factors can come in the way of this: physical disability, access to [a] computer, access to (fast) internet, neurodivergence, not having to work at that time, not having to be at an appointment… the list goes on.”

This sentiment was echoed by Walton Briggs.

“We are pleased to see the University is taking steps to make the new timetabling system more accessible for all students.”

“We just think that the system could have been better designed for all students if there had been greater communication and consultation prior to its implementation.”

While any change to the student experience generates debate, it remains to be seen whether the MyTimetable system is embraced, or if any of its flaws are mitigated.

Results from the UMSU Education Survey are from late February and will be updated online.

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FARRAGO

Art by Illustrated Stephanie

by Name Mortlock

19 17

NEWS

WEAPONS MANUFACTURER’S PARTNERSHIP WITH UNIVERSITY AND UMSU RAISES TOUGH ETHICAL QUESTIONS Written by

Lucy Turton and Stephanie Zhang

University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU)

-affiliated clubs were selected for funding from the defence company Boeing, potentially breaching the Union’s own constitution, sponsorship policy, and official public stance.

In 2019, Boeing — ranked the second-highest grossing global weapons manufacturer for the last three years — committed to partnership funding for both the University’s School of Engineering and to several UMSU clubs.

These clubs include Women In Technology (WIT), Melbourne University Electrical Engineering Club (MUEEC) and Melbourne University Chemical Engineering Students’ Society (MUCESS).

The clubs told Farrago they have not had further contact with Boeing since, nor have they received any funding from the company to date. UMSU’s Clubs & Societies (C&S) Department has also confirmed that there have so far been no sponsorship declarations from the clubs in question.

Despite the clubs’ and UMSU’s denials, both Boeing and the University’s Graduate School of Engineering said their agreement maintained a commitment to fund UMSU student clubs. University spokesperson Rachel Sheldon also confirmed on April 20 that Boeing is still sponsoring the student clubs for 2020.

“There are no changes to the funding allocation process,” she said.

However, 2020 UMSU President Hannah Buchan said she was unaware of any sponsorship arrangements between affiliated clubs and Boeing for this year.

“Partnerships with weapons companies are not ethical, and through their partnerships the University is actively promoting the production of lethal weapons,” Buchan said.

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2019 UMSU President and 2020 National Union of Students President Molly Willmott told Farrago that the funding collaboration violated UMSU’s Ethical Sponsorship Policy.

“I don’t believe that this is in line with the policy and platform of the Union,” she said.

The policy explicitly states that “UMSU will not enter into sponsorship or advertising agreements with enterprises that, in the course of their regular business practice[,] create, manufacture, encourage, or perpetuate militarism or engage in the manufacture, distribution or sale of armaments.”

2019 C&S Office-Bearers Jordan Tochner and Chris Melenhorst said their department’s own unique policy requires clubs to be held to the same standard as UMSU policies. However, whether a club’s actions conflict with those policies is up to the determination of the Clubs Committee.

The Clubs Committee represents the C&S Department’s chief governing body. It is composed of seven elected representatives from UMSU-affiliated clubs and societies, as well as the C&S Office Bearers as non-voting members.

2019 Clubs Committee member Ciara Griffiths said the 2019 Committee was not made aware of any potential sponsorship arrangements between UMSU-affiliated clubs and Boeing. While clubs are “largely self-administered and dictated by the needs of their members”, Griffiths said, “I believe that it is part of our role to communicate to clubs and remind them on [sic] UMSU’s stance and their ethical obligations that comes [sic] with UMSU affiliation.”

Griffiths confirmed that “as an arms manufacturer, Boeing is in conflict with the UMSU Ethical Sponsorship Policy.”

Since 2016, controversy has surrounded the University’s industry connections with arms manufacturers. This is the first time, however, that the student union — which explicitly commits to opposing militarism in its constitution — has been implicated in ties to the weapons industry.

Previously, students, staff, and alumni have campaigned to “lockout” the highest-ranking global weapons company, Lockheed Martin, and in 2018 similar groups likewise spoke out against the University’s proposed collaboration with BAE Systems Australia on the Fishermans Bend Engineering Precinct.

In comparison, the agreement between Boeing, the University, and UMSU clubs has been kept much quieter. A Boeing spokesperson told Farrago they had “selected Melbourne University as a partner institution for 2019,” and had donated approximately $65,000 to the University.

The Engineering School’s Academic Liaison with Boeing, Graham Schaffer, said the relationship had so far provided scholarships for female engineering students and funding for a cross-university STEM (Science Technology Engineering and Mathematics) outreach program for Indigenous high school students. Schaffer emphasised the benefits of nostrings-attached monetary support from such a large graduate employer.

“These are just scholarships to good students,” he said. However, Willmott described such claims to altruism as “disingenuous.” She saw the funding as an attempt to superficially offset the weapons company’s impact on marginalised communities by offering them scholarship opportunities.

University of Melbourne Associate Professor and Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Tilman Ruff likewise critiqued Boeing’s potential motives, and said that as a staff member he was “ashamed” and “deeply disappointed” by the University’s continued involvement with the defence industry.

He said companies like Boeing, BAE Systems, and Lockheed Martin only provide scholarships and funding “for public relations purposes” to help “normalise war, weapons and high levels of military spending from which they profit.”

“No organisation associated with the university [sic], including student clubs, should accept such funds,” Ruff said.

School of Engineering postgraduate student Shaveen Sasanka acknowledged that much of the “exceptional” funding for engineering research and scholarships come from the defence industry.

“However, defence projects come with ethical issues. As bioengineers our main purpose is to built [sic] stuff to heal[,] not destroy,” Sasanka said.

“I do not know if I’d ever use defence industry connections in the future. However, at this age and current mindset[,] I hope I never will.”

Sheldon told Farrago that the clubs granted funding by Boeing were self-nominated through an online proposal form and that the University was “not involved” in the process. A University spokesperson highlighted that “all collaborations with external partners are extensively reviewed and subjected to a rigorous and continuous assessment of how they are advancing knowledge and bringing benefits for researchers, students and the wider community.”

Conflict of interest declaration: Lucy Turton was involved in the Lockout Lockheed campaign as one of the 2018 UMSU Environment Officers.

Illustration by Cathy Chen

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SATIRE

LOCAL SHOWOFF PERFECTS WORK-LIFE BALANCE Written by

Andrew Zylstra

PARKVILLE—Local student and identi-

cal twin Simon Whitaker, 21, confirmed on Monday that he has discovered the secret to a perfect work-life balance.

“It’s taken a few years of trial and error, but we—pardon me—I have finally struck gold and come across the best way to balance all my competing commitments,” boasted the at-peace Whitaker to his overwhelmed peer group.

“I attend all my lectures and tutorials; complete all my assignments and pass my exams with flying colours; work twenty-plus hours a week at my part-time job; apply for relevant internships and graduate programs; spend quality time with both family and friends; exercise for at least half an hour every day; maintain a well-balanced diet; keep up with current affairs and popular culture; enjoy time to myself reading or meditating; sleep at least eight hours every night; and, as a bonus, I can even fit in an episode of a TV series at the end of the day.”

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Whitaker says that his new lifestyle has helped to improve his overall satisfaction and wellbeing.

“I used to suffer from crippling stress and anxiety from balancing all my responsibilities; however, with our—fuck I mean my—new lifestyle, stressful Simon is a thing of the past,” a visibly sweating Whitaker said.

What’s his secret? Whitaker attributes his success to a concept he calls “collaborative time management”. When asked to elaborate, Whitaker mumbled something about a yoga class before running away.

Simon’s twin brother, Michael, declined to be interviewed, citing the fact that he is a “nocturnal being”. This story is ongoing.

Illustrated by Arielle Vlahiotis

SATIRE

WOAH TO NO Rebecca Fletcher Illustrated by Wendy T. Lin

Written by

L

ocal punters at Flinders Street Station were stunned today as a fellow traveller moved through the gate without pausing or stopping.

“It was amazing,” one baffled onlooker commented.

“She aimed at one boomgate the whole way in, and that was actually the one she went through. She had money on her card and everything.

No noise, no hesitation, just ‘bing’ and away she went.” The onlooker then informed us that they’d captured the scene on film, but seemed unable to locate their phone in the bottom of their bag.

“It was in here just a minute ago, I swear,” they mumbled, slowly drifting towards the growing queue as they rifled through their bag. While waiting for our eyewitness, we witnessed the daily struggle of other, less fortunate commuters. The looks of bafflement as card readers flashed red at unwitting wouldbe passengers. The constant, last-minute lane shifts as hopeful passengers departed from any semblance of civilised behaviour, by not heading for the turnstiles they were aiming at, or even in front of. After watching no fewer than three people attempt to slip in behind other commuters, we wondered if the inopportune, unwilling conga line of frustrated Melburnians was our city’s legacy.

“I just recharged it,” one youth commented to a Public Transport Officer, having jumped the barrier in apparent frustration. “Come on man, I’m going to miss my train.” The look of dissatisfaction on the officer’s face mirrored every person behind that gate who lacked the commitment, fitness or disposable income to withstand a $249 fine. Although pending video confirmation, (“I swear, I just put it on the top of my bag like five minutes ago”), we are hopeful that the sign of one commuter with their shit together bodes well for the future.

Perhaps one day, we too can bear witness to the mythical creature the Myki consortium envisioned when developing the system, instead of the frustrated masses watching themselves fail at yet another daily task. Until then, this reporter, and their witness, will be metaphorically rifling through the bottom of their bags, looking for the answer.

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CREATIVE

SECOND TO LAST Written by

Natalie Chun Min Fong

ii.

i.

does it bother you, mercy weighs like wrinkles and yet you cannot lift it

you only know you’re successful when you have rocks in your mouth when your mouth is where your chest was now tectonic-plated, clashing the right-brained and the left-handed so a new mountain was raised of a molehill mind—

with your glacial hands, cannot wash it out of your honey-pooled eyes where fallen stars thrash and plastic roses thrive

to brave teacup-storms with, to balance coffee on,

what else does mercy remind your tongue of, the one mothering wet sand, stuttering like clover leaves

you don’t open your mouth for fear of the impending avalanche, you are the only person who changes the

what else reels in your attention while it’s supple and sluiced and sloughing off to be circumscribed— a red balloon tied to a chair, deflating, anti-climatically?

weather by thinking about it, why don’t you think instead about how people grow apart like legs, not human ones separable by force of pain, legs of a journey, truncated by getting on and letting go, legs of a past life, running into the present smashing into a lamppost like THIS—because you don’t sleep, your fear has consumed the chopsticks you call limbs, they risk snapping by forgetting how to be used, the way I am too used to being forgotten by you, your rocky successful mouth.

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what else whistles and asks to be taken seriously? what else rakes through tufts of your bold italic hair, decides you are almost as worthy as a punctuation mark? mercy, can’t you see, mercy, blindingly by you, have you been begging for it to bother you.

Illustrated by Reann Lin

iii.

she who recycles metaphors religiously, who insists inventiveness a blasphemy, who willingly cuffs facts to her ‘poet’ hands with the damning accuracy of never letting things slip through her fingers that ought to have, the way quotation marks smuggle her identity wherever she goes should I begin to uncover the function of her scarf, whether she ties it the way she might a noose, one she puts comfortably, gently, around my poem’s neck should I look away from her Medusa eyes, even though I know poetry holds immunity for the people who believe in its integrity to stand on the shoulders of stones should I watch her turn and toss, blissful ignoring her eyes of dropped mercury, strangled by the penchant to see things for less than they are should she wake one day and find forgiveness, staring her down like mothball sun, would she crack up like she might if she reads this?

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NON-FICTION

ADRESSING THE QUESTION: A THIRD CULTURE KID’S EXPERIENCE Written by

Klesa Wilson

“Your English is good!”

“How many languages can you speak?”

Fluently? One: English. Growing up in foreign I smile politely and say thank you. I always say thank countries does not necessarily confirm one’s you—it is a compliment, after all. But here lies the ability to learn the subtleties of the language. paradigm of being a third-culture kid, a biracial kid, I can get into a taxi and ask for direc a kid whose outward ethnicity does not align with tions in several countries, but my smat their citizenship: I get congratulated on the efforttering of Thai and lukewarm Japanese does lessness I am able to speak my first language. little in complex conversation on politics or There are two things coinciding in my brain when the latest equestrianism showcasing. You someone says this to me: grow accustomed to not understanding the 1) I’m imagining canned applause, the ecstatic rhythm conversations of people around you, in of faceless people cheering on my overcoming a language distinct like the background hum of barrier. I step towards an imagcoffee machines in cafes, and your close inary podium, take the drop-down micrknit circle of friends come from the ophone in my hand, and scream to my same international school you do or ardent fans, that I, Klesa Wilson, from other expat families. have surpassed what my South-East “Where are you from, then?”

Asian mother has passed on to my The dreaded question. The one I looks, and learned English. blink at, bite my lip for a few mo2) The mantra: Here we go again; ments at, consider replying with “my here we go again; here we go again. mum’s vagina” at so I can mask my ‘Your English is good!’ Well, yes, I’m awkward pause with humour. The Australian. question is kaleidoscopic to me—do “Are you from America?” you mean where I was born? Australia.

Ah, no. What you’re hearing when Where I was raised? Thailand. What I speak to you is a conglomerate ethnicity I am? Eurasian. Do you mean of American television, British the place where all my best friends are? slang, and Australian inflection Scattered across the continents. Do you with words ending in ‘o’. ‘It’s an mean my street address? I’ve had twenty. international accent,’ I often say, Third culture kids fall into an entrapment defending the way myvoice is of shrinking ourselves down into bite-size jammed together like braces on morsels, picking at threads of who wonky teeth. International. It’s we are and offering whatever we can cling aneasy band-aid to plaster to. When we come from so much, it feels over the lengthy list of culimpertinent to take up someone’s tures I was raised amongst time to explain our histories, our —Thailand, Taiwan, lives, and who we believe we are.

Fiji, Indonesia—knowing the intricacies of many yet having ownership of none.

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Illustrated by Zino Feng

Written by

NON-FICTION

THE CURTAIN CALLS FOR YOU TO THINK: ALL POWERFUL Tzur Ko Geen Rochvarer

Disclaimer: simplification of gender identity in this piece. I recognise that this piece plainly and solely talks about women and men, and in no way is erasure of other identities is implied.

All female. All Powerful. All together. Women are

the topic of conversation, everywhere! Be it beside you, be it on the news - it is as it should be! It is current events and it always will be, because women make up half of the world’s population. So why the underrepresentation? Why do we deem women less deserving?

All Female: Opportunity is hard to come by and when the odds are stacked against you it’s a never ending thicket with only a butter knife to cut through. Waitress is a musically ingenious example of opportunity that is difficult to come by.

The soundtrack alone is a roller-coaster to listen to. From the smooth velvet lyrics of ‘She Used to be Mine’ to an emotional instrumental and the ‘contraction ballet’, Sara Bareilles captured a story from hopelessness to hope. Waitress made history for being the first all-female creative team on Broadway, which means that the four creative leading roles of the show were held by women:

Director - Diane Paulus

Choreographer - Lorin Lattaro

Book - Jessie Nelson Lyrics and Composition-Sara Bareilles.

If not for the powerful work backstage, on stage the musical follows three women and how they support one another in their journeys in self-acceptance and self-belief. This parallel between real life and life onstage can only prove to us that it is possible. Women are capable! And uplifting one another is never a waste of time.

All Powerful: Being a man in a patriarchal society meant I’ve gone a large portion of my life unaware of the presupposed ideas of where my capabilities lie. I’m not a child anymore and I know they were held high because of my sex. I decided to write this because I want people to believe in women for their capabilities, so that if my sister strives for anything she won’t be second-guessed.

The days in front of us are no longer about the woman behind the man, but are about the woman that stood next to the man, with the man. The woman that’s there instead of the man. Women are as all powerful as the man. Adversity manifests differently for people because of individuality, be it upbringing, colour, gender or sex.

We must recognise that power comes from difference, realise that in our personal tranquility there is the opportunity to uplift. To push for a powerful age where our energies are applied for each other, not against. To aim for a society where power comes from standing together and building steps to cross the walls of hardship.

All Together: Being told you might have it easier can be infuriating. Yet someone out there always has it better than you and someone always has it worse.

That’s okay. Taking that willful energy and applying it to help someone makes you a better person.

Coming together pushes us forward. Someone else’s dreams don’t have to outshine yours, you can nudge to help someone meet their dreams. Let’s face it, nothing was ever done by watching and always done by doing.

Listening to Waitress on repeat for days taught me that a support system is the number one aspect that stirs change. You need to want it yourself, but sometimes the world doesn’t work that way. If we all just worked a little bit harder towards unity; if we all reached out our hands just once.

Acting not just for ourselves means the conversation changes from “Why am I not empowered?” to “How do I empower?”- owe it to each other to have a world that comes together and stays together.

27 19

CREATIVE

GRAN AND ME ON TOUR Written by

Jean Baulch

“Guard, Gran.”

“Yes, I know! Such a charming guide!”

“No, Gran, he’s a guard… a guard.” “…He’s going to get a big tip from me! And that accent! O there’s nothing more magical than an Irishman’s tongue!” she winks as a flush accelerates across my face.

“Shall I ask if he’s single?”

“Gran!”

Her imagination must be working overtime to create this mythical tongue talent. I haven’t caught a hint of it in the ten words he’s spoken since we came through the gates. But then again, Gran’s got a growing knack for painting her own realities into life.

Today is turning into a shining example: she’s scheming my future romance with our handsome Irish tour guide, while I’m helping escort her to her prison cell; her new home for the next five to ten.

Gran’s eyes light up as she takes in the scene around her. In a low and excited voice she whispers, “Such colourful language from the staff!”

I look around and realise she thinks the women in the cells are exuberant employees. They’re all on their feet, cheering and heckling and rattling bars; if you turn up here as ancient as Gran, I guess you can’t help but spark curiosity. You’ve gotta be hard to commit crimes in your nineties.

It was some rubbish cold case they dug up on her, and the deeper into the prison we go, the more I wish I’d just sat her in a red convertible and told her to drive into the sunrise.

28

Instead I drove her here in her old Ford Ute—the green paint giving way to rust, and the tape player warping a Beach Boys song she’d pirated off the radio a few decades earlier. Gran smiles at me and a memory shimmers in the wrinkles around her eyes.

“When I was young and travelling Europe, all the tour guides had such colourful umbrellas. One lady in Prague even had a magnificent teddy bear tied to the top of hers. They’d hold them up high so we could always find them, in even the thickest of crowds…

Where do you think he’s left his then?”

She drifts off into another thought and the guard falls back and puts his hand on my shoulder. He tells me they’ve got her a good room. I’m too focused on catching any slip of an Irish accent and miss his tone of voice altogether. As he walks ahead my mind races, trying to work out if he was being menacing or reassuring.

After an eternity of grey cinderblock walls, he stops suddenly and swings open a cage door.

“He we are.” Gran grabs my shoulder with excitement.

“How exciting, we get to see inside one!”

As she turns into the cell, a voice greets her.

“Deirdre, my love, welcome home.”

Gran freezes on the spot, her mind turning circles.

“Agnes? Oh Aggy, how wonderful to see you! You must meet my grandson…” Gran pulls me in beside her.

“Agnes and I used to rob banks together in Copenhagen! We were rather good at it,” she sings as her eyebrows jiggle with pride.

Agnes looks me over.

“I hope you don’t mind. Your mum got in touch to say the nursing home wasn’t working out. Causing a ruckus were her words. So I called in a tip to an old copper, and a favour from the warden, and got her in here with me.” I do mind. I really do rather mind.

My anger is spread across so many people right now I don’t know where to begin—so I turn to the guard and scream, “Bunk beds! Are you fucking kidding?”

His green eyes are as horrified as mine.

Gran comes over to shake his hand and thank him, and he seems surprised to find three tissues deposited into his palm. Gran’s equivalent of a crisp $20 tip I suppose.

I hug Gran goodbye; she thinks I’m nipping off to use the bathroom and I can’t convince her otherwise. Aggy gives me a hug and pinches my butt, for reassurance, I hope. As I walk away, heartbroken and desperate to hear more about this bank robbing phase, Gran seems perfectly at ease.

The guard leads me back through the maze of security and walls with absent windows. I’m expecting sunshine as we walk outside, but it’s raining, and he opens an umbrella as we cross the yard. At the gate he pauses to shuffle his feet, till he mumbles shyly, “Would you like to get a drink sometime?”

I can feel Gran nudging me from afar.

“Are you Irish?” I ask, though I don’t care much for the answer. I’m going with Gran’s reality either way.

Illustrated by Rohith Prahbu

29

CREATIVE

SUNSET Written by

Zahra Alzuraijawi

Observe the objective world directly through the senses.

Representations are undermined from glitches in the physiology of the brain.

Sunset, various parts of Melbourne city.

Loud crowds distract and fluorescent lights distract and Graceful infrastructure Blocks the view Of the sunset.

Sunset, Open space.

Man walks his dog Large open

green.

Boy roller-skates Inclined

rough

concrete.

Was the water in the lake’s movement witnessed or Was the water in the lake’s movement assumed because The water in the lake’s movement was expected.

Dilemmas are explained using the signal detection theory.

Light exudes gradually. Suddenly, a bright yellow centre.

And god: Never depicted through references to the physical world only understood through reference to light.

Revise the perception, Birds respond to sunset in their own way.

Anticipate darkness.

Heightened activity during darkness, Recalling better sunset experience or darkness makes the system less able to distinguish.

(Think harder about what is out there.) Less is out there?

An important evolutionary survival aspect.

Wasteful, though.

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Illustrated by Abir Hiranandani

FARRAGO

Photography by Kashish Sandhu

FARRAGO FARRAGO

SECTION TEXT

ArtChristabella by Photography by Alicia Andreas

SECTION TEXT

FARRAGO FARRAGO

Photography

by Alice Photography

by Tai

FARRAGO FARRAGO

Photography

by Mingyu Photography

by Tan

FARRAGO FARRAGO

SECTION TEXT

Photography

by Jean Photography byBaulch

SECTION TEXT

FARRAGO FARRAGO

‘Dayfly in pthhalo blue’ by Photography byJane Goh

FARRAGO FARRAGO

Photography

by ChristybyChudosnik Photography

FARRAGO

‘Thoughts Under the Fig Tree’ by Phoebe Edwards

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CREATIVE

鱼 (You)

Written by Felicity

Smith

Two boats cast their fishing nets, I am the mermaid caught in the middle, 来回，来回, they both compete.

They reach for spears when they realise 美人鱼不是那么好抓的.

And isn’t it better to kill, Than have a creature of two worlds?

The waves offer me up treacherously, 风一样毫不留情， I’m sushi ready to be served, 在金色的玉碗里. 当你们 scraped off layers of flesh and scales 只剩下血与骨， You ask again, smiles wide: 你是谁？ Who are you? 人怎么可能是鱼？

来回 (lái huí) : back and forth 美人鱼不是那么好抓的 (měi rén yú bù shi nà me hǎo zhuā de) : mermaids aren’t so easy to catch 风一样毫不留情 (fēng yī yàng háo bù liú qíng) : the wind also shows no mercy 在金色的玉碗里 (zài jīn sè de yù wǎn lǐ) : in golden jade bowls 当你们 (dāng nǐ men) : once you 只剩下血与骨 (zhǐ shèng xia xiě yǔ gǔ) : leaving behind only blood and bone 你是谁? (nǐ shì shéi) : who are you? 人怎么可能是鱼? (rén zěn me kě néng shì yú) : how can a person be a fish?

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Illustrated by Bethany Cherry

Written by Tessa

Marshall

COVID-19 is not the first infection to threaten

the globe. Bubonic plague, caused by the bacterium Yersinia pestis, is uncommon today and treatable with antibiotics. But in medieval times there was no effective treatment, and the plague killed up to twothirds of the European population.

The plague doctor is a quintessential symbol of the Black Death. Without any need for medical training, the doctors’ administrative duties were more useful than their healing powers, as few others were willing to risk infection to count the dead. But we should not dismiss plague doctors as foolish charlatans. Despite not knowing germ theory, their costume had many elements of good infection control.

The classic ‘costume’ wasn’t actually invented until the 17th century, by a French doctor named Charles de Lorme. Its design spread throughout Europe, much like the plague it chased.

The outfit was basically an early hazmat suit.

Plague doctors covered themselves with a thick cloak and tight waxy gloves. Their clothes were coated in water-resistant suet — animal fat — to stop fluids seeping into the fabric, and the doctors carried a cane to avoid touching their patients. They even had tiny eyeglasses to prevent splashes into their eyes. The doctors would have been well protected from Ebola or HIV (that had not been studied at the time) which spread through bodily fluids. But the bubonic plague was mainly spread by flea bites, and protective gear did not prevent this.

However, plague doctor hygiene was more advanced than that of later doctors. In 19th-century Vienna, mothers died in obstetric wards at rates three times higher than in midwife-led clinics. A young doctor named Ignaz Semmelweis realised that doctors didn’t wash their hands between cadavers and the labour ward. He didn’t know about bacteria, but he thought it was a good idea for doctors to disinfect their hands between patients, but his contemporaries mocked him viciously. When Semmelweis died (of an infection that handwashing may have prevented) his achievements went unrecognised. Semmelweis would have felt more at home with plague doctors than 19thcentury obstetricians. Some reportedly washed their hands with vinegar, which is still a household disinfectant.

Their practice of isolating themselves was also one of the first recorded instances of quarantine, which is now a key strategy to slow the spread of COVID-19.

But the most distinctive feature of the plague costume is the beak. People believed foul-smelling air called ‘miasma’ transmitted disease, so plague doctors stuffed their beaks with herbs to purify the air. Although this didn’t stop plague transmission, removing infectious particles from the air now prevents the spread of respiratory diseases.

We just have better technology than a lavender-scented beak, like negative pressure rooms and HEPA filters. If plague doctors were fighting COVID-19 rather than the plague, the precaution of covering their mouths might have had a bigger impact.

So, in the current pandemic, remember the plague doctors who pioneered infection control without knowing about bacteria and viruses. They didn’t understand infection but risked their lives anyway.

Illustrated by YukKei Lo Yuki

NON-FICTION

THE OTHER THEORY OF EVOLUTION: PLAGUE DOCTORS

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CONTENT WARNING: child abuse, death, kidnapping, abduction and violence

CREATIVE

missing (a found poem) Written by Selina

Moir-Wilson

a pink Barbie book bag buried in a public park lipstick marks on a pimpled face denim pants and a scar on her knee picking peaches from a neighbourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tree cherries on her left shoulder blade long ponytails in spring clowns in the rear window deep-set eyes on slot machines kittens playing in a no-parking zone dogs abandoned in the rain a deaf child on surveillance video strangled to death in a felt hat.

Note on the poem: This is a found poem that uses appropriated text from missing persons profiles on the FBIâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s public website.

No more than one line is from the same profile.

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Illustrated by Vivian Li

ETERNITY AND TIME Isabelle Rieger

CREATIVE

Written by

I The moon in a tea cosy twinkles at half mast our bones and eyes a sprinkle of stardust on the canvas of time She dances from swell to swell swaying from the rigging A tinkling of the whales’ windchimes.

The blue water of dawn filled the room II Lost ideas and blank books paper mâché coffins Where did eternity go?

I’ve come back with the inability to manage Time The moon is running late he has heard from neither sister III I found Time she was nestled away warming her hands on the oceans depths Eternity’s glass eyes pass us by searching for a place to settle But Time, she wants to stay still just for a few minutes longer

Illustrated by Vivian Li

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CREATIVE

ZIPPER Written by

DURIAN/DURIAN Written by

Phu-Linh Tran

Durian, Much loved, yet maligned fruit Your spiky, intimidating appearance masks something hidden, enticingly forbidden, tempting us to indulge our lips inside your unknown landscape of custardy flesh And like a mole working its deception, you take everyone unawares when you are exposed Your musky, exotic aroma is mysterious Nefarious even So when your presence is in the room one cannot help but wonder: What is that odour?

You should not be known as durian but Durian/Durian A double-lethal dose of god knows what

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Illustrated by Su Park

Jamisyn Gleeson

Picture my mouth as a zipper, one that you open and close whenever you like.

If I talk too much you slide that cold metal across my lips and force me to be silent if I talk too little you push words inside my wet cave of a mouth.

I rip the zipper from my face and create a gaping black hole You say Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m wild, out of place, and stitch my lips back together only to pluck away each red thread when you want me to say yes, I agree.

FANTASY Farnsworth

CREATIVE

Written by William

When the quarter moon sets, Something is perhaps known, or even a line descends revealed in the moonlight, between him and him, them and them, her and her yet, and yet it breaks, in some shape and form, it is lost a little just a little in each other not realising, just disappearing in each other, even when it breaks even time loses itself when this moment begins; and yet, only yesterday the sun hid itself behind the smog clever to conceal itself, receding all light to a small shimmer that visage, concealment, that regretful weight of silence.

Once the sound breaks, there is difficulty in mere breath.

Each word becomes a paradox each view is warped, elated.

All those old feelings like a slow walk in the night descending into somnambulant phases of memory,

IN THE WALL

halted.

Written by James

Those who count the lies forget the meaning behind them.

Lost nights, tired arguments, dried tears, a final kiss they disappear and then leave their mark.

Sometimes it is best not to talk. Each feeling is different than the rest, yet many are silent.

I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have told you this before, mistakes are too easy when I speak But easy to keep when no one speaks.

Robertson

crag lines run ripple across creased walls an eye formed long sight caught through time rockets and tanks fear, and a lifetime all seen through a single crag in the wall

Illustrated by Su Park

45

CREATIVE

CONTENT WARNING: death

A BUDDHIST FUNERAL ON REUNION DAY Written by

Claire Yip

There’s nothing in that area, you warned me too late, after I alighted into a cartography of auto-workshops, flat stretches of old grass; the shadowy hull of Eunoia Junior College.

Once humming with gasoline, the asphalt lies as if dead no pink flags rumbling in the distance, no trucks ferrying the din of lion dance troupes and their rallying drums– no sounds of the living, but for the white tent of the temple next door.

In the sombre dust of Sin Ming Drive cars idle in the sun, while banks of dark blue awnings extend greetings of scripture and business.

There, on the first room of the other side I stumble upon a wave of bone-white.

Strangers shift in pale chairs, eyes following me an unknown of their number peering back, moonlike, as if into a mirror.

The front walls of the sitting room are missing, laying grief bare. Here, only a thin border separates one transient room from the occupants in the next.

When I stare at the framed photo of the woman outside not even an echo surfaces, but a woman at the front of the crowd calls my name. She nudges me over, across the step that divides the dead from the living. All visitors come face-to-face with the earthy casket, the floor screen at the back in austere ink-wash, with its painted cranes and characters of consolation too obscure to recognise.

Loving tributes from the local shops line the altar: joss sticks, papery yellow talismans, petite offerings of food your grandmother loved or their best substitutes: Kong bak bao, simmered bok choy, stewed mushrooms and carrots –apple-green and peach yakult for her grandchildren laden with care. Her last meals are vegetarian, so no ghosts impede her journey.

As I wait for you, I bow once, twice, three times; that should be enough. But I bend once more, a Catholic faux pas against the fabric of a Buddhist family.

In front of all this starkness, I sit down in the late afternoon sun with your older cousin chatting about the Puffing Billy Trains in Dandenong, how I sound “Australian” now, and the time you came to visit me in Melbourne.

As these loose stitches of casual nothings begin to skirt and slip under the weight of memories her expression hollows, and she gets up to leave.

46

Illustrated by Wendy T. Lin

When you arrive, you can’t stop apologising– the red lily of your face crumples abruptly along with your sister’s young voice, for she and your father just flew in this morning.

I watch as you and your mother guide them in rites, bowing together backs firm and poised, before you disappear into the back to dress in white.

Sans rehearsal, I envision a choreographed number for when you return then follow its stage directions; moving tables to keep you company, talking through the sweat dripping down the white of my shirt.

As the heat slows and your face settles into a mask of duty it is soon time for the sutras to begin.

I take my cue to leave, but must do so without uttering the words “goodbye”.

The last ritual– I take a yellow tea cloth and its knot of red thread between my fingers. I begin unwinding filaments of time, now reduced to microseconds of flashing images. At this gathering I search for the beginnings of an encounter with this shining presence in your world, the orphan who raised you and your mother feeding a stranger’s child alongside her own, maybe once, twice or more.

I conjure something from a different era– Old lighting. A mise en scène of us as young girls, your cousins running around a living room, absorbed in a game lost to time. In front of us are ceramic pots laced with the nebulous aroma of pork and mushrooms, braised vegetables, even tiny bowls of peanut soup they must have been, a Cantonese staple. My eyes are in the present, but at the rows of white tables elliptical as their conversations, these ghosts are nowhere to be found. Even the watery form of her face cannot hold firm, her name lost to my unknowing childhood.

Yellow tea cloth in hand, I wonder why I stopped going during those days before you left; the years between us when you still called this place home.

Bowing three times with you, I disentangle myself from the whiteness of the wreathed chrysanthemums and an air pregnant with unshed tears.

Walking forward, I unravel the red thread fully, then cast it away.

47

CREATIVE

CONTENT WARNING: mental illness SECTION TEXT

GUTTER WINE, AND SHARDS OF STARS A FAILED RECIPE FOR RECOVERY Written by Amy

Wortmann

When I wake up on Saturday, I can only lay and daydream Feel my night’s musings seep into the covers And try not to think about you.

I get up to water my garden— I’ve planted flowers because I need to grow something other than resentment.

Getting ready, I have no time To eat, I have other things To digest.

I dust over every Freckle you’ve touched with Foundation, I construct smiles like skyscrapers Just to prove you weren’t my cornerstone.

I stagger through a crowded bar, Lunge across the banister, drift Between boy-creatures who are Lean, and Nothing like you, but beautiful With their butterfly eyes and hazy hair, with Laughter punc!tu!ated by fruity hiccups, Siphoning life from my lungs— You are the only one Who’s ever kissed me With a soul.

I tip my head and howl, then swallow the sound; It tastes like gutter wine.

I have a friend with arms like palm fronds, Gentle but cold, with elbows Rough like pumice.

As we lurch into the cosmos I clasp his hand in mine, Reminded that once, we were but shards of stars.

The girls glide to and fro, their bodies Fissures in the limelight, constantly nudging Shadows into orbit, Cushioning me from the windows because The moon reminds me of you And I am caught in the commotion: Sleek greyhound figures and Shifting mellow chaos.

But at the end of the day, When I stagger back home and Think about the party Stories crawl through me, And you’re the one I want to tell The only one I want to tell.

48

Illustrated by Yuk Kei Lo Yuki

CONTENT WARNING: coercive SECTION relationships, implied dysphoria and transphobia TEXT

DEVOTION(S) Say we’re sat cross-legged, however many of us, arms twined watching Lizzie McGuire re-runs where she has her first kiss

CREATIVE

Written by Jocelyn Deane

on our Switch, her heart broken when Ronnie says later–we all repeat– We need to talk, in different voices.

You are impersonating Ronnie deliciously: the small fry of recurring pubescence, the seriousness injected into velar consonants, the thawing pause before Lizzie...which lasts as long as he could want. Lizzie and he interact for only one episode: he likes someone at a distant New York school, says he doesn’t know if now is the time for he/Lizzie to stay exclusively best boy and girl, sensitive-like. Dear Lizzy Ronnie is a paper-route–chucking the Times at your picket fence–in the mid-2000s like Clark Kent–stupid glasses, himbo broad–still working at a print newspaper in 2020.

We are trading our tertiary characteristics like playing D&D: we roll dice to determine our perception score; we grip one another compliment you on your diamond smile/endless patience with the cis-scum lying one on top of the other like newly born kittens developing eyes, very still.

Illustrated by Vivian Li

49

REVIEW

THE LAST FREE MAN AND OTHER STORIES Written by

I must say there is a strangely melancholic tinge

Charlotte Armstrong

when reading a book so heavily steeped in Australiana as you fly out of Australia. For a book like The Last Free Man, this culminates in the desire to stare out the window at the vastness of the Australian wilderness and for a brief moment be alone (blessedly, when one’s seat is in front of a small screaming child) as Jimmy Healy does in the opening story of the same name.

The Last Free Man, by Lewis Woolston and published by Truth Serum Press features a series of vignettes with only one thing in common – their fascination with the wildness of the Australian outback.

More accurately, the sense of stark contrast between city life and life in these remote spaces is the connecting thread of each of the stories, focusing on the feeling of existing outside the margins of society.

From drug addicted roommates to lonesome truckers and cops, all of Woolston’s characters are almost permeated by the desolate nature of the places these stories occur in, stripping aside any facades and leaving a sense of rawness.

With that said, a story about raw Australiana wouldn’t be complete without a dash of good old Aussie sexism, which we see from the complete lack of depth to any of his female characters. Neither the first person narrator (who tends to have a similar voice throughout the stories it is present in, such as ‘The Last Free Man’ or ‘A Pistol and a French Girl’) nor the third person (who sits directly on the shoulders of the characters as in ‘Christmas in Alice Springs’) are forgiving or even remotely interested in these women as people.

50

For the most part, the women are objects to be interacted with and the narration treats them with that level of apathetic contempt throughout. Along the same lines comes a complete lack of indigenous characters aside from the odd mention in at best a useful supporting role. Whilst I can acknowledge these are short stories and as such they don’t have a lot of time to really flesh out any of the characters in full and interesting ways, I found the female characters lacklustre and the use of indigenous characters as scenery disappointing.

I did find it strange the book was billed as a comedic title according to the reviews on the book itself, as I found very little of it funny. The stories have the compelling realism of Tim Winton and deal with a tableau of interesting and flawed individuals, but they are not necessarily “funny” per se. If I were to hazard a guess at what was supposedly humorous, it would be the moments of caricature, such as the “screaming queen, Justin” – a gay chef with a long-standing history of substance abuse problems from ‘Driftwood’.

Even then, these caricatures felt at best like cheap gags. Perhaps it demonstrates the difference between the ‘suburban mind’ and the mind of the narrator that my first thought was living so alone and so isolated from other people in meaningful ways can only make you feel as desolate as this book perceived the landscape to be.

FARRAGO

Art by Abir Hiranandani

51

CREATIVE

THE PROPOSAL Written by Izma

I

Haider

am going now, into the soft swooning night. Sleep well, sweetheart, I will be back soon. I need to talk to the night, that sweltering air enveloping us all, carrying us precariously to dawn. I need to talk to something that is not you. After an evening such as the one we’ve passed, there is much to be said.

It shocked me to see your mother at our dining table, licking over our fine bone china. In my head, I saw her, in her head, saying, “Fine bone? Fine? Good bone, perhaps; but fine?”.

It transported me, rudely, to those times I saw them, her and friends, Mother & Co., in the parlour, after we returned from some intimate movie or lush picnic or town with my heart beating in my eyelids in ecstasy. Over cups and newspapers and biscuits crumbling dry in their mouth, talking of Shakespeare, Baudelaire, Michelangelo. Holding them in their mouth, parsing them out to their fibres – like a mediocre cut of beef – pressing them to the spotted roof of their mouth with their white-green tongue.

And then hmmm swallowing. My love. What can I do? What can I do when their eyes are fixing on me: my back, my head on which I delicately place a hat to suppress that balding patch, your translucent hand on my grey-brown sleeve, the door which seems conceited in front of me and downright vainglorious behind me.

I’m riled. I think I could slip in this dark wet and break my neck. Let me think on your hand some more. Or the perfume on your skin (that perfume isn’t the same in the store, I swear it). The ambrosial bow of your mouth. Your riotous gait and tender apples of your cheek. You are abundant. I cradle the world in your body.

Here I am. The reflection of oneself in a darkened storefront is a sad sight to see. Here I am: limpid, lined, ragged. What is that in my eyes? A spark? It could be. I could be Adonis, risen from the dead, and show them all. Oh, yes, I will be twice-born for you. I could draw myself up, be a barraging wave, not seafoam; a gorgeous, romantic shipwreck, not seaweed and debris. I could bend into the form of that under-seething question, a velvet ring box pressed in hand like a hot coal and ask for that blushing hand.

52

But then, if your eyes happen to grow frightfully round and you draw yourself up to say my name, frightfully slow—“Alfred… I’m sorry… no”—I shall dry myself off and dissolve into foam. It was candlelight from the apartment across the way. You’re right, I’ll go.

I come, padding on dewy grass. Your hand on my jacket; am I anything more than that? At some intimate movie or picnic or out to town or in the process of getting to or from any of the above. In the middling mild middle-dom of this world, aren’t you cobalt blue streaked across my eye? Aren’t you the only creature who is made not for this world, not even for me, but something else?

I have seen every moment rewound in dreams and then marred, flickered through with film grain. A smile I hadn’t realised was simply polite, a hand that bore my weight only in pity. Creature that is not me, I am in love with you, but this yellow streak is a mile wide. Impossible! Should I have the will to stronghand that moment, that place that was special to me, to its crisis?

How would I begin?

It is shortly uphill. A great sense of mortality contemptuously descends on me. It mocks me for being afraid of the end of such a life. Nonetheless, I walk, expecting to topple shortly from some arrest or atrophy and soak a great expanse of dew on to this very practical tweedlinencottonsilkcorduroy.

I am on the hill now. A sheet of lavender gossamer inches ever further across the sky, bordered by yellow.

I think of you. I think of love, of boredom; I think, with despair, of being born like this. I think of being born again. I betray them all in the process.

With indignity, I walk back down the hill. Confounded fool, you are not Adonis; you tended the myrrh tree. A serf. Not altogether disrespectable, but a bit doltish. Sometimes, perhaps, ridiculous.

I grow weary. The stones are slick and reflect the shine of the early sun. The early people—bakers, postmen, gardeners, un-recent widows busy around, quietly. Quiet busy. They are some of my favourite people.

Illustrated by Alice Tai

I take the long route, through the main streets.

The fog is bolstered by the smoke rising from the cigarettes of lonely severed hands, lolling out of taxicab windows. This too is a reminder. It sets in motion that mind-spun celluloid of soaring, leaping.

Freshest perfume and bright, unpolished apples on a wooden table and gold light pouring over us sweetly like molasses. And to win it all, just one vital break and—the reel comes undone. I won’t talk about joy, happiness, bliss—or misery: tinnitus, a ball of silence, cold under scalding water and goose flesh for the wrong reasons. I won’t do it.

What need is there for such cruelty to feeling?

Just like this, in technicolour black and white, in one terrible metal scrape moment of exposure, you can become a ghost. Love is the thing with many teeth.

Maybe when we are wizened and greying all over and together – in heart of hearts, in absolution, in nothing short of a miracle – we are together. All-together, our bones huddled into each other together, you can whisper to me softly, my love: long ago, how long ago, how long I made you wait. And that joy postponed is still true and good; better for it, in fact. That as absence makes us fonder, time made us sweeter.

There you are, love. By you, I mean the house and by the house, I mean us. I’m looking forward to seeing you, honey-combed, bright white heart, hair splayed like a gunshot. This night has done me no good, none at all. No worse either, none at all. I am much the same as I was. I take the door handle and, in my cowardice, let my cowardice—get the better of me.

53 51

CREATIVE

HYPATIA

Written by Sunnie

U

Meg

p next we have the lovely walking encyclopedia, Hypatia of Alexandria. The daughter of a well-respected academic, Hypatia was an Ancient Greek-Egyptian astronomer, mathematician and philosopher who was born around 350 CE (Common Era).

54

She was raised outside the constricting gender roles within Egyptian-Greek society by her forward thinking Papa and thrived as a professor at the University of Alexandria, something unheard of for a woman of her time.

Illustrated by Stephanie Nestor

Hypatia was a highly respected individual by both the general public and academic community, and it was therefore inevitable something would eventually go wrong for our gal – if you’re a woman in power, it’s tough to have it all. Soon enough, the great city of Alexandria was facing turmoil as Christianity swept in and extreme violence followed- libraries were burnt (and not in a lit kind of way) and a new age of oppression for women swept in, the first victim being our new favourite academic badass.

The light trickled through the patchy glass windows, casting specks of light onto the straw scattered floor. A hollow silence pressed in from the walls of the church, leaking under the doorways, penetrating the windows, and seeking out anyone and everyone as it spread throughout the city - just as the news, too, spread throughout the streets.

The day had been ordinary, as had the day’s teachings. The overcast sky glared too bright for the chance of rain, yet despite the absence of sun, the heat caused my robes to cling to every limb. I had chosen the day’s lecture topic carefully, as I had been sure to do for months now. The basic uses of the astrolabe - a bronze model of my own creation - and how they assist in the study of astronomy. In the corner of my eye, I had seen regular attendees excuse themselves from the crowded amphitheatre, the lecture having already been delivered to them several times.

If anything, it amused me so thoroughly that, as they threw nasty glances my way, I had to suppress a smile.

Men and their fragile egos.

Gasps break the silence, dragging me back to the present as those same regulars and other officials wander into the church, spotting the pools and splashes of my ruby-red blood scattered all over the tiles. Sobs and screams fill the room, echoing off the pillared walls as those above look down on what’s left of me.

A torso, the skin scraped down to the bone of my ribs. An arm, charred and barely human. And worst of all, a detached leg, shattered in more than one place.

After the lecture, I’d been walking to my chariot when I noticed a slight disturbance ahead on the track. I hadn’t quite been able to see what was going on...

“Is it safe?” I questioned the guard sharply.

“When is it ever safe round here? It’ll be right.”

I paused, as all good thinkers do. Another riot, perhaps? There was always something to be protested nowadays- an outdated class system, the Christians making base, the inaccessibility of the Library...

“Shall we get a move on?”

“Yes, yes. Just bypass the street ahead, if you wouldn’t mind.”

A mere five minutes later I was dragged by my hair, kicking and screaming, fighting tooth and nail.

They screamed at me, demanded that I take up a habit and declare myself a worshipper of their Lord Jesus Christ, that I dedicate myself not to the spreading of false words and wisdom, that I preach their Truth rather than my own...

And now I realise, looking down upon what is left of my physical form, that I truly am dead. I am neither here nor there. I’m not floating down the River Styx, as my followers would have predicted, nor have I descended to Hell, as the zealots would certainly be preaching. I’m not currently being reborn or dwelling in the clouds. I am yet another woman looking down upon her own broken body, staring at the consequences of not following yet another man.

Here I shall stay until they forget my name, until the Library of Alexandria is burnt to a crisp and until the religion I fought so hard against takes over the world.

Until all reason is gone from the world, and I am no longer able to serve a purpose.

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56

FARRAGO

‘Summer Slumber’ by Wendy Lin

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NON-FICTION

JUST ONE OF THE BOYS Written by Clara

Tjiandra

Recipe for a Cool Girl Ingredients:

-3 cups attractiveness -1 tablespoon of intelligence -A splash of beer -Sprinkle of video games -500g immaculate knowledge of sport

Method:

Mix all ingredients until well combined.

Leave your “cool girl” dough for 15 minutes to rise.

Then throw it out.

It is well known that the “Cool Girl” trope is unachievable, explored through the 2012 novel by Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl. Flynn identifies the qualities of the Cool Girl throughout her novel, including for a woman to “never get angry” and “let their man do what they want”.

The perfect woman as an unrealistic ideal is driven into our heads as Flynn states that “men actually think this girl exists”, yet if you pull your head away from the pages, you will find no woman who actually embodies all these qualities.

In How I Met Your Mother, Robin Scherbatsky is the core love interest of unlucky-in-love protagonist Ted Mosby. A lover of Scotch and ice hockey, Robin not only suits up and smokes cigars with the boys but remains undeniably beautiful in the show’s entirety.

Robin’s main flaw is her rejection of the archetypal interests of a woman to have a family, but she is still a Cool Girl due to her other traits. There are endless examples of the Cool Girl: Rachel in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Natasha Romanoff in the Avengers, yet name one real woman who embodies all the Cool Girl qualities. Cool Girl is an anomaly, but Cool Girl has a younger, less attractive sister - “One of the Boys”.

“She is just One of the Boys” is a common phrase to hear, implying the entirely platonic relationship between a girl and her male counterparts due to her boyish behaviour. Having the same father as Cool Girl means that One of the Boys loves all boy things: beer, video games and sport.

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But Cool Girl got all the beauty genes, leaving One of the Boys without. One of the Boys, scarred in her childhood due to the perfections of Cool Girl and the subsequent sibling jealousy, rejects any girlish qualities: like gossip or loving make-up.

By feeding into stereotypical male traits as desirable qualities, this leaves female traits to be considered inferior, which they are not. Male traits do not need to be respected nor are female traits undesirable. But why are traits gendered in the first place?

Liking beer is not a male thing. With 48.8% of participation in the Olympics (Tokyo, postponed until 2021) estimated to be female, interest in sport is not just a male thing. Similarly, about 48% of females in America report to having played video games, which is not just a male interest. Although still a minority in these activities, it is uncommon to find a woman interested in sport or video games: they are not exclusive to males only.

In a similar way, gossiping and liking make-up are not female traits, they are interests not exclusive to women simply because of their sex. If a boy were to go up to a beauty counter, or a girl to a video games store, they would not be turned down due to their gender. These tropes just do not hold up in 2020.

A League of Legends night is not a boys’ night, nor is a romcom night a girls’ night; interests have nothing to do with gender.

Cool Girl needs to grow up, along with One of the Boys, to reflect the women around them, the diverse and individual women, free from stereotypical interests that do not portray people accurately.

Supplied by Stock Images

Written by

F

Lindsay Wong

andoms – you either hate them, or you are in one. Fans form the backbone of celebrities, idols, culture, genres, sports and more. They love, support and promote them through various platforms, such as on social media or simply by word of mouth. However, there are lots of toxic fans out there who do more harm than good, especially in the K-pop industry, which has blown up in recent years. Toxic fans have blown their horns and created a bad reputation for certain fandoms because of their harmful words and actions, not only towards other fandoms but to their own idols as well. In the context of K-pop, an idol is a celebrity who has a carefully curated public image that is managed by the industry and entertainment companies. Idols are talented in dance, song/rap and sometimes even acting.

In this business, entertainment companies curate an image for their idols and market them to be “available” to fans. This means that most idols, especially when they are rookies, are expected to prioritise their careers; hence, dating is frowned upon. By having a significant other, they are no longer “available” to fans. Idols are controlled by their companies to uphold a good public image which attracts more fans to desire their idols. When admiration turns into obsession, fans may become toxic.

Toxic fans intentionally put down other artists to make their idols seem better.

There is a sense of superiority amongst toxic fans – they will undermine other idols to paint their idols in a better light.

When innocent admiration turns into obsession, toxic fans will use their “love” for their idol to justify their harmful words and actions. Likewise, many fans become toxic when they are promoting their favourite idols, especially on social media. One of the main goals of K-pop fans is to promote their idols so that they can reach the number one spot on music charts, win music shows, and achieve high sales. These are ways to measure success for the general public. But in this process, fans can lose sight of their real purpose and become toxic. Their real purpose is to support their idol and their career. Instead, they spread rumours accusing rival groups of manipulating the charts if their favourite group does not claim the top spot.

This involves unethical methods of keeping songs at the top of the charts, such as by using bots.

NON-FICTION

LOVE KNOWS NO BOUNDARIES: TOXICITY IN K-POP

Toxic fans may also be possessive of their favourite idols.

They believe that they are entitled to their idols as personal property. As a result, they go to great lengths to interact with them, including stalking them, chasing them down in public places and trespassing into their hotel rooms. Such fans are known as sasaengs in the industry and are infamous and notorious for what they do. In K-pop history, worst case scenarios have seen sasaeng fans giving letters to their idols written with their own menstrual blood.

On the other hand, non-toxic fans appreciate and support their idols and their music respectfully. Recently, fandom toxicity has been prominent among a small minority of EXO fans. EXO is one of K-pop’s most popular boy groups.

When Chen, EXO’s main vocalist, announced that he was getting married and his fiancé was pregnant, many of his fans organised protests (that later on failed) and disposed of all their merchandise. Protestors sat out side his company’s buildings with slogans saying, “There is no Chen in the future we see”. Initially expecting a crowd of 200 people, only 20 to 30 people showed up. Despite this turnout, many fans still stopped being fans of him because he was no longer “readily available” to them as an idol. These toxic fans felt like their possessive hold over him had been taken away.

Fandom toxicity shouldn’t be a thing. Once it’s past the point of admiration and appreciation, toxic fans would do anything to make sure their idols were seen in the best light.

They would ‘cancel’ idols who are in a relationship without hesitation, just because they are no longer “available” to them anymore. Fans should just come together and enjoy K-pop together. There’s no need to start trouble with people who share the same passion. And in the end, it’s just K-pop. It’s not that deep.

Illustration by Michelle Pham

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60

FARRAGO

‘Keep your distance, Lori’ by Franki Stackpool

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FARRAGO

LONELY HEARTS

ANIMAL Male Giraffe “Kinkshamers need not respond.”

Hello, fellow equal! I think there’s one thing we should get out of the way and I hope this won’t offend you. You see, I’m a big user of the “C” word: consent. We all like to get a little freaky sometimes.

But I want to make sure you’re prepared to engage in intercourse. Us male giraffes have devised a simple and painless way to find out if you’re ovulating, so – I’m gonna drink your piss. But hey, just because your body’s set doesn’t mean your mind is.

I’ll wait. I’ll follow you around for hours, for days!

I humbly ask for your consent to be your mate.

Respectfully, Goldie Schower

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OF THE

KINGDOM Written by

Tessa Bagshaw

Female Sea Cucumber

Male Anglerfish

“Seeking anonymous sperm donor.”

“Let’s leave the lights on.”

I like long walks at the bottom of the ocean, explorin’ at night and breathin’ through my butt. I ain’t much of a reader ‘cos I got no brain, but I can shoot some poisonous organs from my body when I’m attacked. I can also grow ‘em back. I’m just sayin’, what kinda kiddos you want? Soft sea sponges? Or kickass sea cucumbers? Cards on the table though, I ain’t mother material. I’m more of a “release my eggs into the ocean and hope they find some of your best swimmers” kinda gal.

Hit me up for a good time!

Greetings! Hello! Hi! Listen I don’t have much time. If I don’t find my true love soon, I’ll die!

Soulmates are hard to come by at the bottom of the sea. I just can’t afford to take things slow. So I hope you’re cool with moving in together. Literally. Okay hear me out. When we mate I’m gonna bite you. Hear me out! When I’ve latched on, my body will begin to fuse with yours. Hear me out! Eventually I’ll lose my eyes, fins, teeth and most of my internal organs. Hear me out! You’ll be left with my testicles. I’ll basically be reduced to your own personal sperm bank. I’m a real giver.

I know it doesn’t sound particularly romantic.

Scientists call us male anglerfish sexual parasites (rude). And I know I’m not the most attractive fish in the sea. But our species’ lights can entice the most beautiful prey. If you find me in the darkness, please consider me “the one”!

When I see your light shine, I’ll know I’m home.

Love, Cece Cucumberbatch

Sol Fischer

Illustrated by Yena Kim

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CREATIVE

THE CHERRYMAN OVERNEATH THE COLD CRACKED HALL Written by

Lee Perkins

On the moon’s longest night, during the feast of

Lune Harbour, the dance of cupped mead and pursed lips between Queen Sabbas IX and the duchesses and ladies sat beside her grew vibrant. Entertainment, jesters, firebreathers, novel conjurers and their travel-worn familiars paid tribute.

Drunken commonfolk with crumpled invitations bawled their gratitude. Flourishing, grovelling, performing, and staying silently prayerful in the presence of a new ruler. Blinded by a promising light.

All failed to notice Sabbas’ spiced wine boiling and burbling over the lips of her silver goblet.

The air surrounding the highest table on this coldest night was growing temperate as the jesters continued sweating from the tediousness of their quips and their lunges.

Hot droplets dashed the ruler’s brow and the thousand rings on her left hand, inherited from the Eternal Zatlotic Line of rulers, began steaming and scorching her skin and loose hairs. The Hightable groaned and creaked and nails and bolts dropped to the floor, the mason crockery of the once cold hall cracked and coins curled in purses, jittering against belt buckles that were growing wider even as makeup from caked faces dripped onto frilled blouses and beehives of hair collapsed onto padded, plush and velvet shoulders. vA silence hit the hall. A bow had thummed and an arrow thudded into its mirthful centre.

Sabbas’ sparked goblet began to lurch over the front of the Hightable with a speed weighted by the molten syrup of its wine and pure metal. The clear and pearlescent jewels along its rim separated in the air and froze as the goblet rolled from the raised table and heaved itself upright at the centre of the hall, a small ring oscillating as it stood as if magnetised by the oak planks. The mortal and moon-cooled eyes of the hall had been caught awestruck by the force of this Miracle. Gaping mouths, raised brows and wet eyes anxiously watched the now spinning jewels, chasing each other through the heated air until they settled in the shape of a rounded crescent above the lone goblet.

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The space between them began to shimmer. The space between them shimmered with an intensity so great that it instead turned opaque. The cries grew louder. The silence between deepened.Awe and fright. Queen Sabbas IX stood atop her Hightable, and her mellowing voice carried with its o, wn pulsating resonance to her stunned and voiceless subjects, “The moon, in angst and in abandonment, has hunted the tempered sun throughout our Endless Heavens for an age, and then an age again.

The sun did not desire the moon’s love, and pays for its innate preference with an eternity of being the hunted. The moon forces our dearest and most beloved celestial into hiding, and so our grounded plain must be warmed and cooled, moistened and dried, and bent by the wilfulness of a lovesick fool. We have waited long enough for stability; for the flowers to bloom year-long. Thus, we deserve this last night, and the eternal day soon to follow!”

A thunderous crack split the confusion throughout the hall. The pearling jewels stopped spinning.

And the space between them and Sabbas’ goblet melted to void black.

The space melted to void black as hot and spiked rays of sunlight crashed through the hall’s red and blue-tinted windows, and from between the sandstone archways bordering Sabbas’ Hightable floated a dimming amber shard.

Sabbas reached behind her and picked the shard between her thumb and forefinger. With great and unnatural ease, she stepped down from the Hightable and strode to her ominous goblet and its frantic jewels. The void now moved, viscous, reaching towards the dull amber shard. Out of Queen Sabbas’ hand.

Pulled into the void.

The Jewels of Sabbas stilled.

The goblet became unhinged.

They rose to meet each other.

The goblet whole again.

The moon imprisoned.

The sun alight.

The beginning of this Unending Age.

Illustrated by Anya Wong

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NON-FICTION

CONTENT WARNING: death

GOING GENTLY Written by

Pavani Ambagahawattha

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

Sylvia Plath.

A few weeks ago, I turned nineteen. It was a low-key sort of birthday: I worked, because I needed the money,

went out because I felt obligated to, and like any newly-minted nineteen-year-old, obsessed about death.

I think about dying a lot. Slightly morbid, perhaps, but it’s always been that way. Much of this is cultural—my family belongs to a particularly hardcore sect of Buddhism that relishes in ruminating on the impermanence of all things, and the inevitability of death. Super fun, yeah.

Because Theravada Buddhism views consciousness as inextricably linked to suffering, its end goal is nibbana—a state of nothingness, or oblivion. An enlightened being is one removed from sansara—the universal cycle of death, rebirth and suffering: once dead, they simply cease to exist.

That this is the pipe dream which I, as an obedient Buddhist, must aspire to, has always terrified me. I’m a coward, desperate for consciousness; I’d rather suffer in perpetuity, would rather be born and reborn again and again and again as human, beast, demon or deity than confront the terrifying possibility of just… not existing anymore.

Sometimes, I even fantasise about the horrific half-life I might lead in some sci-fi dystopia in which science has conquered death—blue veins protruding from beneath translucent, papery skin, eyes glazed with a milky film, mind unmoored in time. Ancient, insane and terrifying.

Good enough for me, I think. Eternity may be a concept too terrifying for the human mind to grasp without succumbing to Lovecraftian madness, but I think I’d prefer it to oblivion.

Xxxxxxxxx “I thought of the stern Victorian determination to keep death in mind, the uncompromising tombstones. Remember, pilgrim, as you pass by, as you are now so once was I: As I am so will you be…”

Tana French.

Sometimes, when I walk around Melbourne, I feel like death doesn’t really exist here. Life here—as in any Western metropolis—is so harried, so vibrant and materialistic: a constant and exhausting rush to accumulate ever more things, as though these would last forever, as though we would live forever. Walk into a pharmacy and be inundated with items guaranteed to keep your skin tight, toned and wrinkle-free till the day you drop dead; saunter into a supermarket and find yourself greeted by an bewildering array of organic gluten/sugar/nut/soy/lactose-free abominations meant to ensure you retain the body of a twenty-something well into your fifties.

To settle with comfortable complacence into your naturally aging self is a personal failure; the inevitable is to instead be delayed for as long as possible with industrial quantities of spirulina. Hailing from a culture where age equals wisdom, and elders are revered to the point of irrationality, I find all this fuss a little ridiculous. It reeks of desperation. Taking care of oneself is admirable and all, but like, calm down, mate. We lost this battle a long time ago.

Back home, death is different. Funeral parlours are few and far between—we take the dead into our homes instead, plaster flyers bearing their name and face around the city, and strew their neighbourhoods with white flags.

Funerals last three days, ending with a series of elaborate religious rituals and the coffin being carried openly through the streets to its resting place.

I’ve always grimly approved of the fanfare that accompanies a Sinhalese funeral. I like how loud it is—how public and visible. It acknowledges that death can neither be neatly compartmentalised nor discreetly hidden away, relegated to some impersonal funeral parlour and gotten over with as quickly as possible.

Where I come from, we look death in the eye and greet it with a nod. We give its power and inevitability the respect they are due, and I think there’s a certain courage in that.

Xxxxxxxxx Ten years ago, when I was nine and she was ninety-two, my great grandmother died. Every childhood has at least one formative death, and she was mine.

I remember the night they brought her home—it was a little past midnight, the living room lights shone unnaturally bright in my sleep-deprived eyes, and when they opened the coffin, I saw a flash of white lace.

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She’d sunken into herself towards the end, and the body was a brittle bag of bone and skin, as far from the twinkly old lady spinning fairy tales in my memories as the girl in the picture over the coffin—pretty and full-bodied, a spray of jasmine pinned to her chest.Someone had sent over carnations—they’d been sprayed to prevent withering, and their sickly, perversely floral scent mingled with the chemical sweetness of her embalmed body. I was tiny and precocious, my dress stained with the coffee and biscuits I’d been carrying around all day.

Mourners, neighbours, the merely curious—they’d all come expecting to be fed. To this day, that’s what death smells like to me: flowers and milky, sugary Nescafé. It was the loveliest funeral. She’d been a pillar of our community, and people flocked to see her—a white-garbed river that flowed through our house and spilled into the garden.

On the third day, in that golden hour between night and day when the light is just right, after monks had chanted and her daughters had sobbed through their eulogies, we laid her to rest. Most everyone cried; I didn’t. I felt at peace, like I wanted to sigh softly, and fall into a long and dreamless sleep. Death was there, but He did not frighten me as much that day.

Xxxxxxxxx My cousin and I stand before a house neither of us have been to before, at a funeral of a man we do not know. That doesn’t matter—our parents and grandparents do, so we are obliged to attend as well. He holds my index finger, puzzled; it is his first funeral, and the first time he has left Melbourne to visit Sri Lanka. As we walk around the coffin, I teach him to clasp his hands and bow his head in respect. After the formalities are over, I try to pull him away, but he remains rooted there. Eventually: “His eyes are closed.”

“Yes, baby.”

“Why?” “Because he’s dead.”

“When is he going to open them again?”

“Um… he’s not going to, baby. It’s like he’s asleep, but he won’t wake up again.”

A confused pause.

“But what’s going to happen to him now?”

“I don’t know, baby,” I say, moronically. “Nothing, I think.”

I see tears welling up and a tiny bottom lip quiver; I’m already regretting my answer.

Hastily, I repeat the standard Buddhist narrative—that he too will die someday, but that if he’s good, he’ll be reborn as a little boy, with enough toys to fulfil his heart’s desire. He asks me if his parents will accompany him; I shake my head, and one fat tear brims over, rolling down his cheek. Panicking at potentially having traumatised a child, I backtrack.

“You know what, I was kidding. After you die, you go to this place in the sky called Heaven. And your parents will be there, and you guys will be together forever. So you have to be very good and very quiet, okay?”

The tears disappear, all questions cease, and everything is sunny again. I sigh, relieved. On one hand, I envy him, and wish him a few more years of blissful ignorance—years I know he will look back on with nostalgia someday. On the other, I am suddenly grateful for my own less sanitised childhood, and at how much less artifice it contained.

Xxxxxxx The forty-minute walk from my Brunswick share house to campus takes me along the length of the Melbourne cemetery. It’s quiet there, and so very lovely. Grass— that beautiful uncut hair of graves—spurts in tousled abundance among and over the tombs; ivy covers some headstones so completely that neither the names nor death dates of those whose lives they were intended to memorialise remain. For Nature we are and to Nature we return.

One tree stands head and shoulders above the rest, its long arms reaching across graves with dancer’s grace and mother’s care, sheltering the dead. It is so aggressively vibrant, so alive, that I first think the juxtaposition garish.

I then think it beautiful—life and death in ouroboric marriage, corpses seeping into soil, nourishing it, teasing out growth. I’ve always wanted to be cremated, I’m scared to rot, but I’ve changed my mind now. There are worse fates than becoming worm food—a grassy mound speckled with pink and blue and yellow in summer.

I walk past the cemetery twice daily—once as the sun rises, once as it sets—and its beauty never fails to take my breath away, like a sudden dip in cold water, clear and calming. For one glorious instant, the million trivialities ricocheting around my head stop dead. I am struck with the realisation that that’ll be me someday, and the only thing stronger than how terrifying that is is how exhilarating it is. Of course, it takes me no time at all to start worrying again about the countless objectively unimportant things that usually fill up this little life of mine, but for that one instant, at least, all is well.

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SECTION VERSUSTEXT

90’S POP PRINCESS VS 21ST CENTURY DIVA: A Battle of the Mariahs Written by

Mark Yin

Illustrated by Rose Gertsakis

If anyone ever doubted that I could single-handedly

pen enough Mariah content to keep us going until October, this one’s for you. She might be the ultimate diva, but not everyone remembers/existed back when she was music’s breakout ingenue. Bright of eye and bold of voice, she was regularly compared to Whitney, Celine and Aretha early in her career before carving out an identity of her own.

This started shifting in the late 90s, transforming her into the Mariah we know today, but for simplicity’s sake (and also for the sake of ingenue Mariah, who’d likely get slam-dunked by post-’96 Mariah), we’ll take the year 2000 as the dividing point. I will examine whether the Mariah of the 90s or of the 21st century is superior, using literally no objective basis because Mariah is Mariah, period.

Let’s start as objectively as possible though—with chart data. Mariah is a well-known ruler of the charts, holding the record for the most #1 singles both as a solo artist (19) and as a songwriter (18). However, 15 of them reached #1 in the 90s, and even one of the other four (‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’—her most persistent #1) was technically from the 90s too. Comparing just these songs, 21st century Mariah seems difficult to defend.

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‘We Belong Together’, ‘Don’t Forget About Us’, and ‘Touch My Body’ are incredible hits, but how could they stand up to her #1 debuts (‘Fantasy’, ‘Honey’, and ‘One Sweet Day’—all from the 90s), let alone 12 other chart-toppers? In terms of #1s, the quantity and quality of 90s-riah slays at a canter.

This analysis gets more complicated when we expand to albums. Her 90s albums are incredible— Daydream remains my favourite, closely followed

by Butterfly. Both follow a tried-and-tested formula though—a boppy lead single (‘Fantasy’/’Honey’), a rap feature on the remix (ODB/Mase + The Lox), RnB heaven in the first half, ballads for days in the second, all capped off with a personal, reflective track to conclude (‘Looking In’/‘Outside’). It’s a formula she later pulled off in Rainbow as well.

However, her other 90s albums don’t quite have the same magic—Mariah Carey came before she cemented her artistic brand, Emotions didn’t have the stylistic range, and Music Box was beautiful, but generic for the milieu. Her first few 2000s albums also failed to recreate the Daydream-Butterfly-Rainbow threepeat—Charmbracelet was transitional at best, and let’s just say JLo’s biggest career success might just be the sabotage of Glitter.

After this though, 21st century Mariah took off. The Emancipation of Mimi and E=MC2 were two backto-back albums packed with bops, while Memoirs of an Imperfect Angel and Me, I am Mariah, the Elusive Chanteuse saw her take a more auto biographical turn in her craft.

We also stan 2018’s Caution, which some would say is her best album yet.

These albums have plenty of nods to her earlier work, yet they are also deeply original, relentlessly synthesising new sounds and new artistic avenues; she no longer relies on a formula, as tried-and-tested as it was. 21st century Mariah albums take this one by a sliver.

Of course, the true measure of any singer is their live vocals, right? It’s probably not hard to imagine which way this swings, but let’s try to make the harder case first. Looking at all of Mariah’s live vocals this century will inevitably catch several blunders—we can’t pretend the Rockefeller Christmas 2014 or New Year’s Eve 2016 - 2017 performances didn’t happen.

That being said, she could’ve realistically gotten away with the former, and honestly made the latter work (It went to number 1, and that’s what it is … “now let the audience sing”, she said, iconically dodging any actual singing that night).

But this also overlooks many great performances!

She redeemed herself on New Year’s Eve 2017 - 2018, and she’s also performed excellently at BET Blueprint 2005, Shining Through The Rain 2002, AMAs 2018, Grammys 2006…

Yeah, it’s tough to argue that these outperform the Mariah that delivered Grammys 1991, MTV Unplugged 1992, Madison Square Garden 1995, Tokyo Dome 1996, and the entire Butterfly World Tour 1998. I literally rewatch Fantasy: Mariah Carey at Madison Square Garden whenever I feel sad; nothing compares to how happy she looks to be on stage singing her heart out, and boy did she sing. Nowadays, we’re starting to see this Mariah re-emerge— I just saw her Vegas residency and it was delightful—but it’s not really something we saw for much of the last two decades.

Live vocals have to go to 90s-riah. As with any public figure however, Mariah’s appeal extends beyond her music; it also comes from her image, as a ‘skinny legend’ and a through-and-through diva.

There’s one 2008 performance where she turned around and put her backup singers on blast midsong: “Stop singing my part now, baby.” In recent times, she’s also done circles on the internet: she’s known for that “I don’t know her” moment, forever eternalised as a GIF, the ‘Obsessed’ TikTok challenge and the bottle cap challenge.

Her Twitter feed is iconic, period. Mariah really didn’t have access to this base of fans in the 90s, partly due to her restrictive recording contract and marriage to her manager. Though she started breaking out of this after their 1996 divorce, her persona has really taken off thanks to the 21st century internet. It’s also allowed her to tackle more serious issues such as her experiences with bipolar disorder, and her life as a single mother.

Mariah came into her own relatively recently, and for that, 21st century Mariah wins this one handily. Which brings us to a tie—it really is impossible to decide! Mariah Carey is her own competition, and it’s absolutely why I love her so much. She’s evolved time and time again, yet what remains constant is the calibre of her song writing, the polish of her craft, and the high bar she sets for singer-song writers anywhere and everywhere.

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FARRAGO NON-FICTION 70 74

Illustrated Art byby Franki Rohith Stackpool Prabhu

71 75

REVIEW

GOODBYE, ELTON JOHN Written by

Chloe Waddell

This concert was 50 years in the making, and my

goodness did it exceed my highly-set expectations!

After performing in Melbourne multiple times throughout his long and successful career, Sir Elton John took his last bow on a Melbourne stage on Sunday 15th December. This 150th show of his Farewell Yellow Brick Road Tour was performed at a packed Rod Laver Arena, full to the brim with fans who were eagerly awaiting the chance to see Elton perform one last time. With only 200 shows remaining before he settles into retirement, I strongly encourage anyone who is a fan to go—right now—and buy a ticket to your closest concert. Not only is Sir Elton John an incredible pianist, singer, and performer, he is an incredibly influential part of history, and this is your last chance to be part of that. It is hard to describe the feeling when such a well-established icon, dressed in a bedazzled suit with tails and signature glasses, graces the stage to jump straight into one of his biggest hits, ‘Benny and the Jets’.

However, the cheering, screaming, dancing, and very enthusiastic singing shows that the excitement, admiration and awe which I was feeling, was shared by thousands of others in that moment. His fingers were as nimble as ever, and his voice had only gotten better with age. Sir Elton explained that he has been touring for 50 years. Throughout his career, which has long been in partnership with lyricist Bernie Taupin, he has notably won several Grammy and Brit Awards, has created original and popular musical scores (think The Lion King, and Billy Elliot the Musical), has cameoed in movies and TV shows (including The Simpsons), and has released 30 studio albums.

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This is just a small amount of the legacy he has created, and now aged in his 70s, Elton explained he wants to spend the rest of his life with his family, and this will be his final tour. Elton’s long-term percussionist Ray Cooper was an integral part of the concert. Not only was he playing his wide range of instruments with incredible skill, but he was also passionately enveloped in the moment, showing his dramatic and theatrical enthusiasm throughout the night. His presence received a standing ovation from the crowd, which is testament to his performance style and love of music. Some of the highly-anticipated songs performed on Sunday night included ‘Tiny Dancer’, ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues’, ‘Crocodile Rock’, and ‘Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word’. Of course, ‘Candle In The Wind’ was popular amongst fans. Known by many because of Elton’s one-off rendition at Princess Diana’s funeral, the song was originally inspired by Marilyn Monroe, and footage of the celebrity played in the background while Elton performed this piece to his Melbourne fans. His piano also gracefully glided across the stage during ‘Candle In The Wind’, surrounded by smoke.

‘The Bitch Is Back’ was a popular song, with its sassy lyrics and upbeat sound. ‘I’m Still Standing’ was not only wonderfully performed, but held a level of truth to it, as after 50 years of touring, Elton was still standing, playing, singing, and being adored while he did all of it. I was somewhat disappointed that ‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight’ wasn’t performed, as The Lion King holds a special place in my heart, and so too does that song in particular, but there was reference to the piece throughout the night in imagery.

Encircling the large screens behind Elton’s stage, there was a yellow brick road encompassing images of significant aspects of his career, including The Lion King logo, and reference to his AIDS foundation.

Elton mentioned his AIDS foundation, discussing how those who have AIDS have no longer been handed a definite death sentence, and how he advocates for the medications available to be more accessible to those from impoverished communities.

A video montage was played of all the work Elton has done with his foundation, and footage of him kissing infected babies and hugging others who have the disease, as well as him working alongside Prince Harry to reduce the stigma of AIDS, which brought me to tears. It was a stark reminder of just how much we have learned as a society, and how much further we have to go. If you’re interested in learning more or donating, check out Elton John’s AIDS Foundation.

The large screens behind the stage swapped camera angles often, showing each band member, Elton from the front, and also uniquely his fingers as he played his piano with what seemed like such ease.

The screens also were host to pre-made videos which were purposely created to accompany certain songs.

Some of these were obscure cartoons with hidden meanings, and others were filmed skits. One of my favourite videos was essentially a collection of diverse individuals dancing, in their own style, in time with the song which was being performed live onstage.

Not only was it bright, colourful, and full of enviable dancing ability, the dancers were able to truly express themselves, not being restrained by norms surrounding gender or sexuality.

This, of course, is a reflection of Elton’s attitude, as easily seen through his larger than life outfits over the decades. Whilst on the topic of outfits, it is unsurprising that Sir Elton John had a costume change or two.

Around halfway through the concert Elton briefly left the stage, before returning in a floral suit jacket, frilled pink cuffs, and bright pink pants with a silver glittered stripe down each side. As with most concerts, there was an encore, and for this Elton returned in what looked like a green dressing-gown, but surely much fancier up close. At this point Elton sang ‘Your Song’, and dedicated it to the fans in the room.

He had made it clear throughout the concert that without the fans, and without them buying his music, seeing his shows, or purchasing merchandise, he would not be in the position he is in. It was sweet for him to take time to recognise this in a public forum, and it did appear genuine. The last song he performed in Melbourne, fittingly, was ‘Yellow Brick Road’.

During the beautiful piece, Elton removed his outer garment, to reveal a matching jumpsuit. When he turned to walk upstage, we saw that the back of his jacket was bedazzled. The words ‘Elton John’ sparkled as he made his way off stage for the last time in this town. Sir Elton John, thank you for sharing your life with us for so many decades. It was a pleasure.

Photography by Ben Levy

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NON-FICTION

CONTENT WARNING: cancer, death, child neglect

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND Written by Samuel

Arbace

My brother and I were thrown down a hole. Not

quite, but please bear with me. Our mother had died of cancer, and our father was quite happy she died of cancer. He’s a character if you get the chance to meet him. He used to have a career as a financial executive, as he’d proudly tell you. He also saved his marriage with his right hand, as he proudly told me.

He sacrificed his career (it was, indeed, a fine career) to become a stay-at-home dad, which he proudly told everyone (through my speech) at Mum’s memorial service. I was 14 and my brother was 12 at the time. I miss her warm hugs.

At home the walls were white. Life only expressed itself deep in subconsciousness. You either know you exist between two worlds or you don’t: at that age I didn’t. All I saw were white walls, but somewhere deep in my mind, you might say the other world, there was light radiating from an old lamp. That warm, beach-sand colour reflected lightly off those white walls and back onto a set of brown leather couches on a soft Arabian rug. It was a memory of how the family room had looked when I was younger.

What I now saw was a black, leather dental chair and featureless white tiles. I often walked past Father sitting there as he squashed the sight of it all. This added a new feeling, one of disgust. Fear made the back of my mind tremble, while my youthful innocence stumbled on unaware. Between the layers of those two worlds was a monster swimming.

Innocence turned into bitterness. Mother was dead. Beach-sand light was obscured by disgust.

Father’s pride made me feel disgust. His selfishness, his crumbled black heart—disgust. How could he celebrate his wife’s death? I would lie in my room, torn by the confusion of it all. When I looked at him, two white voids looked back, pupils rolled up to the desires of his mind.

It took me too long to realise that both parents had died at that funeral. The bleeding the numbing the ripping the groaning the disgust the abhorrence… it all became too much to handle. I was suspended in an enormous body of water.

Everything was still, quiet.

Absolutely no movement.

I started letting my thoughts flow, and the water followed.

It was perfectly rational to kill this man.

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I was too cold to be moved by emotion. What I felt was cold, numb, suspended; everything was insignificant.

Encircling me was a flow of white currents in a rapid frenzy. Far, far below I saw a monster swimming.

I was thrust back into my bedroom. The face opposite mine was cold and devoid of emotion, except for Father’s smile. It had a deliberate show of indifference, smugness. It was grotesque. Between layers of reality his pupils faced me and the back of his mind.

He was talking to me but I couldn’t hear. I felt my lips move but couldn’t hear my response. I could feel the water rising, filling my lungs with black horror. I couldn’t scream for all the hate and anger and disgust and violence oozing and gushing through my body as pHegavecamm andsandkepttalkingandIcouldnothear him I pushed him and he pushed back feelmyselffallin g hopelesssilentanddevoidofemotionandthoughtItwasunberable I could feel myself falling into a hole deep I could feel myself falling There were sparks of light

s Their light far brighter than these circles of flames When I awoke, I didn’t know where I was. The air was stagnant and difficult to breathe. The earth was impenetrable. Unbearable silence screamed from a black, circular abyss overhead. My skin was dry and my eyes were as red as the earth around me. My body felt light, but an undeniable force weighed it down.

My mind was heavy and my heart was frozen.

My brother stood there next to me. He was smart.

He started climbing up, and up, with bloody fingers and starved muscles. When he reached the top, he was out of the hole, stronger than the rest of us and grateful for the grass he could sit on.

I was stupid. I asked where and why. I asked how.

I stumbled about blindly, alone. I saw my friends, I felt their love radiating from afar, but I was chained to this world. Please do not scoff at my stupidity, dear reader, we are all at the behest of forces outside our

During my pathetic stumbling I hurt myself, but I could not feel it. I hurt the feelings of those closest to me and burned the connections I shared with them, but I was not aware of it. The bitterness became malignant and spread like a cancer, feeding on everything that radiated love. Staring up, I looked at the abyss; the abyss looked back.

In the world way back up there of pets, trees and TV, I was reading a book by Dostoevsky. My body felt hollow and my heart numb. I hated the dog for being so stupid and the world for being so cruel. Sitcoms were repetitive, smiles were deceptive. People were flawed, horribly flawed. Just like Father. Probably like Mother…

I missed her warm hugs. My heart started tearing in every direction. No one I talked to knew how I felt.

I hated the people around me for having parents to complain about. I hated them for having nothing to complain about, and complaining anyway: about having to cook, about being bored. It made my mind feel like a beehive on fire. I looked back down at my book.

Between the flames a figure stood waiting for me.

His eyes were bold, keen, staring both at and through me. I was digested and dissolved in his gaze. It was Dostoevsky…

We walked down the pit. I will not dare write of what I saw in those seven circles, as Dante did. I will not dare speak of the pain I saw or felt, as Dante did.

But know that I did not add to the suffering of men tormented by demons, as Dante did. I couldn’t harden my heart, as Dante did… The fool! We would have never read Dante had there been no Virgil!

We stood before a cave devoid of light.

Everything was still, quiet.

Absolutely no movement.

I stopped asking where and why. I stopped asking how. He let go of my hand and I walked forward, bravely into the darkness. I My whispers were claimed by silence. My shouting turned into a terrifying shade of black.

I don’t know what others had encountered or felt during their time in that cave. I do not know how they had to crawl or fight or wrestle against monsters that only they encountered. At the end of the cave crouched Atlas, solid gold, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was pitch black around him. Where he knelt between Heaven and Earth, time didn’t flow and space couldn’t be measured.

The Unattainable Good, the all-too-human Evil, the everything of chaos and the stability of order: all of it rested on his shoulders. In silence he suffered.

Those walking on the Earth above didn’t know the whole of Hell existed below. How could they?

I stopped asking questions, and on one knee crouched next to Atlas. This was no punishment! This was no way out! You can take my mother, you can make me suffer, but this is my blood! I won’t be Hell’s prisoner any longer!

My knee was brittle, yet in silence I knelt. My lungs were soft, yet I could draw breath. My muscles were weak and yet I pushed with all their strength.

Next to this giant I was pathetic, yet here I struggled next to him! How good it felt to know that! As I pushed deep breaths started filling my lungs. It was pride. A healthy, human pride. With each breath I suffered proudly.

It was only when I crouched next to him that I saw so many others doing the same. Their smiles became less deceptive. It was funny the dog was stupid. The world was still cruel but here we were doing something about it! I embraced the bright lights and warm glows which were always around me. I was in tears, but my eyes were no longer stinging. Everything felt beautiful… so, so beautiful.

Next to this giant I was pathetic, and yet here I struggled next to him! How good it felt to know that!

Deep breaths started filling my lungs. It was pride.

A healthy, human pride. The decision to carry this weight had to be mine and mine alone.

It was only when I crouched next to him that I saw so many others doing the same. Their smiles became less deceptive. It was funny the dog was stupid. The world was still cruel but here we were doing something about it! I embraced the bright lights and warm glows which were always around me. I was in tears but my eyes were no longer stinging. Everything felt beautiful… so, so beautiful.

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INTERACTIVE 76

Illustrated by Kim

Written by

Sidonie Bird de la Coeur

CREATIVE

GOOGLE REVIEWS OF PLACES I’VE BEEN DUMPED AT

(2 / 5 stars) U-BAHNHOF KOTTBUSSER TOR, BERLIN Terribly unromantic! Couldn’t even have a proper last kiss without a toothless crackhead smashing bottles and yelling at us in German. Even the “it’s not you, it’s me” spiel was ruined by the awful sound of coked-up nightclubbers vomiting in the corner of the station. Shan’t be returning here to break-up with anyone anytime soon!

(3.5 / 5 stars) THE LIVING ROOM AT YOUR PARENTS HOUSE Positives – a comfortable space, familiar, private. Your cat is there to comfort you!

Negatives – you will think about your break-up every time you enter the room for the rest of your life. Also, your dad might walk in while you’re both crying, which is just embarrassing, because my dad hasn’t seen me cry since I was a child.

(1 / 5 stars) OVER SNAPCHAT Would rate 0 stars if I could. Humiliating and juvenile! The worst app to get this kind of information. Receiving some dumb photo of your now ex-lover’s face with a caption like ‘we should see other people’ just makes you want to shrivel up and die. Embarrassing!!!

(3 / 5 stars) THE CAFÉ AT THE NGV The coffee is free (if you’re a member of the gallery), which is always a bonus because I hate feeling obliged to pay to exist in a space. However, the lack of windows can make you feel like you’re trapped in a bad-news prison cell. Also, the absence of music and people talking means everyone can - and will - listen to your conversation. At least they have the decency to pretend to read the newspaper, I guess. Great coffee and nice biscuit selection though – shall be making a reappearance here.

(1 / 5 stars) OVER MESSENGER WHY do people think it’s appropriate to end things over text!!!!!!!! pls do the right thing and just have a conversation FACE-TO-FACE, COWARD!!!1!!

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CREATIVE 72 78

Illustrated by

FARRAGO

‘Quill and Quilt’ by Elmira C.

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FLASH-FICTION SECTION TEXT

SECTION TEXT

FIREWORKS Written by Joe Murray

Staccato pops of celebration and the whimpering of a wretched beast ravage my peaceful slumber. I crawl from the covers and check the date, in case it might offer my neighbours pre-emptive vindication. I endure their revelries on nights of international festivity, but tonight remains an utterly ordinary Tuesday. Time to go to war. I don my slippers and my dressing gown, comfort the trembling ball of fur hiding beneath the couch and brave the midnight chill. Insomnia and love give my battle cry enough power to split the heavens.

“STOP THOSE BLOODY FIREWORKS, MY POOR DOG IS SCARED SHITLESS!”

Written by Mark Yin

Summer, 2010 Katy Perry graced the radio.

Do you know that there’s The country was only a little bit on fire.

Still a chance for you You and I walked out of those school gates Cause there’s a spark in you hand in hand and I swear I could have exploded.

Written by Vanessa Lee

January, February pressed their lips to my neck, leaving sunburn and blisters behind. They apologised, of course, and laid our heads in their laps. We dreamt like it was January 1st of summers past, fireworks dancing in our eyes.

When the rain came, I danced alone on the baked earth of my backyard; my New Year’s wish come true. Should I tell you about the song I heard on the radio too?

The one my neighbour played again and again for an hour and then two more?

I wanted this moment to last again and again like fireworks at midnight.

Written by Felicity Lacey

Strike a match and hold it close. Feel its gentle heat for a brief moment, then— consume its flame. Tattered threads ignite. Flares take flight. Incinerate what’s behind. Savour the split-second calm before the B O O M. Fire flowers scream at the doors of heaven—pyrotechnic spectacle—a constellation of annihilation and awe. Torpedoes glitter and glide; am I soaring across the skies or am I just crashing spectacularly? Descending like woozy stars falling out of orbit, tiny missiles are headed straight for hearts. Are you ready for the final act? It’s just a firecracker exploding un-sensationally into smoke and dust.

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Illustrated

by Name Loh Illustrated

by Geraldine

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CELEBRATIONS PLAYLIST MUSIC

1. Song 2 Blur 2. DARE Gorillaz 3. Say So Doja Cat 4. I’m Coming Out Diana Ross 5. Raise Your Glass P!nk 6. Wild Ones (feat. Sia) Flo Rida 7. Valerie (feat. Amy Winehouse) Mark Ronson 8. Doo Wop (That Thing) Ms. Lauryn Hill 9. Heart of Glass Blondie 10.24K Magic Bruno Mars 11. This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody) Talking Heads 12.Good Nights (feat. Mascolo) Whethan 13.My People The Presets 14.Cake By The Ocean DNCE 15.Hot Love T. Rex 16.Seeing Stars BØRNS 17.On Top Of The World Imagine Dragons 18.Listen to the Music The Doobie Brothers 19.Put Your Records On Corinne Bailey Rae 20.Not Going Home Great Good Fine Ok 21.Slide (feat. Frank Ocean & Migos) Calvin Harris 22.The Sound The 1975 23.Friday I’m In Love The Cure 24.Walking On A Dream Empire of the Sun

Illustration by Phoebe Owl

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