Frame Lines Magazine #4 by Frame Lines

FRAME LINES ‘Well I may not be you, and you not me’

edition

Editors note...

Frame Lines edition #4 //Mother Nature... [Everybody’s Gone] Surfin’ A.U.S

Each issue, Frame Lines showcases your art, your ideas and the fruits of your passions. You have kindly donated your art for our use, and in turn we present this magazine free, right back at you. Frame Lines is dedicated to continuing this concept, and indeed pushing the boundaries further and further. In short, we have big plans for this humble magazine. This issue sees us focusing on surf culture and the environment at large. I have had the fortune in my life to blessed with the ability to enjoy the ocean’s magic carpet rides throughout my life. I remember catching my first wave at the age fourteen in Lorne, Victoria Australia on an old single fin log. I still to this day remember clearly the exhilaration and ecstasy I felt when I stood up for the first time. Since then I have more or less dedicated my life to surfing, forgone things for the love of catching waves, and shared some amazing times throughout with my friends and family. The ocean has not only been a place of peace and joy, it has also taught me a lot in life; especially the power to live in the present moment. This edition is very close to my heart; with my love of the ocean and its waves, they have all had huge place to play in starting Frame Lines - so I have a lot to thank it for! Much of the art you see in this edition stems from our artists’ love and perception of the ocean and its magic, and whilst we all take pleasure from it , the plight of our ocean environments cannot be ignored any further. Illegal dumping of waste and illegal fishing have taken their toll, and just as we are discovering more and more about them, we are degrading them further with every passing day. We would especially like to celebrate the work of organisations such as Clean Ocean who are doing their utmost to help keep our natural playground clean. So as you enjoy our feature work, consider making a tax deductible donation to support these organisations so our children and grandchildren can continue to enjoy what we celebrate today. Sarah Nolan Managing/ Creative Director

I can’t surf. The closest I ever came to real surfing was back in high school where we spent a blustery half-day in Sandringham riding giant foam boards on a thirty centimetre swell. Despite my non-activity, surfing has become so synonymous with Australia that some South Americans I have met have been genuinely surprised when I tell them I’m not the world’s next Tom Carroll or Mark Occhiloupo. “I bodysurf”, I reply proudly. More surprise, countered with a broken explanation in Spanish, ‘Nadar con olas’ (swim with waves) or Hula-esque gesturing in place of Portuguese. It’s almost the same, isn’t it? Well, probably not. There is no mainstream bodysurfing culture and no associated clothing or sponsorship deals. Even the Ironman and Triathlon leagues have shed little light on a section squeezed between open-water stroke and dogged knees-up stride in the shallows. In fact it’s likely the popularity of both competitions is based on the far more attractive (and bankable) legs of running, surfski, cycling; not to mention those sported by the participants themselves. It takes barely-flappable determination to swim out repeatedly past the breakers into the deep water sans-floatation device, especially following the previous wave’s almost-drowning. But I venture to the coast to swim in unfamiliar water whenever I can possibly manage it. Why? I guess there’s a sense of achievement in finally catching that wave; watching water skim off an outstretched hand; feeling the swell take me forward until I’m swallowed by whitewash. Or it could also be the grunting and panting and cursing as I push myself to the limit in the name of fun; or maybe, in a foreign land, braving the ocean makes me feel just that little bit more Australian. Jeremy Thomas Editor

Contents FRAME LINES ‘Well I may not be you, and you not me’

Contributors Andrew Kidman artist Nick Kind

photographer

Graham Nunn poet Damien Luciano Venuto writer Yusuke Hanai

surf artist

Roy McConnell writer Image: Andrew Kidman

a free magazine

edition #4 June/July 08

Jared Ward writer

Cover

Ned Evans surf artist

Andrew Kidman - www.litmus.com

Jess Sides writer

Features

Tom Petahtegoose writer

Non-Profit Profile Clean Ocean Exhibitions Lisa Bow

Richard Murphy

landscape photographer

Chris Pash ‘The Last Whale’ Ashlie MahRiee Skipper Natasha Narayan Jim Oatley

poet

writer

photographer

Joseph B. Cleary

writer

Frame Lines Frame Lines is a non profit organisation Director and Editor Frame Lines - Sarah Nolan Editor / Culture Sleuth – Jeremy Thomas e-mail: info@framelines.org www.framelines.org

* All contributors bios and links to websites can be found at the Frame Lines website www.framelines.org The articles appearing within this publication represent the opinions and attitudes of their respective authors and not necessarily those of the publishers or editorial team. The reproduction of any editorial or images without prior permission is strictly prohibited. All Photography, music and all works appearing in this magazine are protected by ©copyright Reproduction without expressed permission from the artist is strictly prohibited. All images are copyright of the artist.

Andrew Kidman Australia // Artist

“I distinctively remember being in the ocean with my father when I was very young and running across a sandbank with him, being pushed around by the waves, getting knocked down, and getting up, and then getting pinched on the toe by a crab…screaming with pain.”

It is evident you have put a lot of your life’s passion into surfing and the ocean. When was your first experience in riding a wave? Can you remember it, and how has this influenced and/or shaped your life? I distinctively remember being in the ocean with my father when I was very young and running across a sandbank with him, being pushed around by the waves, getting knocked down, and getting up, and then getting pinched on the toe by a crab…screaming with pain. The next memory I have is sitting on a cliff at Warriewood on the Northern Beaches of Sydney, looking out over the ocean and thinking, “This is where I want to be”. Thankfully my parents moved from Canberra to Warriewood and from that day my life became infatuated with the ocean and its foreshores. I’m still infatuated by it. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to sit back and just enjoy it through the eyes of my daughter Bella, who wants nothing more than to just jump in the waves. She has no expectations. Sometimes it’s so frustrating because the surf is very good and I just want to catch a good wave, but it’s so crowded with people there’s no way this is going to happen. It’s very humbling. When you least expect it, the ocean offers up - sometimes it doesn’t. There’s a lot to be learned. You can’t escape from yourself and your own desires, the ocean is very quick to throw this back at you. It’s grounding and disturbing at the same time. Surfing for me has brought so many amazing people into my life, and I’ve learned so much about myself and life through it. What does it mean to you? I think amazing people come into your life whether you surf or don’t surf. Some of the people I cherish the most in my life have never spent time surfing. It’s just the gift of life and the journey you’re on. Like I was saying before, surfing opens up realms that most people don’t get to experience, but this doesn’t mean to say they don’t experience these realms in other ways. As far as surfing has grown, I think it’s stumbled into this strange place where there’s so many people participating that the worst traits in people are now on display in the crowded line-ups. I don’t enjoy this at all, as it is sacred to me and when this stuff comes up it just makes me sad. I want to run away. You’re right though. I’ve met some amazing people through surfing. I think generally surfing helps us all exist in a better way. You have worked with a lot of mediums in relation to your art including photography, writing and music; you’ve also published two books. Could you describe how each medium conveys your feelings about the ocean and surfing? To begin with, photography for me was a way to reflect on things I’d seen as I travelled. I used to travel and surf a lot of waves by myself. I’d take pictures of the waves before I went out as a keepsake and show them to my close friends on my return, it was just a way of communicating with them what was out there I guess. It’s still the same today. Writing and music is hard to explain, there’s so many different ways that you can write and play music. And then there’s the combination of both. I’m definitely influenced by the ocean when I write, sometimes I try to write music that reflects the feelings of the ocean. This is such a fun thing to do, especially when you can then use the music in film to convey a complete theme or feeling. I mean, in the end it’s all the same thing, it’s all some expression; photography not so much, as photography is capturing nature or other peoples work. I can see how photography to express themselves, but I don’t really see it

kind of self more about people use this way, it’s

more just documentation for me. The other stuff though, is definitely selfexpression, and because the ocean has such a heavy influence on my life it makes its way in there often. You grew up surfing in one of the ‘Golden’ eras in which to be involved with the sport. You saw the evolution of the thruster alongside Australian characters such MP, Nat Young and Tom Curren. Could you share with us some of your favourite memories and how you feel surfing has evolved throughout the years? I’m not so sure for me it was the era of all eras. I’ve always thought the 20’s through to 50’s would have been the time to experience surfing. The documentation from this period is so incredible. The travel and big wave exploration, when the world was almost untainted by man’s explosion, surfers hit the ground running, shying away from the areas of mass population. They still had enough nous to survive on the bare essentials, almost hunter-gatherer style. There was also the Hawaiians, some of the elders were still alive during this period, passing on their traditions. It’s a romantic view of it, but I can still feel it sometimes. When I grew up competition was at the forefront of surfing. I got led down that path as well. For me it took more away from the experience. I don’t know, it’s a hard thing to talk about, there’s no right or wrong, it’s just what you feel in your heart and if you can live with yourself. Shaping a surfboard for myself, attempting something with the shape that I want to feel in the ocean is the best thing I can do to make me happy. It’s an endless journey; this feels most right for me. It gives me that feeling or connection I was talking about before. In saying all this I had a great time growing up and surfing when I did. It just goes to show how powerful surfing is, it keeps drawing me in no matter what the time. The simple joy of riding a wave is all that really matters anyway. I remember the day I discovered Litmus - a friend gave it to me as a gift. The one thing that has always stuck in my mind is how you managed to slow down time… the essence of each wave is captured purely and time almost stops. What inspired you make this movie, and what does it mean for you now, ten years on? When Jon Frank and I made that film, I guess we were trying to express what surfing felt like to us. The music helps this a great deal. We recorded the music ourselves so the feelings would be complete. It’s a film that we made from our hearts about something we love. It’s not a commercial film, it wasn’t made with anything commercial in mind, it was just something we wanted to do and we did it. What does it mean now? Same thing as it did then. I’m glad we made it. I’m essentially still doing the same thing, so it was a great learning process. There is one scene in the movie Litmus ‘The Dream’, it looks at the life of crime and drugs in parallel with the life of a free surfer. What inspired you to draw such parallels and put this scene into a surf movie? Do you feel that maybe the mother ocean is the saviour of many people? I first met Mark Sutherland when I was editing Waves magazine, back in 1989. He was doing some illustrations for Tracks, and dropped by the office to see if anybody was interested in seeing his film Dream that was showing in North Sydney the following night. I went along and was blown away by the animation. Dream consists of five thousand drawings, two and a half thousand paintings and took him two years to complete. When I decided to make Litmus, one of my main aims was to give Dream a new life within the film. I thought it was an important piece of work, with an important message. I believe it still is today. Could you tell our readers a little about the book ‘Way of the Bird’ - a children’s book, a story about boy who meets an old

man who teaches him to surf and becomes a very influential friend. Is this a story close to your heart or just fictional? Sure, it’s a fictional story, but made up of things from my life, older people passing on knowledge, much in the tradition of Aboriginal people passing on their knowledge to their next generation. The mix of illustration with your photography in the book creates something very dynamic. How did you come up with the idea for the book? My friend Andy Davis who did the illustrations wanted to draw a bunch of images over my photography. At first I wasn’t so sure, I kind of baulked at the idea, as I kind of liked the images how they were. Then he showed me an example of it and it blew me away. As soon as I saw it I thought we had to do a children’s book in this style. It was perfect and so much fun; we could do anything with the characters. Make a one-foot wave look like a fifty foot wave. We’re doing another now, Bird Goes Down Under, which is even more fun. So what is next in your creative world? I’m not sure really. Ether has just come out so I’m just dealing with that. I’m playing a lot of music so hopefully we’ll be recording sometime this year. Or look after the kids! There’s always something going on if you’ve got kids. What advice can you give to emerging artists? Do what you love. Follow your heart. If it feels right, it is.

Finally, what are your thoughts on surfing today? Do you think its ever-growing popularity of the sport will affect the future of surfing and its art? Surfing is in a good place. Anyone who wants should be allowed to experience it. It’s a very free activity, when you strip it all back all you need to do it get yourself into the ocean…the rest of it, where ever you want to take it, is just an extension of the desires you want to fulfil. I’m fortunate to experience this through my children, the joy on their faces when the catching little shore breaks into the sand. The future? I hope people grow to understand what surfing has given to them, and to look deeply into its history and what it has gone through over the years. If people are able to do this they’ll understand it’s about sharing the ocean with each other, just as the ocean shares its force with us.

“I think the magnetism of the sea takes on another dimension when one is upon it or immersed in it. It’s one thing to look at the ocean from the shore, but it seems to ignite different emotions when we’re touched physically by it.”

“It’s like anytime you’re given an insight to a force, say, man going into outer space, it’s very hard to turn your back on it, and it’s very hard continue your involvement with it. The ocean is like this for me. I want to walk away but I can’t.”

Nick Kind Australia // Photography

Nick Kind grew up in Leicester in the Midlands of England. Arriving in Melbourne in July 2006, he began to explore the city as any newcomer would; taking a series of holiday snaps to add to his collection. In Melbourne Nick found something different than the English cities he was used to. He was inspired by the gritty layers underneath the faรงade of the city, by the unique backstreet culture, and by the distinct urban personality. Having worked for many years as a graphic designer, he discovered a passion for the photographic image through an exploration of the creative post-production process. His work developed through experimentation, firstly in the realm of post-production, and more lately with the camera itself. Nick now utilises both means of image creation to realise his photographic visions.

What is it that draws you to photography? The fact that you can’t forget things. You know how a favourite tune can open up a whole stream of memories? It’s the same with pictures for me. What can your photography tell us about you? I like that I can make normal and regular things look different and interesting. I seem to be able to implement a story, scene or an atmosphere into a picture that started out really quite normal. I think I do this because I’m so used to the world around me, I’m a little bored with it and I quite like the idea of making my own world. ‘The Shore’ - could you tell us a little how you came to discover its beauty, and why you chose to capture it using photography. ‘The Shore’ holds a memory about my first Christmas in Australia with my girlfriend. We went for a wander on the beach and I took these pictures. The shoot was done in two days but I wasn’t really thinking about what I was doing until I post-produced the first set. I realised there was a pattern forming and maybe some potential. But more importantly it was something I hadn’t really covered. We’re looking at a mostly macro study in high contrast black and white of what you might find on a beach. It’s not really an environmental message. Dirt, pollution and rubbish certainly

deserve a platform, but it wasn’t what I wanted to say this time; more of a ‘look harder and see what you find’. Close off all the surroundings and zoom right in to what’s on the floor. I think being English may have helped a little. We don’t get seaweed like that in England! I was amazed at how much it looked like pasta and how big it was! I got excited and wanted to look further. Could you tell us about other images you have taken? My first exhibition ‘Open Image’ was a study into how powerful the post production of a photograph could be. Making the unnoticeable noticeable. It’s a very eclectic range of pictures. I still think it’s the best work I’ve done so far…… The next exhibition was ‘Urban Trace’ which focuses less on the post production but still moves us away from the reality of the original scene. I mess around with a wonderful little creative lens and play only after dark. It just feels exiting, like playing murder in the dark when you’re a kid. I enjoy experimenting with light, angles, long exposures and movement. Amongst all the other experiments I’ve carried out, I do have a passion for ‘Rock Photography’. I’ve followed a lot of small bands in the UK and am trying to get my foot in the door here in Australia. I think it’s about the music. I love to hear new and fresh music, especially when it’s great. But secretly, I think I’ve always wanted to be a rock star. So if you can’t beat them, shoot them! The other collection I’ve done which is still unfinished is called

‘Outside of me’. I won my first prize with some of these pictures. It’s a really dark approach in trying to understand and explain sickness of the mind. It’s unfinished and that’s all I can say at the moment.

it out of my system; I think the next set of pics might be a bit dark.

What do you think constitutes the perfect photograph?

How about one word – ‘Unfinished’.

If you were asked to describe yourself in one sentence, describe your work in one sentence?

I often find the shots that don’t look good usually work out to be the best. I think it’s the challenge. I don’t really like to plan either. Sometimes I just land myself in an area and wander around and shoot. Can you name a photographer you particularly admire? Dave McKean. He is responsible for getting me into all of this. I saw his pictures hanging in a friends house and that was the start. I wanted to know more. Amongst many other mediums, he works in the Post Production of his photographical work and in some ways I try to copy him. (but no one could!). What kind of projects do you see yourself focusing on in the future? I ’m putting together a book on my most recent exhibition ‘Urban Trace’ which is a collection of night time / long exposure shots around the CBD of Melbourne. I think it would be a worthwhile purchase! It’s getting into a business state of mind that I must do now. But creatively....there’s an uneven balance of unhappiness swishing around and I think I need to get

“It very hard to describe something that comes so naturally, I think this is why I work with graphics and images. It’s easier to explain how you are feeling in the form of a picture rather then the spoken word”

Phils First Day by Joseph B. Cleary

pasted to the side and an overweight wife. He sat down. “First I’d like to welcome you to Lincoln High School. You know we have a Carol Ann Devlin here.” “Yeah, she’s my cousin. I’m staying with her and my Aunt.”

The door felt heavy as he opened it. The lights were on in the hall but it seemed dark. His footsteps sounded so loud that he thought people would stick their heads out of the classrooms.

“I thought there was a connection.” A thousand wise remarks flooded Phil’s mind, none of which he used.

A janitor with a grey five o’clock shadow directed him to the guidance office. He checked himself before he went into the room. He felt like something was missing but he didn’t know what it was. The secretary looked up and asked if she could help him. The bags under her eyes didn’t fit her perky demeanor. “Uh, yeah, I’m here to see…” Phil took a letter out of the back pocket of his jeans and read it. “Mr. Garbone.” “And who should I say wants to see him?”

“Well if you do half as well as she does we’re going to have another scholar on our hands. Now let’s see,” Mr. Garbone said as he opened a folder that was in his lap. “That’s right, okay, we have just one problem. I see you were on work study back at your old school and at the moment our program is filled.” Phil sat up in his chair and his eyes widened. “So what then? I’m going to be on vocational school or something,” Phil said as he rubbed the bump on his nose from when his father broke it.

“Phil Devlin. This is my first day.” “Well then let’s hope it’s a good one,” she said as she flicked on the intercom. “Phil Devlin is here to see you Mr. Garbone.” A man with horn rimmed glasses and jet-black hair pasted to the side stepped out of the office. From the scars on his cheeks, Phil could tell he had a bad case of acne as a kid. “Ah yes, Mr. Devlin. We’ve been expecting you. There’s something I need to discuss with you before we get you going.” Phil shook his head. Mr. Garbone must have seen his records from his old school. But that shouldn’t matter. He was going to be good for the next eight months and then he was going to graduate. They were going to think they got his records mixed up with someone else’s. Phil looked around Mr. Garbone’s office. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. On the wall, next to a picture of President Ford, was a family portrait with two heavyset boys with jet-black hair

“No, that’s not possible either. What we’re going to do here is put you on a full time program. That’s better for you anyway. ” Phil’s hand shook. His stomach hurt. He wanted to grab the folder and show him that he had been on the work-study program since his sophomore year because of disciplinary problems. There was no way he could handle a full load and there was no way they would want him in school all day. If his mother wasn’t in rehab for pill addiction he would have left. “Uh, you know I’ve been on….” “What we’re going to do is have you take algebra, biology, first year Spanish, and then history and English which you’ve been taking all along anyway. That shouldn’t be too hard. And if it is, well no one said school was supposed to be easy.” Phil wanted to shove the folder down Mr. Garbone’s throat sideways. He was making it impossible for him to graduate, and he was smiling while he was doing it.

“Now let’s just see if we can produce another Lincoln High honors student. And remember, we’re here to help you.” Mr. Garbone closed the folder, picked up his phone, and started dialing a number. Phil gripped the arms of his chair. The veins corded on his thin, muscular arms. He wanted to ask him how a program where you worked outside of school could be filled. Mr. Garbone looked up as if he expected Phil to be gone. Phil walked out of the office and looked at the secretary in the vain hope she could help him. As he stepped out into the hall he felt like he was stepping into a minefield. He reached for the Raleigh cigarette pack in his top pocket. The bell rang. The hall was flooded with kids. He felt like he was the only student wearing blue jeans and a pocket tee even though that wasn’t the case. He couldn’t understand how some of them were laughing and smiling while he was miserable. It was like they were in on some secret he would never know. He headed for the bathroom. He pushed open the door and went to a urinal. When he was done, he washed his hands and took out a cigarette. Then he put it back in the pack. There wasn’t any point in staying. He wasn’t going to make it. He went out into the hall and looked for an exit. There was one at the end of the hall. He went for it. “Phil,” someone shouted. He knew it was Carol Ann before he turned around. “Did you get your schedule?” She said as she hurried over to him, holding her books against her chest. Phil thought her curly red hair and the fact she was shorter than most kids her age made her look cute. “Uh yeah. They put me on full time.” “Well that’s good. You can do it.” “Yeah, right.” “If you don’t mess around you can do it. Let me see what you have.” Phil took his schedule out of his pocket, uncrumpled it, and gave it to her. “Hmm, you know this shouldn’t be too hard. Except for maybe English. Ms. Messerie can be tough when she wants to be and she usually wants to be. And that’s next period too. You better hurry. She hates it when …uh I guess she hates just about everything.” Phil headed for the stairs. It felt strange hurrying to a place he didn’t want to go. Hell, it was strange that he didn’t just leave. English and history were the two classes he thought he didn’t have to worry about and now he finds out that English might be his hardest. He rounded the corner and saw room 237, his English class. He stopped, took a few deep breaths, ran his fingers through his hair, and stepped into a sea of unfamiliar faces. Phil looked at the back row. Full. He saw a seat in the middle of the room, rechecked the back row, and walked over to the seat. The students were so engrossed in their conversations and games that only a few noticed him. A pretty girl sitting next to him was playing tic-tac-toe against herself. She looked over at him, smiled, and went back to her game. He looked at the front of the room and for the first time noticed Ms. Messerie shuffling papers at her desk. She looked to be about twenty-

nine years old, with brown eyes and dark brown hair that came over her shoulders. She wore large, round glasses that drew attention to her high cheekbones. She picked up a pile of papers and marched to the podium. The class quieted down. While she was dressed to hide her figure it didn’t work. When she spoke she sounded stern but she looked relaxed. “Now before we start on today’s test know that I have decided to weigh it as an exam. If you flunk it there is a strong possibility that you will flunk the course. Before you say it’s unfair remember that if you’ve done the work this shouldn’t be a problem. Please explain this to your parents before they call me. Okay, is there a Phil Devlin in the class?” Phil looked around and then he raised his hand. “We’re glad to have you here Phil. Since I hate the stand up and tell us about your self-ritual and you’re probably tired of it, we won’t do it. I’m sure everyone is glad to see you’re here and if they are interested in you they’ll find out on their own time. I’ll hand out these tests and then I’ll be over to get you started.” When she finished giving out the test she made her way over to his desk. Her perfume smelled like roses. He liked the fact that she didn’t make him tell the class about himself. Any idiot knew it made the new kid more uncomfortable. “Okay Phil, I’d like you to do the essay part of the test on sheet number three. It won’t be graded but it will tell me where you’re at in terms of writing ability. You just have to give me a page on your favorite author. If you don’t have one, write about your favorite movie or television show.” Phil took the paper and watched her hips sway as she walked away. He put it on his desk and then looked at the clock; forty minutes to go. He slumped down in his chair and then he straightened up. He fidgeted and looked at the clock again. He wished he had brought his book with him. He picked up the test and started to write. The next time he looked up it was ten minutes to the bell. At five minutes to the bell Ms. Messerie collected the tests. As soon as Phil handed in his paper he regretted it. He should have made it as bad as possible so Ms. Messerie would know that he was in the wrong class. Then he realized it didn’t matter. His work was going to be substandard anyway. He smiled and then he bit his lip. She could berate him in front of the class for his poor performance. The bell rang. Phil grabbed his books and headed for the hall. Kids bumped him as he tried to read his schedule. His next class was science, which he hadn’t had in years. It was like they were trying to make him quit. The problem was that he knew what happened when people pushed him. That was one of the reasons he ended up with a reputation at his old school that he didn’t want. He couldn’t see this having a happy ending. He forced himself to pay attention for the rest of the day. When he called his girlfriend Jenny that night he avoided talking about school. She always said he could go to college if he wanted to and she would take this as a sign that it was possible. Of course she thought a lot of things about him that no one else did. When he got off the phone he opened his Spanish book, flipped through it, and slammed it closed. Then he went on to his science book. It was even more foreign to him. He tossed the book on the floor and went downstairs to watch television with his Aunt. She was watching ‘All in the Family.’ As soon as Phil sat down she asked him how his homework went.

Phil Devlin stood in front of his new school and stamped out his cigarette. He pushed his wavy black hair away from his eyes and looked up. The school looked like a three story fortress. He half expected to see crows flying around the rooftop. He felt like every kid in the building was watching him as he walked up the steps. The door felt heavy as he opened it. The lights were on in the hall but it seemed dark. His footsteps sounded so loud that he thought people would stick their heads out of the classrooms. A janitor with a grey five o’clock shadow directed him to the guidance office. He checked himself before he went into the room. He felt like something was missing but he didn’t know what it was. The secretary looked up and asked if she could help him. The bags under her eyes didn’t fit her perky demeanor. “Uh, yeah, I’m here to see…” Phil took a letter out of the back pocket of his jeans and read it. “Mr. Garbone.” “And who should I say wants to see him?” “Phil Devlin. This is my first day.” “Well then let’s hope it’s a good one,” she said as she flicked on the intercom. “Phil Devlin is here to see you Mr. Garbone.” A man with horn rimmed glasses and jet-black hair pasted to the side stepped out of the office. From the scars on his cheeks, Phil could tell he had a bad case of acne as a kid. “Ah yes, Mr. Devlin. We’ve been expecting you. There’s something I need to discuss with you before we get you going.” Phil shook his head. Mr. Garbone must have seen his records from his old school. But that shouldn’t matter. He was going to be good for the next eight months and then he was going to graduate. They were going to think they got his records mixed up with someone else’s. Phil looked around Mr. Garbone’s office. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. On the wall, next to a picture of President Ford, was a family portrait with two heavyset boys with jet-black hair pasted to the side and an overweight wife. He sat down. “First I’d like to welcome you to Lincoln High School. You know we have a Carol Ann Devlin here.” “Yeah, she’s my cousin. I’m staying with her and my Aunt.” “I thought there was a connection.” A thousand wise remarks flooded Phil’s mind, none of which he used. “Well if you do half as well as she does we’re going to have another scholar on our hands. Now let’s see,” Mr. Garbone said as he opened a folder that was in his lap. “That’s right, okay, we have just one problem. I see you were on work study back at your old school and at the moment our program is filled.” Phil sat up in his chair and his eyes widened. “So what then? I’m going to be on vocational school or something,” Phil said as he rubbed the bump on his nose from when his father broke it. “No, that’s not possible either. What we’re going to do here is put you on

a full time program. That’s better for you anyway. ” Phil’s hand shook. His stomach hurt. He wanted to grab the folder and show him that he had been on the work-study program since his sophomore year because of disciplinary problems. There was no way he could handle a full load and there was no way they would want him in school all day. If his mother wasn’t in rehab for pill addiction he would have left. “Uh, you know I’ve been on….” “What we’re going to do is have you take algebra, biology, first year Spanish, and then history and English which you’ve been taking all along anyway. That shouldn’t be too hard. And if it is, well no one said school was supposed to be easy.” Phil wanted to shove the folder down Mr. Garbone’s throat sideways. He was making it impossible for him to graduate, and he was smiling while he was doing it. “Now let’s just see if we can produce another Lincoln High honors student. And remember, we’re here to help you.” Mr. Garbone closed the folder, picked up his phone, and started dialing a number. Phil gripped the arms of his chair. The veins corded on his thin, muscular arms. He wanted to ask him how a program where you worked outside of school could be filled. Mr. Garbone looked up as if he expected Phil to be gone. Phil walked out of the office and looked at the secretary in the vain hope she could help him. As he stepped out into the hall he felt like he was stepping into a minefield. He reached for the Raleigh cigarette pack in his top pocket. The bell rang. The hall was flooded with kids. He felt like he was the only student wearing blue jeans and a pocket tee even though that wasn’t the case. He couldn’t understand how some of them were laughing and smiling while he was miserable. It was like they were in on some secret he would never know. He headed for the bathroom. He pushed open the door and went to a urinal. When he was done, he washed his hands and took out a cigarette. Then he put it back in the pack. There wasn’t any point in staying. He wasn’t going to make it. He went out into the hall and looked for an exit. There was one at the end of the hall. He went for it. “Phil,” someone shouted. He knew it was Carol Ann before he turned around. “Did you get your schedule?” She said as she hurried over to him, holding her books against her chest. Phil thought her curly red hair and the fact she was shorter than most kids her age made her look cute. “Uh yeah. They put me on full time.” “Well that’s good. You can do it.” “Yeah, right.” “If you don’t mess around you can do it. Let me see what you have.” Phil took his schedule out of his pocket, uncrumpled it, and gave it to her. “Hmm, you know this shouldn’t be too hard. Except for maybe English. Ms. Messerie can be tough when she wants to be and she usually wants

to be. And that’s next period too. You better hurry. She hates it when …uh I guess she hates just about everything.” Phil headed for the stairs. It felt strange hurrying to a place he didn’t want to go. Hell, it was strange that he didn’t just leave. English and history were the two classes he thought he didn’t have to worry about and now he finds out that English might be his hardest. He rounded the corner and saw room 237, his English class. He stopped, took a few deep breaths, ran his fingers through his hair, and stepped into a sea of unfamiliar faces. Phil looked at the back row. Full. He saw a seat in the middle of the room, rechecked the back row, and walked over to the seat. The students were so engrossed in their conversations and games that only a few noticed him. A pretty girl sitting next to him was playing tic-tac-toe against herself. She looked over at him, smiled, and went back to her game. He looked at the front of the room and for the first time noticed Ms. Messerie shuffling papers at her desk. She looked to be about twentynine years old, with brown eyes and dark brown hair that came over her shoulders. She wore large, round glasses that drew attention to her high cheekbones. She picked up a pile of papers and marched to the podium. The class quieted down. While she was dressed to hide her figure it didn’t work. When she spoke she sounded stern but she looked relaxed. “Now before we start on today’s test know that I have decided to weigh it as an exam. If you flunk it there is a strong possibility that you will flunk the course. Before you say it’s unfair remember that if you’ve done the work this shouldn’t be a problem. Please explain this to your parents before they call me. Okay, is there a Phil Devlin in the class?” Phil looked around and then he raised his hand. “We’re glad to have you here Phil. Since I hate the stand up and tell us about your self-ritual and you’re probably tired of it, we won’t do it. I’m sure everyone is glad to see you’re here and if they are interested in you they’ll find out on their own time. I’ll hand out these tests and then I’ll be over to get you started.” When she finished giving out the test she made her way over to his desk. Her perfume smelled like roses. He liked the fact that she didn’t make him tell the class about himself. Any idiot knew it made the new kid more uncomfortable. “Okay Phil, I’d like you to do the essay part of the test on sheet number three. It won’t be graded but it will tell me where you’re at in terms of writing ability. You just have to give me a page on your favorite author. If you don’t have one, write about your favorite movie or television show.” Phil took the paper and watched her hips sway as she walked away. He put it on his desk and then looked at the clock; forty minutes to go. He slumped down in his chair and then he straightened up. He fidgeted and looked at the clock again. He wished he had brought his book with him. He picked up the test and started to write. The next time he looked up it was ten minutes to the bell. At five minutes to the bell Ms. Messerie collected the tests. As soon as Phil handed in his paper he regretted it. He should have made it as bad as possible so Ms. Messerie would know that he was in the wrong class. Then he realized it didn’t matter. His work was going to be substandard anyway. He smiled and then he bit his lip. She could berate him in front

of the class for his poor performance. The bell rang. Phil grabbed his books and headed for the hall. Kids bumped him as he tried to read his schedule. His next class was science, which he hadn’t had in years. It was like they were trying to make him quit. The problem was that he knew what happened when people pushed him. That was one of the reasons he ended up with a reputation at his old school that he didn’t want. He couldn’t see this having a happy ending. He forced himself to pay attention for the rest of the day. When he called his girlfriend Jenny that night he avoided talking about school. She always said he could go to college if he wanted to and she would take this as a sign that it was possible. Of course she thought a lot of things about him that no one else did. When he got off the phone he opened his Spanish book, flipped through it, and slammed it closed. Then he went on to his science book. It was even more foreign to him. He tossed the book on the floor and went downstairs to watch television with his Aunt. She was watching ‘All in the Family.’ As soon as Phil sat down she asked him how his homework went. “I tried, I did, but I’m not supposed to have homework like that. That’s why they didn’t give it to me at my old school.” “They didn’t give it to you because you did your best to get them to leave you alone. Homework’s supposed to be hard. You think my going back to college in my thirties was easy.” “No, but you’re you.” “Right, I’m me. Didn’t you ever wonder why I’m older than your mother but we graduated high school together?” “No, I just thought…” “If your Uncle hadn’t died I would never have gone back, but that’s how it worked out. So maybe this is what you’re supposed to do.” “I’ll try. But really, I should be on work study.” “Yeah well, you might surprise yourself.” Phil hated letting his Aunt down but he just wasn’t made for school. Even when he did try years ago, things didn’t work out. Something would happen, he would get mad, and that would be that. He went to bed at about ten o’clock, which was the earliest he had in years. As soon as he closed his eyes he was in his guidance counselor’s office. It was located in a tent in the school’s parking lot. His junior high assistant principal was there as well as his old high school guidance counselor. Mr. Garbone held a three-foot high folder in front of his face. Without putting it down he told Phil that he never should have passed the seventh grade so he had to go back for two weeks if he wanted to graduate. Phil turned to walk out but he tripped over a lump in the carpet. As he got up Mr. Garbone handed him a huge red pass. He walked out the tent and into a seventh grade class. He looked the same except he was wearing clothes that would have fit him in the seventh grade. The kids threw gum and spitballs at him. Once a day the teacher would have him come up to the front of the room to show the class what a

Yusuke Hanai Japan // surf artist

“My first experience with surfing, I was in high school at the time. The first time, I couldn’t get a wave but it really felt good. So I tried many times, and when I finally could stand on the board, I felt so great. I couldn’t quit this feeling”

â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Characters I draw are the men I want to be. Hippies, mellow and free; Surfers which love natureâ&#x20AC;?

Could you tell our readers a little about yourself, where are you from, and how you came to be an artist?

What were your first experiences of surfing and the ocean and how did these experiences shape your art ?

I’m a 30 year old man from Japan and I currently live there too. In 2003-2004 I lived in San Francisco to study art.

I was in high school at the time. The first time, I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t get [a] wave. I tried many times. I couldn’t do anything but it really felt good. Fortunately I lived near the ocean, I could go surfing many times. So I tried many times, and when I finally could stand on the board, I felt so great. I couldn’t quit this.

When I was twenty, my friends and I owned and operated a restaurant bar at our local area Yokohama. We were all surfers and we loved 60’s and 70’s music and its culture. We didn’t have enough money, so we built the bar by ourselves. Of course we couldn’t pay for design of the signboard, menu, logo or any artwork, so I did all the artwork for the bar. I think that was my first experience of designing. I worked [there] for five years. I did so much artwork for the bar.

Could you tell us about the characters you draw? The Characters I draw are the men I want to be. Hippies, mellow and free; Surfers which love nature.

You recently exhibited your art in Quicksilver’s ‘The Happening’. Could you tell our readers about what this means to you as an artist?

Where do you want to see your artwork go in the future?

The Happening is an art, film and music festival embodying the spirit of surf and skate culture.

Do you have any exhibitions planned for Australia soon? Where is your next exhibition being held?

This show is big deal for me ‘cause the artist line up is awesome. Thomas Campbell, Andy Davis, Wolfgang Bloch, Jeff Canham. The show will now be moving to London, Paris NewYork and SanFrancisco which means I can show my art works fo all around the world. Great opportunity for me. Which artists do you look up to? I am very influenced by Rick Griffin, an American artist and one of the leading designers of psychedelic posters in the 1960s. He was also known for his work within the surfing subculture, including his comic strip about a surfer named Murphy. www.rickgriffinink.com

I don’t know. I just keep drawing what I want to draw.

I don’t have any planned exhibitions in Australia. My next show is The Happening Europe, and this autumn I’m planning a show in Hawaii Any advice for up and coming artists? Keep going! Keep paddling!

Unseen by Roy McConnell

My name you ask? Well, that’s not really important. But what is important is how I ended up here on this cold January night, walking down your street, peering into your sanctuaries of sustenance, wishing without hope that things had been different. Your world is filled with important things, like helping Billy with his homework, who will pick up Jenny after school tomorrow, and discussing plans for your family’s future. My world is much different; in my world the future is the present. According to many, I’m just another insignificant bum who should get off his lazy butt and get a job. When I think about it, I can’t settle upon any one reason why I ended up this way. I’ve spent most of my life protecting myself from a barrage of human unkindness - some of it very real, some of it perceived. Nonetheless, those inhumanities have fractured my very being. In me, a place of fear and self-doubt has been created, a place where there is no dignity. It has become my comforter and protector, barring me from placing false hope in others, keeping me from being hurt. Again, I look through your windows. I see joyous moments filled with love, but I don’t trust it because for me it’s not real. The world I know is not like that. You feel good when you throw your unwanted change to me on the city sidewalks. But do you see me now, standing in the middle of your suburban street? Do you invite me in to share food and drink? Do you give me a bed for the night? No, of course not. If you encountered me, you’d only see the grimy clothing, the oversized draping corduroy coat, the unshaved face, and the greasy straight hair. You wouldn’t see the once young man who dreamt of a future filled with family and the life they’d create together. No, you would quickly walk by, with your head turned to avoid my eyes, muttering some derogatory remark under your breath. I once lived in a so-called home, but it was nothing like yours. Mine was like living on the precipice of a nightmare, supported by walls of anger. There were no hugs and kisses before I went to bed, but maybe a couple of slaps or kicks from the man who pretended, in front of his friends, to be my father. He never read stories to me. He’d more likely rip my psyche to shreds with barbed words of belittlement. At times there were short periods of respite, but usually it wasn’t long before I’d once again be seared by the fire from his tongue. I prayed each night that he’d die while I slept, but every morning I awoke disappointed to find him still alive. To survive, I began to camouflage my life with daydreams in which I was the hero and I stood up to people; where I had a life with a future that included a good career, a loving wife and wonderful children. I went to school like other children. My first teacher beat me with a pointer when I couldn’t write the alphabet correctly, reinforcing the walls of anger and hatred. As I got older, even my peers began to deride and beat me, forcing my emotional welt to grow larger. At the time, I couldn’t perceive why. In retrospect, I realize I must have appeared defenceless; an easy mark weakened by the crushing malice that I suffered at home. When I was sixteen, I left school. I guess that’s when my life of running away began. I went to work and met new people. For a while, I actually thought some of them were my friends. They introduced me to a new

world, a world of drugs and alcohol that helped me escape reality like I’d never dreamed possible. I didn’t have to think in that world. I did what I wanted without any regard for the consequences. Eventually, that world deteriorated around me as well. Those so-called friends began to put me down and treat me badly. They lashed me with insulting jokes and called me names. The drugs gouged my emotions with paranoia and fear, further degrading my sense of self. I guess I should have seen it coming, but I just wanted to belong somewhere. I didn’t understand. Why did everything always fall apart? Was my presence in the world so insignificant that it didn’t matter what happened to me? I knew what I had to do-I ran away again. Throughout these many years, I’ve visited most of the cities and towns in this great country and, yes, Canada is a great country, where even a nomad like me can live out his meagre life. On the road, I’ve met many people, some of them very nice and some of them mean-spirited. But it didn’t matter if a person was mean to me because I soon moved on and forgot about them. I have what I call my “transient friends”. For me they are the family I never had. Each of us at times in our lives has experienced the pain of rejection, hatred, and unsolicited anger. We never question each other’s motives; we never dig below the surface. By chance, now and then we meet and enjoy a bit of camaraderie. If our help is needed, we lend a hand and move on. There are those who refer to us as indigents, a polite way of saying unwanted. Oh yes, I hear the thoughtless words used against me while I’m sitting there on the sidewalk. Being invisible has its benefits. It’s okay that I’m not part of your world because I am an old man and my story is nearly complete. Tonight I might sleep for the last time. My old buddy, Bob, was found frozen to death last week and I am the only person who will miss him. He was a good man, but like me he was an old shack sitting on the edge of society. I know if I don’t wake tomorrow no one will mourn.

Is Ecofeminism A Possible Alternative to Redefine Existing Ethical Frameworks? by Natasha Narayan

Ecological Feminism (Ecofeminism) developed during the feminist, peace and ecology movements during the later 1970’s and early 1980’s. It was first used by Francoise D’Eaubonne and then became an important part of the feminist and environmental protection movements. It involves the use of feminist theories to analyse the human relationship with the environment. The main theory behind Ecofeminism is that nature, just like women, has been dominated by men for centuries. The view that nature and women are subordinate to men has been an influential part of collective history and culture. Ecofeminists seek to highlight the various connections between human beings and nature, men and women, women/men and nature to explain the present ecological crisis. They argue that a complete reconstruction of male-female interdependencies will highlight the human relationship with nature and bring about the necessary shifts in paradigms. Any ecological issue that directly or indirectly causes the oppression of women can be classified as an ecofeminist issue. Ecofeminists agree that the basic issues of domination of women and nature by men come about due to the differences in conceptual frameworks. A framework that justifies and maintains the domination of women and nature by men is called an oppressional framework. Nature has always been perceived as female. It has the ability to produce life and nurture existing life forms. This can be compared to women who bear children and are the primary carers for their families. Women have an intrinsic connection with nature in that they are both perceived as the creators of life and an ordered and planned universe. But at the same time the gruesome side of nature, the one that causes calamities like floods, hurricanes, earthquakes and droughts is also directly associated with women, it is argues that it was this barbaric side of nature that created the need to dominate her. With the scientific revolution, the view that nature was a nurturing care giver was replaced by ideas of plundering nature’s resources for the benefit of man. Organic theories that nature and human were interconnected were soon replaced by images of domination and mastery to justify the stripping of her natural resources. The existing ethical framework has undergone changes in the last few decades. First there was Conservation which supported the efficient use of nature’s resources for the benefit of man, while keeping long term effects in mind. But with increasing scientific inquiry into the functioning of nature it became evident that the ways in which natural resources were being used was leading to the destruction of the environment. This gave rise to a new movement called Environmentalism.

It deals with the protection of the environment and requires a new set of ethics based on a moral obligation to nature. The conservationist view only favours the protection of the resources that are useful to man giving it an instrumental value, but the new environmental approach understands the interconnection between all living things, and understands the need to protect nature is imperative to the continuation of all life on the planet - making it an intrinsic value to human beings. The predominantly accepted set of morals and ethics present in our culture are based heavily on rationality and logic. Love, trust, responsibility etc – are values that are important to women and are left out of mainstream ethical thinking. In the present ethical framework, nature is treated as an object separate from the functioning of human beings. It is this kind of detached thinking that allows the destruction of nature with no guilt or remorse. By introducing female values into the system, the perception of human beings as independent from nature can be changed and the interconnection between human beings and all life forms can be reestablished. Women are seen to be closer to nature than men. The ability to create life produces a strong connection between women and nature. The ethics of care focus on relationships between all things. Existing ethical frameworks do not allow attachment to nature and thus do not allow attachment to the environmental crisis. The theories of Ecofeminism allows for a new understanding of human-nature relationship. By understanding the process of domination that women and nature have undergone will not only create a new found respect for women, but for nature as well. Ecofeminism will enable the development of a conceptual framework that acknowledges the interdependencies between nature and human beings and between human beings and other living things; this is central to creating a new found morality towards nature. “The scientific revolution is trying to immortalize human beings, but what is required is the acceptance that man is a part of the life cycle and by resisting that he is simply immortalizing his garbage.” – Rosemary Radford Reuther

Why I’ll never be President Reason #263 by Jared Ward

It was June, and school had let out two weeks before. Already the Kansas sun was baking the plains, meaning many nice days were to be spent indoors. I called Caddy around noon, just in time to hear the Natural Light getting dumped in the cooler. Sunny and Timmie Druber were headed over, which meant nothing worthwhile could come from the day. I showed up around two, and realized I had grossly over-estimated the situation. “Worthwhile” was a fairy tale told to children at bedtime, as unreachable as Cindy Crawford’s panties. I opened the door, took one look at Timmie running around with a can of Natty shoved down his pants (shaken up and just barely opened so it kept spraying through his gaping zipper), and I knew we were sinking to new depths of degenerative behavior. Cad came over as I grabbed a beer. “Hey,” he said, eyes lit up with mischief. I smiled warily, searching the room for an explanation, something that would make sense, like a three-foot bong in the corner or a bag of mushrooms on the counter or an eight-ball and a razor blade on the table. Nothing. Cad was grinning ferociously. “What’s up?” I asked, straining to talk over Timmie’s take-it-like-a-man roars while his beer hard-on shot foam all over Sunny. Cad laughed and tossed me a video from the table. Edward Penishands. Simple deduction can sum up the rest of the afternoon. It must’ve been a foreign film, because some of that shit made no sense to me, and I don’t know if I’ve ever fully recovered. By the time it was done we were drunk and the entire room was covered from the biggest beer foul ever witnessed. I got in my car to go home and eat before the night started, and Cad walked out with me. “Hey.” I looked up and he was grinning again. “What say I call up the boys and some of those freshman girls for a little get-together?” I shook my head, laughing, and for some reason that image of him standing there with a beer in his hand, a smile on his face, and a gleam in his eye wedged its way into my permanent memories. “Whatever you say,” I said, spilling Natural Light in my crotch as I backed out the driveway.

Ned Evans California // surf artist

“Where I grew up was hot, dry and full of tumbleweeds. I used to sneak rides to the ocean with my older brother, sanding off my nipples canvas matt surfing at Zuma beach all day long”.

“There is no future and there is no past. I am trying my best to stay in the now,because tat’s really all there is. Wherever I go, my work goes.”

Ned, could you tell us about your background? I came from one of the many valleys in Southern California, raised on oranges and walnuts. I crossed over the mountains to the ocean at seventeen years of age, never to return home. I live and work in Venice, California. How did you come to be an artist? Utter dumb luck. I really sort of stumbled into it at an early age in order to avoid going nuts. I was sort of an only child that had too much time on his hands. Making art became my own private universe to get lost in. What were your first experiences of surfing and the ocean? Where I grew up was hot, dry and full of tumbleweeds. I used to sneak rides to the ocean with my older brother, sanding off my nipples canvas matt surfing at Zuma beach all day long. How would you define surf art? Anything that makes you want to go surfing. Is there any similarity in emotion when you surf and when you paint? It’s all about losing our gravitational pull…. just for a moment. Do you like to experiment with different art mediums and techniques? One forms affinities for certain materials. It depends on personal traits and desires. My preference leans to any water-based medium. I have done and sometimes do oils and resins, but I always come back to water. Some people like to command their materials. I like it the other way. I want to be confounded on a daily basis.

I’ve seen your work described in many ways, and always passionately. How do you describe your work? I actually try not to describe my work. I once had a teacher who sat and listened patiently after reviewing my paintings as I rambled on endlessly about them. When I finally finished my oration she turned to me and said, “If you know so much about these paintings, why do you paint them?” Painting has its own language and it often doesn’t involve words. Are there any inspiration?

other

artists

from

whom

you

draw

I like all of the faithful that just keep working while people are ignoring them, no matter how good, bad or ugly their work is. There are certain personality types that are perfect for the art world and some that get destroyed by it. There is not one way to approach it. I have artists that I truly respect that are almost like hermits with their work. This is absolutely fantastic work that barely sees the light of day. Artwork does not exist unless it is seen. On the other hand, I also know a lot of artists that are so over exposed you can only see their skeleton. Everything else, including their work, has been chewed up and spit out and it shows. At what stage in your career did you start getting wider exposure? If you hang around long enough and you have something, anything, going on, people eventually see that you are not going away. It’s like, “Is that guy still making art? Well maybe we should take a peek.” You gotta’ have determination in this game. What does the future hold for your art? There is no future and there is no past. I am trying my best to stay in the now, because that’s really all there is. Wherever I go, my work goes.

Graham Nunn Poet

Ocean hearted The house you live in is built on tidal plain and farmerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s field flat as the world before civilisation the land you walk is below sea level, all oyster shell and mangrove root

Salt Water

patient fingers of wood holding their breath you fix the horizonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shape

Walking the dunes five-thirty pm

in your mind, its shimmering possibility

fisherman thumbtacked to the edge

held between seagull and midday

of water the pure Dali of tailor

the hot sting of sun on your neck

with their necks broken flapping in

like a blade lifting skin

plastic buckets & the sky vermilion

youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all blonde hair and blisters

hand-holding at dusk thoughts smell

you stop and clouds swim

like dirty dishes rinsed clean by

like mullet into your pupil for a moment you wonder why you are here

skipped-stones & another game of

you left the house and walked towards the water

noughts & crosses the goosepimples

eyes shut, pulling away from shore

on your skin like stars as sandpipers

you heard the call

hurry through darkness a cold moon

it sounded like ocean

waiting for clouds with a net & that

you hear it now

first kiss almost religious

swim harder, it says, swim harder

360 degrees of wellness by Jess Sides

If you want to be happy, then you have to feel G.A.Y... What the heck is that??? I thought you would ask. Feeling G.A.Y. = Feeling Good About Yourself. You can only achieve wellness when you do this. I know this because I used to have terrible self-esteem as a child. I didn’t eat healthy or exercise because I didn’t realise that I was worth it. I did things not because I wanted to but because I wanted to be accepted. It led me to waste a very large part of my life on things that I didn’t need to because I was so out of touch with myself. I was disconnected from myself and I allowed people to take advantage of me over and over. I learned my lesson the hard way. But it seemed that as soon as I started feeling good about myself, then things weren’t so bad, I met people who were respectful and loving towards me, and I did things that made me happy because I was so much more important. Suddenly I had the strength to follow my dreams and stand up for my beliefs (no matter how much opposition I might encounter). I gave a new acquaintance a piece of advice last night when he was stirring over the past and the future. “You can either be your best friend, or you can be your worst enemy,” I said. There is one obvious choice, but why do the majority of us choose the latter? Unfortunately, it is only human nature. Luckily this doesn’t apply to me. I have gained enough experience to classify as being super-human. (Just kidding) Human nature is a bitch. It is part of our make-up to create internal struggle and tension in order to avoid dangers and behaviours that would give us an unsatisfactory (or even fatal) outcome. To our dismay, stress is an inevitable part of life, and to complicate the situation, there is a danger in thinking too negatively about our lives. Our conscious mind is constantly assessing our situation, and what we think about the most (especially how we think about things) eventually makes its way into our subconscious, where we become who we are and create our world around us. Too much to take in? Well, just know that you have the choice. You can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. You pick. In order to have control over this, you have to pay attention to the way you think, the way that you limit your thinking, the way that you talk to others, and so on. You have to be conscious about the way you have been thinking about yourself and your situation in order to try to turn that boat around. It takes more than just a few paddles to turn around the Titanic, though. You have to be patient with yourself. Bottom Line--Feel Good About Yourself. You have to accept that you have made mistakes and that you are where you are. So what? You haven’t done anything that you can’t remedy. And even if you have, where can you go from here? You have resources at your fingertips that you have been ignoring, I guarantee it. You have more friends than you could imagine. You have clothes on your back. Enjoy your life every day

and appreciate yourself and the things that you do. Every moment is a sacred one. Every day is completely new and sometimes (too) random. So wh at do you do when people judge you or you start to judge yourself? Smile. Put it in a positive light. I’m not saying you have to validate every wrong that you have done. But maybe it’s not as bad as you are making it. We all have struggles so that we can help others who will be having similar trials in their lives. I know this for a fact. That’s why I’m writing this. We are all connected, and sometimes it’s just your turn to learn the big lesson of the day. Sometimes it’s not so easy. So don’t be your own enemy. There are enough trials to bear; don’t do it to yourself. You have a choice. Nurture the things you love. Show acceptance towards those who are different from you and respect that they have a different opinion or viewpoint. Accept that you are perfect just the way you are and that you will only get better through time. You are learning every day. You are giving something to the world even if you just give away a smile to a stranger. And take care of your body. It is the only one you have. Drink water, eat uncooked fruits and veggies, and go for a walk. Get enough sleep. Treat yourself well. And watch those negative thoughts so that you can give them the boot once and for all!! Feel G.A.Y.!

Tom Petahtegoose Poet

Follow me Down Follow me down the road of endless ruins, Where song birds sing only requiems of sorrow, Down deep into the endless abyss, Searching for the answers of the unanswerable questions, Follow me down and hold my hand, You’re the only comfort I need, When I’m with you i feel invulnerable, And I hope you feel the same, The feeling I get as my heart jumps out of my chest, I feel more alive than I ever will, Follow me down and stay with me, Together we can be free, Forever we can be free.

We our Lives We live our lives as if we’re going to live forever, We’ve got to take into affect that everyone dies, We got to wise up and spend our time wisely, We got to see through the lies, We live our lives recklessly no respect for our bodies, We treat them as though they were made of steel, The risks that we take and poisons we drink, Some of us even deny them of meals, We live our lives as though there is a class ranking,

Richard Murphy Ireland // Photographer

“Deep shades contrasted with bright highlights interest me and I will only resort to digital manipulation if I can’t get the exposure I’m looking for. It’s not always the easiest to do but I find it the most rewarding approach” .

“Photography is about the dynamism that exists between light and shade. The subtle differences between dark and light in my photographs can be barely discernible at times, but an image without this dynamic is an image lacking vibrancy“

How would you describe your photographic vision? What kind of atmosphere do you try and create in your photos? I’ve always been interested in dramatic lighting and that has tended to drive my work over the last few years. In particular I like trying to capture opposing extremes of light in a single exposure. Deep shades contrasted with bright highlights interest me and I will only resort to digital manipulation if I can’t get the exposure I’m looking for. It’s not always the easiest to do but I find it the most rewarding approach. When did you start taking photos and what made you dcide to become a landscape photographer?? I started taking photos on holiday in Australia in March 2000 with a small point and click. Not happy with the way some photos I took along the great ocean road turned out, I bought an SLR in Sydney and spent the next three weeks pretending to be Litchfield. Needless to say those photos were worse than with the point and click! That was a big lesson for me and I spent the next number of years making mistakes and learning what will and won’t work in regard to capturing light. You’ve travelled a lot around the world. What is your favourite place and why? My favourite place has to be the state of Utah in the US, though you probably wouldn’t notice that from the portfolio I’ve chosen for Frame Lines! The diversity in terms of parks that exist there is mind boggling. Zion national park is in my opinion one of the best though you could easily pick from any one of a number of parks in Utah – Bryce, Arches, Canyonlands. So many places, so little time!

public tend to buy images that they have an attachment with in some way. One of my biggest selling images for instance is an extremely clichéd view from Cape Town. It’s not one of my favourites! You sell your work as stock photography. Have you tried selling your work through agencies? If so, how did that work out? I use an online agency in the UK which has worked out quiet well although the keywording process can be very time consuming. It’s not a way to get rich quick though and the advent of digital photography has resulted in a huge increase in the number of people submitting work over the last number of years. What future photographic project or projects are you excited about? I’m particularly interested in macro work at the moment and will have an online gallery up on my website over the next while. The detail is in the small print so to speak! I’m also looking forward to a trip to the Masai Mara in Kenya for the wildebeest migration later in the year and will be tagging on a trip to Rwanda to photograph mountain gorillas. I’ve been planning this for some time now and I’m really looking forward to it. What equipment are you currently using? I currently use Nikon digital having recently upgraded from an older Fuji SLR. If you were asked to describe your work in one sentence what would it be?

What’s your favourite colour, and how do you like to use it in your photography?

Difficult and awkward!

I think shading is probably more appropriate! I love the golden glow you get just as the sun hits the horizon. Nice and soft!

Finally, if you could photograph anything in the world what woul d it be?

How long have you been selling prints of your work? What lessons did you learn along the way as you built a viable business? I’ve been selling prints for three years now, albeit in small quantities. There are literally thousands of photographers out there with fantastic portfolios so it tends to be an extremely competitive market. Personally speaking, the

I would love a trip back to Zion to photograph a slot canyon called The Subway. Afterthoughts.. Its worth repeating…..so many places so little time……..

In The Abscence of Beatrice by Damien Luciano Venuto

Prologue Crippled by the weight of buildings which reached beyond heaven and choked by a thick black cloud, the Earth limped through another rotation. Beneath this band, brown had replaced blue and tender green had been replaced by cold unrelenting grey. At the foot of a crumbling grey colossus sat a man. His red eyes scanned the area, lagging like a computer running a programme that it wasn’t made for. Each breath was separated from the last by the time it would take the old traffic light down the road to change. The inescapable silence was broken only by a low hum in the background.

Dante awoke but his eyes never opened. He turned onto his back which started to itch as it touched bare mattress. The tiny sheet had again shot off the edges and it now lay in a bundle at his feet. He rubbed his back over the mattress attempting to find a comfortable position. He opened his eyes and stretched his frame until it felt as though his bones would cut through the taut flesh. He yawned and his lungs ignited. He coughed ferociously, but the coughing only egged on the burning. With a quick twist, his knee made a heavy thump on the cold floor. Saliva splattered everywhere as he tried to get up. His stomach muscles twisted and his throat burnt as it filled with steaming bile. The sinew s in his arms flexed and strained as he lifted himself. He hopped across the floor on his right leg; his left leg was still in the wiry clutches of sleep. As he bounced, his heart beat in his temple and his arms guided him through the narrow passage to the familiar humming noise. He stood before the machine and put his left leg on the floor. The limb felt as though it had just been removed from a cast, he transferred his weight to his right leg and bent his knee slightly. This position felt quite natural to him. He coughed again but breathing was easier in front of the machine. He checked the gauge to see if his oxygen bill was up to date. The glowing number on the digital meter continued to increase every second. Below the increasing number was a letter Dante had not seen before. The letter ‘C’ had been replaced by a ‘D’. He struck the machine. He dropped to the floor and sat under the humming that continued incessantly. He brought his knees up to his chin and folded his arms over them. He rested his head on his arms and looked at a long crack which ran underneath him through the floor. As he placed his hand on the cold concrete he felt a chill tickle the hairs on his arms. With a flex of his defined tricep he was up. He walked through the dark room. His steps echoed and the hairs on his arms once again became erect. He stopped for a moment and looked at the dusty pair of surfboards which rested against the wall in the opposite corner of the room. The white beauty had become rat-tooth yellow and the bright colours on the big wave gun were concealed by a thick coat of dirt. An intricate cobweb connected the boards to the corner of the roof. He opened the front door and lifted the newspaper. The headline read “Downtown O2 Supply

Degraded”. With a shake of the head Dante threw the newspaper into the bin as he entered the kitchen. The kitchen reeked of wet egg. Pans, plates, knives forks and one cracked glass littered the basin. Dante’s stomach churned and he walked back through the living room where the boards sat patiently. He glanced at the boards again, he thought of the last time and his eyes burnt. He sighed quietly and moved back into the suffocating passage. With every step the humming noise softened and his diaphragm became heavier. He turned left and stood before the bathroom door. He put his hand on his chest and breathed in deeply as he entered the room. The basin was speckled with the same rat-tooth yellow attributable to the board. He put his hands on either side of the basin. His knuckles went white under the weight of his upper body. He turned on the hot tap and as the water trickled slowly into the basin he looked into the mirror. He ran his right hand over the patchy scraggly beard which covered his cheeks. He closed his eyes and looked down into the steam which pushed through the patches in his beard. He rinsed his face. It burnt. He repeated this three times before looking into the mirror again. This time he saw no scraggily face, only a vague image behind the misted mirror. He went into his bedroom and pulled on some clothes which were strewn across the floor. The feet of the bed tore across the grey concrete as Dante moved it into the lounge. The sound became a spined insect in his ear and a spasm down his neck. He tried to shake off the torture but continued to push the bed until it was lined up underneath the oxygen pump. He went back to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He removed a syringe and a small glass tube of clear fluid. He slid the needle of the syringe into the tube while he scratched his left leg with his right foot. As he pulled back, the fluid sprinted to the back of the syringe and sparkled off the front of the plunger before settling in its new habitat. Dante sat on the toilet. He pumped his arm twice and his veins shot up like the contours on a three dimensional map. He chose the largest mountain and inserted the needle into it. With an easy thrust of the thumb the clear fluid slipped into his body. Ants ran through his body as he felt his blood change. He looked at his watch, it was 11:30. He would have to be back behind closed doors

by 13:30. He left his room. He walked down the encased corridor. He passed three other apartments to his right and on his left was a grey wall approximately one and half metres high. The distance from the top of the small wall to the roof was completed by Perspex sheets. The thick clear sheets blocked out all sound and not even gale force gusts could penetrate the silence encased within the corridor. He spiralled his way down a flight of stairs. As he walked towards the tightly sealed door, the white of his teeth was accentuated by his dark beard. He pulled hard on the door, stopped, pulled again. It would not budge. He shook his head and pressed the button to the left of the door. With a pop, the suction was released and the door that belonged on an industrial refrigerator, opened. A few steps before him, was another refrigerator door. His smile disappeared. It was wedged between two walls and a low roof. Dante inched his way into this small dark room. He held the door behind him open for as long as he could. His palm became slippery against the door before he finally released it. The door sucked closed behind him. He stood in the room unable to see the refrigerator door in front of him or the one behind him. His breaths became shallow and air only moved in and out through his nose. He smelt himself. His clothes stank of yesterday’s perspiration and the room stank of today’s. He readjusted his hands three times as they slipped down the choking walls. A green light ignited and spat acid into his eyes. He put a damp hand over it, sucked in a deep breath and pushed the door open. He used his left forearm to protect his eyes from the slight glare. A page attached to the ancient community notice board caught his attention. In thick, plain, black print the page said, “Scrupin’s Oxygen Company Needs Your Hidden Brilliance… Come in for an Interview Now… No Appointment Required.” He released the breath and looked to his left where he saw the gatekeeper in his small Perspex dome. He took a shallow breath of the air which tasted like a factory and quickly exhaled it. The gatekeeper’s red eyes lagged across to him slowly. Dante mouthed the words “morning Peter.” The robotic words “Morning Dante,” crackled back to him through the two-way intercom wired to the perspex dome. Dante moved towards the dome and leaned into it. His one hand rested against it so that he could speak through the intercom. “You can’t keep pumping that nitrogen into your blood. It can’t be good for you ol’ Friend.” said Peter in his electronic voice. Dante shook his head, looked at the floor and chuckled slightly before saying “Nothing would break my heart more, than to lose out on these intimate conversations.” A smile cracked the old man’s face. Talking to Peter was always a very slow process. Every word he uttered was in time with the ancient rusted traffic light. Dante squinted to see the dull light change in the glare. He stroked the creases next to his eyes and sighed as he looked at the old man. Dante rested his head against the dome still watching the light, but trying hard to keep his lead coated eyes from closing. He checked his watch and looked back at the light. His eyes closed for a second too long and he was startled by the electronic voice. “Seriously the air out there will kill you; you must find peace in what you have.” “What? In the D-grade shit that they are pumping into our lungs?” “Yeah well, it could be worse. You could be anywhere else on earth.” “I’m tired Pete, I really am. I don’t want to wake up anymore. I want to stay with my dreams. I want to be in a place where boards don’t have to rest dustily against my cracked wall. This world has forgotten me.” “You need to want to survive. Listen to this old stupid man and let him teach you how to find your heart again. Listen carefully Dante.” The

intercom started to crackle. “You … to….” It crackled more until there was nothing. Dante lifted his arms and flipped his palms to the black clouds, which still somehow gave the glare passageway to his eyes. He shook his head and cupped his ears in his hands. He waved to Peter, turned and started walking away. He looked back and saw old red-eyes strike the intercom, but he never heard the blows. He walked along an empty concrete pavement which held the hand of an empty street. The only sound Dante heard was a light breeze which stroked the buildings. The breeze blew from behind and pushed him onwards. He walked and walked. The scenery remained constant. Each new street was a repeat of the last. Only the names of the buildings and the roads changed. Fatigue massaged his upper legs. He just carried on walking still driven by the offshore breeze. He saw the bench in the distance. His strides became longer and faster. When he arrived at the bench he looked at his watch. It was 12:17. The bench still had the words “locals only” etched into it. You would only be able to see it if you knew where to look. Dante always looked at it and smiled each time without fail. He breathed in deeply. He held the air in his lungs for as long as possible, before he coughed it out. His tongue tasted of chemicals and he spat. He ran his tongue across his upper lip and sat on the bench in the style of the locals. He placed his buttocks where the back should rest, and his feet where the buttocks should rest. He sat and stared. The water washed up against the shore and took some sand with it as it washed back. He looked beyond the shore at the great walls which crashed in the deeper water. Each wave was different. Some peeled so slowly from left to right that an artist would have had time to paint the perfection. Others broke rapidly from both sides before coming together in the centre, closing out quickly and exploding. Every time a perfectly running piece of liquid perfection appeared, Dante would stand on the bench in order to see the entire wave. The beach was littered with signs which made it impossible to follow the wave. The swimmer impaled with a black pole and the thick hazard sign were both bound by the same prohibition. This was accentuated by the words underneath every picture. “NO SWIMMING!” Underneath one sign was half a board. The foam which jutted out of the broken fibre glass had been smoothed by the wind. The offshore kicked sand up against it. Dante smiled as he looked at the board. He imagined how a large perfect swell had broken it. He could not even fathom why it was so beautiful to him. It was so much more than just another ruined item. In that piece of foam were thousands of rides each one more perfect than the last. Dante’s heart lay in that board even though it was not his. His mind became lost in thoughts of crowded days in warm blue water. With a sigh, Dante looked at his watch. It was 12:45. He would have to hurry. He stood up and watched one last wave. It closed out. He turned his back on the ocean and started to walk back to the place where he lived. The voice of the offshore breeze could now be heard more clearly. It blew thick chunks of rancid air into Dante’s mouth. Every step was complimented by a cough. He walked with his head to the floor and pushed hard against the wind. Fatigue tore into his legs, but he pushed on. A yellow page blew towards him and clung to his leg. He attempted to shake it off, but it had wrapped around his entire leg. He removed the page and read what it said. The heading of the flapping page was “Final Testament.” The page’s first line was “I hereby bequeath my entire estate to …” Dante threw the page into one of the many empty waste paper bins placed along the sidewalk. He carried on walking. He looked up. In the distance, glare reflected off the clear perspex dome directly into his eyes. He looked to the floor again and pushed on. He arrived at the community notice board and pulled the advertisement

off it. He waved to Peter who took no notice of him. His tired eyes and crusted hands were still focussed on the intercom. Dante pushed the green button and held his breath while he tapped his foot on the floor. His last few breaths made him feel like he was trapped in a burning building. He tapped his foot faster. The door popped open. Dante rushed into the small room with the wind’s swiftness and closed the door behind him. He waited while a buzzing extractor removed the poison from the room. The green light spewed fire into his eyes and he pushed the door open. He took a deep breath of the D-grade air and walked up to his room. As he walked in he put the advertisement down on the floor beside his bed. He fell onto the mattress and bounced several times, before his face settled into intimacy with the pillow. Behind his animated, flickering eyelids appeared the clips of his dreams. He slept unmoving until the next day. He awoke. His eyes opened instantly. Sleep had injected concrete into his neck. He got up slowly. His neck cracked through a slow rotation. He pushed his head down as far as it would go. It could not touch his chest, but he saw the page on the floor. He drove his fingers into the muscles which kept his vertebrae in place. Some of the concrete crumbled but most remained. He walked to the open front door and collected the newspaper which sat upon the dirty welcome mat. The headline read “Indian Population Extinct: Growing Concern.” He folded the paper and shoved it into the bin as he moved past the rotten kitchen. The lid of the bin was wedged open like a pelican that had choked on a fish too large to swallow. Dante stopped in the lounge. He admired the boards again. He walked right up to them. His finger moved over the gun and left a striking yellow trail. He closed his eyes and let the vivid images take over his mind. The blue skies were equalled only by the clarity of the ocean. The air was fresh and the breakers had a calming effect on his mind. He opened his eyes and stared at the yellow trail again. He turned his back on the beauties and left the lounge. Dante ran his hand across his beard and moved towards the bathroom. As he moved down the narrow passage, his lungs became heavy again. He did not look at himself in the mirror before opening the cabinet. He removed his razor and started running the warm water. The mirror started to mist up. He burnt his face with the warm water again and applied soap to his matted cheeks. He slid the blade into the beard. After every stroke he had to rinse it. Hair speckled the yellow basin as well as the floor. Every rinse of the blade was accompanied by a wipe of the misted mirror. With every stroke the blade became heavier. The muscles which ran across his forearm were in a constant flex. He shook the strain out of his arm once in a while. When done, the mirror became the portrait of a face painted in a pastel red and complimented by crimson drippings. With a grimace his face was wiped using his shirt. He left the bathroom and went into his room. Coughing bounced off the walls and moved throughout the apartment. He rummaged through his clothing until he walked out the room with a small grey bundle under his arm. He pulled the bedding off his bed and opened the bundle onto his mattress. The jacket and the tie were placed underneath the collared white shirt. He was already pulling the dusty creased pants over his legs. He slipped into the rest of his bundle and went back to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet lid and slid the needle into his veins. His brain spun in his skull and the room became liquid. As the room solidified he got up and left building. He walked past Peter and waved at the old man who still struggled with the intercom. He walked up the road away from the abandoned beach. The old man twisted his neck and stared at Dante as he walked into the distance. He came to a grey building which resembled all the others. In large green print the name read “Scrupin’s Oxygen.” Dante entered the building in the same manner that he had to enter his own building. A massive foyer was exposed to him. Large white tiles were puzzled together across the

entire floor. The air was A-grade. It became a lozenge to his sore lungs. He stood in the centre of the room and looked all around. The ceiling, the floor and the walls all stood in white unison. Each of Dante’s breaths was deeper than the last. There was a large table but the seat reserved for a secretary was vacant. He looked around a little more and found a series of arrows which led him up a flight of stairs and into a broad corridor. He continued to obey the arrows until he came to a massive ebony door. The door was simply labelled “SCRUPIN.” He knocked and the door slid open. For such a large door it was surprisingly light. Dante snuck his head around the corner like a stray cat seeking scraps. A massive man in a perfect black suit stood at a perspex window, gazing at the unmoving back of a grey building. His shoulders heaved as he coughed and grunted. “Mr Scru… Scrupin?” quavered Dante. The man turned around and smiled broadly. He had no neck and his shoulders were as broad as the massive mahogany desk before him. With a soft white hand he summonsed Dante. “Morning son,” said Scrupin in a salesman’s voice. He grunted again before saying “Come take a seat.” Dante walked towards the great desk and sat in the chair placed before it. Scrupin sat down after Dante. His enormous stomach pushed the desk into Dante, but he made no apology. He opened a drawer on his side of the desk and rummaged through some articles that Dante could not see. He eventually slid a yellow form across to Dante with a pen. “Just sign in the area where it says eyewitness. Silly formalities, nothing serious. Don’t worry son,” explained Scrupin. His speech was punctuated by a series of grunts and snorts. The heading of the page read “Final Testament.” Dante’s eyebrows moved slightly out of place, but he put the large silver pen to the paper. As he did a small squiggled snake appeared on the page. He scribbled what he thought his signature was, over the serpentine figure. He passed the page to Scrupin who shoved it back into the drawer without even glancing at it. “So,” said Scrupin with another nasal grunt. “Why is it that you decided to apply for a job at my company?” Dante’s eyes widened and he sat quietly staring at the great man. “C’mon boy, I know you’re not a mute. I heard you stutter something earlier,” spat the colossal man with another collection of grunts and snorts. “Well -” said Dante. “Yes?” retorted Scrupin “I guess I just need something to do. I need something to help clear my mind and let me feel again.” Scrupin stared at him. His eyes became a dark cloud and his jaw clenched so hard that Dante could hear his teeth grind. Scrupin took a deep breath, this time he did not cough, snort or grunt as he breathed out. He began: “It is your breed of lowlife that grates me the most. Not only do you waste your own life, but you come here to waste mine as well. Do you even know what we do here? Let me give you the first lesson you’ve probably ever had, you ignorant cretin.” Dante’s hands went white on the arm rests of his chair. He shuffled, but was unable to get up. “I save lives here everyday. The air you breathe is the product of my endeavours. Even the drugs that keep you on the street were made here.” His large milky hands shot against the desk and became red. “While you rot away in your little apartment we are finding new ways to prolong human existence.” As he spoke his enormous body heaved. Each time he heaved the desk moved closer and closer to Dante. Each word Scrupin uttered immobilised Dante more. He now sat with his hands against the desk waiting for the next heave. Scrupin continued, “The entire Indian population is extinct and you are looking for a new pastime. Grow up you selfish little bastard! Since you don’t understand, let me elucidate your good fortune to you. You are living in the only place that still holds human life. Do you know what it must have been like for all those less fortunate

than you?” Scrupin paused for a short while. The most dexterous butcher could not have sliced through the tension. Dante moved his chair back slightly, but Scrupin heaved again, this time his eyes were violent. “Imagine burying your sister, then your wife, all your daughters and finally your sister’s children. You then sit and wait to die, knowing that there is no one left to bury you.” Scrupin stopped and started coughing. It came from the deepest place it possibly could and spluttered out over the desk. Dante waited for a further assault. His heart pounded with fury. As Scrupin’s fit worsened, Dante rose. He pushed the chair back and it fell to the floor cracking a white tile. He walked past the chair but did not pick it up. He stopped at the door and looked back at the man. His eyes shot disgust at Scrupin. He left the building as rapidly as he could. Dante walked to his building, numb. He looked straight ahead of him. His thoughts were blank and his hands still trembled. He walked past the gatekeeper without even looking at him. When he entered his room he undressed and lay on the prickly mattress. He did not even flinch. He just stared at the ceiling. He thought that he should perhaps wipe away the blemishes. He thought about how long it would take, and about what would wipe the stains away best. He thought of how it would look once it was restored. He thought of the kitchen and the smell. He sniffed but smelled nothing. He looked at the machine above his head and realised that he had not even noticed the incessant humming sound. He realised that he hadn’t eaten in several days, but did not feel hungry. It became darker and the ceiling faded. He did not close his eyes. He lay there the entire night, conscious, but not. The next morning he sat up straight. He looked at the boards in the corner. He slid himself to the front of the bed and put his feet on the floor. He stood up and walked over to the boards. He ran his right hand over rat-tooth. The dust sucked the moisture from his hands. His teeth were exposed and he ran to the bedroom. He returned as quickly as he left. He had a tiny item in his hand. He lifted rat tooth and pulled her from the corner. Cobwebs followed him to the bed. He placed the surfboard on the bed next to the small item. Dante ran his hands over her, remembering when and how each ding was formed. He collected a damp cloth and stroked her gently removing the dust. She would never be white again, but at least she had been relieved of the dust. He reached over and took the small item into his hand. He looked at it and smiled as he read “Sex Wax.” He unwrapped the wax and rubbed it onto the board. The section that he rubbed became white. The smell of vanilla moved off the board and throughout the entire room. He looked at the board and was satisfied. He rose and went to the bedroom again where he simply collected a pair of board shorts. He went into the bathroom and emerged clad in the shorts. He stumbled slightly and his shoulder hit the wall of the narrow corridor as he walked back to the lounge. He lifted the board off the bed and held her under his arm. She was heavier than he remembered. He angled her through the door frame making sure the tail and the nose did not hit anything. He ran out of the building. He waved to Peter and the offshore blew him along the silent streets to the ocean. In the distance he was certain he could hear Peter’s voice crackle through the intercom, but that did not slow him down. He ran past the bench and all the signposts. He put his board down on the sand. The goofy-footer attached the leash to his left leg. He lifted the board. His heart beat like that of a virgin before her first time. He walked slowly into the warm water. He lay on his board and started paddling. He pushed under several waves before he was finally in the right spot. He sat on the board and appreciated the way his face tingled as the wind slapped against it. The water running down his face tasted of chemicals mixed with urine. The only sound he heard was that of waves crashing. The brown ocean was like a massive unsteady magic

carpet. The passing swells pushed him up and settled him into a lull again. He sat looking at the horizon waiting for the right one. A large swell gathered momentum and moved towards him. It jacked up and Dante paddled. The sinews in his arms strained. His triceps and shoulders pulled his cupped palms through the water. His heart pounded, his eyes went wide. He dropped down and with his weight on his right foot, he drove into the wave. He stepped into a glassy broken bucket of euphoria. He weaved his way through the wave, just escaping the curling mist of the barrel. He kicked out as the wave came to an end and sank back into the water. His head rose to the dark heavens and a smile which no wipe-out could erase, appeared. It became the perfect surf. Each time he paddled out to a new wave his chest became heavier. He ignored the burn because each wave held a moment that rendered everything else irrelevant.

Epilogue The gatekeeper sat in his silent dome. The humming noise had ceased that morning. He still took the regulated breaths, but less frequently now. His head dropped to his chest twice. He lifted it each time. The third time it did not rise again. A yellow sheet of paper blew against the dome, but the eyes that lagged from side to side were no longer open. Above the grey colossus which he once guarded, the black clouds started to lift and the thick band became less defined. The earth breathed, it sighed and started a new rotation.

Jim Oatley Australia // Photography

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Raised in the Adelaide hills, Jim began developing his photographic skills at age 13, spending many nights in his homemade black and white darkroom. By age 15, Jim was working full time with a commercial studio. Along with his commercial and advertising work, his portraiture and artistic work has developed over his long career, using the beauty of every day life as his subject..

“It’s always been about emotion and beauty. A classic example for me is the dragonfly’s delicate wing structure and the way water beads and sits like jewels

When did you begin to take an interest in photography? I was 13, and [photography] was one of the subjects in my first year at high school. I fell in love with the craft straight away; I was completely hooked. The following birthday my parents brought me a camera. It was a fully manual SLR. Describe your photographic style, and how it has developed over the years. Why have you chosen to take pictures of dragon flies? I’ve always been an emotional person and used photography as a way to express my feelings and stir emotions in others. Over time as I’ve grown, I’d like to think my work has also grown too. It’s always been about emotion and beauty. A classic example for me is the dragonfly’s delicate wing structure and the way water beads and sits like jewels. What is your favourite photograph and why? The first image I thought of when asked this question was a shot I took testing a second hand camera I brought for a job. I loaded a roll of colour negative in this old Mamiya RB and took a walk around my home to see what I could find. There, by the wood box in the lounge was my young boy, Jackson. He had recently learnt to pull himself to his feet. There was this magic beam of golden sunlight hitting him and bouncing off the mantle mirror back onto him. I had enough time to get only one frame and had little faith it was any good. A few weeks went by and I needed the camera for a job and without a thought tossed the [photographic] roll in a draw. Months later I processed the film forgetting what was on it and was floored at this magic image of my son.

Did your early photographic goals include earning a living from photography, or did it start as a way to express yourself creatively? Photography was everything to me by the time I was 15. I had turned Mum and Dad’s laundry in a darkroom and hated school with a passion, I couldn’t understand why I should hang out there doing maths, English and geography when it had nothing to do with me becoming a photographer. I had made up my mind. So with a folio of my work secretly stashed in my school bag I began to wag school to door knock studios around town. What makes you decide that you’re looking at a scene that would look perfect as a photograph? It’s a strange thing. I sometimes finish a shoot thinking I’ve got nothing and surprise myself with the results. Some of my best images come from what seems to happen naturally. I rarely think, “This is a winner” just before I take a shot. I suppose you plan and make every shot a winner as you take it. Photographers you admire? And why? The ideal image needs to have that element of magic. Something special that gives pleasure to your senses and stirs your emotions. What traits do you admire in a fellow photographer? I admire anyone that can use a camera to communicate, make a statement or reveal something about their inner feelings.

Last Song of the Caveman by Jared Ward

I see the phone. It’s the little things that trigger. I’ve heard it’s what a man surrounds himself with that defines him. Makes him who he is, or at least who he thinks he is.

The dark pulled him in, wrapped him. From the shower to his own heavy breathing, everything swirled together until no sound stood alone. He opened his eyes. Found himself staring at the phone and smiled. It’s the little things that trigger.

Fuck me. Let’s take stock: rubber chicken, Far Side calendar two months behind, and a cardboard Yoda watching me from the corner. There’s the empty room where a brother’s missing, the aqua-green couch where I pass out nightly, a dartboard, and piles of empty beer cans. Everywhere. The kitchen sink, the kitchen table, the floor, nothing but empty containers and I barely remember last night. There’s a Kerouac collection, a collage of photos my uncle took at a Dead show, and an empty bottle of wine holding up my cd’s. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the monkey puppet on the coat rack smiling at me. Little fucker. But it is kind of funny. Should’ve quit there. While I was happy. Check the coffee table. Dirty mug, Broncos hat, Rand McNally road atlas sitting next to the phone and it’s the little things that trigger. Because I’ve been wanting to call someone all night, anyone, to make me forget the one voice I can’t hear.. And what does that mean? he asked the stillness of the cave, fingering the label on the bottle of wine between his legs. He closed his eyes and listened to the voice of his home. The drip of the shower, the rattle of the aged refrigerator, and the sudden breathing from the vents, like a speaker clearing his throat in the microphone.

Laughing, he headed for the sink and listened as the drain finished his bottle. He shook his head, and whispered, I’m leaving, as he plunged onto the couch. In the morning he woke up and packed. He shut the door to the cave, walked out with his bag. The sun peered over the horizon as he sat in his car, sat in the early morning cold, wandering, drifting from thought to thought. He didn’t know where to go. He’d seen a map one time, but all it had was roads and cities and states, no signs saying which turn to take out of his driveway. As the dawn broke, something gave. When he turned the key, the engine roared to life. He rolled down the window and felt the cool breeze. He smiled. Wind’s blowing south, he thought, and eased the car onto the road.

It Had to Be by Ashlie MahRiee Skipper

It Had To Be...... In 1990, he lays down with her In the moment, he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cover up So it was an unexpected revelation for her An abortion was first on her mind she was 21 and n college at the time Stuck and inbind between what she wanted n life it was either get what she wanted or give this precious embryo life 9monthz lata out popz the baby the father wasnt there so guess who signed the paperz.......nobody years passed and the fathers there sometimez young gurl waitz by the door everyday all the time and nobody seems to walk through each time the mommaz crying and yes baby gurl hears it she finally tellz her that ur father is not expected to arrive anytime no time not even on your time at the break of that news young gurl didnt have the slightest clue what 2 do what 2 say years kept going past and she thought This man treatz her life anotha chiq on the st

his first child but makes her feel lyke a stranger in his beat...... the beat of his heart hers is torn bcuz he breaks his neck 4 the othaz but wont chip a nail 4 her 16 years of waiting she decides to give up hope and leave it be he might get the picture and finally c Realizes she doesnt need that PATHETIC EXCUSE for a FATHER or MALE FIGURE she can still b a successful black woman as fast as a nigga pullz the trigger After all this time And reading this line for line what a conspiracy thought about theory wrote about tragedy most commonly used statistically n the black community to bad this story had 2 be about Me.

What We See

#4 // The Ocean â&#x20AC;&#x153;With my deep love of the ocean and its magic carpet rides - they have been the force behind my life, the support, the friend, the lessons, the solitude, my ocean love and whilst we all take pleasure from it, the plight of our ocean environments cannot be ignored any further. Illegal dumping of waste and illegal fishing have taken their toll, and just as we are discovering more and more about them, we are degrading them further with every passing day... â&#x20AC;?

with Sarah Nolan

Seal Rocks - Australia

The Last Whale Australia // Literature

The Last Whale, a true Australian story set in the 1970s about the battle for the last whaling station in the English-speaking world. Author, Chris Pash, was a reporter at the Albany Advertiser in 1977 during Greenpeaceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first direct action in Australia. The book due to be launced at the Sprung festival follows the lives of the whalers and the protesters until the last whale to be taken by Australians, a female sperm whale, was harpooned on November 20, 1978.

In the thick of it. Anti-whaling demonstrators meet whaling company staff at the demonstration on August 28, 1977. Copyright Jonny Lewis collection

Chris Pash shares ‘The Last Whale’ with Frame Lines Jean-Paul Fortom-Gouin, aka the Phantom, is a man on an anti-whaling mission who wangles his way onto the International Whaling Commission with a snappy suit and ticket from the Panamanian Government. His nemesis, Ches Stubbs, Skipper of the whaling ship Cheynes III, is known for his long range skills with a harpoon. Just like Ahab, Ches loses a leg while whaling and, just like a pirate, sails with a pet cockatoo that happens to have a penchant for gnawing on naked toes.

But it was an empty promise. Jonny had bought their compass at an Army disposal store in Sydney. The instrument didn’t work at sea. He and JeanPaul had no idea where they were, only that land had disappeared over the horizon a couple of hours ago. Kase told Jonny when they met thirty years later: “I knew you were totally lost.”

These are just two of the real-life characters captured with heart and humour by Chris Pash in his story about the end of whaling in Australia. The book shows a town reliant on whaling dollars pitted against a determined band of international protesters.

Kase had been listening to the radio broadcasts from the Zodiac back to the support boat, a locally hired fishing vessel which unfortunately had been unable to keep up. He knew from their earlier broadcasts that their compass headings were wrong.

“Did you have enough fuel?” Kase Van Der Gaag, the whaling ship captain, asked Jonny Lewis, the anti-whaling activist. This was their first meeting since 1977, thirty years since they duelled across the Southern Ocean. In that time they had not been introduced or spoken directly. But they knew each other well.

Keeping up with the Cheynes II was their only way of getting back.

Both were players in a drama played out at the bottom of Australia where the last whaling station in the English-speaking world hunted giant toothed sperm whales off the edge of the Continental Shelf: Jonny, in a five metre rubber open boat called a Zodiac; Kase in the 47-metre Cheynes II. I brought their stories, and them, together over a period of several years as I interviewed, researched and re-interviewed for the book The Last Whale. When I spoke to Kase by phone he would often say, “Give my regards to Jonny.” Jonny who lives south of Sydney, readily agreed when I suggested we send the latest draft of his story to Kase in Albany, Western Australia. Kase reciprocated and they both then knew the actions and thoughts of the other. Here is part of their story as told to me: Jonny and Frenchman Jean-Paul Fortom-Gouin waited in their open boat behind an island in King George Sound, Albany, Western Australia, on September 1, 1977. “It must have been 4am or so and we saw the whaling boat rush out of the darkness,” Jonny says. “And then we started following … it felt like at least an hour before the sun came up.” Kase on the Cheynes II wasn’t following a plan. He clocked the rubber ducky, as his crew called it, and decided to draw them away from the other two whale chaser ships. He radioed the whaling station at Frenchman Bay. “I’m going South.” Kase headed toward Antarctica and didn’t stop until about midday when he leaned over the side to Jonny’s boat and said: “I'm terribly sorry, but we're lost.” Jonny recalls Jean-Paul saying: “That’s alright, we’ll take you home.”

Kase radioed the whaling station for permission to stay out overnight. Jonny remembered thinking they would have to stay awake all night so they didn’t drift away from the whaler. They did have enough fuell but not for a sustained stay at sea. Luckily for Jonny, as the day wore on Kase changed his mind. The reporters on board wanted to get to port to file their stories so he headed back. The Zodiac stuck close until they sighted land. Later that night a gale came out of nowhere (it hadn’t been forecast by the weather bureau). Jonny and Jean-Paul would probably not have made it if they had stayed out all night. The campaign, the first Greenpeace direct action in Australia, continued for another three weeks. There were two close calls with harpoons as the Zodiac inflatables zipped between the whale ships and the whales, trying to spoil the gunner’s aim, but no injuries. Thirty years later Kase went to Albany Airport to meet Jonny as he arrived in Albany to speak at a national protest against plans by Japan to take 50 humpback whales in the Antarctic. Kase and Paddy Hart, another former whaling ship captain, joined Jonny at Middleton Beach where the Zodiacs were launched thirty years earlier. “You did a good job, Jonny,” Kase said. “Whaling isn’t something you can defend. There’s no such thing as a clean kill. They die hard.” Said Jonny. “You have great moral courage, Kase.” Australia harpooned its last whale, a female sperm whale, on November 20, 1978. The Last Whale will be published by Fremantle Press in September 2008. The true account of events in 1977/78 follows the lives of the anti-whaling activists and the whalers as they battled in the Southern Ocean. Chris Pash was a cadet journalist at the local newspaper, the Albany Advertiser, from 1975 to 1978. - www.thelastwhale.blogspot.com

Albany, Western Australia, was the last whaling station in Australia. Chris Pash Author of The Last Whale, gives insight to the movement which shut down Australiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last whaling station.

Australian Tom Barber standing, Canadian Bobbi Hunter sitting. At the whaling station August 28, 1977. Copyright Jonny Lewis collection

Clean Ocean Non Profit Profile

Australiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beautiful coastline, ecosystems and beaches are under a huge threat from ocean polluters. The worst offenders are ocean outfalls. The largest and dirtiest shoreline outfall in the country is at Gunnamatta Beach on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. Clean Oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s number one campaign is achieving a National Ocean Outfall Closure Strategy by 2025, starting with Gunnamatta.

In the Summer of 2007-08, a mounting human toll of Australians fell ill doing what they love: swimming and surfing at the beach. 16 year old Tom Stenford of Flinders contracted a Golden Staph infection the next day after surfing at Gunnamatta Ocean Beach, Victoria in late January. The infection had spread from a wound on Tom’s toe that required orthopedic surgery to his shoulder, requiring one week in hospital and 6 weeks on a course of intravenous antibiotics.

Clean Ocean’s prime objective is to protect our ocean ecosystem, establish sustainable water management practices and close Australia’s 144 ocean outfalls. Wastewater outfalls are the single greatest source of ocean pollution in Australia, yet virtually every Australian in our country would have swum, surfed or fished near one of them.

In early February, Sydney surf photographer Mark Onorarti endured over a week of sickness caused by a middle ear infection known as Labyrinthitis, an inflammatory process that can cause permanent hearing loss. Mark had swum at North Narrabeen Beach which is exposed to effluent discharged from the Turimetta Head outfall and runoff from Narrabeen lagoon. Due to wet weather at the time, Sydney Water had been forced to bypass part of the disinfection treatment at the Warriewood Sewage Plant feeding the Turimetta outfall. Preliminary results of Clean Ocean’s epidemiological studies at Gunnamatta have uncovered higher than expected illness rates, particularly amongst children, yet there is no real time warning system in place at the beach where 450 million litres of Melbourne’s effluent is discharged every day.

In the 21st century the pollution of our ocean and waterways is increasing exponentially. In Australia the worst polluters are the 144 ocean and estuary outfall pipelines that daily dump a toxic cocktail of more than three billion litres of semi-treated domestic, industrial, trade and abattoir waste onto or near the shoreline.

In the ocean borders are just lines on someone’s map. We all share the one ocean and its health and fate is at one with our own. Around the world there are many groups fighting to give the ocean a voice. Clean Ocean Foundation is this voice in Australia.

The total effluent discharged from around the coastline is 1.33 million megalitres annually, increasing steadily every year. The nation’s outfalls represent a huge untapped flow of urban sewage, effluent and waste from

Jessica Paige

Australia // musician

What are your rehearsals like?

What do you write your songs about?

My band consists of me and the 4 Paige Boys, whom I rescue twice weekly from their humdrum lives to my salubrious lounge room for rehearsals. We have a tough regime: review recordings/ footage from a recent gig/ festival, dissect whether we were totally great or did a little spot of crapness creep in? We then set to work and polish up those crappy bits, and add a new song or two as well.

Many of my songs are about aspects of relationships (not necessarily my own), but I also write about anything I feel strongly about that connects with the ‘song centre’ lurking deep in my brain. So I have a song called ‘Fly Away’ about the plight of refugees, a song called ‘Spirit People’ about youth suicide and ‘Strength Comes from the Inside’ is a war protest song. A common thread connecting them all is that I am touched by things that are beautiful in a sad, happy or simple way, and that makes my songs quite poignant. When did you write your first song? The first song I wrote when I was around 11, it was so good, it made my sister and brother groan, (I like to think with jealousy), every time I played it. Mum loved it even more…and she always told them to shut up and then said “That’s very good darling.” It was based on the idea that if [Dire Straits] could write a song about coloured TV and microwave ovens, I could write about the kitchen fridge and the cupboards. My next songs, after I actually learnt to play guitar, impressed the hell out of my mother (ok, it is in their programming), who entered one in some competition, and when it got an award and Triple J played it I was very chuffed and thought “Hey this isn’t that hard after all”. Little did I know…

Jessica Paige E.P. Under My Skin

Recently we had my dad come over and workshop us. He is a great musician and we found that having his outside ear and experience was wonderful and helped us to improve the dynamics of each song and the whole set. We try to get through as much as we can before we eat, drink and generally make merry. What has been your biggest challenge? The biggest challenge has been getting good live video footage - poor lighting and sound has always made it unusable. But it is something we aim to get fixed very soon. (We are open to offers of help in this department!). The other challenge is getting a good video for a single. Favourite song lyrics? My favourite lyrics are ones that are metaphors or that make an original connection and that aren’t clichéd or trite. For example Crowded House’s line “catch a deluge in a paper cup,” how good is that! Or how about this, my Dad (Steve Romig) wrote in his song ‘Sometimes’: “Sometimes I feel folded/like a piece of paper/dirtied with the fingerprint of unrepentant hands. Sometimes I feel miniscule/just like an amoeba/floating on a plate of glass/watched by unseen eyes.”

Being a Melbourne girl, what other local artists are you following? My friends are mostly stealth musicians, still under the radar of commercial airwaves (although thankfully people can discover their music quite easily). My heart just about bursts when I hear Luke Howard play in whatever jazz line up he has going at The Night Cat or Bennet’s Lane, I adore James Sidebottom’s beautiful folky songs, Jason Lowe is a fantastic rootsy-bluesy-lapsteel player with soul, Glenn Cannon is a really wonderful and versatile guitarist that I have a jazz duo with. I love quirky Georgia Fields and silky Phoebe Jacobs who both have superb songs, lovely voices and their own bands here in Melbourne. Oh, and I love my Dad’s songs too, and I can’t forget Nick Roy - funky soul master that he is. I go to three or so gigs a week and jam with many muso’s and I am always discovering new and awesome musicians. It is very exciting!

Lisa Bow Australia // Photography

I first picked up a camera when I was 8, it was a Mickey mouse 35mm I bought for $2. I began to photograph my family and friends at school on excursions. I have always loved looking through people’s pictures and I just remember thinking I could create memories and look back on the places I had been. The magic of seeing them come to life in a darkroom is also special. My photography expresses a need to create and participate in documenting the world around me. I love capturing the subjects that make me stop and think. One of my favourite subjects is people to capture their personality or sense of humour is always fascinating. If I see someone who stirs my interest I often ask to take their photo. There is often something quirky or unusual in someone that drives me to photograph them. I think it’s also a tool i use in getting to know others and becomes a diary of who I have met. I try and capture my subjects where they are most comfortable or doing something they enjoy. The perfect photograph is when it speaks to its audience regardless of time and place. One in particular is Carol Jerrems work in the 1970’s, a series called Vale St. It’s amazing how her subjects were brought to life and you want to learn more about them.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I met Flo at a Service station near where I worked in South Melbourne. I was walking past to get a chocolate bar and saw this incredible woman cleaning toilets. I was instantly intrigued by her and the next time I went by I asked to take her portrait. I was drawn to Flo for many reasons but one being her dress sense, the colorful apron and leg warmers really caught my eye. I had wanted to do a series on people and their workplaces and this seemed a perfect place to start!â&#x20AC;?

Frame Lines

A look at whats art and what is contempoary...

Frame Lines is a free magazine and non-profit organization showcasing the best creative work - artistic, photographic, musical, literary - from around the world. This also extends to provoking the living entity of free press itself, and being mindful of the environmental impact we would make by being a printed magazine, we invite readers to make the choice if they would prefer to print the free online version or to purchase a high gloss collectorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edition of the magazine. We partner with organizations that not only share our core values, ethics and aims, but who are dedicated to celebrating diversity and desire to work with us to generate positive change in which we conduct our business transactions.