PULP: ISSUE 04 2022

The views in this publication are not necessarily the views of USU. The information contained within this edition of PULP was correct at the time of printing.

This publication is brought to you by the University of Sydney Union. Issue 04, 2022

SENIOR EDITOR Marlow Hurst

EDITORS Nandini Dhir Harry Gay Ariana Haghighi Bonnie Huang Patrick McKenzie Rhea Thomas DESIGN Bonnie Huang Rhea Thomas COVER Khoi Dang

PULP is published on the sovereign land of the Gadigal People of the Eora Nation. We pay our respects to Elders past and present, as well as Indigenous members of our creative community. We respect the knowledge and customs that traditional elders and Aboriginal people have passed down from generation to generation. We acknowledge the historical and continued violence and dispossession against First Nations peoples. Australia’s many institutions, including the University itself, are founded on this very same violence and dispossession. As editors, we will always stand in solidarity with First Nations efforts towards decolonisation and that solidarity will be reflected in the substance and practice of this magazine.

Sovereignty was never ceded. Always was and always will be Aboriginal land.

Marlow Hurst Senior Editor

One of the University of Sydney’s first ever professors, Reverend John Woolley, drowned in the Bay of Biscay in 1866 after the SS London sank in treacherous waters. No such fate has befallen PULP during its first semester of operation — the skies are clear, the waves are calm, and it’s full steam ahead to ISSUE 05 in Semester 1, 2023.

I’d like to deliver heaping praise to our steadfast designers Bonnie Huang and Rhea Thomas, without whom you would not be holding this fine magazine in your hands. And said magazine would not be full of so many radiant articles without the diligent workshopping, editing, sub-editing, re-editing, and sub-editing once more that goes into each and every article you see before you. Every editor can be thanked for that herculean effort. Finally, I’d like to thank our contributors for entrusting us with their precious prose, treasured turns of phrase, and invaluable images — I hope we’ve done them due justice. In the meantime, we’ll be steering clear of the Bay of Biscay and we recommend you do too!

As we piece together the words, photography, and art that constitute ISSUE 04 of PULP, we look back to the beginning of this semester. From the chaos of launching our first edition, to seeing people across campus pick up a couple of copies — one for themselves and one for their grandma — it remains a privilege to be the students delivering the cultural, creative, and curious publication that PULP has become.

We hope ISSUE 04 reaches untouched corners of novelty, from chilled choc top refrigerators to sunny city meadows. Your thoughts should ripple with a drop of reflection; in this issue our contributors traverse the cultural practice of oiling your hair, explore a Vietnamese quarantine camp, and ask “Why is Chinese pop music so sad?”

In ‘The city as a garden of earthy delights’, Mae Milne sorts through the abundance of edible flora in our local area, while in ‘The Old Teachers’ College apostrophe catastrophe’, our senior editor Marlow Hurst sorts through the storied history of a pesky apostrophe.

Thank you to our ISSUE 04 contributors for translating their ideas into print. We also extend this gratitude to all the contributors and subcommittee members that have crossed paths with PULP this semester, and trusted us with their work across our first few issues. We hope this issue leaves you dancing to musical mashups, feeling well-informed when attending your next Meriton party, and nostalgic for school yearbook photoshoots.

We close up PULP’s first semester with more ideas than we started with: a plethora of comedic headlines, people we want to interview, spreads we want to design, and videos we want to film. Our ‘Write That Down’ list — an excel sheet of seemingly miscellaneous ideas — has become an unfiltered pool of juice (with extra pulp) that we are keen to bring to life in Semester 1, 2023.

Until ISSUE 05, we will keep publishing some food for thought on our website and across our socials. With this fourth issue release, we thank you for lending your eyes to PULP — both in print and online — and for giving us the support and feedback to bring this 26 x 18.5cm magazine to life.

Reach us any time at pulp@usu.edu.au.

Editors’ Note

The Old Teachers’ College apostrophe catastrophe

Words by Marlow Hurst

The battleground? The name of the “Old Teachers’ College” building.

The combatants? A mass of confused sign writers, uni PR wonks, and campus infrastructure professionals.

And what are they all fighting over? Well, it all comes down to one pesky apostrophe: to have it, to move it, or to lose it — those are the spoils of war.

Like all great wars, it started some time ago. This one dates back to the founding of the Sydney Teachers’ College (STC), the institution that the Old Teachers’ College building (OTC) we know today was originally built for. At its conception, the STC had an apostrophe following the s in ‘Teachers’. A 1908 Government Gazette article referred to it as the “Teachers’ College” and annual reports of the college in 1913 and 1915 (the earliest reports available) refer to it similarly. Crucially, the Teachers’ College Act 1912, authorising the construction of the building, uses an apostrophe following the s both in its title and body. With that in mind, it is quite conclusive that the College was founded on a single grammatical principle: when it comes to its name, the apostrophe followed the ‘s’.

Sadly, that principle was built on shifting sands. While the apostrophe after the ‘s’ persisted in official documents from its founding up until 1967, an annual report in 1973 recorded the first exclusion of the precious original punctuation in a formal, written setting.

But what led to this radical departure from previously established policy? While no one can know for sure, there is a possibly obvious explanation. NSW reformed higher education in 1969 with the passage of the Higher Education Act. It granted the State the power to convert existing and disparate tertiary education institutions into ‘Colleges of Higher Education’ — a uniform and streamlined classification which sought to standardise the rogue and lawless higher ed landscape. They did just that to Sydney Teachers’ College in 1971, and in the Government Gazette announcing this conversion they failed to include an apostrophe (a huge blow to its fans everywhere). My thinking is that this official spelling, proclaimed in the Government Gazette following the College’s conversion, became an accepted norm from that point on. Academic Board minutes from the late 70s and early 80s show the continued use of the apostrophe-less name — the STC had been stripped of its

possessive punctuation. This theory received a tacit “endorsement” from Professor Geoffrey Sherington, coauthor of Sydney Teachers College: a history, after I presented him with my hypothesis in an email. Professor Sherington said that he was sure I was “right that that was when the apostrophes disappeared” and that my research on signage was “very interesting.” Case closed then?

Sadly not. While the how may have been resolved, the why still hangs firmly in the balance. Romantics might say this all goes back to the STC’s first Principal, Alexander Mackie. A Scottish academic of high regard, Mackie fiercely guarded the College’s independence — often fending off interference from the Minister for Public Instruction, the Director of Education (his frequent nemesis S.H. Smith), and the various oversight boards that attempted to meddle with College affairs. The apostrophe, in this case, represented possession in more than one way — not only a grammatical technicality, but a mark of the College’s independence and possession by Mackie himself. Under the apostrophe, the teachers really did own the College. And with the shift from possessive to attributive following the 1971 Gazette’s exclusion of the apostrophe, this simple grammatical

A secret war is being waged on campus. In, around, and upon the very buildings we use everyday. It is a war of words, or, more specifically, a war of letters and characters.

change embodied a pivot in higher education in NSW and Australia. This was a pivot towards centralisation, consolidation, and control. There was no room for independent possession in this New (South Wales) World Order.

But now much of that tug of war has been forgotten. After NSW higher education went through another round of sweeping reforms, Sydney Teachers’ College (apostrophe or not) ceased to exist. It was replaced by the Sydney Institute of Education in 1981 and, on January 1st 1990, it was absorbed into the University of Sydney. At some point following the amalgamation, the building that was originally referred to as the “University Grounds Campus” became the “Old Teachers’ College”. Sadly, and perhaps suspiciously, the Grounds and Buildings Committee, which would have been responsible for naming buildings at the time of the College’s amalgamation, has no archived meeting minutes from the time when the Old Teachers’ College would have become Old Teachers’ College. So while we may know where the apostrophe was upon the founding of the Sydney Teachers’ College, we’re mostly in the dark when it comes to the building itself.

The main problem we face today is less philosophical and more

practical. Campus signs, University news articles, and official maps simply cannot decide if they want an apostrophe or not.

Three variations exist across these mediums.

The traditionalist: “Old Teachers’ College”

The purist: “Old Teachers College”

The wildly incorrect: “Old Teacher’s College”

The Northern and Southern building name signs opt for the traditionalist spelling, whereas the Eastern building name sign elects

to drop the apostrophe with a purist interpretation (Note: it’s possible this sign previously contained an apostrophe, but time and poor maintenance has seen it fade).

The direction signs at the top of the stairs leading down from Science Road to Russell Place, at the end of Manning Road at the intersection of Western Avenue, and before the Brennan MacCallum steps leading up to the Graffiti Tunnel all opt for the traditionalist spelling as well. Perhaps most curiously of all, the direction sign at the intersection of Grose Farm Lane and Western Avenue puts the apostrophe between the ‘r’ and ‘s’ — implying that a singular old teacher either owns or inhabits the College

building (but only if you approach from near Arena Sports Centre).

Things grow even more confused when you step inside the OTC. Evacuation diagrams and emergency contact sheets (often next to each other) use entirely different spellings, with one pair including the apostrophe on the evacuation diagram, but dropping it altogether from the emergency contact sheet. At this point, the apostrophe becomes a matter of health and safety. How is any student evacuating from the famously hazard-prone OTC building supposed to engage with emergency signage if they’re busy puzzling over the positioning of punctuation? It’s surprising we haven’t seen casualties already. The inside of the OTC also houses the only appearance of a fourth spelling variation — a divergent spelling, if you will: an apostrophe following the ‘s’, but with the apostrophe itself facing the wrong way. Sadly, not even Alexander Mackie and the history of the STC’s

independence can explain that printing error.

Finally, we come to the cyberscape. Of all the spelling spaces, this one plays host to the most confusion and chaos of the lot. Five different internal USyd news articles and website resources put the apostrophe at the end, 10 have no apostrophe at all, and three put one between the ‘r’ and the ‘s’. Often, they use entirely divergent apostrophe placement throughout the text, switching back and forth as they please. For the reader, it is veritable grammatical whiplash. In a delicious twist of fate, one of the most shameful culprits of this is none other than Provost and Deputy Vice Chancellor Professor Annamarie Jagose. Between 2019 and 2020, she managed to use all three variations across two ‘From the Dean’ updates posted to the USyd website. It’s particularly disappointing considering that at the time she was FASS Dean and the Old Teachers’ College was in

the process of welcoming the Sydney College of the Arts — a department within FASS itself. Shame!

But amongst all this confusion, surely there’s a spelling that is more correct than the others? When put to the University, they declined to make a formal ruling on where the apostrophe should be (instead directing me to the original authorising legislation). They did say they’d get back to me regarding my request for campus-wide signage spelling harmonisation though. So, with the University unwilling or unable to wade into the murky depths of this debate, the only thing we can rely on are the immutable laws of grammar itself.

According to Dr Mark Post, Acting Chair of Linguistics at the University of Sydney, “if the intended meaning is either ‘the old college that pertains to more than one teacher’ or ‘the college that pertains to more than one old teacher’, then the usual

convention is to have the apostrophe after the -s.”

Dr Post says that this tradition dates back to around the 18th Century and has been the norm ever since, but did note that places such as Hunters Hill use a less conventional spelling that drops an apostrophe that might have otherwise been there.

Sadly, at least for those interested in the debate, dropping or including an apostrophe after the ‘s’ “wouldn’t mean anything different” and would simply mean you “stop using apostrophes altogether to show genitive case.” And according to Dr Post, who says that it’s an “orthographic convention anyway, with no corresponding function in spoken language”, that’d be perfectly fine.

Something we can all agree on though, is that, no matter what, the apostrophe most certainly does not

go between the ‘r’ and the ‘s’. Unless, Dr Post says, it’s an old college that pertains to one teacher or a college that pertains to one old teacher. Of that, I think we can be certain.

With all these competing, conflicting, and uncertain conclusions, it really does seem as if it’s a matter of personal preference. The book Sydney Teachers College: a history arrives at a similar conclusion, dedicating a paragraph of its prefatory note to deciding how it would refer to the College — settling on no apostrophe at all after much consternation. But there is reason to believe that this apostrophe is more than just an irritating bit of overhang chasing the end of a word. In the 1972 Journal of NSW Public School Teachers Federation, one John Shellard plumbs a similar meaning to mine.

“In these days of declining respect for the English language it might pass unnoticed that the

apostrophe is being left out of ‘teachers’ colleges.’ This may be a matter of convenience or it may contain a hidden inference that these colleges don’t any longer belong to anyone, even to the teachers, inside or outside.”

As our University further distances itself from direct academic management and drifts increasingly towards what someone in 1969 might think of as a ‘College of Advanced Education’, it’s important to keep believing that higher education does belong to someone — both inside and out. And often that starts with one, pesky apostrophe.

What of the walls of Frankie’s Pizza?

Words and photography

by Harry Gay

Last year, it was announced that the Sydney hotspot Frankie’s Pizza will be closing down and relocating. While the bar staff, food, drinks, live music, and the name will move on, this photo series questions what will happen to the thing that makes up the very essence of the bar: the walls. Lined with stickers, drawings and old photographs, the walls of Frankie’s Pizza are immovable and irreplaceable, full of history and personality. This photo essay laments the loss of these iconic visuals as construction of the metro station bulldozes the lot.

I know I’ve been here before. Don’t go where you don’t belong; you never know where you might end up. I am traversing borders, never looking back. Just remember to wake up.

A visual representation of the liminal space between dream and reality. I have dreams where I’m not sure if I’m asleep or not, where the world is familiar but something just feels off. By distorting your sense of time and place, I take you with me on a journey through routine spaces, transporting from setting to setting with the swiftness and assuredness of a dream.

Liminal Reality

PHOTOGRAPHER Justine Hu

The city as a garden of earthy delights

Words by Mae Milne

ty, and, as such, for a long while was only practised by the poorer peasant class as a means of supplementing their diet.

However, in the 19th century, as the number of private gardens in cities increased, herb-hunting became once again in vogue, and a leisure activity amongst city-dwellers. The popularity of foraging only increased again in the 1960s due to various counterculture movements, which viewed this method of food-sourcing as a rejection of capitalist modes of consumption and a return to nature.

Nonetheless, for other societies, this ancient practice has consistently remained a cultural cornerstone. For Indigenous Australians, foraging forms a rich part of their cultural, social, economic, and spiritual relationship with their traditional lands, with their extensive knowledge of Australian flora and fauna allowing them to thrive in a landscape deemed impenetrable by Europeans.

smaller compared to their European counterparts. This is true for most native Australian fruit, and is the result of our more arid climate. Nonetheless, despite their lesser water content, these figs are nutrient-dense, with roughly the same abundance as the larger, European kind.

Native Flowers

Banksias, grevilleas, and callistemons (the latter commonly known as a bottlebrush) are three native flowers that are easy to find on Australia’s East Coast. When in bloom, these blossoms are filled with a sweet nectar akin to honey. Give one of these flowers a shake onto some toast and enjoy this sugary delight! Alternatively, you can use these flowers to brew a sweet tea by dunking the entire blossom in warm water.

Dandelions

Gathering food from one’s natural environment is a primordial human experience. Not only is this practice a cheaper and more sustainable way to source ingredients, it also allows participants to form an intimate connection with the living world. There is a simple romance that comes with identifying a piece of edible produce, plucking it, taking it home, then preparing it.

Foraging has a history as old as humankind itself, as it was once the sole sustenance of our neolithic ancestors. However, following the advent of agriculture and medieval feudalism in areas such as Europe, the custom began to lose its necessi-

Although Australia’s natural landscape has been decimated by concrete and industry since colonisation, if you know where to look, the city nonetheless remains a rich supermarket of edible delights. As such, this guide to Sydney’s edible flora, comprising both native and non-native comestibles, will allow you too, reader, to experience this ancient pastime, and transform the city into your very own Garden of Eden.

Native Figs

As all native figs are edible, they serve as a foolproof starting point into the world of urban foraging. Majestic evergreens with oval shaped rubbery leaves, fig trees are hard to miss. Species such as the Port Jackson fig and Moreton Bay figs are endemic to the Sydney region. The fruits produced by these beauties are

Dandelions, although not native to Australia, are nonetheless a staple food of the urban forager. They are a reliable food source, particularly in times of economic strife such as the Great Depression. The leaves can be used like most leafy vegetables: in salads, frittatas, pastries, and sauteed. Young leaves are better as the older leaves are more bitter. Make sure to give them a wash before use, and try to avoid sources near polluted areas or that have been treated with pesticides. Blanching the leaves for a few seconds will help further remove the bitterness.

The roots of this prolific plant can also be collected to make a delicious tea. Simply collect, wash, and dry the roots, before roasting them in the oven until they turn brown. Put them in a pan with water and then simmer for 20 minutes, before straining and drinking. You can sweeten with honey to taste!

Mulberries

Another non-native plant, mulberry trees can be found in suburbs all over Sydney. At the start of spring, they produce a dark coloured fruit, similar to a blackberry. But beware! This sweet berry is a menace for stains and will turn your skin a deep purple.

Loquats

This unusual fruit is similarly not native to Australia, and can occasionally be found in suburbs across Sydney, such as in Annandale’s Whites Creek park. They are small, round fruits with slightly furry skin and a big seed inside. Their tart taste makes them the perfect snack, and I bet they would be delicious in a jam.

Pine Mushrooms

Pine mushrooms, also known as the saffron milk cap, are a species of mushroom that can be found in autumn on Australia’s East Coast. These orange fungi creatively get their name because they grow exclusively under pine trees. For this reason, they are easily found in areas such as the Blue Mountains, where there are pine trees aplenty. However, I have also found them as locally as Lilyfield, down by Iron Cove bay in Callan park. Fry up these mycelium with a bit of butter and garlic for deliciously flavourful mushrooms on toast!

Saltbush

The Old Man Saltbush is a fast-growing Australian native shrub that can be found in coastal areas all over most of Australia. It has been used by Aboriginal people in medicine and baking for centuries. Its antioxidant-rich grey-blue leaves are salty in flavour and can be used dried as a herb or garnish, or blanched

as a leafy vegetable in salads. The seeds can also be ground and used to flavour meals.

Lemon Myrtle

Perhaps one of Australia’s more famous herbs, the leaves of the lemon myrtle tree have a distinct citrusy flavour that can be used in teas, syrups, cakes, and savoury meals. The leaves additionally have antimicrobial and antifungal properties and as such have been used in Aboriginal medicine for thousands of years. Nonetheless, the urban forager may find difficulty in locating this shrub on the streets of Sydney, as it is in fact native to the subtropical rainforests of Queensland. But do not be disheartened! They are a popular addition to many people’s gardens, so don’t be afraid to ask your friendly green-thumbed neighbour for a leaf or two!

Image courtesy of Stourhead, The Hoare Collection (National Trust)

QueueAnon

Words by Harry Gay

There are many niche things you might dedicate a blog to, and in the Information Age, you can bet your bottom dollar that someone will have a hot take, a spicy opinion or a complex theory on just about anything. One of the strangest blogs I have come across in my travels down the Internet superhighway is Qminder, a website dedicated to anything and everything queue related.

I first discovered the website last year when I was researching the history of bread lines in Soviet Russia, and the accuracy of that imagery. Clicking on a link titled “Back in the USSR: The Art of Soviet Queues”, I was instantly transported to an alternative world, a world of queue enthusiasts and theorists alike. Intrigued by the purpose of the site, I began scrolling through their various articles, curious as to how much there really is to say about the experience of lining up for something.

Qminder is an Estonia-based startup that began in 2011 that aims to improve customer service experiences and queue management for several high profile corporations such as Uber, Verizon and AT&T. Filled with over 60 pages worth of articles, their blog is dedicated to informing readers about anything and everything to do with the art of queueing.

As it turns out, a lot goes into waiting in line and the experience of queueing. From the history of queues, to the phenomenology of queues, how queues have evolved in the digital age, queueing in different cultures, politics of queueing, the etymological origins of the queue, so on and so forth. Now that marijuana is legal in some US states, there are even articles dedicated to how queueing specifically relates to dispensaries.

The origins of this queue theory date back to 1909 with the publication of Agner Krarup Erlang’s The Theory of Probabilities and Telephone Conversations. Erlang’s work sought to figure out a model that would resolve the long waiting times at telecommunication companies. It has since proven useful in various fields and contexts outside of telephones, such as traffic engineering, computing, industrial engineering, and influenced the designs of office buildings, hospitals, shops, and factories.

Queueing theory is not just about the length of the queue, but also about the arrival of customers, the capacity limit of how many people can fit in the line, the number of service points where customers can be attended to, and the rate of departure from the line.

Queueing theory has since branched off into a fully-fledged mathematical study, with many equations and theories surrounding reducing wait time and improving queue efficacy. A peer-reviewed, scientific journal called Queueing Systems has been writing about queueing since 1986 and continues to do so to this day.

Besides the mathematics of the queue, there is also the psychological experience of queueing. According to the world’s leading expert on queues, Richard Larson, “often the psychology of queueing is more important than the statistics of the wait itself.”

Queues have an interesting relation to time. When a queue feels like it’s been going on for hours, it usually means that the perceived time waited is longer than the actual time waited. Those wishing to start a queue themselves need to find a way to occupy the queuers’ minds in order to reduce perceived wait time. I can recall lining up for the Scooby-Doo roller coaster when I was a child, and being entertained by various screens that lined the walls of the queue area, showing behind-the-scenes featurettes of the early 2000s film. This lessened the perceived wait time of the queue through means of distraction.

At the same time, clued-in queue managers can manipulate the expected wait time by being upfront about the wait time, or even exaggerate how late the service will be so customers will be pleasantly surprised when they are served quicker. When working at Pizza Hut, I

told customers delivery orders would arrive 20 minutes later than I knew it would, allowing for a 20 minute window for human error or traffic conditions, and allowing them to be shocked by the supposed quick service.

In regards to the politics of the queue, there’s nothing worse than queue cutters. When people cut in line, studies show that there is a 54% chance of people objecting. Two people cutting will result in a 91% chance of people getting upset. According to sociologists Sasser, Olsen, and Wycoff, “the feeling that somebody has successfully ‘cut in front’ of you causes even the most patient customer to become furious.” There are many times where I have been waiting for the bus and grow increasingly frustrated when people jump in front of me. Tricks and tactics people often pull involve standing near the front of the queue after the bus has arrived and snaking in while people are filing on. There’s also the infamous chat and cut — you see someone you know and start a conversation, just to then cut in line and get on with them.

Unless there are marshalls, bus queues are usually self-governed. Sometimes they may snake around in a zigzag formation, or they may remain scattered until the bus arrives and it becomes a fight for survival to get on first. One aspect of the psychology of queues is the perceived

fairness of queues. According to Larson, sometimes it is more important to make people think they’re being treated fairly rather than attempting to form the perfect queue. At the self-governed bus stand, one feels they cannot get as mad when someone cuts in front of them as somewhere like a movie theatre where the order of the queue is largely dictated by the business.

Different contexts for queueing yield different feelings and experiences. Lining up outside a bar or gig, or waiting to get onto a roller coaster at a theme park, provide radically incongruent results. For the bar, there is an exciting electricity amongst your fellow queuers, though this can quickly turn to frustration and boredom if left waiting too long to get the sweet nectar of alcohol. On the flip side, the roller coaster queue anxiety grows greater the closer they get to the front. Many people often leave the queue out of fear, versus people leaving the bar queue out of frustration. At the same time, fairness in the queue is entirely different. At the bar, if someone is allowed to go straight inside without queueing, it is deemed unfair and infuriating. For the roller coaster there exists sanctioned

line cutting, such as Disneyland’s FastPass where guests who arrived earlier in the day can skip long queues in the evening.

With COVID, one would think that there would be little to talk about in regards to queues, considering the mass cancellation of many queued events. But for queue enthusiasts, it only added a new theoretical framework to the concept of queueing. Signing in with QR codes, distancing in lines, contactless customer service, showing vaccine certificates — all of these things expanded the scope of how writers and thinkers were able to theorise, analyse and conceptualise the art of the queue.

As I stand here, 1.5 metres separating me from my fellow queuers, waiting for my Courtyard coffee, my mind is a race with ideas. Upon first discovering Qminder, I never thought I would find myself plunged into a world of complex mathematics, theories and histories stretching as far back as a hundred years. Now, my life cannot help but be filtered through the eyes of the queue.

Cold suns in water

Words by Eamonn Murphy

Lie with me. I lie by the steps, watching the green leaves cut up the sky. I lie by the pool, and the saltwater puddle on my chest dries into white. I lie in the rose garden. I lie among the jacarandas and the pines. I lie against the chair, the ledge carved into stone, and I watch the cold suns fall into the water. I lie in the place I have known and loved since my earliest days.

When I write about Royal Botanic Garden Sydney, my mouth cannot comfortably pronounce its name. These are the Botanic Gardens (plural), the gardens, that little park. In the same way, Andrew (Boy) Charlton Pool is not the pool I know, despite the countless mornings I have spent in its blue water. It is Boy Charlton, the pool. I find it difficult to extricate the landmark from my personal attachment to it: the renowned Royal Botanic Garden cannot be found in the little garden of my childhood. However solipsistic these thoughts may be, I want to reflect on my place.

My first memory of the gardens is blurred by tears. A black standard, bearing the name Weasel Hall, has been plastered across Mr. Toad’s stately home. Skulls and crossbones are hauled into the garden, and the Chief Weasel darts around behind me, cackling. I cling to my father. This is not one memory: our family —

cousins, friends, neighbours — would walk to the gardens every summer to watch Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows. My yearly visits have since morphed into one production, the music and the singing and the frights and laughs all a single recollection of the past. At some point in my childhood, I followed my older cousins into Wild Wood, the trees and rocks behind the makeshift amphitheatre, and we watched Mole and Rat get terribly lost. I remember the sandwiches that my mother would pack, and the sour Persian treats that we would share as the play unfolded.

I remember a warm year, and how we dipped our faces into the lake during the intermission. I do not remember Grahame’s story in its entirety. I remember the gardens.

If you wander up from the Wild Wood, you will find the track where I learned to cycle. My family would ride down Bourke Street, and place

our bicycles in the lift that climbs to the matchsticks. We would walk our bikes up to the gallery. We would fall into the gardens, by the pool and the chair and the harbour and all the way around again. When I was younger, I loved Pamela Allen’s Alexander’s Outing, and any ride through the gardens would spark thoughts of Alexander hopping out of the lake, hobbling down these very paths. While riding, my father would call out for my brother and me to emulate Alexander: just as the duckling followed parental instructions, we were to follow the invisible traces made by Dad’s wheels.

As I have grown, Alexander has stayed with me. I ride under the same fig trees, through the same greenish light. I bring a novel in my backpack, and lie by his lake to read. In recent summers, I have stuffed my backpack with swimmers and a threadbare towel, and after my ride, I swim.

At Boy Charlton, I only ever breathe on the side of me that faces the harbour. I glance at the dark green waves, the whitecaps in the distance. I try to peer through the windows of the wharf. The salt water of the pool always gets through my goggles, stinging my eyes. I tend not to mind. The water is clear, and I concentrate on the navy line before me. When my arms ache, I lie in the sun for my body to dry. I ride home. The cold sun sets in the water behind me.

I wonder whether these memories of the gardens are too perfect. I will confess to tight chests and shivering arms in the rose garden, awaiting an exam at the Con. I remember looking at my little fingers, and thinking how blue they were from practice. In my final days of high school, the gardens played host to my first love. I will confess that I cannot ride through the Wild Wood, through Alexander’s path, without

thinking that this is where that ill-fated relationship began. I resent how my childhood memories have been so tarnished. I do, however, recognise that all of these experiences make this my place. I have grown and grown up in these gardens.

In her diaries, Helen Garner writes that she’d like to go to Sydney — to “walk in the Botanic Gardens and see the Opera House eggshells shine, water and ships sparkle.” In his poem, “Elegy in a Botanic Gardens,” Kenneth Slessor longs for this same beauty: the “smell of birds’ nests faintly burning,” and the “thousands of white circles drifting past, cold suns in water.” To both authors, the garden is not a locality of historical note, or even botanic interest. It is instead a place of splendour and love, and of deep personal significance. I could not agree more — that little park is my place.

Image courtesy of Eamonn Murphy

Photography by Khoi Dang

Army barracks, public schools, and university dormitories were the makeshift quarantine camps that awaited me in Vietnam upon my departure from Australia during the first wave of COVID. As cases spread beyond the gates and walls of our camp, an unlikely sense of community bloomed from the confined freedoms we enjoyed. This photographic series documents the temporal community that formed in this time. It encapsulates the intertwined daily routine of those quarantining and the volunteers who facilitated it, the use of disposable resources and the waste it created — the unlikely harmonisation of chaos and serenity.

Esperanto House

Words by Ariana Haghighi

Headquarters, lodging, and museum all hide modestly on the Redfern Run. Dressed in camouflage, they escape the ocular frisk of students rushing to Abercrombie.

Students whose feet have trampled the run for years are unaware of its invisible presence at 143 Lawson Street. The modest brick front and below-eye-level steel sign belie the complicated myth flourishing inside its walls.

“Have you heard of the Esperanto House?”, I ask my friends, walking sideways like a crab in order to squeeze four abreast onto the Lawson Street capillary.

Furrowed brows. Shaken heads.

By some synchromystic event, we happen upon the storied institution seconds later.

A chorus of “I never noticed it!” sings out.

*******

Once you’ve been alerted to the Esperanto House’s existence, like I was in first year, it demands your glued gaze every time you pass by in future. After many university journeys of passive intrigue, I decided I ought pay its interior an overdue visit.

Sodden from a Wednesday afternoon downpour, I wrung out the fringes of my denim jacket at the

front doorstep. My feet rhythmically shuffled on the doormat, dislodging the leaf litter curled in the ridges of the sole.

I stepped into a linguist’s paracosm, where each coconut-flesh wall shone. The spotless surfaces were adorned with flag-green posters championing Esperanto’s history, forebears, and key linguistic elements. On the right hand side lay a flood of sleek Monato magazines, a monthly Esperanto publication printed in Belgium.

Dmitry Lushnikov, board member of the Esperanto Federation NSW, rolled out the welcome mat despite my spontaneous Wednesday walk-in. He first asked me if I knew much about Esperanto — a man-made, basic language aiming to engender world peace. Creator Ludovik Lazarus Zamenhof spearheaded both the language’s construction and an accompanying social movement, as he sought to synthesise harmony by creating an easy-to-learn second language. Zamenhof was a dreamer, his body limping behind the sprinting passions of his mind. A precocious innovator, he handed out favours of a proto-Esperanto dictionary at his 19th birthday party.

He is immortalised by a miniature statue that greets guests on the front desk.

We then snaked through a

forest of green-laden rooms. Behind the front room is a cosy teaching area with whiteboards — Lushnikov explained that they hold classes of all levels there.

Behind the classroom hid a more startling sight. Lushnikov opened the door to reveal basic yet inviting lodging rooms. To the seasoned Esperantist traveller, this is not surprising — at all Esperanto Houses worldwide, languagespeakers can reside there for up to two weeks for no cost. The only price is a knowledge of and passion for Esperanto — sign me up for this unconventional summer sub-let! Lushnikov told me that, as imagined, the bedding collected dust during COVID-19’s peak, but is now frequented by a flux of interstate and international tourists. Typically, renters are expected to study Esperanto one hour a day for the duration of their stay, but according to the Board’s minutes from the September 2022 meeting, this stipulation was waived for Ukranian patrons, “as they have experienced many difficulties during the war in Ukraine.”

We climbed the stairs of the main building and Lushnikov revealed a planetarium of wonders; chessboards sat squarely like suns in the middle of the room, and we orbited around them. I learned that the House is also a home to a chess club for Esperantists on Saturdays.

If prose tickles your mind more than logic, the Wednesday night book club may be more your stead. Peckish language-learners can also attend nights of gastronomic delight, such as “Bagel night”.

Many might question why the Board is willing to provide such amenities and activities for little to no cost. To the ardent Esperantist, learning the language is more than mastering grammatical subunits. Esperanto encompasses inter-cultural exchange and communication; Lushnikov told me, “These facilities are offered for free because we believe that Esperanto, like any language, is only as strong as its community of speakers, and that there should be no barrier to anyone with a sincere desire to learn it.”

Excitingly, Esperanto House might undergo a facelift in the new year. Lushnikov revealed the Board’s plans to build a cafe facing passerbys, selling coffees to sleepy students. During the Board’s AGM, they entertained other ideas to promote Esperanto, such as buying a block of land and constructing an ‘Esperanto Village’, or hiring a campervan and decking it in Esperantist paraphernalia.

Unsupported by generational institutions, champions of Esperanto face some difficulties with funding to promote the culture — as Lushnikov put it, “Many national governments

financially support their own national languages. However, because Esperantois a language that belongs to no-one (or rather, everyone), notfor-profit organisations such as ours must ‘fill the gap’.”

Esperanto has faced myriad criticisms, such as its Eurocentricism and ever-expanding vocabulary. Cognisant of its flaws, but believing more in its benefits, the Esperanto House nurses the flame of hope that the language’s popularity may mushroom. Modern-day Esperantists are filled with salt-pillared yearning, never forgetting Zamenhof and his dream for a better world.

Images courtesy of Australian Esperanto Association

Bourdainification

by Huw Bradshaw

If our hand was forced to name a certain sultan of culinary cool for the last 20 years, almost indisputably, we would crown one Tony Bourdain.

With that, it’s completely unsurprising that we have now found another tall, handsome, vaguely European celebrity chef we attach ourselves to: he only happens to be fictional. The dark, brooding, nic-addled masculinity of The Bear’s Carmen Berzatto (Jeremy Allen White) is one that has us in a collective chokehold.

From watching even one episode of the show, there’s no doubt that Kitchen Confidential, Bourdain’s iconic 2000 memoir, was used as a handbook to every part of production, from the “dope-dealing busboy” to the shows Chicagoan rendition of Bourdain’s “New York punk classics on tape”, displayed in a soundtrack which aptly captures the music scene of a city home to Earth, Wind & Fire and Rise Against, Wilco and Common.

Bourdain’s overbearing influence on food writing inscribed all the marks of the ‘real’ into the show as much as any set designer or method actor. More so than what any one person has seen, smelled, or heard, the words printed inside a copy of Kitchen Confidential have impacted the ‘real’ of a commercial kitchen.

Naturally, no piece written about The Bear fails to point out its realism. Where they fail is recognising how the show doesn’t merely absorb this influence, but thoroughly questions the men who have constituted and perpetuated this ‘realism’.

The Bear is the boiling point of Bourdainification: it is its height, but also its critique.

Carmen embodies Bourdainification. He swears,

he yells, he smokes, and most importantly he is riddled with dread, anxiety, and darkness. There isn’t a moment in the show where his head doesn’t look like it could explode. Bourdainification doesn’t only normalise this type of personality, it glamorises it. According to its own principles, the kitchen is a dirty place, a cruel place, a chaotic place: the cook must embody this environment to master it. This view is also a favourite of managers and owners who love to regard the struggles of an understaffed and mismanaged kitchen as simply ‘real hospitality’.

Bourdain’s philosophy of food and writing can be seen as strictly realist. The first lines of his New Yorker essay that launched him to commercial success regard eating as about “cruelty and decay”. But what we understand of ‘realism’ across film, art, and politics, applies the same for Bourdain: the ‘realist’ and the ‘real’ are not equivalent.

A slew of articles have already come out praising The Bear for all the carefully constructed signifiers of ‘real’ food industry writing they have been taught to recognise, raving madly about burn marks and “behinds”. GoodFood and The Guardian have both brought in industry veterans to talk about how realistic the show is, and an unsurprisingly trite New York Post article has declared a ‘hot-linecook-summer’ based on the show’s appeal. Such reviews gleefully indulge in the show’s realism while missing everything it actually has to criticise about it.

While the character of Carmen reflects Bourdain’s philosophy, he is far from inscrutable in the context of the show. His uncompromising view of the world — and the kitchen — as a dark, uncaring place in which no failure can be accepted and all odds must be endured, is the cause of constant breakdown. It’s established early that there seems

Words and photography

to be no pragmatic, economic explanation for Carmen’s interest in keeping the failing restaurant afloat, rather, it is a means of honouring his late brother’s memory. As we delve deeper into Carmen’s psyche, it becomes increasingly obvious that his determination to save the restaurant is closer to penance than tribute, a symbolic burden he bears in the wake of his brother’s suicide.

At no point does the show portray this quest to keep an authentic family business alive in an increasingly gentrified city as anything but noble, but it questions whether Carmen’s processing of grief is healthy or productive.

It might seem as if I’m selling Bourdain as some neoliberal privatemanagerial-class-boot-licker, but really, I think he was just too nihilistic to present the conditions of his society as anything more than perpetually worsening: a fair view in any case. Among questionable biopics, tiresome tributes,

and endless SBS reruns of No Reservations, the one thing nobody will dare say about Bourdain is that he was wrong.

At some point you realise that this show — this incarnation of everything Bourdain wrote and spoke about the food industry — isn’t a Rocky-esque story of rise and victory, but one of crash and burn. Just when you expect to see the pain Carmen willfully endures finally pay off, you are left with nothing.

This interest in facing the ‘gritty, uncompromising reality’ of our world — often unprepared and always alone — defines everything wrong with the masculinity Bourdain embodied.

The Bear tries to grapple with this: quietly at first, then rising into a thunderous crescendo of thought and feeling.

“Just make more”

In my six years working at a cinema, I’ve learned that patrons get more upset when we’re out of choctops than when we’re out of movie tickets.

While the latter is quite a rare occurrence, a choctop famine is a near-weekly phenomenon. For the uninitiated, a choctop is your typical ice cream cone dipped in melted chocolate, which then hardens when placed in a freezer, forming a solid outer shell.

When it comes to negotiating a paucity of choctops, the exchange is always the same:

A customer approaches the counter to enquire about the availability of our finest frozen dairy treats, at which point we have to tell them we’ve run out.

“None left?” they ask.

“None left.” I answer.

“What happened?” they beg.

“They sold out.” I reply.

“You should buy more next time” they suggest.

“We make them ourselves.” I justify.

“Well then just make more.” they beseech.

Supply, demand, overhead, wage costs, profit margins, and the dying cinema industry aside, at work our managers encourage us to make them whenever we have downtime. However, the shifts dedicated solely to choctop production are a sacred undertaking by which many live, die, or are fast tracked to repetitive strain injury (RSI).

“Time passes different, it’s easy money. Get some Voltaren Emulgel on hand” my coworker Jim, a relatively new initiate behind the freezer, tells me on the eve of his next choctop shift.

I cast my mind back to a conversation from two weeks prior, where he boasted of a new record: 138 in five hours, about one choctop scooped, set, dipped, hardened, bagged, and tagged every two minutes.

The typical choctop shift begins with a trip to the basement stockroom to retrieve four to eight five-litre tubs of assorted flavours, two to four unmarked buckets of liquid dark chocolate, and a box of 288 ‘flat top sugar cones’. The rest of your shift is spent in the upstairs back-of-house area, as a sacrosanct fixture leant over two Peter’s freezers, the hustle and bustle of popcorn, drinks, and

by Patrick McKenzie

“Sorry, we only have seats left in the front row” occurring around you.

Two or three small scoops of ice cream to each cone — careful not to drop it or accidentally fling it across the room — placed in the freezer for 10 or 15 minutes to set. Dip the cones in a bucket or container of liquid chocolate and place back in the freezer to set again. Finally, place the ‘chocced’ cone in a specially made plastic choctop bag and seal it with a short length of coloured tape corresponding to the flavour.

“Hundreds of scoops and cones stacked in an interlocking zigzag formation, covered in chocolate and resting in the icy fjord of the backof-house freezers. I feel like God, a mighty creator, looking down on my disciples,” my coworker Simone reflects on the process.

Yet the choctopper’s work is never done; the process is crushingly sisyphean. An entire day’s worth of choctops can disappear in a matter of hours, thanks to several sessions full of septuagenarians on a Saturday.

The choctop shift can be tranquil, humbling, and quietly frustrating. Good conversation and a bluetooth speaker makes them that much better, but the cycle is destined to repeat itself.

Words

PHOTOGRAPHER

Patrick McKenzie ASSIST Luca Cruzado

CHOCTOPPERS

Patrick McKenzie, Alice Kotowicz, and Genevieve Ripard

FLAVOURS

They/She PHOTOGRAPHER Estelle Yoon MODEL Archer Rose

‘They/She’ explores the beauty of the ‘other-body’, capturing the natural flow of change and uncertainty. In a world where labels and definitions equal success, ‘They/She’ visually portrays the undefinable through the lyrical limbs of the model, Archer Rose, in 35mm film format. As a queer, POC artist, Estelle’s work explores notions of intersectional queerness and the constant battles of defining ourselves.

Mash or pass: An abridged history of mashups

Words by Matthew Forbes

Musical mashups have been a kind of cultural cornerstone as of late, playing a pivotal role in the intersection between music and online meme culture. New technology has made the process of splicing two songs together and sharing the results significantly easier, which also increases the supposed disposability of these works. However, like a lot of seemingly trivial art, mashups have a rich history that stretches across many different musical styles.

Ain’t it funny

How the turntables

Quodlibet tu, Brute?

Composers ‘borrowing’ or quoting melodies from other works has occurred throughout the course of Western music. But particularly apt comparisons can be made between the mashups of today and the quodlibet — a term that describes compositions which have two or more ‘borrowed’ melodies playing either at the same time or sequentially. It was often used as comedic relief within a piece, which makes its connections to modern mashups even more apparent. Though its origins date back to the 15th century, possibly the most widely known quodlibet is the thirtieth and final variation of Bach’s ‘Goldberg Variations’ (1741), which quotes several German folk songs.

Moving into the 20th century, it’s hard to ignore the quodlibet’s lingering influence. Bandleader Spike Jones’ (not that one) 1950 track ‘Charlstono-Mio’ combined two widely different but culturally significant musical ideas: the Charleston dance and the popular Neapolitan song, ‘O Sole Mio’. These musical endeavours were still very much considered to be novelties, as further evidenced by ‘The Flying Saucer’. One of the earliest examples of a mashup, Bill Buchanan and Dickie Goodman’s 1956 novelty record incorporated clips from 17 different hit songs from the previous two years. It was also ahead of its time in the sense that Buchanan and Goodman faced legal action from several music publishers and artists, as many a mashup artist would in the years to come.

The middle of the century saw the first instances of recorded sounds being mixed together, largely through the musique concrète movement. More importantly, in 1972, Bronx-based DJ Kool Herc began developing a technique he called “The Merry-Go-Round”, an early version of what would become known as breakbeat DJing. This involved switching between the short, primarily percussive sections, or ‘breaks’, of various songs. This technique not only revolutionised DJing and played a huge role in the creation of hip-hop, but it also demonstrated how musical elements could coalesce through the combination of two or more recorded pieces.

Truly medley deeply

The early 80s saw at least two crucial developments towards the mashup craze. First, there was Dutch novelty act Stars on 45’s eponymous 1981 single, in which re-recorded versions of hits from the 60s (mostly Beatles songs) are played in succession over a continuous dance beat. A song that was initially based off of bootleg recordings being sold by DJs ended up topping the Billboard Hot 100 and spawning many similar medleys in its wake. Then, in 1983, Italian group Club House released what’s now credited as the first commercial mashup: ‘Do It Again Medley with Bil-

lie Jean’, which combined recreated elements of ‘Billie Jean’ by Michael Jackson and ‘Do It Again’ by Steely Dan. Right from the get-go, mashups like this were showcasing how pitch and melody could be repurposed and recontextualised, and their commercial success proved that splicing together popular songs wasn’t just a cheap gimmick.

Throughout the following decade, thanks to the continued popularity of mp3’s and bootleg culture, mashups flourished. Producers such as Girl Talk and Danger Mouse were among the first mashup artists to prove the genre could work in an album format. There was even crossover appeal with the mainstream during this time, as, in 2002, Kylie Minogue performed and later released a mashup of her song ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’ with New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’. Later in the 2000s, people would begin uploading their own homemade, and often highly comedic, mashups to websites such as remix.vg and SoundCloud.

Disco 2000

Sampling was a cornerstone of hip-hop and dance music throughout the latter decades of the 20th century. Several acclaimed albums, such as DJ Shadow’s ‘Endtroducing’ and The Avalanches’ ‘SInce I Left You’, were almost entirely built from samples. 2001 saw a prototypical release that the coming wave of online mashups would be modelled after. ‘A Stroke of Genius’ by British producer Freelance Hellraiser set the vocals to ‘Genie in a Bottle’ by Christina Aguilera with the instrumental to ‘Hard to Explain’ by The Strokes, and was possibly the first one-on-one mashup to use stems from original recordings.

TikTok, the party don’t stop, etc. Though it’s gone through periods of both mainstream success as well as being on the fringes, mashups have exploded in online popularity in recent years. Coinciding with the rise of the mashup-based “SoundClown” scene was the release of Neil Cierega’s 2014 albums Mouth Sounds and Mouth Silence, the former of which may very well be responsible for how inescapable Smash Mouth’s ‘All Star’ has become.

Of course, the definitive mashups of the 2020s thus far have come from TikTok, where mashups are frequently used in videos posted to the app. One of the year’s biggest radio hits, which is a product of the original’s success on TikTok, has been a remixed version of rapper Latto’s ‘Big Energy’, which combines the verses from the original track with segments from Mariah Carey’s 1995 hit ‘Fantasy’. Of course, not much work would have been done to find common musical ground between these two tracks, as they both heavily sample ‘Genius of Love’ by Tom Tom Club. Still, the track is a welcome reminder of what is hopefully the key takeaway of this article: the sometimes fringe, humorous and DIY genre of mashup music has often capitalised on its potential to inform and dominate the mainstream.

Who’s shouting the next Meriton?

Words by Nandini Dhir

New Year’s Eve, 2020. I sit with my friend on the roof of the old David Jones car park by Parramatta River to watch the council fireworks from afar. As we count down the seconds to 2021, we hear cheers and screams of laughter from the Meriton suite next door. Levels above us these people yell their Instagram handles, we add them online, and we’re messaging strangers from this Meriton party at 12:04am. Soon, we hear a metallic tink against the concrete, followed by another two empty nangs, as used laughing gas cylinders rain down from above.

From the later years of high school through to the first couple years of uni, it’s a waiting game of who’s hosting the next Meriton party. The Meriton suites of Kent Street, World Square, and Parramatta alike are fabled for chaotic party nights, fragmented recollections, and no shortage of Snapchat memories.

“Did you go to school in Sydney if you didn’t go to at least one sweet 16th at Meriton World Square?”, Layla* says.

For just over $300 a night, a fresh 18 year old can book a two bedroom and two bathroom Meriton suite for ‘four’ guests — or rather, an affordable party venue in the sky in the heart of Sydney or Western Sydney’s CBD. Meriton suites, also referred to as ‘serviced apartments’, include a full kitchen, laundry, living area, and open balcony. Yet, a hotel room seemingly for business people, travelling interstate during the week, can be seamlessly transformed into a scene fostering drug and alcohol consumption over raucous weekends.

Aside from the drug busts that have blanketed the news — with police camped outside the suites and hundreds of penalty infringement

notices issued — what really happens behind the doors of a Meriton party?

“My friend starts vomiting out of nowhere,” says Amanda*.

“We call 000 and everyone is freaking out, especially the underage girlies, because they’re not meant to be there. Turns out my friend got food poisoning from KBBQ, and I’m drunk as fuck holding my mate’s hand while they inject him with anti-nausea medication. Meanwhile, everyone is scrambling to hide the weed and get the underage girlies out without looking suspicious.”

“A group of people ended up at Town Hall Maccas to wait it out before sneaking back in.”

Meriton parties are notorious for the scattered entries in pairs and trios up the elevators, as well as copious amounts of Gatorade bottles, balloons, Vicks inhalers, and red cups. Alongside Nike Air Force 1s in about every size (children’s, men’s, and women’s), Glassons crop tops, and a plethora of vape flavours, chundering is the recurring theme of a Meriton party.

Morgan* says, “Too many people got too drunk and there were like four people in each bed. Even worse, people had chundered in each bedroom, one was in the drawer of a closet.”

“I had too many brownies and shots, and then chundered my guts out,” Jason* says.

“A random girl was keeping me alive and brought me water, I somehow ended up sleeping with her.”

“I blacked out at 10:30pm, woke up with two mysterious bruises, and thought, ‘Oh, who chundered in the

toilet?’ It was me.” Diya* says.

It is unclear where Meriton stands between the innumerable police and ambulance visits to their buildings and facilitating a night to remember for countless young adults of Sydney. They did, however, release a “No Party & No Excessive Noise” policy, on their booking site in 2017, that requires all visitors to leave the building at 11pm. Despite the innumerable horror stories from those who stay too late at a Mertion party, these hotel shindings are still part of Sydney’s weekend nightlife.

“Very litty, deep chats on the living room floor, everybody queer as fuck, snacks galore, loud singing, and a popping fance floor. Easy access to the toilet for tragic queens who need to vomit. Overall, solid 10 out of 10.” Jasmine* says.

Beyond the uncurbed alcohol consumption and immoderate drug usage, there is continual appeal in Meriton parties. These serviced apartments will always be a place for people to, “get drunk in the kitchen, high on the balcony, pregnant in the bedrooms, and sick in the bathrooms.” Cynthia* says.

Can you shout the next Meriton?

*Names have been changed

“One time, the security came in to check how many people were in the room… We were all panicking but I decided to hide myself between the pillows horizontally on the double bed. The security searched everywhere and even lifted up the bed, but he didn’t find me. I felt my body tilt, but I was never found.”

“It got too loud and crowded, so security kicked us out of the penthouse and the whole party migrated to the shark hotel.”

“We had to sneak in with alcohol in pairs to make it less suspicious.”

“A bunch of people crashed the party and stole people’s money, including mine. I lost $50 that night. A guy got punched in the face too.”

“I saw a group of people with fake Louis Vuitton duffle bags, a couple from Queensland in the elevator who kept asking me where I was from, and the master suite had mirrors on the ceiling.”

“The morning after… The mess and vomit everywhere was absolutely unreal. We cleaned it up so well though. I’ve never vacuumed and mopped so intently in my life to avoid a cleaning fee.”

Photography by Nandini Dhir + Pico Dos Santos-Lee

PHOTOGRAPHER

Simon Harris MODEL Soleil Mistry

you are my muse my “it-girl” these are for you your life as i see you ecstastic and beautiful situations moment of the flash moment of the exposure still and moving between worlds my muse

“There is perhaps no psychic phenomenon which is so unconditionally reserved to the city as the blasé outlook.” Georg Simmel 1903.

i aim to be discerning, use my camera like a scalpel capture the city; full of life, love, and clarity.

i think i am trying to capture the perceivable and the imperceivable all at once.

An art tour of A26

Words by Anthia Balis

We see you as you walk through the halls between classes. Watch as you study, nose to page, beneath the warm light of Schaeffer Library. We revel in witnessing your youthful days, graduated from the strictures of high school yet inexperienced in the full force of adulthood. We hang on the walls of the R C Mills building, hinting at histories long passed and sitting at the precipice of the present moment.

Paintings, photographs and sculptures are scattered throughout campus, sitting on walls and perched in unassuming corners. Often we walk past them, leaving them unnoticed. One particular area of campus rich with artworks is the R C Mills Building (A26); it humbly sits on the corner of Fisher Rd and Manning Rd. As the locale of Art History and Film Studies professors, as well as The

Power Institute and Schaeffer Fine Arts Library (one of the largest art reference libraries in Australia) it is no surprise that a variety of artworks adorn its walls.

1. Anne Zahalka, Jacques Derrida Lecture, Sydney Town Hall 1999 (1999)

Before the glass doors that take you through to Schaeffer Library, there sits a large panoramic photograph by Australian artist Anne Zahalka titled Jacques Derrida Lecture, Sydney Town Hall 1999 (1999). The work captures French philosopher Jacques Derrida delivering a lecture at Sydney Town Hall in 1999, organised by The Power Institute. The camera is positioned towards the back of the hall, looking out over a sea of avid spectators, heads turned in unison to face Derrida. By virtue of looking at the photograph, we mimic the behaviour of the spectators within the frame, us too directing our attention towards the star of the event.

Derrida is renowned for the theory of deconstruction — a philosophical approach centred on the relationship between text and meaning, suggesting that language is fluid rather than fixed and discernable. Deconstruction influenced a range of humanities subjects, including law and psychoanalysis, however also contributed to the development of

Image courtesy of Tim Linkins, Allen Jack+Cottier

deconstructivism, a postmodern movement involved in the worlds of architecture and art.

The photograph forms part of Leisureland (1999), a series in which Zahalka photographed crowds of people in public spaces of leisure. These slightly surreal images range from suburban swimming pools and artificially-lit gyms to prestigious academic events. Through her employment of panoramic angles and symmetrical compositions, Zahalka transforms real-world, familiar settings into eerily cinematic scenes. Zahalka herself has stated that the other-worldly, somewhat seductive, way in which she captures these settings is reflective of “a collective bid to escape the ordinariness of suburban life…in these contrived entertainment worlds.” This particular photograph outside Schaeffer examines the yearning to escape the quotidian through coming into contact with intellectual celebrity.

The first time I happened upon this work I was taken aback by its grandeur — so much so that I did not see a man standing next to me. This man, immaculately dressed in a grey suit, walked up to the perspex and settled his fingertip on a spot towards the middle of the composition. “I was sat about here,” he said. I later found out that he was not only an Honorary Associate of USyd and former Senior Lecturer in Film and Animation Studies but also a mentee of Derrida himself. This man, standing next to me on a muggy Wednesday afternoon during mid-semester break, was involved in the orchestration of the very event pictured before us.

In this moment, I was envel-

oped by awe — part of which can be attributed to my feeling that I was experiencing one of those strange moments of synchronicity that life occasionally decides to throw your way, and part of which was due to his personal tie to a great, world-leading philosopher. For the short minutes that I engaged in conversation with him, it felt like I was coming into tangible contact with an important part of history.

In retrospect, I realise that in this moment I was mimicking the very awe displayed by the spectators within the work in front of me, the very awe with intellectual celebrity that Zahalka had observed all of those years ago. It is as though a piece of the original event had transported itself to 2022, meeting me in the hall of R C Mills, and providing me with a delicious taste of that “contrived entertainment world.”

Moving through the glass entrance of Schaeffer Library and stepping into its silent interior, we approach a wall lined with paintings by post-cubist Australian artist J W Power, one of the central figures of early 20th century Australian art.

Power started his tertiary education studying medicine at USyd but after serving in the First World War, he immersed himself in the Parisian avant-garde scene and decided to pursue art. While in France during ‘Annes Folles,’ a celebratory post-war period, Power lived at the heart of this vivacious atmosphere, attending live music events and participating in artist groups such as Abstraction-Creation. [A photograph of Power, standing amidst his contemporaries in French artist Fernand Leger’s art school Academie Moderne in 1924, can be found in the entrance of Schaeffer (before the librarian’s desk, to the right)]. These experiences of living amongst the European creative elite contributed to the development of Power’s hybrid cubist-surrealist style.

2. J W Power, Danseurs l’accordeon (circa 1928)

In Danseurs a l’accordeon, Power adopts cubist techniques to depict cowboy-like figures in a state of dance, playing instruments and jostling about. Fracturing and flattening the pictorial plane, slices of bell-bottomed pants and cowboy hats are thrown together with the keys of an accordion. Objects depicted within the work are angled towards the exterior of the frame, evoking an outward expulsion of energy, perhaps mimicking the boisterous and frenetic movements of 1920s dance.

Not only was Power passionate about the creation of his own art, he was ardent about engaging with the work of his contemporaries and making those ideas accessible to Australians. This is evidenced in Power’s multi-million dollar bequest to USyd in 1962 which led to the development of the Department of Art History, The Power Institute and the Museum of Contemporary Art.

3. Jennifer Van Ratingen, the labour of love

(2022)

If we were to turn 180 degrees from Danseurs a l’accordeon and tilt our heads upwards, we would find ourselves acquainted with the labour of love, a sculptural work by thirdyear SCA student Jennifer Van Ratingen. the labour of love is part of The Schaeffer Fine Arts Library Residency 2022, a new initiative funded by The Power Institute which provides a student from the SCA “the opportunity

to be mentored by and exhibit with a practicing contemporary artist.”

Van Ratingen was paired with established Australian artist Imants Tillers and asked to respond to Tillers’ oeuvre as well as Schaeffer Library in general, alluding to the rich collection of books or the architecture of the space, for example.

Speaking to Van Ratingen, I found that she was inspired by the library as a site of shared knowledge

and academic endeavour, consequently wanting to offer students and occupants of the library space a moment of pause and connection.

the labour of love consists of four light beige panels made of plaster and bricks, sourced from Van Ratingen’s family home. On the surface of these panels, Van Ratingen has painted a selection of everyday objects (a glass ashtray littered with cigarette butts, a scrunched-up note on paper) and carved fragments of

quotidian dialogue such as ‘are you warm enough?’ or ‘have you been getting enough sleep?’.

The words are at once generic and deeply personal, acting as indistinct echoes of conversations shared between loved ones in quiet moments. The etched words almost disappear in the plaster, only brought into relief once the viewer decides to actively engage with the work, taking time to decipher the intimate questions and phrases. In this way, Van Ratingen encourages a prolonged meeting between her audience and her work, feeding into her intention to offer her audience a meditative experience. Also, the half-presence of the words, legible yet partially hidden, could potentially be read as emblematic of the fact that these private conversations form the fabric of our everyday lives, yet are often almost invisible to us. Thus, Van Ratingen allows us an opportunity to acknowledge the depth within these casual moments of dialogue, allowing for a renewed appreciation of personal relationships.

the labour of love also encourages an appreciation of everyday objects. Realistically rendering images from her camera roll, such as a flower or human ear, Van Ratingen pulls at a shared experiential knowledge of the physical world, offering the viewer a bridge between herself and themselves. Hence, Van

Ratingen does offer the occupants of Schaeffer a moment of pause and connection, generously providing them with an opportunity to engage with the physical details of her world and, by extension, their own, in a way that is free from academic modes of thinking.

Artworks are more than pigment on canvas, objects used to fill blank walls — they are rich sources of personal and cultural histories. Next time you are walking through the university halls, take a gander at what’s on the walls. You never know what, or who, you might find.

Images courtesy of artist, Jennifer Van Ratingen.

SCA undressed

Words and photography by Solomiya Sywak

Nestled in the backstreets of the University of Sydney (USyd) campus, pushed into oblivion just like the Conservatorium of Music, the Sydney College of the Arts (SCA) coddles the next generation of artists. Established in 1974 as an independent college before joining USyd in 1990, the art school has hosted prominent alumni such as Ben Quilty, Fiona Lowry and Claudia Chan Shaw. A contemporary art school reactive to formal art institutions, focusing on the conceptual nature of art making with an expectation for technical ability instilled from its portfolio acceptance procedure.

However, it begs the question: will the next generation of worthy artists actually be bred from the SCA?

Just like any other school, there’s a special culture built around it, and just like any other art school — a special myth. Ask any R.M. Williams business student and they’ll say that art students sniff paint, smoke cigarettes and are wasting university funds on fake Berghain experiences at inner-west warehouse raves.

Instead, it’s a highly competitive rat race to be constantly creating without burn out. Large projects and conceptual and technical experimentation, which would take a professional practising artist years to complete, are squashed into

sometimes as little as six weeks, testing students’ abilities and patience.

We are just like every other university student, leaving everything to the last minute in a scramble of paint and clay, procrastinating by building a niche instagram influencer persona to share our art, or just learning how to ride a skateboard ever precariously around the halls. Someone in our studio is making ice sculptures, but instead we keep our cans of mixed drinks and wine chilled hoping they don’t explode. Another leaves all their precious posca pens on display, and again we borrow hoping they don’t notice the now fading pigments. The cold damp halls are turned into exhibition spaces and gallery openings, just another excuse for free wine and cheese, and the hope to network (never includes networking, only the free food) and look like you’re actually achieving something.

This is how the narrative of the pretentious Visual Arts student is born.

Forget the whole schtick about the wagging art student drinking turpentine, university is making art purely academic. The focus on conceptual practice urges artists to delve into research, explaining each and every brushstroke. Although it does build a developed practice,

this mode of artistic education isn’t for everyone; with purely aestheticbased artists getting a real kick in the butt from just taking pretty iPhone photos and calling it ‘street photography’. It also pushes for a realisation of new mediums and modes to express highly intricate ideas.

Students rival the limits of what previous generations thought could be art.

Art for art’s sake. Art without boundaries. Chatbots = art Baking bread = art Pig heads = art Virtual reality = art

But is there any sense of originality among art students anymore?

To answer my question, who knows what lurks inside the SCA?

Gone with the struggling artist and in with the totally stressed out one. The Old Teachers’ College is overrun by students hungry for recognition, rising from the rubble hoping to be noticed. USyd almost always overlooks the Con, but the art kids have managed to wriggle their way onto main campus.

We’re here to stay.

Clown dancing in the theatre

PHOTOGRAPHER

Wenmiao Xin

TALENT Camelia Ardestani STYLIST Wenmiao Xin MAKEUP Bonnie Huang ASSIST Bonnie Huang Location courtesy of the Hayden Orpheum

The clown bridges ordinary people of the world with the world of fantasy. In this photographic series, the clown lurks around, lingering in the mirrored hallways and disappearing into theatre curtains.

Tits out for PULP

Words by Kate Saap

Big tits are awesome until you’re the person who has them. So fun to look at, talk about, hold. But when these two (very much politicised) lumps of flesh, designed to feed an army of crotch goblins, are attached to your own body, everyone has an opinion.

It never occurred to me that other people had noticed how big and fast my boobs had grown until I was at a hotel pool with friends in Year 9. Adorning my mother’s black and white tie-up one-piece — that I had taken from her cupboard without permission — I was excited to show off my grown-up body to the other 14 year olds, with its ever so slight curve and shiny new womanly features on display. This one girl looked me up and down, and told my best friend to dunk his head under water so he would not hear her ask, “What are those on your chest? Are you ok? You should cover that up, Kate.” She was referring to the dark pink stretch marks that shone against my pale (overnight delivery) right boob. For context, I should note that the right one was at least four sizes bigger than the left, always. I was mortified. I felt disgusted with myself, as though I had done something wrong.

This comment severely derailed my confidence. I started to notice the gaping hole in the school uniform behind my tie. I felt the desire to find the baggiest clothes I could.

I didn’t go swimming for a long time after that. I was a dancer too — coming to terms with the fact I no longer had the desired dancer’s body was heartbreaking. I became embarrassed of the bra clasp that stuck out of the mandatory low back leotard.

Being sexualised from a young age due to something you have no control over is damaging. The whorification of my body was one of the many reasons I considered breast reduction surgery. I did not truly understand how a person can be reduced to an object until I was said object. The worst part — I was made to feel like if I weren’t wearing a minimiser bra, my boobs would walk into a room before I did. I needed to change the narrative about my body. I found the opportunity to take control.

I had a bilateral breast reduction and lift in October 2021. I used lockdown as a means to figure out if the surgery was something I truly wanted, and this decision changed my life in so many positive ways. At first, I was too nervous to tell anyone what I had gotten up to during lockdown. Part of me was ashamed. When I had initially suggested to friends and previous partners that I was considering getting my ‘best asset’ reduced, they were vehemently against it. I was made to believe that I would not be desirable; this was confirmed by the attitude of the first

plastic surgeon I consulted. Could they not see that I was debilitatingly insecure?

I have claimed my designer tits and never looked back. Life has gotten exponentially better. It did not take long for me to forget what it used to be like to have three kilos pulling down my shoulders everyday. For my own way of life, I now feel that I take up the right amount of space. In a way, the surgery was partly gender affirming, as I no longer feel trapped in the hyperfeminine mould I was given. My overall wellbeing and self-esteem has increased tenfold, my friends might argue that I have become too sure of myself to the point of narcissism…maybe they’re half-correct. No longer do I dread shopping trips with my sister — saving money is now my biggest worry, as my access to expensive clothing has grown. I have also forgotten that feeling of self-loathing, when I knew people weren’t making eye contact with me. I hated how it felt like I gave them permission to consume me in that way. Not that I ever actually did.

To the potential pre-op reader, my heart goes out to you. Ignore what everyone else has said, this is your decision to make. I am proud of you for taking agency (and your designer tits).

Photography by Mary Kountouris

Why is Chinese popular music so sad?

Listening to Chinese pop, or ‘C-pop’, was an integral part of my childhood. I remember long road trips, where my family would often say nothing at all, instead belting the lyrics to Jay Chou’s endless hits. I remember KTV sessions, where my grandparents would sing “revolutionary” songs and my parents would reminisce on the Golden Years of Cantopop — indulging in timeless Hong Kong classics, still torn between whether 張國榮 (Leslie Cheung), or 谭咏麟 (Alan Tam) had a better voice. My siblings and I, however, having grown up with an Australian education, were influenced by music originating from both the Anglosphere and from Chinesespeaking communities. We loved ABBA, NSYNC, and Rihanna, as much as we loved 林俊傑 (JJ Lin), 陳奕迅 (Eason Chan), and 鄧紫棋 (G.E.M.), who are still among the most popular Chinese-speaking artists today.

As I grew to understand the lyrics of C-pop, I noticed the recurring sadness which seemed to connect Chinese language songs. Themes of loneliness, heartbreak, and loss are commonplace, but for some reason they felt more sorrowful and melancholic than their English-language counterparts.

I’m not the only one who feels this way. The sadness of C-pop is a contentious dinner table topic, and an all-too-frequent discussion point on Quora and Reddit. So why is Chinese popular music so sad when compared to English songs? Or is this even the case?

Poetry and Chinese Education

focus on lyrics when considering the sadness of Chinese music. An article published by Shandong University (2006), titled 中国诗性文化”的五大 特征“ (Five Key Features of China’s Culture of Poetry), wrote that poetry, as an approach to creating art, has seeped into art forms including calligraphy, painting and music. Perhaps this explains why lyricists are so highly revered in Chinese culture — their social status being seen as equivalent to that of poets.

From 诗经 (Classic of Poetry),

(Yuefu), to 唐诗 (Tang Poems), and 宋词 (Song Ci) — poetry has cemented itself as a fundamental part of Chinese culture. Contrary to perceptions of poetry as a “dead” artform in Australian education, Chinese children are taught ancient poems from a young age, commonly leaving high school having memorised hundreds of them.

Although music and poetry are in many ways intertwined, we should

Take the above passage from one of Jay Chou’s most popular songs, 七里香 (a moniker for a Taiwanese flower). “Love” appears only twice, but lyricist 方文山 (Vincent Fang) uses metaphors of rain, leaves, fish, and strawberries to express Chou’s unreserved affection for a girl. This harks back to ancient Chinese poetry conventions, where “I love you” was conveyed in a myriad of ways. Rather than being expressed directly, professions of love were often concealed through vague euphemisms and references to nature. Or perhaps this has more to do with Chinese linguistics; the vernacular of Sino-Tibetan languages being more unclear than that of IndoEuropean languages, creating less directness. Have I, and many others, simply misinterpreted the sadness of C-pop lyrics?

Words by Lizzy Kwok

Image courtesy of JVR Music

My mother said that to interpret C-pop through a purely linguistic lens would be a disservice to the art. She says the answer I should be searching for is more cultural than linguistic.

Chinese Cultural Norms 在有生的瞬间能遇到你 竟花光所有运气 到这日才发现 曾呼吸过空气

Cantonese song 明年今日, written by 林夕 (Albert Leung) and performed by Eason Chan, encapsulates this cultural phenomenon. It poignantly conveys feelings of longing for a loved one, trumped by a stoic acceptance that they are no longer a part of your life.

The lyrical ambiguity of C-pop can be seen as an extension of the ancient Chinese Art Theory of 留白 (liu bai - leaving blank space), where the background of ink landscape paintings are left blank. This is not a mere aesthetic choice. It reflects a cultural philosophy which values leaving physical space for the interpretation of one’s emotions according to art, so it’s no wonder the “emptiness” of C-pop lyrics are often conflated with “sadness”.

Many of us are accustomed to ideas of romantic love conveyed in forthright language. Modern classics such as Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together come to mind, or Lionel Richie’s Endless Love. But rarely do I hear such universal emotions of love and longing described in a similar fashion in C-pop.

In Chinese culture, we are less inclined to express our emotions so openly, due to the idealisation of stoic endurance and indirectness as a means of preserving social harmony. The above passage from the classic

C-pop, like every other genre of music, is complex and everchanging. It would be reductive to regard all C-pop as just ‘sad’. But unlike the songs we hear on Triple J’s Hottest 100 or Spotify’s Top Global Charts, traditional Chinese ideas and philosophies pervade the C-pop we hear today. It’s not necessarily an inherent sadness which persists among our Chinese speaking communities, but an implicit cultural preference for indirectness, and the collective artistic belief that “blank space” can illustrate far deeper sentiments of love and life.

Images courtesy of Emperor Entertainmenet Group.

This two-part photographic series interrogates the liminal relation between humans, space and time.. Part 1 pays homage to Wong Kar-Wai’s modernist exploration of the urban landscape mimicked in the figure’s relationship with their built environment, and the inability to categorise time, place, or gender. Part 2 sees them undergo a whimsical and other-worldly experience with the world around them, where the liminal divide between environment and body collapses and moulds into each other. A nostalgic route to school, the artist has chosen these places as an inspiration for her work as they act as a point of liminal departure, frozen in a spatio-temporal chrysalis.

Tel Malish

Words and photgraphy by

Shall I put oil in your hair, child?

Mumma calls me over, and I pause. She used to oil my hair every week when I was a kid; it became routine for my family to gather in the living room every Friday night, with blankets, snacks and bowls of oil in tow. Over time, the routine began to fade, and eventually halted to a stop. Maybe it was the busyness of life. Or our move to a new house, still unmarked by patterns of comfortable familiarity. Perhaps it was the memory of classmates shifting away from me, scrunching their noses and complaining of greasy hair.

2 tablespoons of coconut oil

1 tablespoon of olive oil

1 tablespoon of almond oil

½ teaspoon of castor oil

Mix into a small ceramic bowl, the keeper of chipped conversations and cut fruit. See the pale hues swirl together, not quite mixing, but resting next to one another. Warm the bowl for the duration of your daydreams.

I cautiously seat myself by Mumma’s feet, and she impatiently tells me to move closer between her legs so she can do tel malish properly (an oil massage). I’m unaccustomed to it at first; she combs my hair with her fingers and the strands snag with tangles, and the oil is hot on my scalp. But the tangles soon slide free, the oil softens my hair, and we fall into a pleasant rhythm. I smell the rich coconut perfumes emanating from the oil, mixed with hints of olive and almond, and I remember the times that I would sit between Mumma’s legs as a child. At this

Nishta Gupta

moment, the temporal gap between my 21 year old and 10 year old self is bridged.

Our eyes don’t meet, but her fingertips connect with the pressure points on my scalp and my neck, leaving invisible thumbprints of love. We make small conversation as she works. Our words are a blurred patchwork, stitching together my kindergarten-level Hindi words with streams of English language consciousness. Vowels that my mouth can’t form, splintered syntax, and almost-there accents infuse with the aromatic oils.

Maybe it’s our first conversation of the day — unless you count “Have you eaten anything?” and “How are your studies going?”. But her practised hands rub, knead, detangle, and tell far more important stories. I can almost see my Nani (my maternal grandmother) oiling Mumma’s hair, and my Nani’s Nani doing the same. Generations of Indian women sitting by our mothers’ knees, whispering secrets and prayers as the oil loosens our tongues and smooths over the tensions of the day.

They tightly braid my hair, and I am reluctant to wash it in the morning.

“Apane baalon mein tel lagaen, beta?”

ART BY Jorja Rynne

What Freud would say about your new vices

Oh, society of the 21st century. How you torture me with your ways. You invoke me with your verbal fumbles and uncouth attractions, interrupting my eternal slumber. Hence, I have risen from the dead to see how the human psyche has been tracking… imagine my surprise to witness society in its abysmal state…

Whilst I was in my prime, I, Sigmund Freud, theorised endlessly about the vices that gripped our society in a chokehold. But alas, in my absence, human degeneracy has mutated into new variants, revealing new glimpses into the machinations of the psyche…

PHONE ADDICTION VAPING POSTING ABOUT YOUR EUROPE TRIP

The last thing you caress before you sleep, the first thing you run to as you wake. Like a child to a deteriorating rag, you can’t tear yourself away. The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters, indeed!

The glowing screen is nothing other than a cathectic object, in which you invest your emotional energy. The cathexis of objects with libidinal charge is not new, but reaches a fever pitch with these — how do you say — iPhones. The urge for this object rests in the id of the mind. Carnal, and primitive, your unconscious psychological energy runs overtime craving the rectangular plate of wonders; clutching at empty pockets in a frenzy, desperately searching for this object, only to soothe themselves with a mental image of it.

Fooling the id is all it is — if one desires to scratch their primordial brain, they don’t need a phone, they need a scalpel!

Filling the modern sordid streets is light, fruity-flavoured vapour. As I forge through the sordid madness, blueberry swirls enter my nostrils unannounced and unsolicited. The culprit: a gleaming cylindrical tube you clutch and bring up to your pursed lips. The human obsession with the mouth is not new — the surge of cigar-puffing in my day was clearly linked to an oral fixation. But why are adults so drawn to the mouth, you ask?

The answer is simple, and psychosexual! Hemitaxia, the oral stage, is the first phase of psychosexual development, where infants navigate the biting and sucking reflex. However, if conflicts occur during this stage, the psyche remains regressed, stuck in this primitive stage. Alas, all vapers are sniffling infants. I prescribe hours of talk-therapy!

Photos in front of picturesque Positano, sublime Santorini and majestic Marseilles. Plaguing everyone’s feeds. It appears the modern generation is addicted to exhibiting themselves in front of a European backdrop; it feels apt here to turn to my illustrious works on narcissism.

Narcissism is driven by the two forces that make the world go ‘round — love, and libidinal energy. I see it seeping through every travel post, every selfie, dripping with sexual desire. Beware of your self-attraction!

Now, I must drift back into my undying sleep — but watch your vices, lest I rise again!

Words by Ariana Haghighi

Maxibon Wrapper Design Latest Victim of Cancel Culture Mob

Words by David Singleton

discarding the sandwich by shifting it off centre and, by extension, the very core of liberal democratic society.

Another tear has emerged in the polarised social fabric draped across our country. Amongst a raft of other aesthetic and lineup changes to the iconic frozen dessert (including the introduction of a brand-new “WaffleOn” flavour), Peter’s Maxibon ice creams are now wrapped in a new brand-spanking design.

To the casual observer? An inconspicuous rebrand for an otherwise delightful treat. A simpler backdrop, less flashy logo and more prominent flavour label. To them, society would be better off recognising the skeuomorphic, loud and flashy designs of the past for what they are — a brief misstep on a journey towards a minimalism.

But some of us aren’t just casual observers. Free thinkers and truth seekers can’t afford to sit on the sidelines. Rather, us patriots are endlessly fascinated by the visual vocabulary that constitutes cultural discourse. One realises that it’s through this myriad of fonts, patterns, shapes and textures that we come to know each other, our institutions, and ourselves.

It is only through this gaze that one begins to understand this latest rebranding for what it is — yet another brazen attack on our culture by the post-modern neo-Marxist parasites that have infested the halls of the intelligentsia. The woke, cancel culture mob has raised their torches to the heels of an icon and incinerated it beyond recognition.

You need only look at the old design for a moment before the rich tapestry of symbolism begins to leap out of the packaging. The centred ice cream evokes the notion of the western unipolar politique, dispelling terror and tyranny from the looming void of chaos that exists in its absence. Just as a Maxibon wouldn’t be complete without the crunchy chocolate, delicate biscuit and honeycomb streaks interlaced with smooth ice cream, so too would contemporary Western civilisation lose its identity without titans of industry, culture and geopolitics such as Raytheon, Democracy and Israel. But the ideological cretins within the graphic design team at Peters are all too willing to overthrow institutions of both ice cream and culture,

The revolutionary change to the flavour label once again reveals the sinister intentions of the liberal elites. The old package brandished the decidedly masculine “HoneyComb Flavour”, spelled out above streaks of black paint. The font’s aggressiveness appealed to the once-abundant cohort of family-oriented, hard-working males who dominated the workforce. Yet the new label, “Honey, comb this”, abandons this core audience entirely. The timidity of the phrasing, as if to beg the new feminist aristocracy if we could at all trouble the bees for their sweet delicate honey, demonstrates that in the New World Order of the Left, men must be subservient to not only women but also insects.

The observant among us knew this was coming. When Anthony Albanese’s name was screeched universally at the ballot box by the moronic masses, entranced by the opiate-like drones of their TikTok lefty overlords, we knew that Australia would embark on a dark journey which would see us take a wrecking ball to cultural institutions left and right — mostly right. But nevertheless, I could never have envisioned the existential dread that enveloped me as I gazed into the abyss that now constitutes the frozen dessert freezer at seven-eleven.

I’m sure that by merely speaking the truth about this latest egregious infraction I have outed myself as the enemy of the so-called ‘tolerant’. But, to quote Robert Frost, “Can’t a man speak of his own child he’s lost?”. In our current social stratosphere, I think not. For now, however, I will retreat to the last bastion of unabashedly masculine ice cream that society is yet to demolish — the Milo ice cream cup.

Nepotism Babies

Words and graphic by Mia Freeland

We’re proud to announce Allens’ new candy line ‘Nepotism Babies’: a soft, chewy and colourful gummy candy, perfect for adults and kids alike.

One customer says:

“I mean they’re good, they get the job done. You just can’t help thinking that if you searched around a bit more you might find a candy you prefer. Sure, they won’t have the same nostalgic taste or familiar face, but they win out on their own delicious merit, selected solely for their sweet performance on the day.”

‘Nepotism Babies’ are the new ‘it girl’ of sweet treats. They smell like old favourites, but have an aftertaste of unacknowledged privilege. Each package is specially marked with reasons why they “really truly deserve to be here and had to try just as hard as any other candy” to get the prime spot on the checkout aisle!

When asked about this new sweet treat, an Allen’s representative said:

“We weren’t even really planning on releasing new candies, but a few of them were well connected with some of our classic best sellers (somered raspberry parents and teeth aunts, you know?) Too bad for the Animal Collection, we were meant to begin production on them this Spring but couldn’t be sure they’d be successful. Though they taste a bit better if you ask me!”

‘Nepotism Babies’ are now available everywhere you get your candy. They feature 15 flavours including (but not limited to):

Lily ROSE Depp

Maya Haw-KETTLE CORN

Em-MANGO Roberts

Ben PlatTUTTI-FRUTTI

Jamie-Lee CITRUS

BERRY Hadid

Sophia COPA-COLA

‘Nepotism Babies: you’d do it too if you could.’

Take our random words and make it better. Take the words you like and discard the words you hate. Black out these letters with your nicest black marker. Black them out until the felt tip frays and you have to buy a new one. Black this out until it reads like poetry. We thank our Instagram followers for their favourite words.

Perhaps it is my destiny to end up here. Here, in this moist quagmire, surrounded by thick mud. I can see the spokes of a bike upturned in the watery soil. I perambulate through the slush, spatters clinging to my feet. It hardens and forms a grip on me, tightening my shoes, forcing me to waddle. Other objects lie here, half-consumed, catatonic. It is weird to give a eulogy to these once-loved items, as they never resided in my heart. There is almost a diaphanous layer, separating them and me, despite us suffering through a similar fate. It might well be the silver light of the gloaming’s sea-dipped moon. It is inevitable that this is their final destination. From spunk to this. It’s bonkers, the ephemeral importance of everything.

The hour hit crafternoon, I pulled out my box of weird fragments and a discombobulated collection of taxidermy paraphernalia. The rain was inevitable; it pelted down against the concrete, creating meticulous rainbows with the spilt car oil. But beside the toasty fire, a quire was set alight, torching the top layer of the palimpsest of the junkyard ground. It was an ephemeral moment of flames before ashes

were flaking, blackening a white tabletop. The swirl of colours were no more. A light was shone on the effervescence of a dish soap, sugar, and water solution. Concentric bubbles were created on a table top, being gently blown through a straw. With each bubble that was formed, a liminal space was forged between the next bubble. The bubbles were aligned in celestial syzygy; producing colours like the sun’s reflections and quarter moons against the plateaued surface.

The days bring rain calls and the half-love of apricity, but all one can prognosticate is further precipitation or a stimulating thunder crack followed by hail. The version of snow, hail breaks car windows and clatters against tin roofs and brings ennui, yet its tenacity is audacious, and stupendous even! Bingus, the hairless Sphynx cat that reached its apotheosis in 2020 for Instagram fame, became a lover of funkadelic rhythms. Bingus fans are saccharine for the days this staring feline would pollute their doom scrolling hours.

Words by Nandini Dhir

Ariana Haghighi

& You