Nest dives deep into the multifaceted concept of home and tries to articulate its amorphous nature.
Nest goes over and beyond the physical. We will explore home as a feeling, a state of being, and a source of identity. Featured pieces will tackle questions like: What defines a true home? Can we find it within ourselves, or is a physical space essential? How do those who have left their roots behind create a sense of belonging? And what happens when we finally take a flight and leave the nest behind?
Join us on a journey that explores the places we call home, the communities that hold us, and the ever-evolving concept of belonging.
From the Editor’s Desk
President’s Letter
Two Homes, One Heart Happy Place Echoes of Home
Stories from the Sinosphere
Footnotes
Home/Heart/Hurt. Amongst the Leaves Complexity of Roots
Clothing and Identity
Before the Curtin Rises
Meeting Your Heroes Magic of the Sitcom Set Nestled Hometown Friends Perpetual
Catalyst
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Catalyst Issue 03 2024
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Catalyst acknowledges that our publication runs on the unceded lands of the Woiwurrung and Boonwurrung language groups of the Eastern Kulin Nations. We pay our respect to the Elders, past and present.
We also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where creative endeavours are nurtured.
Catalyst is a student-run publication of the RMIT Student Union (RUSU). The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the Editors, the Printers, or the Student Union.
letter from the editor’s desk
‘The sun will rise again in the morning just as it did the day before and the day before that, casting an auspicious glow over the horizons before one’s eyes are accustomed to the newborn light.
There are flowers in the field whose heads will tilt surely to the East, like the way one’s feet know the well-trodden path home after a particularly challenging day... the feeling of warmth enveloping your soul in a bath of security for that window is yours, that bed is yours and your dreams are also yours.’
This edition of Catalyst is brewed like a fine cup of tea (or chai, or coffee, or whatever other beverage is to your heart what fragrant wax is to a candle). The pieces are best enjoyed together for the perfect blend and can be accompanied by a hug from a loved one or socks fresh out of the dryer—whatever makes you feel most comfy —to give that extra touch of something special.
Just like this theme dives deep into the entanglement of both the physical and ideological concepts of homeliness and identity, we’ve enjoyed jumping right in and seeing all the many submissions that bring this nest to life.
If there is one thing we know as sleep-deprived and often overwhelmed uni students, it’s that there’s always a peculiarity (and frustration) in discovering how your little puzzle piece fits into the wider jigsaw. We’re all scrambling around trying to figure out where. it. is. we. fit…
…and maybe that’s the thing that brings us all together like birds of a feather (yes, Soumil and Ishaan, I am referencing Billie here).
Read on to discover the voices of others wrestling with these concepts.
Yours always,
Louis (on behalf of Ishaan and Soumil)
letter from the rusu president
Hi, Everyone!
A warm welcome to our returning students! I hope you made the most out of your first semester and got through your assessments contentedly! NEW students, welcome to RMIT and RMIT’s Student Union, RUSU!
At RUSU, we foster a communal environment that feels like a home away from home! We host a range of events across our campuses. Going to these events is such an amazing feeling of belonging everyone is keen for a chat and have some lunch!
Speaking of home, for me home—or ‘Nest’ as the Catalyst team calls it—is all about food! I consider food to be a privilege that one should be grateful for and respect. I love cooking and sharing food with my near and dear ones as well as trying new recipes, hearing about the food that my friends grew up eating and if I’m on campus, attending Chill n Grill, RUSU’s free weekly lunch service!
If you are new to Melbourne or missing home, I highly recommend you attend events during O-Week! It’s a great way to meet new people and get your head around campus. We’ll be following it with Campus Fest (aka Clubs’ Day) in the week after where you can avail the opportunity to meet people with like-minded interests. Sign up for a RUSU membership to get yourself started.
I hope you love this edition of Catalyst; it has turned out to be great as always! Looking forward to reading it myself!
Best, Ella Byrne
It’s Autumn now, my favourite time of the year.
Despite the days growing darker and the air clawing its way in through the windowsill like sharp talons, I rather enjoy it all.
The wind is always brisk and on que, bristling the treetops and hurling wind through the alleyways. If anything, one inhale you can almost taste the impending winter. But I pull my coat tighter, and watch the crumpled carcasses of once vibrant leaves, now dry and shriveled, decorate the pathway.
I find peace in my morning fast walks to the tram stop, watching my breath escape, and I smile, knowing it won’t be long before the mornings grow sticky and warm again. This won’t last forever.
Autumn smells like my neighbour’s chimney smoke. Though I can never tell whose house it is, the cozy scent of crispy pinewood being scorched takes me back to home.
Home is many things, but there isn’t just one.
Home is a crisp early morning in 2007. I listen to the crackling fireplace as it heats the kitchen, the warmth and aroma of sizzling wood embrace me. From the veranda, I watch the foggy morning coat the paddock in a delicate dewy veil, before hurrying into the car for school. I spend the afternoon laughing with friends and devote all my attention when my teacher says we are learning about poetry—my new favourite subject. At lunch,
I race to the back of the schoolyard, hand in hand with my friend. Home was feeling secure in the warmth of her touch, in the giggle of our nervousness, and in our shared secret kisses under the gumtrees.
Home is a sun-streaked day in 2008, and mum is cutting strawberries and watermelon to put into her weaved basket. We are driving to our secret waterhole, windows down and listening to the whispers of nature gossiping through the rainforest. My sister and I can hear the gushing waterfall as we navigate past the prickly stinging nettle with cautious steps. The hours left in the day are dedicated to scaling the mulberry trees. With nimble fingers, we pluck the ripe, dark berries, storing them in the makeshift pouches of our shirt fronts. Our lips form wide, purple-stained grins of satisfaction.
I still remember taking one last look at our house atop the hill, fading away in the rearview mirror. I didn’t understand it then, but dear things don’t last forever.
Home shifted from the cozy embrace of grassy meadows to the unfamiliar terrain of suburban sunshine. Home didn’t feel like Autumn anymore.
Instead, it’s my first day of grade four. Outside, the grass is wilted, the trees stand still, and the warmth is relentless. The new uniform is strict and plain, but excitement overwhelms me most. My pixie hair—still jagged and sharp from when I went to town with scissors—is noticed by my new classmates. When their taunts come, laced with venomous slurs, my armour chips. They act like it’s some kind of crime against femininity, but hair is just hair, not a threat to my girlhood. Though I come home wearing a smile, the sting of their words linger, etching into my mind like indelible ink sinking into parchment. My heart longs for its other half that I left under the mulberry tree and wading in the secret waterhole, no longer ours.
Home is a sweltering day in 2016, and my hair has finally grown to an acceptable length. Memories of clandestine kisses with girlfriends feel like distant echoes, drowned out by the burden of conformity. I wag school for the fourth time in two weeks, gossiping about ninth-grade drama with friends. Each truancy feels like an investment in friendship, an exchange of myself for the hopes of closer connections. Yet, guilt gnaws at me. I missed my English class for this. The poem I wrote, ready to present, stays pressed and pristine in my notebook. I was really proud of it. I get the feeling I have disappointed someone
close, someone always watching. When my friends ask me to skip school again tomorrow, I say no, and a small sense of relief exudes in my chest—a silent victory for my authentic self.
I suppose that’s why I love Autumn. In the free-falling leaves and the familiar chill, I carry a piece of myself that I left behind. Where the little girl inside watches from the branches of the mulberry tree. She softly smiles from time to time, knowing with each day, I try to get back to her. She waits for me until then.
Happy Place
An apartment in the quiet side of Cairo, with ceramic floorboards and Arabian furniture that was almost too easy to find. The smell of musky bukhoor coating the air, and the soft pitter-patter of the family dog’s paws on the floor. The burble of the kettle, the sounds of creaking doors, and the steaming mugs of tea in the first signs of a Friday morning.
My house was the house everybody gathered in. It was the house for holidays, for birthday parties, for sadness and for happiness. Fridays were the well spent days in the house.
It was convenient how most of my family lived in close quarters, and for those who didn’t, they would either spend the night before, or make it their mission to wake up early and come over for breakfast.
My grandpa would enter room by room, switching off air conditioners and flinging open curtains to let sunlight in, since we were all heavy sleepers and that was the only way to wake us up. We would prepare breakfast together, moving around the kitchen, cooking different foods at the same time. My mum would yell at the younger kids to go fix the dining table, remove any type of decorations, and place a plastic cover so the bread crumbs are easy to clean after.
And in a moment, when the house was quiet and stagnant, now it was filled with noise and chatter and clinking of plates as everyone ate.
After breakfast would be the time where everybody went off to do their own thing. Some would take naps; others would sit in the living room and discuss where we wanted to go for dinner.
It was an unspoken rule that Fridays were the days we ate dinner at restaurants, restaurants that would take us ages to choose.
Later in the night once everyone had stopped arguing over what to wear, and the kids finally had put their shoes on, everyone was shuffling out the door to head to the restaurant.
Everybody subconsciously would sit next to who they’re closest to, and I would drag a chair beside my cousin, gossiping about his friends, school, what he plans to do after graduation. The rest of my family at the other end of the table would chat loudly, as if they were the only people there.
We would then move the party to a café—Cairo cafes closing late—a privilege you don’t often find
in Melbourne. We always managed to find a new topic of conversation to talk about over steaming cups of tea and different variations of overly sugary drinks for the kids.
The adults would fight over the bill, like a typical Egyptian household, but they would end up conceding, splitting it evenly, and we all drive home in complete bliss.
Moments like these is when I felt the most divine, felt most at peace. These moments were the true sublime. I felt grateful to be alive and sentient, to be able to experience life with the people I love the uttermost in this world. These were the moments that hardened me in places and flayed me in others. They made me appreciate my days on earth in the presence of love.
In a conversation with a friend who had just moved abroad to study, I chanced upon an interesting take that got me thinking. All he said was that he was always at home. I was intrigued. The idea was simple, right? He never missed his residential address confined to the four walls that raised him, nor did he crave the sense of familiarity that came with seeking comfort with the ones whose idiosyncrasies he was familiar with. He was just at home all the time, always at ease.
How?
As always, the impressions of what people say keep ruminating in my mind when I’m nestled in the familiar four walls I usually come home to. How could you never feel the need for home? A space that you call yours, the (0, 0, 0) of your entire existence, the place you go to be nothing, where you regulate happenings and misgivings daily, where the core of your stasis lies—was I missing something here? A little more pondering led me to believe it wasn’t something he referred to that existed on the outside, but something that came from within. If we could never shift the (0, 0, 0) of our lives, what would we be?
Your nest is your space of familiarity, the place where you know what to expect, where you rely on the knowledge that nothing there could hit you by surprise. That’s the comforting thought. Why must we rely on the placement of a chair or the position of a potted plant on your study table? The colour of your living room lights or the paint smeared on the garage door? These things are secured in the associations you make with them. Which means comfort lies in the eye of the perceiver, right? We must know we like something before we even see it to deem it as something favourable. You must know that you like a song for its 130 BPM beats because it helps you pace yourself while running, and you must already know that you appreciate the coffee at the shop you frequent because of its double espresso shot and one spoon of sugar. You like it because you already know it.
And so, I offer you this: your nest is you. It is dynamic and ever-evolving, and it probably identifies itself in 300 different things. While they offer some solace in the knowledge that they are shared by people or not, you must know that you already know. And I think this is what my friend meant when he said what he said—that he was always safe in his head, at peace with his centre and what he thought, said, and did. He knew change would never faze him because the one thing that stayed constant was how he digested the world around him. He was always comfortable in his mind. He knew the address of the places he wandered to, was intricately familiar with the memory of his favourite childhood cup, and knew why he liked taking a certain path to the university every day. He was already at home in his head.
Either that, or he had unlocked some kind of Zen superpower. We’ll never know.
Chinese culture is something that remains heavily misunderstood, with sinophobia permeating the dominant narrative, and orientalism running wild with fetishistic assumptions. As a Chinese person, the everyday corrections I make have become mundane, yet one persists in its insistence to irk me. The ingrained cultural insistence on referring to the vast linguistic diversity of the Sinitic language family as mere dialects of one primary language seems to haunt my conversations. Some believe them to be dialectal offshoots of Mandarin, or perhaps some fabled “Chinese Language”, and some are not quite sure why this idea persists within their subconscious.
Yet, if you were to pull back the curtain, a bountiful history of language exists within Chinese communities across the world. The cultural difference per language, it is almost as though we come from completely different backgrounds. You and your friends could be from neighbouring towns. Yet, if you spoke a different language at home, you would eat different food, celebrate different holidays, practice different religions. In each insular pocket of language exists unique traditions, folklore, and stories of the past.
Hainanese families in the 18th and 19th centuries made difficult journeys from the island Hainan to spread out across Southeast Asia. Upon arrival, they took up jobs in coffee shops, bringing the flavours of their home to their new communities. In the modern day, the food of Hainanese coffee shop owners helps to shape the culture of Southeast Asia, the food becoming a staple of a weekend breakfast. The smell of steamed chicken and white coffee wafting from an old shop lot are familiar to any Malaysian. From the kopitiam floor you hear the loud Hainanese commands yelled across the shop from boss to employee.
In a tale of deliverance, benevolence, and survival, the Hokkien folk tale of the new year brings celebration and gratitude. It recounts the tragedy in Ming Dynasty China, which saw the ruthless pillaging of Hokkien villages. Fearing for their lives, they fled toward the sugarcane plantations, praying to the deity, the Jade Emperor for safe passage. For days, they sought refuge in the sugarcane reeds and emerged on the ninth day to see that the invaders had departed. They joyously thanked the Jade Emperor for ensuring survival, vowing to honor this day of deliverance forevermore. Now, the Hokkien Thee Kong Seh, boasts high importance to the community, who find celebration in sugarcane juice and gnawing on its stalks.
Clan houses dot the map of the sinosphere, they can be found spanning from Fu Jian to Indonesia. Tulou style Hakka homes designed for large communities to all live together. Building a single home for an entire community encouraged the sharing of resources, ensuring that no family could go hungry. The circular architecture protected the inhabitants from burglars or attacks and created communal space within its center. If one left a clan house, they were to bring their entire family with them, subsequently joining or building another wherever their new home was to be.
To be Chinese is to be tied together by deep history, and differentiated by a linguistic diversity so distinct it creates whole worlds. Thus, it is vital to honor history and keep the languages alive, by continuing to tell stories from the Sinosphere.
Every time I try to write that I am in between two worlds, stuck in limbo or purgatory I feel like a walking cliche and an error. My people exist everywhere. The Philippines is the largest export of nurses globally, going to Germany, North America, Great Britain, anywhere. So shouldn’t I be able to find shelter somewhere? In seconds Melbourne can change from home, to too small, to too big. It is the same when I think about Manila. I am adrift, not in between two places at all, but nowhere at all. Here I am, getting caught up among a sea of thousands of other immigrant children, we’re getting ripped away from our birth country, as they say that there are better opportunities somewhere else while inflicting scars on our lands.
Our voices, bodies, and shapes amalgamate into one as we board a plane or a ship. Our weight sags as we land, and in the process, displacing the original owners of the lands we occupy. It’s all a push and pull. A victim and a preparator in some sort of way. Can’t we heal together in some sort of way?
Indigenous Australians and Filipinos’ histories intertwined within the late 19th century, forged by trauma, segregation, pain and community. Filipinos (called “Manila Men” during the time) were soughtafter labourers in Torres Strait and Western Australia as pearl drivers in 1872. Indigenous divers beforehand were barred from the pearling industry by the Polynesian Labourers Act in Queensland in 1868. “Manila Men” married into Indigenous families along Broome and Kimberley. In the process, they create a place flush with culture, food and history, their stillstanding existence is radical and an act of defiance.
The existence of home lies within the footnotes of history and doesn’t manifest in a physical place. I trace it here with my fingers, imaging how my ancestors were welcomed by Indigenous women. A sense of belonging and pride washes over me before the world forgets this quiet history. I’m left swimming in the void, searching for another sentence, another book, another photograph. The world turns. The centre cannot hold.
Everywhere and anywhere people are surviving, scrambling for pieces of their history to remind themselves they exist, that they are more than flesh vessels enduring violence. From the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians to the horrors deep within the Congo mines, their voices culminate into millions and millions. Homes destroyed. Places of familiarity ripped from the earth. Families gone. Though I am one of the lucky ones to have felt the effects of imperialism and colonialism as a constant chill, I am afloat alongside them, always looking for another piece of history to shelter in.
The gloom of the winters that I used to know so well seems so distant, November here instead offers spring’s embrace.
I think of why I was done hurting,
Your screams are at the chasm of my sleepless nights, I’m haunted by the wraith of our winless fights.
Did you move with me when I moved away? I wonder, “Could you possibly change?” I try to think of what I would say to you when we sit by the fireplace this November, once again.
I like the falling leaves on the ground
So colourful yet forgotten by those all around.
You know, sometimes we need a reminder
That we are who we are for a reason
Different, unique in our own special way
Like leaves with different colours, Different stems, different veins…
You are who you are for a reason, and that’s okay.
You might not see the beauty that I see,
But it’s so clear to me—too clear.
Each part of you is mesmerizing to me.
It makes me sad that you see yourself that way.
You are more... more than how you see yourself.
You are more than a fallen leaf on the ground...
Amongstthe Leaves
wordsby JanineSequeira
I moved to Australia from India last year after living twenty years of my life in an average-sized twobedroom apartment in the heart of Thane. A city that neighbors Mumbai—the city of dreams, drama, and aspiring film directors. I’ve always associated the term “home” in a geographical sense. But after living in Melbourne for some time, I realized the intricacies of the word. It reaches the depths of your belief systems, sense of self, and helps in forming your conscience.
From an anecdotal standpoint, home is a collection of group identities that make up an individual. Growing up in a Maharashtrian household in India, my life has been steeped in the state’s rich culture. Apart from Marathi, I speak Hindi with the easily recognizable Mumbai twang, and sometimes I forget that not everyone watches cricket.
Cricket is so big in India that its nomenclature has been woven in my vocabulary. I recall the day my father called me up and said with a hollow laughter,
“I think Bhau lost his wicket.” I realized that my grandfather had passed away. Here’s another example: When referring to a naka-bandi (a police roadblock, mostly to fine motorcycle riders for not wearing helmets), we call it ‘fielding’. Metaphorizing the situation to a cricket field, as if the whole road is a pitch, the riders are cricket balls, and the police are there to catch them. I didn’t realize how much of an influence the sport had on me until I left the country. These small things may look superficial, but remove them and you lose your sense of belonging to a place. Being an international student comes with all its benefits and beautiful struggles. I’ve moved houses four times in Melbourne so far in a year’s time. This meant packing just the “essentials” for the move. You must be extremely selective, and the essentials become fewer and fewer with every move. How do I decide what is essential? Just by considering its functionality? Or its emotional extrinsic value? Or something else? You see the great philosophical dilemma. Cultivating a home away from catalyst
home is an ongoing, incomplete process. The rituals we perform every day, the objects we interact with, contribute towards making the warm den where we feel at peace. The Danes call this approach “hygge”, a focus on those small details that, no matter how small, add depth. These are the moments we rely on to give our lives shape and meaning, and that make us feel at home.
Objects: Anchors to Our Lives
Objects fascinate me—especially the most mundane ones. We navigate the world through our interactions with things. They act as life and thought companions, holding immense power to evoke feelings and, of course, the feeling of home.
During a recent visit home, my gaze fell upon a familiar sight: a wooden teapot with a glass top, older than me and a fixture in our living room. A crocheted doily adorned the glass, creating a soft cushion for fruit baskets, water bottles, newspapers, spectacles, and a menagerie of other everyday objects. The teapoy struck me as a microcosm of human life, a stage for the little dramas that unfold daily. A primal urge exists to soften a hard surface—a gesture of protection from the outside world, and a way to create a welcoming space for other objects to share the space. The doily itself, its delicate crochet and vibrant colors, told a story of societal values, beliefs, and a cherished cultural heritage.
This seemingly mundane things reveal something profound about our relationships with objects, that are often far deeper than we realize. They transcend their massproduced origins to become imbued with meaning and significance within our lives.
Home Through Art and Music
With a family ingrained in architecture and construction, I’ve been surrounded
by the magic of transforming bricks and mortar into homes since childhood. I grew up on construction sites with my father. I’ve always been fond of unfinished spaces, materials, and the process of making things. It’s amazing to see how much complexity is hidden in the walls you see every day and how a selective part of reality is perceived by us.
To stay connected to my roots, I express myself through a mix of art, design, and music. Most recently, I tried to design a chair with scrap wood pieces. It’s not the most stable piece of furniture, but it’s now a great conversation starter in my living room away from home. Working with Devnagari script and introducing cultural anecdotes in my design practice is my way of representing the lands I come from.
Lastly, drumsticks are an extension of myself. Grasping a pair feels like coming home, no matter the surface beneath them. They hold deep cultural and religious significance for me.
Growing up, the rhythm of the drums was a constant companion during Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations and has groomed me to becoming a professional drummer. Every opportunity to practice is more than just honing a skill; it’s a form of devotion.
I hope this vague understanding of home evolves over time and grows with me as I dwell upon these foreign lands. Being connected to family vicariously through pixels is a bittersweet experience. Even as a yearning for home tugs at my heart, it serves as a constant reminder of the sacrifices made in pursuit of a brighter future.
At ages 10, we start independently dressing ourselves and parring galaxy tights with spotty t-shirts over stripey long sleeves, but through this, we are already influenced by those around us, the friends that we have or the pop stars we are in awe of. Our choices become deeply rooted in our identity, how we perceive ourselves and how others around us perceive us. Many factors influence us; from self-expression, culture, social identity and the psychological effects of feeling confident.
For example, if you haven’t heard about the ‘Hemline Index’ this is something interesting. This long-held theory indicates that a person’s wardrobe can tell you about the financial status of the world. If the economy is doing well the shorter the hemline of women’s dresses, it’s the feel-good nature. The shorter the skirt the more money going around. However, when this is the opposite the hemlines go long; it’s why men were always looking at women’s legs, to tell the economic status... This theory though has been heavily debunked, especially in the 1940s when women wearing floor-sweeping skirts could not perform household chores and they started a rebellion for a dress just below the knee for more flexibility.
Clothing impacts us all so differently, with the increase of people on social media and having to represent yourself online, really puts pressure on you and who you want to show to the world not just in real life but virtually too. If you think about it, the people that you admire online, like influencers and celebrities, aside from their values, a big part of it is from their style and how they present themselves to the world and a big part of that is clothing.
Our identity cannot be defined by clothing, but it plays a big part in our identity as a person, and the confidence we feel when putting together a cool outfit in the morning has big psychological effects. The way we dress whether we like it or not people will judge us by our appearance, just like for job interviews where you dress professionally and make sure your hair is done. But on the other hand, we should not let others judge us by our clothing choices and not let them impact our confidence. Harder said than done.
Before Curtin
Before CurtintheRises
In the city, down an alleyway and up three flights of stairs is one of my favourite venues in Melbourne. When you first walk in and up the stairs, the black and white drawings half covered with posters may not seem like much. The box office gives us a hint of what is in stall. As you turn the last set of stairs and take a right, an electric golden haze makes the tension in my body start to ease. If anyone knew any better people would think that you have come into some speakeasy bar.
The door is right next to the bar, it is lit up with fairy lights and white fluro. I am here 3 hrs before the show; however, the prospect of either sitting out in the cold or being at my venue and spend the time writing—I know what I’d prefer. I make a beeline for the seat and bench. It is only once I have settled that my eyes take a sweep of what I am facing. To some people, all the nicknacks, books, paintings and masks may seem overwhelming—to me, I find something different that draws my attention every time.
Though I am the only one here—it isn’t long before it starts to fill up. It is the middle of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, shows start from 5.30pm.
Sometimes a lot of stuff that shouldn’t fit together seems more at home here then where it should have been destined. Though the walls are magentaish, it doesn’t really matter because they are covered. I can see a naked lady that could be making eyes at Queen Elizabeth I. A skeleton with fairywings watches over the patrons. An alien mask on a mannequin bust is staring at me from the corner of my eye. Postcards, polaroids and mistletoe. Jesus, jedi’s and a best venue award. Board games and broken TVs. The mini chandeliers and string of lights give the whole place a mood. The mood is eclectic.
Over the hours the bar fills with people. For a while I am somewhat distracted from my writing. The story of an existential zombie eating HelloFlesh cannot compare to the retelling of a girls wild tale of meeting a random hookup from the internet. Unfortunately their show got called so I didn’t get to hear the end.
The clinks of glasses are made as drink after drink are ordered. The time comes closer to when the show I am seeing is due to start. Just like the shows before me I see the bar person, holding a bell, walks through the crowd. They reach the walkway where you go through to the shows. They hold the bell in their hand before they begin to ring it. They double as the town crier— instructing people to head on through the venue, the doors are open and the show is about to begin.
Tansy Bradshaw
Revisiting Meeting Heroes
Meeting Your Heroes
The Space Race, and its part in the saga of American recklessness, has long been impossible to reconcile with for me; a towering, monumental achievement undercut by sheer human recklessness, mismanagement, callous political irresponsibility. As I’ve grown older, my fascination with space has since collided with the mess of its governance, and has forced my hand when revisiting the childhood heroes who anchored my place in the world. And yet, the Moon landing still stands formative for me, and Neil Armstrong, for as flawed as I’ve come to learn about him, remains the man I see when I look up at the night sky.
Damien Chazelle’s First Man takes this complication, and considers Neil’s place in this saga as one not of triumphant, space-race defining patriotism, but rather a clinical, forensic, and deeply lonely pursuit of peace. The POV shots, uses of sound, and closeups; we’re constantly guided by eyes looking around, looking away, and looking up. All of the insular cockpit photography—especially the intimate, claustrophobic Moon Landing sequence, which for my money ranks as one of cinema’s greatest achievements—is shaped by Neil’s own reckoning with the death of his daughter, and by the time the Eagle touches the surface of the moon it feels just as appropriate to burst into tears as it does to sit in awe at what has just been achieved. This framing of catharsis as a necessary process of the human experience is both deeply depressing and completely life affirming to me, it’s a sobering reminder that sometimes our moments choose us, and that isn’t to say that we are ordained by any spiritual body, but rather that we are compelled to reckon with ourselves and our place in this world in order to move forward.
So much of this film hinges on silence, absence; an environment where everyone is in pain, but nobody has the language to parse trauma. There’s an unspoken aura about this film that haunts over it in omnipotence. As Chazelle wrestles with the implications of space travel in a socio-political sense, he frames his findings through a mirroring of uncertainty; Earth is as foreign to us as space
Luka D'Cruz
is. Sitting down with your family for a hard conversation is harder than reaching the moon. There’s a reassuring exhaustion to the film that begs to be honoured more so than the landing itself.
Chazelle’s frantic direction is stunningly synthesised by the tender, melancholy and droning strings of Justin Hurwitz’s score, which aim to capture the intersection between the wonder of space travel and exploration, and the real, logistic nightmare of what it means to hurl yourself at our little rock. Through his mix of complex and simple arrangements, Hurwitz’s score perfectly captures both the exhilarating highs of achieving the impossible and how seeing the one you love can be just as important. Both the tenderness and despair of the score is matched by a truly transformative performance by Ryan Gosling as Neil Armstrong. Gosling communicates Neil’s manner of controlled chaos without ever coming across as stilted or wooden, which is a danger when playing a reserved figure like Neil Armstrong.
It is often said not to meet your heroes, else you’ll learn about their true nature, and yet, Chazelle takes Neil’s position as a legend and mythic figure and grants it the same amount of narrative credence as his position as a father and family man. Of course, I never knew Neil Armstrong personally, but he was the first person that I can remember idolising as a kid. At the time, he represented a boundless imagination and sense of wonder, an anchor to far away dreams and an emblematic hope that when I looked up into the night sky, I could see someone who was looking back. He was all the evaluations you could make as a kid without considering you were talking about a real person. As the legend often doesn’t mention, he was someone who struggled as much as they progressed. Chazelle understands this perfectly. Without sullying any of Neil’s brilliance, all of his colours are on show here. The dry humour inversed by his blunt forthrightness, the quiet and tender demeanour inversed by his guarded coldness. To me, this is the only way in which the framework that a hero can give us is useful. Not as a stern reminder of their successes, but as a guide that tells us that with every success comes a cost.
Revisiting First Man
The Magic of the Sitcom Set — Five Favourites
Sitcom set designs can have a way of making you feel at home: the couch at Central Perk, the front bar at Cheers, Paddy’s in It’s Always Sunny. The best ones encapsulate the heart of the show and are iconic in their own right. Here are some of my favourites:
One of Broad City’s most endearing qualities is its relatability. Unlike the studio-set of Friends or Seinfeld, Abbi and Ilana’s flats could very well be one you’ve spent time with: they’re messy and quirky, filled with mismatched furniture and knick-knacks that could only have been acquired over years of share housing (a dildo-cum-jewelery stand, for instance). But where do you go, when your flatmate’s boyfriend is hogging the couch, or the bug spray fumes have gotten to much? Ilana’s bathtub, of course. Unexpectedly reeling from a situationship breakup with the glorious Lincoln, Ilana hosts Abbi in her filthy bathtub in one of the most touching episodes of the series. As they light up a joint, they exchange embarrassing stories that they know as platonic soulmates, they could only tell each other.
_ words by Bridget Clarke
Kath’s loungeroom, Kath and Kim
Like any true Melburnian, iconic Aussie sitcom Kath and Kim formed much of my early television education. It’s easy to take for granted just how insanely well-written this show is: everything, and everyone, is always funny, and the sets perfectly encapsulates the dagginess of mid-naughties Melbourne suburbia. Kath’s loungeroom is the heart of the show. Not to be mistaken with the good room, it has everything you could want: floral reclining chair, heavy beige curtains, and a well-stocked cupboard full of everything from dippity-bix to little boys (if you know you know). There’s truly nowhere I’d rather be on a mid-winter Friday night, that is until Kath and Kel come home.
Ilana’s bathtub, Broad City
Bridget Clarke
Brett and Jemaine’s bedroom, Flight of the Conchords
Frustrated at our rental applications for two-bedroom flats getting routinely knocked back last year, my friend and I seriously considered a one bedroom with twin beds, Brett and Jemaine style. When they’re not in Murray’s office for a band meeting or flogging free condoms on the streets of New York, the geniuses behind New Zealand’s Fourth Most Popular Comedy Folk Duo sleep side by side in twin beds. It’s a thought that never fails to make me laugh—there’s something so comforting about the thought of Jemaine diddy-ing away on the bass while his fellow band member is tucked away in his penguin-themed flannelette pajamas.
Anne’s house, Parks and Recreation
Oh Anne, you beautiful tropical fish. It’s an undeniable fact that Parks and Recreation is the best of the Mike Schurclass of American sitcoms. For all its small-town (and heavily problematic) lore and dingy raccoon-infested parks, Pawnee Indiana seems like quite an ideal place to live. But there’s nowhere more tranquil than Anne’s impeccably homely loungeroom. That turquoisetinted sofa and ever-present crochet throw? Perfection. After a 24-hour telethon raising money for diabetes, there is no where I’d rather crash.
Bernard’s desk, Black Books
If there’s anything I want you to take from this piece, it is to watch Black Books. This criminally underappreciated early 2000s British sitcom is one I consistently turn to. Alongside the delightful Manny, cynical Irishman Bernard Black reluctantly manages his eponymous London bookstore. Next door lives Fran, a quintessentially frazzled English woman who everyday finds herself joining Manny and Bernard for post-work knockoffs consisting of copious bottles of red wine and cigarettes. I don’t care if there’s bread on the ceiling or molluscs on the pipes, I want to be gossiping at that desk to the wee hours of the morning.
My skin smells more like chlorine and less like you. For a moment last night it felt like the world stood still and all I could see was the corner of your eye as it crinkled while you laughed.
I think the idea of a kiss can be a thousand times more potent than the action itself, so I’m glad we left it in a box in your room.
_ words by Hannah Elizabeth Robbins
Hometown Friends
She finds me sitting alone on the porch steps after the party. The summer heat is still lingering in the air. She tilts her beer bottle towards me, offering, but I shake my head.
It’s only been a year since we last saw each other but I can feel our conversation running dry. I never thought I’d see the day when we didn’t have anything to talk about, when we felt like we had to conceal parts of ourselves.
She stumbles her way through the same recycled speech she gives to her relatives at Christmas dinner. Something about how university is stressful but rewarding and how her minimum wage job is bad but temporary. It’s all empty words.
Once our long-stretched silences become unbearable, I check my watch, casually bringing up how late it is. Before I can even suggest heading home, she stops me.
“Do you ever miss it?” she finally says, teetering, testing if we can still read each other’s minds.
“Miss what?” I say, shrugging my shoulders. She looks at me, a knowing glint behind her eyes.
“You know what I mean,” she says.
“Right… I mean, yeah. But I’m glad I moved. It’s hard
“I dunno. Sometimes… I go to sleep in my apartment and it’s just so quiet. Like, I can’t even hear the floorboards settling. And all I think about is waking up and suddenly being back home… or well… here. The sun pouring in through the curtains, the dog barking in the backyard. Mum is in the kitchen calling nan and they’re just talking, it’s not even anything important but it’s nice to hear their voices. All that stuff used to fade into the background, and I didn’t even realise I would miss it. But I do. I miss all of it,” her voice wavers as her eyes turn red.
“Of course, I miss that stuff but… don’t you remember why you left in the first place?” I say. As I reach for her hand, she inches away.
“I know and I still hate it here but, I don’t like it there either. I’m just… stuck. Like I can’t move back here, but—”
“I’m sure you could move back.”
She sniffles, tapping her nails against the bottle.
“Nah…” she shakes her head, “nothing feels like it should feel. Nothing feels… right.”
“What feels right then?”
“I don’t know. But I feel it now, with you. I’ve always
When I arrived in Melbourne three months ago I was taken aback by the size of the city, sensing that I’ll never be able to see it all. Overwhelmed by the opportunity ahead of me, I sought out to find what I know—and aside from the accent on everyone’s lips I found numerous similarities between the two cities I’d come to call home.
From the streets of Toronto to the laneways of Melbourne, the rhythm of life beats with a familiar cadence—the hum of city life, the scent of coffee lingering in the air, the laughter of strangers compiled with the angry hollers of others. Yet, beneath the surface of similarity lies the ache of longing—a longing for the familiar comforts of home.
The sights and sounds of Melbourne never felt like a foreign language, instead a melody that was always a key off. A song I thought I knew, but could never quite enjoy. Yet, in the midst of longing, I found solace in the echoes of familiarity.
It was in the quiet moments of solitude that I found myself reaching across continents, seeking solace in the familiar embrace of loved ones left behind. Through weekly phone calls and video chats, I bridged the gap between worlds, weaving a tapestry of connection that stretched across oceans and time zones.
Yet, as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Melbourne began to reveal its hidden charms and treasures, unveiling a city teeming with life and possibility. In the warmth of newfound friendships, I found glimpses of home— reminders that belonging is not confined to one place, but rather a feeling that resides within the hearts of others.
As I explored the city’s many unique neighbourhoods, I discovered echoes of Toronto woven into the fabric of Melbourne—the multiculturalism that thrived in its streets, the diversity of its culinary scene, the vibrant arts and cultural landscape that pulsed with life and energy. In these similarities, I found solace—reminders that no matter how far I roamed, a piece of home would always be with me.
Yet, even as I found echoes of home in Melbourne, my heart remained tethered to Toronto, a city that pulsed with the rhythms of my past and present. In the friendships forged and the memories shared.
This longing for Canadian soil is the reason I continue to call the tram the streetcar, think of Eaton Centre each time I visit Melbourne Central and why I order the exact same sushi I would if I were at Sushi Style instead of Sushi Hub.
Finding a home away from home isn’t merely about discovering similarities between cities, but forging connections that transcended geographical boundaries.
Embracing the echoes of familiarity, while also embracing the new experiences and opportunities that Melbourne continues to offer. I am weaving a tapestry of connection that will stretch across continents. A reminder that no matter where life takes me, I will always carry a piece of home within me.
Home?
What really is it?
Is it a place? A person? A feeling?
Home is me tucked under my messy bedspread, my favorite sitcom playing on a Wednesday night after a long day.
Home is 37 kilometers away, in the house where my best friend moved after we met.
Home is running to that best friend after a tough exam, crying without a word.
Home is losing touch with that childhood friend you played hide-and-seek with on the primary school playground.
Home is standing at the barricades at a JP Saxe concert, screaming lyrics and feeling understood.
Home is rules telling you not to be so loud, so expressive, so everywhere.
Home is a hug and an “I love you” on their way out to work.
Home is that unforgettable Year 9 class.
Home is remembering all the times you cried into your pillow during COVID isolation number one, two, or three because all you wanted was to see your friends at school.
Home is moving to another country yet feeling more understood than in your actual home.
Home is missing your mum’s warm rasam on a cold day.
Home is the freeing feeling when you finally do what you’ve been procrastinating for so long.
Home is teasing your friends, annoying them to their core, because you love them.
Home is feeling like you don’t know what’s next, what’s to come, or what the future holds.
Home is a place, a state, a feeling, and still a person all at once.
