Still Warm - The Post Incubation Issue

STILL WARM

THE POST INCUBATION ISSUE

Frankie and Hannah are still warm. Still warm like a freshly laid egg. Still warm like that egg under a heat lamp. Still warm like the baby chick that pecks its way out, its fuzz of not-quite feathers slicked to its body with embryonic juices, one little feather sticking up like a mohawk. Like that chick we are newly hatched, stretching our chicken feet and shaking off eggy goop to explore our childhood with Still Warm Issue 1.

Hannah Miller Editor Person

So what Hannah is trying to say is that this is our first issue, and it’s about kid’s stuff and I think something to do with eggs.

Frankie Pan Design Guy

CHILDHOOD OF A STRANGER ­— we take two strangers and peel away the years.

THE HOT ROD GUY. HE was stocky, alright portly. Maybe porky. A nest

Our boy arranges his Matchbox cars along the kitchen

of wirey brown curls burst from his chin but not as

table. First the monster truck cos thats the meanest

many from his head. He wore a greying t-shirt for

— the baddest. Then the mustang cos thats the re-

some Hot Rod meet Somewhere Someyear with one

ally fast one. The fire truck cos thats still a favourite,

of those pictures of a car with flames coming out the

a chevy, then a purple sedan. Dad comes by, gives

back to emphasise its smokin’ hot awesomeness.

his brown locks a ruffle and asks what he’s up to.

He looked like he might be trouble, or at least like he

The kid tries to explain, but his fathers eyes aren’t

would smell bad. But he didn’t. And when he spoke

focussing on the cars anymore. The boy gets the

to check his directions, it was with a soft gentle

feeling that his father is somewhere else. He picks

voice lacking the edge of aggression his appearance

up the purple sedan and stares at it for a long time.

suggested. He hopped lightly off the tram at Carlton

Puts it down saying, “that one’s a nice colour” and

Gardens and crossed to the car show at the exhibi-

wanders off distractedly.

tion centre with all the cliché of a rockstar-wannabee with a band T-shirt at the Big Day Out.

He’s as thrilled as a kid can be. This remote control mean machine can go off road, do a full circle, and

A little brown haired boy crouches on tubby little

fire missiles from its bonnet. And it hasn’t run out of

legs that pucker at the knees. He wobbles forward

battery yet! But mum’s gonna get him more while

clumsily onto the brightly coloured mat beneath

she’s at the shops anyway. He’s practicing in the

him. He has those wrists that look like an elastic

hallway but he loses control and slams into the door-

band is cinched around it because of the puppy

frame. His father whips the door to his study open

fat of his arm. His hand, clenched around a bright

and blasts him for making so much noise. He can

red fire truck slams it into the thick black line with

see Mr Fisher staring out at him and he feels guilty

white dashes that winds around the mat. His mother

for interrupting his dad’s meeting. He takes the car

sits beside him, glowing with glazed-eyed adoration.

into his bedroom and it winds to a halt on the carpet.

She asks him where the fire truck is going and he

In the quiet he hears a steady thump thump thump

shows her, grinding it along the street, technically

coming through the wall from his father’s office. A

only running over a few of the houses. His father is

rhythmic pounding just like when his remote control

in the other room; the tones of his phone conversa-

car gets stuck in a corner. And he wonders why Dad

tion make a familiar background noise to playtime.

and Mr Fisher are allowed to play so loudly.

The boy calls his dad to come play with the raaaoorrraoorrraooorrrr of the fire engine siren. His father walks a few steps towards the doorway. And without looking out, he closes the door.

LITTLE TIMMY.

THERE’S a boy sitting at the back of the train. He has pony tails, needs a shave and looks a little odd.

I think his mother would have named him Timothy.

Timothy has a blank look on his face as he looks out the window, a child-like glare as if his brain was filled with fluffy clouds and talking sushi rice. Let me tell you something about Timothy,

PEOPLE I’VE SLEPT WITH.

WHO: Kevin, from Portland, USA. WHEN: 25/7/08 WHERE: Punchbowl Falls, Columbia Gorge, Oregon, USA. SLEEPING PATTERN: Passes out after an exhausting day of jumping.

KEVIN claims to be a “Jumper”. I didn’t know that this was a category of people, but apparently if you like jumping off rocks into waterfalls, you fit this category. It may also include people who like jumping on the trampoline, because Kevin likes this too and will spend all day perfecting a flip.

Counting down to three does not help with waterfall jumping; it’s best to just do it whenever you are ready. The build up is good for your audience too. Jumping is about the sense of achievement that comes with conquering your fear and although it is something Kevin has only mastered in adulthood, it brings out a joy that is childish in its sweet simplicity. Kevin’s tight grasp on his inner child may also be responsible for his pursuits in the world of comics. His eyelashes are the kind that women envy, and especially stand out when wet from swimming.

Photography: HM

www.peopleivesleptwith.blogspot.com

“HE drove me there, all the way out to the burbs.

East Keilor ­— a part of town I’d never been to.

We parked and he lead me through to this lookout and then I saw... this railway bridge just stretching across the valley.

He was telling me stories of kids shooting at him and his mates with BB guns. These kids were defending their territory around the entrance; the bit where you can climb up under or onto the bridge.

He said those kids were crazy. The bridge shakes and makes a fucking loud noise when a train goes over. He said when there was a train those kids would hang upside down off the bridge railings by their knees with no fear.

We scrambled up there. Explored around the walkways beneath a bit. But it had to be up on top.

Up there there’s these platforms that jut out from the tracks... places so that if you are doing a bit of a Stand By Me walk along the bridge you can stand out of the way of the train. And that’s where we were. A train was coming so we bobbed down trying to hide in the darkness, but when the light got to us the driver must have spotted us and he pulled the horn. Apparently the drivers get really shitty with people going up there. So it was a bit of a thrill with the horn going at us. And he was right ­— the bridge shakes so much I thought that little platform was going to drop off into the darkness below.”

For directions to the East Keilor Railway, visit www.stillwarm.wordpress.com

FUCKING AROUND

­— THE EAST KEILOR RAILWAY BRIDGE.

DRUNK AT FIVE AND THE HORRIBLE AVERSION TO WATER.

IT was 1989. I was 5 years old. Our Prime Minister

so many young Australians are familiar with. The

was a lovable drunk, everyone had perms, carna-

effects were immediate. As soon as I stood up-

tions were still the flower of choice, and according

right, my head was spinning and my vision was

by Ned Karam

to 5 kids from Boston we had “the right stuff”.

blurred. For a moment I thought I was going to die — “Oh my god! This is why we aren’t allowed

Mum was outside somewhere on our expanse of

to drink it. It’s KID POISON!!” It was around this

scrubby bushland, working for hours on a garden

time that my mum returned from the garden. She

that would never behave. Knowing that she’d be

walks in to see her five year old daughter swaying,

out there for some time, I decided to obey my

having trouble focusing and using the closest chair

need for liquid refreshment without her assis-

as a crutch. It must have looked particularly bad

tance. I lived in a somewhat strict house when

because the expression on her face was similar to

it came to beverages. We were NEVER allowed

what a person witnessing a live puppy being eaten

cordial, and fruit juice was to be restricted to one

by a transient must look like. I said something like

glass a day. Much to my disappointment though,

“Muuuuummm…I don’t feel so good…” and being

there wasn’t any juice to even take one tiny sneaky

the awesome lenient hippie mum that she was,

second forbidden sip from. Milk wasn’t an option

rather than scold me, she put me in the shower

either. Perhaps it was just a rebellion against be-

then told me to lie on the couch under the blanket

ing weaned from the breast, but drinking milk was

while she smudged* me. A couple of hours later

*for the uninitiated, smudging

always a chore/hassle/ordeal. Unless of course it

my notrealdad/butbestfakedadever came home

is the ancient art of lighting

contained Milo.

and sat with me while I slowly died on the couch

some herby smelling things

and enquired as to how I was enjoying my first

and waving them around the

It was around this time that my eyes were drawn

hang over. “Hangover?” I asked him. “Yeah. You

person that needs to feel

to the pretty scene on the Coolabah cask- people

know how you threw up and have a headache and

better or have evil spirits

sitting under a willow tree, having a happy picnic

were stumbling around? That’s because you drank

exorcised from the area. It’s

or some such. Since a kid’s opinion on almost ev-

from that cask. Don’t drink from that cask again,

basically a placebo effect

erything is based entirely on whether or not some-

okay?” I agreed to most definitely never EVER

for hippies to utilize because

thing pleases them visually, I really don’t think I

drink from a cask again. Unless of course I was

Panadol is owned by “the

had much of a choice in the matter.

really, really bored or just trying to impress some

man”. Or something.

older kids.

I knew that us kids weren’t allowed to drink wine, presumably because the grown ups wanted it all for

I’d like to say that I learned a valuable lesson this

themselves or something, but I persisted regard-

day. That from then on in I’d run the straight and

less. Wine it is then.

narrow. Go to church and have Tupperware parties or crochet decoupages or whatever it is you’re

So there she was. That foul siren, calling me to pull

supposed to do in the grown up world. It didn’t

her little tab. “Come on Ned. Squuuuueeeeeeez-

quite work out that way, as I’m riddled with vices

zze me…” So I did just that. Apparently a born

and neuroses, but at least I now have the skills

goon drinker, I decided to forego the use of a

and training to out-drink any young douchebag up-

glass and opted for the “hang your face under

start that comes along thinking they know what a

the nozzle” approach to wine consumption that

real goon drinker is.

NO CRYING OVER SPILT YOLK — The egg and spoon loses its innocence.

Photography: LO

CHILDHOOD games: some encourage team

through the megaphone. And we’re off. Oops my

work, some test our wobbly developing limbs,

balance is bad and the egg rolls off. But Aha it

our balance and our coordination, but all of them

doesn’t break on the grass — not having far to

contain a significant dose of competition. Within

fall due to my short stature. Pick it up. Not re-

the blissful bubble of childhood we may man-

membering if a fallen egg means starting again

age to stay sheltered from the concept, but of

I allow myself to take in my surroundings. My

course there comes a time when we realise that

peripheral vision registers a mess of limbs and

winning is important. Usually this message was

colours and eggs. Instant free for all. I set off

reinforced for me with each pelt of a dodgeball

towards the half way mark, already behind the

until I began going to the sick bay every time the

pack. From my right, an arm swings under my

bag of balls was brought out for PE.

spoon and launches my egg through the air! I am

Some children will triumph and some will be

indignantly stunned. What happened to the rules?

picked last. The egg slides from the spoon into a

I should have known that one adjudicator and at

gloopy mess on the ground, gleefully trodden in

least twenty racers means that the appropriate

by your peers as they pass you by.

level of rule monitoring would be impossible, but

A somewhat unhealthy combination is an unco-

somehow I was still trusting the nature of my

ordinated, vertically-challenged child who stub-

competitors. How could I be so naive? Whilst I

bornly can’t diminish her competitive nature.

did glance my foe, I still only have eyes for my

Yes, through school I must have learnt that sport

egg, which again has not broken. Following its

would be a lost cause and I would be better off

path along the ground I scoop it up and continue.

whooping ass in the more nerdy arenas.

All around me eggs are flying. I pass a marker

But I suppose it was this competitive strain that

post and am on the home stretch. I put up my

allowed me to push any memories of the misery

defenses, more aware of people around me now,

of loss aside when my adult (sort-of) friends had

but she gets me again! The same person! My egg

the brilliant idea of reliving school sports day at

shatters and I trudge to the finish-line in the midst

our local park. It was to be a day of coloured

of the egg and spoon chaos.

teams, sweat bands, fun and games and coveted

Evil grins were splashed across the faces of the

first place medallions I certainly don’t regularly

cheaters. Eagerly they confronted their victims.

engage in any athletic pursuits that would give

Claims came from all around me.

me reason to believe that I could easily take on

“I got you.”

these games with any better results than in the

“I just ran with my other hand under the spoon.”

past. But my inner child beckoned to me. And

“I was holding my egg and spoon in my fist.”

there was always the factor of excessive al-

Thus, in the short few minutes of that race, my

cohol intake that may set my friends/oppo-

opponents had molested my inner child, taken

nents at a disadvantage.

her candy, cut the strings of her helium balloon

It all started out with the retro flashback of the

and run over her dog. But I patted her on the

egg and spoon race. We lined up with our eggs

back, wiped away her tears and pep-talked her

and spoons at the ready and clarified the rules;

for the next race.

one hand only, thumb not allowed to hold egg in

With our team (red) being smashed in the first

place, other hand behind the back. Ready-Set-Go

event I grabbed my three-legged race partner

and we practised, getting our timing pretty well coordinated and setting a good pace. Meanwhile the more cunning members of red team were plotting strategies to stop the opposing teams.

At this point I was still naively unaware that they had crossed to the dark side. Or perhaps they were always there.

The starting signal goes, we get our equally short legs striding along and we are doing well.

The pack thins out and drops away behind us, we reach the post and slow down as we struggle to change direction and round it. Our heads are down, focussing on our feet when we hear voices right in front of us. Two members of the green team have slowed down and made sure to get in our path. We try to side step, but we didn’t practise that move. We get around them but it has cost us time and another green team pair goes through to take first place. As we close in on the finish-line which is also the start-line, we see our fellow red teamers in a tangled struggle with a blue pair. They are clutching blue shirts to slow them down. It was a cheating frenzy and I realised it was time to play dirty or eat dirt.

The next challenge was some rather violent game that I hope is much softer when played by children. It involves tying a balloon to your ankle while everyone else tries to pop it by beating at it with a baton of rolled newspaper. There not being enough to go round I was restricted to the sidelines, secretly quite content. But as the game gets going, as the newspapers miss balloons and with loud slaps leave red welts on legs, arms, — even backs if they should get in the way, I notice that rather than cheering at my team’s efforts, I am screaming bloody murder. Cheering for them to massacre the other team.

“Get her! Get him! Kill Kill Kill!”

This is my vicious voice rasping at the top of my lungs. I’m not even playing and I am captured up

in a competitive adrenaline high that can only be sati-

childhood memory I’m not so fond of. Though maybe

ated by a high injury count.

children can be crueler than adults; now I was ig-

Suddenly I recalled another time on the sidelines when

nored — the opposing team understood that I wasn’t

the emotions of the moment overwhelmed me. At pri-

a threat. Kids are just happy to hit anything and any-

mary school sports day my father participated in the

one. Teams pelted dodgeballs like bullets at a drive-

parents’ sack race. There he was out in front. I was

by shooting. Each target hit established gang supe-

elated, I was living a victory through him. But only a

riority. I fought the instinct to curl up in the foetal

few jumps from the finish-line, he tripped and in slow

position and rock back and forth. I was offed early,

motion he fell. I was filled with the concern of a doting

no help to my team anyway and I watched sadly as

daughter, but all around me I heard the sound of adults’

red team were defeated.

laughter. In the movie flashback of this memory, this

Somehow, through the scores from these and other

sound would be heavy with reverb and would close

events, plus a final obstacle race which came down

in upon the poor little blonde girl like the hysterical

to the fastest human pyramid, red team stole victory

jeering of nightmare clowns. I cried, I bawled and my

from our foes. However, the cheating efforts by two

mother had to assure me that Dad was fine.

red team members had drawn too much attention. We

Yet here I was screaming for blood in a game involv-

were called out, named the cheating team, despite

ing balloons. The innocence of that little blonde girl

having also fallen victim to other cheaters. These ac-

had been left far behind, though her lust for first place

cusations soiled the joy of our victory and attempted

had not. The worst was yet to come.

to make it null and void. But we weren’t cheating, we

We had our colours on, and that meant that the dodge-

justified; we were strategising. Why not use the new-

ball game was akin to gangland war. These teams,

found advantages of wile and cunning that we lacked

though only formed that morning, were our brothers,

as children? To use them is just to make use of all

this park our territory and we would fight for it and

our skills. No longer is it a game of balance agility

our gang’s reputation at all costs. Some things defi-

and coordination — now it’s a game of the mind. And

nitely don’t change. Dodgeball is still my idea of hell.

it turned out our minds had flushed out the concept

I tried to get out of it. Played sick. Cited my time

of sportsmanship. Besides, that alcohol intake I men-

of the month. They still forced me to relive this one

tioned before has given us the shakes.

THE GRIMSTONES ­—

Hatched.

dren paying for their parents mistakes — Rapunzel’s parents stealing from a garden, Sleeping Beauty’s parents not inviting some bitch witch to the party, Beauty’s dad stealing a rose from the Beast. Then there’s the difference evident in Beauty and the Beast and the Frog Prince. Horrible and grotesque in appearance they could never be loved, until one special person can learn to love them for who they are on the inside. But they both end with the ulti-

SO, there’s this circus performer, artist and former ballerina — and she’s

mate transition into the image of all handsome ideals — Prince Charming.

deaf. She’s traveling and she meets this Guatemalan puppeteer who intro-

However, like some extra-limbed Peter Pan, Crumpet will never grow up,

duces her to the intricate manipulation of marionettes. Communicating using

least of all into Prince Charming. Which serves only to strengthen the

these puppets is suddenly a perfect fit, opening up a world of performance

message of acceptance.

possibilities. So now she has this show that has toured nationally as well as

“Although the aesthetic of The Grimstones is dark, the themes are actually

at international deaf festival, Clin d’oeil, in France. She presents it to children

joyful and ultimately uplifting. I have created a fairytale without a villain. This

through Auslan with the assistance of a narrator. Marionettes, giant books

show is about celebrating difference, and family love, and the joy of books.”

and storytelling, the loving family Grimstone, puppeteers who interact with

There’s still that scene of grieving widow draped over the coffin of her

the puppets, magic and fairy tales... But this story is not your average kid’s

husband within a meticulously detailed mausoleum set. Whilst sadness

tale. The colours are dark and brooding, the settings and costumes as gothic

and loss are something children will learn about, a crypt is a fairly intense

as an Ed Gorey sketch. The presenters’ faces are pale and their eyes pop

visual representation.

from rings of black makeup. There’s a crypt with a mourning wife crying over

“Interestingly, although adults perceive gothic themes as being too dark for

the coffin of her dead spouse. And there’s a large magical egg. And from this

children, children themselves seem to be very attracted to them. I noticed

egg hatches a three legged baby boy who’ll never grow up.

this first with my younger brothers and sisters, who were very fascinated with

“Crumpet’s three legs symbolise “difference”, and the show encourages au-

gothic aesthetics and ideas, and again with my son now, and over and over

dience members to consider how they treat those who they consider to be

again with children who come to see the show. One girl, when asked what her

different. In reality most of us have something about us that is “different” —

favourite part of the show was, said that she loved the Crypt where the father

for me it is being deaf… The Grimstone family experience mixed reactions to

died, because it made her feel sad — this said with shining eyes!”

Crumpet’s three legs, ranging from horror to curiosity to indifference. But in

In Hans Christian Anderson’s original, The Little Mermaid each step she took

the end they all realise that actually his three legs don’t matter at all – it is his

with her newly acquired legs gave her pain like a dagger through each foot.

sweet personality that makes them all fall in love with him.” Says Asphyxia,

When you consider that and the other horrors and misfortunes of old school

the creator of The Grimstones — Hatched.

fairy tales its a merely shrug-worthy to feature a grave and a three legged baby

The theme of difference goes back to the old school Grimms Brothers fairy

in a story for children. Some of the most loved films of my childhood, The

tales. There always seems to be the haggard old woman who gets shunted,

Dark Crystal and Return to Oz stood out because characters like the Wheelers

only to place a horrid curse on those arrogant fools who coudn’t see past her

and the Skeksies both scared and thrilled the shit out of me. (Ok they still do).

appearance. Asphyxia embraces her own difference, “In the street I am often

Human experience always teeters temptingly or terrifyingly on the edge of the

delighted to see people — especially children — ‘trying not to stare’ when I

dark side so why should children’s imaginations be any different.

sign. I play on this when I am performing and use signing gestures that are

In Asphyxia’s experience, “Children are really openly to the idea of death.

particularly lyrical.” Her attitude is a far cry from the revenge-driven witches

They are genuinely interested in the rituals and the passage of time, grief

of classic storytelling.

and loss. Children delight in the magic and mystery of dreams, birth and

Many major sins are punished in fairy tales. Greed probably most of all. Cin-

death, as I do.”

derella, Hansel and Gretel. Envy, Vanity. Snow White, Cinderella again. Then there’s your more basic ones like stealing, sneaking and lying. Goldilocks

More of Still Warm’s interview with Asphyxia is available online. Stay tuned for

with the classic break and entry. Interestingly there’re a few that include chil-

the next story in the Grimstones series, Mortimer Revealed.

ACCESS all areas, meditation and memories; a first disappointment in love....

I had an appointment with my mind for 10 days at a meditation retreat. It came at an apt time; post-

Beaches are special places. I still remember a beach from when I was 4 yrs old. It’s getting hazier

disappointing breakup and verge of serious eye-strain. I ran away to a place that I knew would take me,

now, and I’m glad there are still the important pictures from that time around. I can tell you I certainly

feed me and I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, or explain my crying or nothing. It was the best. Not fun,

am more like my four year old self now then I ever have been. That maybe my form of ASPERGER’S.

no, but a sure way to beat

I’m four years old, but I can cook, use computers and not hurt others too badly with words

/ruin/self-destruction/curses/loutishness/curious hobbies/evasion strategies/drunken txt’s/ drunken

unless really intended.

‘bad for you’ sex/ On that beach, he made a promise to meet me in a year’s time to that day.

Sitting in silence, on a direct train to memories-ville, is always a trip worth taking. Especially if you’ve been given the mindset to observe it passively. Or

Influence of movies again.

time has passed long enough

the tiny pieces of your heart

I’m not sure how much of that time, of that year that went by I thought of him. Maybe a lot, I don’t know.

no longer feel like they have to ache for that hurt too.

I don’t think I obsessed. Not quite like I’ve learnt how to do now. I can obsess over something through my pores. We learn skills like that as adults. How do you create abcesses, tumours and organ failures?

Remember a time, back in that time when you always felt awkward? Me, I got gender confusion, just

Become an adult.

when I was getting interested. But it was cool, I could be friends with guys but when they discovered But, I did think of him sometimes, he lived in a city far away. I’d check the weather to see what kind of a

I was a girl

(in that sort of way that you overhear)

day he’d be feeling and think of how his atmospheric experience would differ to mine. Since I’ve thought

(that tortures your mind for years)

of him while I was on retreat, I can see his eyes again. But that’s about all. I know at the time I would’ve

that little spark of further interest came up. But of course I didn’t know how to act on it. I don’t think I’d

dreamt of his face sometimes, and definitely a smile. And relived the kisses over and over again.

seen enough films by then to really know how to be that kid who scores those sorts of memories and stories over summer to paint back to their friends. Maybe that only happens in the movies.

These days, kids would get a phone number — fuck, even then! Heck, even then you’d get an address to fold over in a pocket somewhere to lose and regret for years later. But we didn’t.

We were camping with my cousins, my bro and I. We’d met another band of boys at the park. We played table tennis together in the evenings after meals of canned food from the campfire. We’d head back to

It came to that day, and somehow through the force of my will (or so I thought at the time) I was out camp-

camp and watch our parents get drunk, listen to people sing acoustic songs we knew and go off and

ing. Same spot, far away from that city of mine. Day came, the beach and I were there but he wasn’t.

make up songs of our own.

It was simple heartbreak, confirmed through the length of the day. It really hurt. I made a lot of excuses for why he wasn’t there.

What was his name again? That’s something that deserves note, maybe I won’t even remember this guy’s name, the one I’m escaping. Maybe one day I won’t even feel his skin on mine, these emotions

I might’ve changed?/ him too?/ it was a big beach/ maybe he got the day wrong?/ maybe his parents

played out on my body.

made him go somewhere else?/ maybe he floated out to sea? maybe he was in the water when I was out of the water?/ maybe he saw me and thought I’d gotten a boyfriend?/ maybe I thought up worse

But I’ve got pictures in my mind of him, the first. Those are the sounds that matter, the things he repre-

reasons for why he wasn’t there/

sents to me now. We hung out. He found out I was a girl. We kissed a few times (I’d already had my first kiss with another boy whose name I can’t remember). We went to the beach on our last day.

Yet, after all the pain and heartbreak, it’s a story I would never have remembered in ordinary circumstances.

by Natalie Pawlus

NOW, DON’T BE PRECIOUS...

“M” cuts up bodies for a living. She’s faced with gore day in day out. As an Anatomical Pathology Technician she does much of the manual labour involved in an autopsy. Routinely she removes intestines, stifling the reflex to retch from the stench and mess that are still within them. She says some of the worst parts of the job can be the roasted flesh smell of burns victims and decomposition, which means one thing: bugs. So when the cold hard facts of death are literally laid out before you each day, how does one deal?

STILLWARM: How do you distance yourself from your work?

M: I think because you are surrounded by it and you do really need to take care of your mental state you do disassociate. For instance, it’s probably not ethical, but we take care in the manner that we talk. In the office because you are holding quite a large number of bodies at one particular time you do find yourself saying ‘it’ because you haven’t actually had a chance to form a bond or relationship — because you’ve got so many cadavers coming in and out of the mortuary. It’s not that you’re seeing a deceased as an object... It’s difficult because when you’re around them, its obvious that they are not there, and that’s different in everyone’s belief system.

It can be morbid but you can’t be sad 9 hours a day 5 days a week so you’ve gotta have some kind of belief system. Even if that belief system is; that’s the end, they’re gone thats it. Life. Death. Done.

SW: What is it like to work in a job like this and then go home and hang out with friends who work in entirely different industries.

M: Honestly, it’s difficult because I am quite young and I find that for most people my age, death hasn’t really hit their realities yet. People are either completely freaked out by you and they don’t wanna know you or they’re

Images: FP

completely intrigued. It’s difficult but you get used to it.

My boss pulled me aside shortly after I first started and told me that there are going to be a couple of cases that rattle around in your brain and that’s where you need to learn to talk. You definitely need to voice it and I think that is good that they make you do it at work because that way when you do leave you’re not taking anything home with you.

SW: So you talk to the people you work with?

M: Definitely, if something has shocked you or scared you or you feel uncomfortable with something, generally they’re feeling the same way its just a matter of who’s gonna voice up first. Even with my pathologists; I sometimes talk to them.

I know our head perinatal pathologist doesn’t like working on full-term babies. It’s devastating to every party involved and it seems a little unjust, however a job needs to get done. But you’re going to get cases like that, that you find a little sad but it’s kind of a good thing because it just makes you better at your job.

SW: What is something that has particularly rattled you?

M: The only real thing that rattles me is full term babies. Normally they come dressed in their own clothing. Undressing and dressing a deceased

So, you see, the gore is nothing. Guts and bugs and smells can be-

full-term baby is very strange for me because I’m the baby of my family so

come as dull as a cum shot to a porn director. You can’t be precious

I haven’t had much exposure to children before. And normally if I’m doing

when there’s a job that has to be done. M admits that you need a

perinatal I am in the room by myself. It’s sad because generally speaking,

morbid fascination to even consider this particular job, but most im-

the exterior of the baby is completely normal, and they look beautiful, and

portant is the ability to switch off and leave your work behind you.

they just look like they are sleeping.

So thats difficult, but generally with adult cases for some reason... I haven’t

“As long as it doesn’t affect me mentally, physically yeah I’ll feel nau-

seen for instance a rape victim, I’m pretty sure thats gonna rock me a little

seous, but its not gonna haunt me.”

bit. I’ve seen quite a few murders... The disassociation carries you, but it’s usually any interaction you see with the family member and the deceased

If you want more of the gory details, excerpts of M’s interview can

that rocks you.

be found online at stillwarm.wordpress.com

Editor / Writer: Hannah Miller Design / Illustrations: Frankie Pan Human Spell Check / SW Model: Ned Karam Good Photography: Lauren Olney Contributors: Ned Karam Natalie Pawlus Jessie Ngaio Mia Van Den Berg

We’re looking for contributors for Still Warm issue 2: “The (Un)healthy Issue”. It’s going to be all about what’s good for you, what’s bad for you and who’s telling you what’s good and bad for you. Send writing or art to: thisisstillwarm@gmail.com Visit us at: www.stillwarm.wordpress.com

Colouring: Mia (age 7)