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 of wirey brown curls burst from his chin but not as many from his head. He wore a greying t-shirt for some Hot Rod meet Somewhere Someyear with one of those pictures of a car with flames coming out the back to emphasise its smokin’ hot awesomeness. He looked like he might be trouble, or at least like he would smell bad. But he didn’t. And when he spoke to check his directions, it was with a soft gentle voice lacking the edge of aggression his appearance suggested. He hopped lightly off the tram at Carlton Gardens and crossed to the car show at the exhibition centre with all the cliché of a rockstar-wannabee with a band T-shirt at the Big Day Out. A little brown haired boy crouches on tubby little legs that pucker at the knees. He wobbles forward clumsily onto the brightly coloured mat beneath him. He has those wrists that look like an elastic band is cinched around it because of the puppy fat of his arm. His hand, clenched around a bright red fire truck slams it into the thick black line with white dashes that winds around the mat. His mother sits beside him, glowing with glazed-eyed adoration. She asks him where the fire truck is going and he shows her, grinding it along the street, technically only running over a few of the houses. His father is in the other room; the tones of his phone conversation make a familiar background noise to playtime. 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.
Our boy arranges his Matchbox cars along the kitchen table. First the monster truck cos thats the meanest — the baddest. Then the mustang cos thats the really fast one. The fire truck cos thats still a favourite, a chevy, then a purple sedan. Dad comes by, gives his brown locks a ruffle and asks what he’s up to. The kid tries to explain, but his fathers eyes aren’t focussing on the cars anymore. The boy gets the feeling that his father is somewhere else. He picks up the purple sedan and stares at it for a long time. Puts it down saying, “that one’s a nice colour” and wanders off distractedly. He’s as thrilled as a kid can be. This remote control mean machine can go off road, do a full circle, and fire missiles from its bonnet. And it hasn’t run out of battery yet! But mum’s gonna get him more while she’s at the shops anyway. He’s practicing in the hallway but he loses control and slams into the doorframe. His father whips the door to his study open and blasts him for making so much noise. He can see Mr Fisher staring out at him and he feels guilty for interrupting his dad’s meeting. He takes the car into his bedroom and it winds to a halt on the carpet. In the quiet he hears a steady thump thump thump coming through the wall from his father’s office. A rhythmic pounding just like when his remote control car gets stuck in a corner. And he wonders why Dad and Mr Fisher are allowed to play so loudly.
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,
Photography: HM
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. 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
by Ned Karam
to 5 kids from Boston we had “the right stuff”.
was a lovable drunk, everyone had perms, carnations were still the flower of choice, and according
Mum was outside somewhere on our expanse of scrubby bushland, working for hours on a garden that would never behave. Knowing that she’d be out there for some time, I decided to obey my need for liquid refreshment without her assistance. I lived in a somewhat strict house when it came to beverages. We were NEVER allowed cordial, and fruit juice was to be restricted to one glass a day. Much to my disappointment though, there wasn’t any juice to even take one tiny sneaky second forbidden sip from. Milk wasn’t an option either. Perhaps it was just a rebellion against being weaned from the breast, but drinking milk was always a chore/hassle/ordeal. Unless of course it contained Milo. It was around this time that my eyes were drawn to the pretty scene on the Coolabah cask- people sitting under a willow tree, having a happy picnic or some such. Since a kid’s opinion on almost everything is based entirely on whether or not something pleases them visually, I really don’t think I had much of a choice in the matter. I knew that us kids weren’t allowed to drink wine, presumably because the grown ups wanted it all for themselves or something, but I persisted regardless. Wine it is then. So there she was. That foul siren, calling me to pull her little tab. “Come on Ned. Squuuuueeeeeeezzze me…” So I did just that. Apparently a born goon drinker, I decided to forego the use of a glass and opted for the “hang your face under the nozzle” approach to wine consumption that
so many young Australians are familiar with. The effects were immediate. As soon as I stood upright, my head was spinning and my vision was blurred. For a moment I thought I was going to die — “Oh my god! This is why we aren’t allowed to drink it. It’s KID POISON!!” It was around this time that my mum returned from the garden. She walks in to see her five year old daughter swaying, having trouble focusing and using the closest chair as a crutch. It must have looked particularly bad because the expression on her face was similar to what a person witnessing a live puppy being eaten by a transient must look like. I said something like “Muuuuummm…I don’t feel so good…” and being the awesome lenient hippie mum that she was, rather than scold me, she put me in the shower then told me to lie on the couch under the blanket while she smudged* me. A couple of hours later
*for the uninitiated, smudging
my notrealdad/butbestfakedadever came home
is the ancient art of lighting
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
hang over. “Hangover?” I asked him. “Yeah. You
person that needs to feel
know how you threw up and have a headache and
better or have evil spirits
were stumbling around? That’s because you drank
exorcised from the area. It’s
from that cask. Don’t drink from that cask again,
basically a placebo effect
okay?” I agreed to most definitely never EVER
for hippies to utilize because
drink from a cask again. Unless of course I was
Panadol is owned by “the
really, really bored or just trying to impress some
man”. Or something.
older kids. I’d like to say that I learned a valuable lesson this day. That from then on in I’d run the straight and narrow. Go to church and have Tupperware parties or crochet decoupages or whatever it is you’re supposed to do in the grown up world. It didn’t quite work out that way, as I’m riddled with vices and neuroses, but at least I now have the skills and training to out-drink any young douchebag upstart that comes along thinking they know what a real goon drinker is.
NO CRYING OVER SPILT YOLK — The egg and spoon loses its innocence.
CHILDHOOD games: some encourage team work, some test our wobbly developing limbs, our balance and our coordination, but all of them contain a significant dose of competition. Within the blissful bubble of childhood we may manage to stay sheltered from the concept, but of course there comes a time when we realise that winning is important. Usually this message was reinforced for me with each pelt of a dodgeball until I began going to the sick bay every time the bag of balls was brought out for PE. Some children will triumph and some will be picked last. The egg slides from the spoon into a gloopy mess on the ground, gleefully trodden in by your peers as they pass you by. A somewhat unhealthy combination is an uncoordinated, vertically-challenged child who stubbornly can’t diminish her competitive nature. Yes, through school I must have learnt that sport would be a lost cause and I would be better off whooping ass in the more nerdy arenas. But I suppose it was this competitive strain that allowed me to push any memories of the misery of loss aside when my adult (sort-of) friends had the brilliant idea of reliving school sports day at our local park. It was to be a day of coloured teams, sweat bands, fun and games and coveted first place medallions I certainly don’t regularly engage in any athletic pursuits that would give me reason to believe that I could easily take on these games with any better results than in the past. But my inner child beckoned to me. And there was always the factor of excessive alcohol intake that may set my friends/opponents at a disadvantage. It all started out with the retro flashback of the egg and spoon race. We lined up with our eggs and spoons at the ready and clarified the rules; one hand only, thumb not allowed to hold egg in place, other hand behind the back. Ready-Set-Go
Photography: LO
through the megaphone. And we’re off. Oops my balance is bad and the egg rolls off. But Aha it doesn’t break on the grass — not having far to fall due to my short stature. Pick it up. Not remembering if a fallen egg means starting again I allow myself to take in my surroundings. My peripheral vision registers a mess of limbs and colours and eggs. Instant free for all. I set off towards the half way mark, already behind the pack. From my right, an arm swings under my spoon and launches my egg through the air! I am indignantly stunned. What happened to the rules? I should have known that one adjudicator and at least twenty racers means that the appropriate level of rule monitoring would be impossible, but somehow I was still trusting the nature of my competitors. How could I be so naive? Whilst I did glance my foe, I still only have eyes for my egg, which again has not broken. Following its path along the ground I scoop it up and continue. All around me eggs are flying. I pass a marker post and am on the home stretch. I put up my defenses, more aware of people around me now, but she gets me again! The same person! My egg shatters and I trudge to the finish-line in the midst of the egg and spoon chaos. Evil grins were splashed across the faces of the cheaters. Eagerly they confronted their victims. Claims came from all around me. “I got you.” “I just ran with my other hand under the spoon.” “I was holding my egg and spoon in my fist.” Thus, in the short few minutes of that race, my opponents had molested my inner child, taken her candy, cut the strings of her helium balloon and run over her dog. But I patted her on the back, wiped away her tears and pep-talked her for the next race. With our team (red) being smashed in the first 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 satiated by a high injury count. Suddenly I recalled another time on the sidelines when the emotions of the moment overwhelmed me. At primary school sports day my father participated in the parents’ sack race. There he was out in front. I was elated, I was living a victory through him. But only a few jumps from the finish-line, he tripped and in slow motion he fell. I was filled with the concern of a doting daughter, but all around me I heard the sound of adults’ laughter. In the movie flashback of this memory, this sound would be heavy with reverb and would close in upon the poor little blonde girl like the hysterical jeering of nightmare clowns. I cried, I bawled and my mother had to assure me that Dad was fine. Yet here I was screaming for blood in a game involving balloons. The innocence of that little blonde girl had been left far behind, though her lust for first place had not. The worst was yet to come. We had our colours on, and that meant that the dodgeball game was akin to gangland war. These teams, though only formed that morning, were our brothers, this park our territory and we would fight for it and our gang’s reputation at all costs. Some things definitely don’t change. Dodgeball is still my idea of hell. I tried to get out of it. Played sick. Cited my time of the month. They still forced me to relive this one
childhood memory I’m not so fond of. Though maybe children can be crueler than adults; now I was ignored — the opposing team understood that I wasn’t a threat. Kids are just happy to hit anything and anyone. Teams pelted dodgeballs like bullets at a driveby shooting. Each target hit established gang superiority. I fought the instinct to curl up in the foetal position and rock back and forth. I was offed early, no help to my team anyway and I watched sadly as red team were defeated. Somehow, through the scores from these and other events, plus a final obstacle race which came down to the fastest human pyramid, red team stole victory from our foes. However, the cheating efforts by two red team members had drawn too much attention. We were called out, named the cheating team, despite having also fallen victim to other cheaters. These accusations soiled the joy of our victory and attempted to make it null and void. But we weren’t cheating, we justified; we were strategising. Why not use the newfound advantages of wile and cunning that we lacked as children? To use them is just to make use of all our skills. No longer is it a game of balance agility and coordination — now it’s a game of the mind. And it turned out our minds had flushed out the concept of sportsmanship. Besides, that alcohol intake I mentioned before has given us the shakes.
THE GRIMSTONES —
Hatched.
SO, there’s this circus performer, artist and former ballerina — and she’s deaf. She’s traveling and she meets this Guatemalan puppeteer who introduces her to the intricate manipulation of marionettes. Communicating using these puppets is suddenly a perfect fit, opening up a world of performance possibilities. So now she has this show that has toured nationally as well as at international deaf festival, Clin d’oeil, in France. She presents it to children through Auslan with the assistance of a narrator. Marionettes, giant books and storytelling, the loving family Grimstone, puppeteers who interact with the puppets, magic and fairy tales... But this story is not your average kid’s tale. The colours are dark and brooding, the settings and costumes as gothic as an Ed Gorey sketch. The presenters’ faces are pale and their eyes pop from rings of black makeup. There’s a crypt with a mourning wife crying over the coffin of her dead spouse. And there’s a large magical egg. And from this egg hatches a three legged baby boy who’ll never grow up. “Crumpet’s three legs symbolise “difference”, and the show encourages audience members to consider how they treat those who they consider to be different. In reality most of us have something about us that is “different” — for me it is being deaf… The Grimstone family experience mixed reactions to Crumpet’s three legs, ranging from horror to curiosity to indifference. But in the end they all realise that actually his three legs don’t matter at all – it is his sweet personality that makes them all fall in love with him.” Says Asphyxia, the creator of The Grimstones — Hatched. The theme of difference goes back to the old school Grimms Brothers fairy tales. There always seems to be the haggard old woman who gets shunted, only to place a horrid curse on those arrogant fools who coudn’t see past her appearance. Asphyxia embraces her own difference, “In the street I am often delighted to see people — especially children — ‘trying not to stare’ when I sign. I play on this when I am performing and use signing gestures that are particularly lyrical.” Her attitude is a far cry from the revenge-driven witches of classic storytelling. Many major sins are punished in fairy tales. Greed probably most of all. Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel. Envy, Vanity. Snow White, Cinderella again. Then there’s your more basic ones like stealing, sneaking and lying. Goldilocks with the classic break and entry. Interestingly there’re a few that include chil-
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 ultimate transition into the image of all handsome ideals — Prince Charming. However, like some extra-limbed Peter Pan, Crumpet will never grow up, least of all into Prince Charming. Which serves only to strengthen the message of acceptance. “Although the aesthetic of The Grimstones is dark, the themes are actually joyful and ultimately uplifting. I have created a fairytale without a villain. This show is about celebrating difference, and family love, and the joy of books.” There’s still that scene of grieving widow draped over the coffin of her husband within a meticulously detailed mausoleum set. Whilst sadness and loss are something children will learn about, a crypt is a fairly intense visual representation. “Interestingly, although adults perceive gothic themes as being too dark for children, children themselves seem to be very attracted to them. I noticed this first with my younger brothers and sisters, who were very fascinated with gothic aesthetics and ideas, and again with my son now, and over and over again with children who come to see the show. One girl, when asked what her favourite part of the show was, said that she loved the Crypt where the father died, because it made her feel sad — this said with shining eyes!” In Hans Christian Anderson’s original, The Little Mermaid each step she took with her newly acquired legs gave her pain like a dagger through each foot. When you consider that and the other horrors and misfortunes of old school fairy tales its a merely shrug-worthy to feature a grave and a three legged baby in a story for children. Some of the most loved films of my childhood, The Dark Crystal and Return to Oz stood out because characters like the Wheelers and the Skeksies both scared and thrilled the shit out of me. (Ok they still do). Human experience always teeters temptingly or terrifyingly on the edge of the dark side so why should children’s imaginations be any different. In Asphyxia’s experience, “Children are really openly to the idea of death. They are genuinely interested in the rituals and the passage of time, grief and loss. Children delight in the magic and mystery of dreams, birth and death, as I do.” More of Still Warm’s interview with Asphyxia is available online. Stay tuned for 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; postdisappointing breakup and verge of serious eye-strain. I ran away to a place that I knew would take me, feed me and I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, or explain my crying or nothing. It was the best. Not fun, no, but a sure way to beat /ruin/self-destruction/curses/loutishness/curious hobbies/evasion strategies/drunken txt’s/ drunken ‘bad for you’ sex/ 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
time has passed long enough
the tiny pieces of your heart
no longer feel like they have to ache for that hurt too.
Remember a time, back in that time when you always felt awkward? Me, I got gender confusion, just when I was getting interested. But it was cool, I could be friends with guys but when they discovered I was a girl
(in that sort of way that you overhear)
(that tortures your mind for years)
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 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. 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 camp and watch our parents get drunk, listen to people sing acoustic songs we knew and go off and make up songs of our own. 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 played out on my body. But I’ve got pictures in my mind of him, the first. Those are the sounds that matter, the things he represents 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.
Beaches are special places. I still remember a beach from when I was 4 yrs old. It’s getting hazier now, and I’m glad there are still the important pictures from that time around. I can tell you I certainly am more like my four year old self now then I ever have been. That maybe my form of ASPERGER’S. I’m four years old, but I can cook, use computers and not hurt others too badly with words unless really intended. On that beach, he made a promise to meet me in a year’s time to that day. Influence of movies again. 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. 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? Become an adult. 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 day he’d be feeling and think of how his atmospheric experience would differ to mine. Since I’ve thought 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 dreamt of his face sometimes, and definitely a smile. And relived the kisses over and over again. 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. It came to that day, and somehow through the force of my will (or so I thought at the time) I was out camping. Same spot, far away from that city of mine. Day came, the beach and I were there but he wasn’t. 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. I might’ve changed?/ him too?/ it was a big beach/ maybe he got the day wrong?/ maybe his parents 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 reasons for why he wasn’t there/ 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...
Images: FP
“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 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 full-term baby is very strange for me because I’m the baby of my family so I haven’t had much exposure to children before. And normally if I’m doing perinatal I am in the room by myself. It’s sad because generally speaking, the exterior of the baby is completely normal, and they look beautiful, and they just look like they are sleeping. So thats difficult, but generally with adult cases for some reason... I haven’t seen for instance a rape victim, I’m pretty sure thats gonna rock me a little 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 that rocks you.
So, you see, the gore is nothing. Guts and bugs and smells can become as dull as a cum shot to a porn director. You can’t be precious when there’s a job that has to be done. M admits that you need a morbid fascination to even consider this particular job, but most important is the ability to switch off and leave your work behind you. “As long as it doesn’t affect me mentally, physically yeah I’ll feel nauseous, but its not gonna haunt me.” If you want more of the gory details, excerpts of M’s interview can 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)