Acknowledgement of Country
Vertigo’s Publication
Content Warning
The University of Technology Sydney would like to acknowledge the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation as the traditional custodians and knowledge keepers of the land on which UTS now stands and pays respect to Elders past, present, and emerging. MAREE GRAHAM Deputy Director, Students, and Community Engagement Jumbunna Institute for Indigenous Education & Research
Vertigo is published by the UTS Students’ Association (UTSSA), and proudly printed by SOS Printing, Alexandria. The contents of Vertigo do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the editors, printers, or the UTSSA. Vertigo and its entire contents are protected by copyright. Vertigo will retain the right to republish in any format. Contributors retain all other rights for resale and republication. No material may be reproduced without the prior written consent of the copyright holders.
Some articles may contain themes of abuse, anxiety, blood, chronic illness, death, descriptions of medical procedures, drug use, homophobia, mass shooting, paedophilia, racism, sexual assault, and sexual harassment. If you or someone you know is struggling with drug use, please consider speaking to your local GP, a healthcare professional, or calling one of the numbers below. Family Drug Support Australia— 1300 368 168 Lifeline — 13 11 14 If you or someone you know is experiencing, or has experienced sexual abuse, you can call or refer the person to the following confidential hotlines. General — 1800 737 732 Counselling — 1800 211 028 Crisis Centre — 1800 424 017
THIS IS YOUR PUSH, YOUR PULL. SORRO UNDERNEATH. LOCKED IN YOUR VERY HALFWAY HOUSE. PIECES OF US WE LEF THE WAY–ASHES IN OUR WAKE. BUBBLE JUST BENEATH THE SURFACE. FRIENDSH FROZEN; THE RUSH BETWEEN FLIGHT A FEET PRESSED TO PAVEMENT, ON THE WRINKLES IN FAMILY TREES. A BALMY B HOT ON YOUR COLLAR. GOOSEBUMPS G WE SURVIVE AS ENIGMAS MOULDED FROM PARADOXES: SPINNING OUT OF C
VOLUME 3 IS ABOUT YOUR COMPROMIS SACRIFICE. STORIES OF GIVE AND TAKE THAT ACHED, BEGGING FOR INTERRUP FEARS YOU’VE FOUGHT THROUGH, INST DISCONNECT, AND DISCOMFORT IN OBL WE SHARE THOUGHTS ON FOLLOWING GUT WHEN SOCIETY SKIPS A BEAT AND CAUGHT IN PURGATORY, FLEETING MOM RELINQUISH YOURSELF FROM YOUR TR THE BIG, THE SMALL, YOUR WINS AND L
OW BURIED Y OWN FT ALONG ES TRAPPED HIPS AND FIGHT. E RUN. BREEZE TOO GONE WRONG.
CONTROL.
SE AND E, MOMENTS PTIONS, TANCES OF LIGATION. G YOUR D YOUR ART MENTS. ROUBLES– LOSSES–
CONTENTS 13 44 58 62 63
FICTION The Women of Green Valley by Aishah Ali Apricots by Hanan Merheb Marcia Lucas by Lucy Tassell What is Left by Isabella Jiang The Flesh Engineer by Jack Cameron Stanton
12 23 36 40 47 61
NON-FICTION Vanua by Nina Pirola Accidentally Like A Martyr by The Desperado of El Dorado Toxic Recommendations and the 3am YouTube Binge by Jasmin Narisetty Queer Icons in Colour: Honoring Icons Past by Katherine Rajwar Me and Her by Lizie Cross After The Great Wave by Meadowbrook Ow
06 38 42 56
AMPLIFY Mixtape by Chloe Dimopoulos The Art of Separation by Sharen Samson For Every Woman I Have Ever Known by Amani Mahmoud Uber Everywhere by Samuel Fraser
08 15 25 49 65 68
SHOWCASE Untitled by Geraldine Buzzo Corporeal Bodies by Agnes Choi At Arm’s Length by Stasia Hendrawan Looking For The Lost by Sam Abbott Maman by Manon Mikolaitis Saudade by Manon Mikolaitis
73 74 75 78 80 82
OFFHAND Who Are You In a Horror Film? Spooky Crossword Students’ Association Reports Horoscopes by Jenny Cao Contributors How to Submit to Vertigo
CHLOE DIMOPOULOS
We Made You
A Mixtape 06.
Editors’ Letter EDITORS Lily Cameron Elizabeth Green Susie Newton Sharen Samson Georgia Wilde CREATIVE DIRECTORS Ady Neshoda Marissa Vafakos
The year is falling away from us, months feel like seconds. We are being swept down the current, rolling towards our futures. It’s important to pump the brakes and understand how we got here. In our third volume we pause to reflect on moments of compromise and sacrifice. We implored out contributors to dig deep and uncover their stories of give and take, their fears, and regrets. We asked for their memories trapped in obligation, their losses, their surrenders. This volume is a release, a catharsis for our contributors, echoed by you, our readers. This is a final product made up of works in progress. Get lost in the worlds our 23 wonderful contributors have carved out for you. Bury yourself in their creations. Let this volume be your refuge. COMPROMISE // SACRIFICE will draw you in gently with the melancholic lushness that is created by Hanan Merheb in Apricots. Exploring the dizzying world of internet rabbit-holes and headache-inducing algorithms, Jasmin Narisetty warns of a future where big corporations dictate the media we consume
in Toxic Recommendations and the 3am YouTube Binge. The eeriness of the past creeps up on you in Manon Mikolaitis’ soft and dreamy Saudade. Jack Cameron Stanton’s The Flesh Engineer will play on your mind long after you read it, transporting you into another dimension–you will find yourself reaching to read it again and again. We are left empowered and empty by Amani Mahmoud’s for every woman i have ever known. Agnes Choi propels us into the push and pull of physical spaces in Corporeal Bodies. We hope that this volume speaks to you. Touches aches that you couldn’t quite put a finger on. We want you to pour over it by candlelight, fuelled by tea and hope, window cracked to feel the last warm breeze before winter sets in. This volume aims to satiate you, to put your mind at ease by showing you that others too have felt these rushes, those missed heartbeats, and have had to confront the dull pain concealed in family trees. Release your anguish, breathe deeply and wholly, this is COMPROMISE // SACRIFICE. Love, Vertigo xx
08.
GERALDINE BUZZO
‘UNTITLED’
10.
GERALDINE BUZZO
‘UNTITLED’
NINA PIROLA
VANUA The heat clings to the back of my neck. In front of me, the upturned roots of the coconut tree stare up at the sky. This isn’t the postcard island scene—something is wrong. I’m in Fiji for a two-week sustainable development course. I’ve been brought here by a sense of responsibility and guilt that I contribute to a system spewing waste and wreaking havoc on the planet. The planet is dying, heaving with the weight of our carelessness. It is incredibly easy for us in Australia to close our eyes and build a reassuring sense of normality in our daily routines. Buy the latest gadget. Upgrade my sneakers. Numb the mind with a Netflix binge. But this trip is jarring with its inescapable heat and unpredictable downpours. We stay for a week at Waivaka Village, a relatively small community in the central mountains of Viti Levu: Fiji’s main island. Being internet free, the main source of entertainment is floating down the river on a plastic carton. The people are incredibly welcoming, wide-open hearts reflected by their wide-open doors. It seems awfully cruel that they come from one of the 14 South Pacific Island nations that contribute a minuscule 0.026% of global carbon emissions, yet they will be one of the first to go under, due to rising sea levels.
I spoke to Jim, an architect who resides in Waivaka Village, who told me that the mandarin trees outside his house no longer bear fruit. All the villagers’ plantations have suffered as a result of the fluctuating weather patterns causing soil erosion and flooding. The fragility of the ecosystem which we rely upon is teetering to a point of no return. This terrifies me. It should terrify all of us. While in Fiji, I read that back home in New South Wales, up to a million Murray cod died due to similar unstable weather patterns. From a scorching 46.2°C, temperatures plummeted to lows of 16°C, killing the local algae. This released toxins that further depleted oxygen levels, thereby suffocating the fish. The Murray Darling is Australia’s most important river system and yet is another example of the political mismanagement of our waterways. The out of sight, out of mind attitude of our politicians must stop if we are to ensure water security and the conservation of our ecosystems. But we mustn’t lose hope. Here in the Pacific, the inspirational 350 Pacific Climate Warriors blocked the world’s largest coal port in Newcastle through a canoe blockade. They defiantly chant, “We are not drowning, we are fighting.” Samuela Kuridrani holds a similar fighting sentiment, as the founder of Kai Ni Cola. It is the first village-based NGO
in Fiji that works at ground level: through coral-planting restoration projects and preventing soil erosion by planting mangroves. Kuridrani warns, “For the youth, it’s our future at risk...in a hundred years even if we fail—at least we can tell them we tried.” We have so much to fight for. The fight for me starts within. As spokesperson of Waivaka, Petero Leveni, says to me, “If I say I love you, then I should love nature...nature is myself, we are nature.” In growing to love myself I’ve come to realise that it is inclusive of the world around me. A lot of what we do is unnatural, but fundamentally we are part of the earth. The Fijians have a word, ‘vanua’, which describes this relationship between the natural world and our bodies as one; we are not disconnected. Turn off your phone, take off your shoes, go outside, and get soil under your feet. Observe the ants, and count the birds, and listen to your body. Then shift how you interact with your surroundings, tuning in attentively to all that is around you. This isn’t easy, our modern world is screeching for our attention. But we must try. Let’s try.
12.
AISHAH ALI
TOM ECCLES
14.
AGNES CHOI ‘CORPOREAL BODIES’
CORPOREAL BODIES
AGNES CHOI IS A MULTI-DISCIPLINARY CREATIVE THAT EXPRESSES HERSELF THROUGH FASHION DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE, EXPLORING SOCIAL AND CULTURAL CONCERNS WITH AN AIM TO STIMULATE CRITICAL THINKING ABOUT THE WORLD IN WHICH WE LIVE.
CORPOREAL BODIES IS AN IMPROVISATIONAL EXPLORATION INTO THE CHEMISTRY OF TWO BODIES THROUGH CONTEMPORARY EXPRESSION; A COMPROMISED PUSH AND PULL FELT THROUGH PHYSICAL AND SPACIAL CONNECTIVITY IN SEARCH OF AN ELEVATED BALANCE IN MIND, BODY, AND MOVEMENT.
16.
AGNES CHOI
‘CORPOREAL BODIES’
18.
AGNES CHOI
‘CORPOREAL BODIES’
AGNES CHOI
‘CORPOREAL BODIES’
Aloha kaua, fellow Technologicans. In the Charybdis of our modern social abode, individualism is becoming rarer and rarer. One can blame climate change, but it’s all social; in the age of twits and Twitter, does one truly know the difference between uniquity and iniquity anymore? In any case, let’s lace up our Nike Decades, don our purple cloaks, and tip Charon in dollars and drachmas. Next stop’s Hale-Bopp baby, time for ‘The Demonstration’. Before then, let’s bid adieu to our current surroundings.
We are all denizens of the Land of Always Whining, where our greatest threats are Aryans in tracksuits and middle-aged women ‘jogging’. It’s not the deadly kind of White Walker, but it’s a constant reminder of the 8,000 years of oppression on the wrong side of the wall. Vitriol, Volksgemeinschaft and Viserion; what a hell we live in. But for us to escape the clutches of Hades and reunite
THE DESPERADO OF EL DORADO
A LM C I A C KR I ET D Y E AR N T A L L Y
with our ethereal Eurydice, we require a strong lyre and stronger resolve–no need to look back, this is the Colombian white path to eternity. Sacrifice. Not sacrifice in the Christian way, with crosses and nails, whips and chains. And not sacrifice in the Jonestown way, with revolution and regicide, Flavour Aid and fearlessness. I mean the good old-fashioned moral sacrifice; giving up an item of value ‘for the greater good’. A little bit Grindelwald, but still an important lesson yet to be tainted by Rowling’s post-revisionism. The greater good; not collectivism, not society, not even that one Instagram influencer that introduced you to the wonders of Lancôme. Sacrificing the parts of self, the ones you used to align so closely with, to better yourself in the long-term. Now, if sacrifice didn’t exist, we’d be perfect. Some would fall; Hillsong would collapse into the depths of hell from whence it came, Tony Robbins would become a golem of
Carbonite and gelatin, and the Queen would wither away into ashes and crust—no Holy Grail needed. Unfortunately, my shit’s fucked up, your shit’s fucked up, and there’s nothing anyone else can do to change that. Until we reach nirvana, arenas will be packed full of hopeless people pseudo-connecting with other hopeless people being fed to the flames by miasmic specters posing as motivational speakers. If the modern-day dhampirs are under the bright lights, doesn’t that make everyone else just another motherfucker trying to ice skate uphill? Fuck Snipes, fuck Stoker and double fuck Sagittarius, Sisyphus is our new... star sign? Spirit animal? Sybian attachment? Life’ll kill ya, no need to consult mystics and statistics. No matter how many people you fuck, fuck over or fucking despise, the grim reaper’s got a cheque you can’t cash. That’s where sacrifice started; throw the lemmings and lepers off the cliff, pray that God doesn’t slaughter our children, and claim divine
manifest in any situation. Nowadays, in a world where men are monsters and women are objects, it’s hard to find meaning outside of sex, distraction, and budding alcoholism. But why try? Isn’t that the point? Is there nothing to life but getting fucked and getting married, raising kids and regretting their existence, and taking your last breaths in a retirement home, senile and covered in shit? Is that the natural progression for society, until we ride on that heavenly houseboat? Is that our destiny—to be washed away, like tears in rain? There are ways to kill the time, don’t get me wrong. It could be feeding Fenrir (or whatever nouveau name you want to give your pets/kids/sex robot) your dominant hand, moisturised in lust and regret. It could be chasing callipygian Californians in clubs every Friday night, until you get tired of attractive people and join Tinder instead. It could even be throwing yourself into a
live volcano—Krakatoa’s just a flight away. But we’ll probably never know. That’s the great part of it all. We can deny and bargain all we like, but we won’t know. Maybe it’s sacrificing ‘for the greater good’. It could be a goat, or a small child, or 20,000 nerve endings. Maybe it’s shaving our heads and building a monastery, maybe it’s slaughtering younglings, maybe it’s Maybelline. Who fucking knows – and who am I to tell you? Life is cheap, death is free, and I’m waiting for the day where we can all join hands, sing Kumbaya, and drown in a sea of pointless pussy together. Hopefully the orgy would last longer than a few minutes–then again, we’re all excitable boys at heart. Either way, we’ll have to wait until the song ends; for now, let’s sing the chorus. Ha’ina ‘ia mai ana ka puana. Godspeed and good luck, motherfucker. Yours truly, The Desperado of El Dorado
24.
STASIA HENDRAWAN ‘AT ARM’S LENGTH’
AT ARM’S LENGTH
STASIA HENDRAWAN STASIA HENDRAWAN IS A DESIGN IN PHOTOGRAPHY STUDENT AT UTS. ALTHOUGH HER PRIMARY INTEREST IS FASHION AND EDITORIAL PHOTOGRAPHY, SHE IS PARTICULARLY INTERESTED IN INCORPORATING NICHE AND ABSTRACT CONCEPTS IN HER PROJECTS, PARTICULARLY THOSE INFLUENCED BY THE SURREALIST ERA OF PHOTOGRAPHY AND DADAISM.
STYLIST: INESSA JUNG
MODELS: TINA DAVIDOVIĆ AND ALEEZA WIJAYA
PHOTOGRAPHER’S ASSISTANT: CAMILLA PATINI
HMUA: ELIZA ANDREWS
26.
STASIA HENDRAWAN
‘AT ARM’S LENGTH’
STASIA HENDRAWAN ‘AT ARM’S LENGTH’
AT ARM’S LENGTH THROUGH THIS PROJECT, I WANTED TO EXPLORE THE PSYCHOLOGICAL EFFECT OF BEING HEAVILY RELIED ON FOR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT. IN MANY CASES, GIVING UP YOUR TIME AND ENERGY FOR ANOTHER OFFERS A SENSE OF FULFILMENT. HOWEVER, I WANTED TO REVEAL THE EMOTIONAL FATIGUE THAT CAN COME FROM WATCHING SOMEONE YOU CARE ABOUT EXPERIENCE DIFFICULT TIMES.
STASIA HENDRAWAN
‘AT ARM’S LENGTH’
STASIA HENDRAWAN
‘AT ARM’S LENGTH’
34.
STASIA HENDRAWAN
‘AT ARM’S LENGTH’
Toxic Recomm and the 3am You Tube Binge The internet is overwhelmed by algorithms trying to tell you what to consume. From video services like YouTube and Netflix pushing content they calculate you’ll watch, to social media platforms filtering and reorganising posts in your interests, and their own. The influence of corporate interest in what you see online can surface toxic, derisive content and misinformation.
Recommendation algorithms collect every iota of data about us, including search keywords, watch history, engagement, and a gamut of other undisclosed data points. This data is then utilised to push an array of loosely-related content, including conspiracy theories and pseudoscience, which algorithmic recommendations have been found to amplify. As a result, the divide across our political sphere grows, giving rise to extremist ideologies; the most harmful being the alt-right.
In 2018, the Director of Research at Columbia University’s Centre for Digital Journalism, Jonathan Albright, discovered that a search for “crisis actors” after the Parkland shooting led to a network of over 9,000 conspiracy videos. This is simply not tolerable, considering platforms manifest rabbit holes for such misinformation to spread. Since algorithms are designed to give users more of what they’ve been viewing, if you watched a few flat-earth conspiracy videos you’d be led down a path of more conspiracies, including the aforementioned Parkland crisis actors. They’d stay in your recommendations for weeks on end, probably until you threw your laptop into the ocean.
This is because the business model of social media platforms seeks to maximise the time we spend online. And it works, too. YouTube has reported that more than 70% of its viewing time comes from AI-driven
CW: MASS SHOOTING, DEATH
36.
JASMIN NARISETTY
mendations recommendations. The thing about this though, is that “AI is optimised to find clickbait”, according to Guillaume Chaslot, a former YouTube engineer. In order to combat this, Chaslot has created a website which works to document YouTube’s recommendation system’s flaws: algotransparency.org. A study by The Guardian using Chaslot’s service found that the top 500 ‘Up Next’ videos of a search of the word “Clinton” consisted of 81% partisan videos favouring the Republican Party. Most featured slanderous accusations about Hillary Clinton. Bias and corporate interest are prevalent online, and we should be aware of this when we interact with web content. Often, this bias leans towards right-wing populist videos, as they use clickbait tactics which satisfies the AI recommendation system. The danger is that these videos make sweeping assumptions based on fear and hysteria, without any evidence, aiming to radicalise. This is epitomised in Alex Jones-esque videos. The endless hours of such antiSJW content creates spaces for white supremacy to grow and become legitimate talking points, which is then recommended to users on YouTube dot gov. This is especially worrying considering more than half of YouTube’s audience use the platform for news and information.
usage time, resulting in more clicks and ads, and less time spent on competitors’ sites. However, startups like Canopy (canopy.cr)— a private, controllable discovery architecture —uses machine-learning to deliver a small handful of quality items to read or listen to every day. This is based on centralised data stored on users’ devices, meaning data is not shared with the company and thus, cannot be fed into a recommendation algorithm. Podcast app Himalaya tested a version where users were asked, point blank, what they wanted from recommendations and tuned them accordingly. As a result, over 100 volunteers were more satisfied with steering their recommendations, and consumed 30% more of the content they wanted. Some are hopeful that Silicon Valley tech companies will follow start-ups and smaller platforms. Others, like myself, are a little more pessimistic. I’m not sure that big companies are willing to radically change their highly successful business models. I mean, YouTube has a market value of more than $75 billion. Mark Zuckerberg alone is worth $67 billion. Twitter’s market cap is $24.7 billion.
If social media platforms continue to promote toxic recommendations riddled with misinformation and hysteria-fuelled assumptions, we’ll continue to see a rise in alt-right and fascist recruitment all around the world.
These platforms aren’t market leaders because users are satisfied with the content they host; it’s because we’re coerced into hours of jumping down rabbit hole after rabbit hole as a result of data-hungry algorithms that push corporate interests. Even if those rabbit holes promote harmful alt-right ideologies that have a role to play in terror attacks; like Charlottesville, Pittsburgh, and now, Christchurch.
The only way we can combat the internet’s petri dish of conspiracy, fabrication, and hateful rhetoric, is for platforms to focus on viewer satisfaction rather than viewing time. Social media profits off our extended
In the Christchurch shooter’s ‘manifesto’, he cited conservative YouTube personality Candace Owens as someone who helped him choose “violence over meekness”. The Pittsburgh attacker openly showed support
Bias and corporate interest are prevalent online, and we should be aware of this when we interact with web content. of Gavin McInnes and the Proud Boys, a violent alt-right group with a heavy online presence, who were present at the Charlottesville massacre. It’s easy to think recommendation algorithms are partisan monoliths, designed by the government or corporations to keep us in line, like some kind of Matrix-esque reality. The truth is, they’re engagement monoliths, and their only governing ideology is keeping users’ eyes glued to their screen for just a few more minutes. After all, clickbait rules everything around us.
THE ART OF
SHAREN SAMSON
CW: SEXUAL ASSAULT AND HARASSMENT, PAEDOPHILIA Separating artists from their art when their choices prove problematic may prompt us to question our values and assess whether we are willing to compromise what we believe for a song. If an artist acts contrary to our values, will their art then be written off as an act of defiance? Or is it easier to turn a blind eye and focus on the artistic form itself? Where do we draw the line, and how forgiving will we be for a beat? Thinking about this puts a knot in my stomach. Music plays a role in all our lives, the white noise as we complete our daily commutes, the booming release at the end of the working week. However, the reality is that our favourite artists can be accused of sexual abuse, or found engaging in paedophilia. The question remains as to whether our experience as listeners is affected by this. I can’t reconcile
“I can’t reconcile the separation of the artist and the art knowing that the person behind it is not ethical.” the separation of the artist and the art knowing that the person behind it is not ethical. The way my mind is wired makes it difficult for me to separate wrongdoings and art. It may be the fact that as a woman, I can connect with the circumstances and envision the distress of survivors. I imagine that those who have different lived experiences to me won’t feel the same way.
I was speaking to a friend of mine about this recently. Tara is avidly involved in the Sydney creative space and interacts with artists quite regularly. She also followed a band for several years up until sexual harassment allegations were released. Tara explained that, although she plays their songs occasionally, support is not something she can
“Everyone should have the ability to amend their pasts.” give. Despite this, she says, “I do think people can change. I think everyone should have the ability to amend their pasts. It’s how this is done, though, and whether they are truly remorseful and aim to change themselves or not.”
Intricacies will arise when understanding these issues. Not everything is black and white, and it can be difficult to make a judgement on the ethical implications of listening to a song. An individual’s life choices do not influence my own. Yet, if aggressive art is matched with aggressive actions, both punishable by law and a disturbance to society, my lived experiences tell me to take a step back. My voice may not be of the masses, and I am OK with this. My favourite artist is human, and tunnel vision is not in my toolbox. Yet, the phenomenon of ‘cancel culture’ stands as problematic because it does not allow people room to grow. I acknowledge that it is important to be aware of who you support, and the lives they lead. But where is the line? What is the distinction between forgivable, ignorant mistakes and heinous crimes? For all that I know, everyone makes mistakes, and ‘cancel culture’ may be too much to bear when push comes to shove. The only thing I know for sure is that my gut won’t waver, and I won’t go where my mind says no.
QUEER ICONS IN COLOUR: HONOURING ICONS PAST Despite the significant strides we have made in the movement towards equality for LGBTQI+ individuals over the last few decades, a significant disparity still exists for queer people of colour. The intersection of being both queer and a person of colour go hand in hand with experiencing high levels of discrimination, being fetishized or vilified in the dating sphere, and being underrepresented within mainstream media.
While the politics of invisibility make it pretty clear that we’ve got a long way to go, we can’t discount the enormous contributions made by people of colour who challenged, and continue to challenge, political and social discourse.
CW: HOMOPHOBIA
But there are those who are a beacon of hope: queer people of colour, past and present who have contributed, pioneered, and fought towards visibility and equality. 40.
1951 Sylvia Rivera –2002
“WE WERE THE FRONTLINES,” “WE DIDN’T TAKE NO SHIT FROM NOBODY,” “WE HAD NOTHING TO LOSE.”
Self-proclaimed as a “black, lesbian, mother, warrior poet”, the influence that Audrey Lorde has had on the literary sphere is immeasurable. Born in New York, Lorde’s love affair with writing began with a job as a librarian, after which she published her debut poetry collection First Cities at 34. Her expansive work embodied her personal experiences: her exploration of her own sexuality, her encounter with breast cancer (The Cancer Journals), to issues of societal discourse including the civil rights movement. Today, she’s recognised as one of the early thinkers to grapple with the intersection of class, race, and gender. Lorde also made significant contributions as an educator, as a poetry teacher at Tougaloo College, Mississippi. She went on to found the first American publisher for women of colour— Kitchen Table: Women of Colour Press. Lorde’s unmissable message permeated through her work; acceptance of difference provided a “reason for celebration and growth.” Following her death in 1992, the Audrey Lorde Award was initiated to celebrate the contributions of lesbian poets.
1934 Audrey Lorde –1992
“MY SEXUALITY IS PART AND PARCEL OF WHO I AM, AND MY POETRY COMES FROM THE INTERSECTION OF ME AND MY WORLDS…”
Ifti Nasim was an Islamic poet, activist, and writer born in Pakistan. He was thought to have written the first queer-themed poetry suite written in Urdu, Narman, which loosely translates to “half man half woman”. The collection was both commended and condemned—with a printer of the manuscript reportedly exclaiming, “Take these unholy and dirty books away from me, or I’ll set them on fire!” Following the publication, Nasim fled Pakistan to Chicago to escape persecution. His work, while often deemed controversial, was ground-breaking in the sense that it questioned Islamic intolerance of homosexuality, resulting in positive change in attitudes towards queerness in Pakistan. A particularly memorable instance was relayed to Nasim by a well-known Pakistani figurehead who told him that after reading his work he broke down because he didn’t previously understand homosexuality. The prominent figure later became a public queer ally. Nasim’s contributions also include his founding of SANGAT/Chicago, an association which promoted the rights for South Asian LGBTQI+ individuals.
1946 Ifti Nasim –2011
“MEAN STREETS OF CHICAGO HAVE BECOME MEANER. ‘GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY. GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.’ THEY YELL AT ME. AND I AM A CITIZEN OF USA WITH NO COUNTRY.”
KATHERINE RAJWAR
Born in the Bronx, New York, Puerto Rican American Sylvia Rivera is rightfully accredited as a legendary transgender activist. While much of her recognition is due to her role as one of the instigators of the historic Stonewall Riots, being thought to have thrown one of the first bottles at police in the early hours of the morning on June 28, 1969, her activism extended far further than this iconic demonstration. Sylvia Rivera fiercely advocated for trans rights and equality for drag queens. As a co-founder of STAR, an organisation dedicated to providing safe spaces for young homeless LGBTQI+ people, she championed for legislation which banned discrimination on the basis of gender and sexuality. Rivera, an individual marginalised on the outskirts of society, embodied myriad minority groups: Queer, sex worker, Puerto Rican, lower class. She was undoubtedly a pioneer in the movement toward LGBTQI+ liberation.
A SPOKEN WORD POEM
FOR EVERY WOMAN I HAVE EVER KNOWN
CW: BLOOD, ABUSE
my mother’s hands, protruding veins embroided onto age old skin like roadmaps leading to nowhere hands that have kneaded too much atta hands that have held too many broken things i watch them drown in the moonlight and i can’t help but say i want a life that is nothing like yours i don’t want sacrifice and she recoils retracts, she says this is my choice she runs on open, bloody wounds towards a narrowing horizon towards a sunset perpetually out of reach and says to me these are my choices don’t you ever look me in the eyes i gave you and have the courage to pity me she says choice but how can i see choice when i see her mother, her mother’s mother all the women in my family, all the women i have ever known 42.
i see the sewing of smiles into tired, weathered faces
i see unreasonable compromise after unreasonable compromise i see unreasonable compromise after unreasonable compromise i see them standing in shallow graves
i see them just being in the wrong place at the wrong time i see them just being in the wrong place at the wrong time think of all the slit necks and all the blood spilt just so he could drink, just so he could see something red i see acid tears burning their hands that they made the mistake of crying into they made the mistake of whispering their fears into i see generations of frustration that she’ll only ever show through a single sigh i saw the light leave my friend’s eyes when she told me she’s going back to him she’s giving this abusive man another try my cousin calls with a split lip and with a joker-like smile says “what? nothing happened?” and then she drowns in denial and i’ll always ask why she stays and goes through enduring this exhausting mess people i know have left for a lot less
she said don’t you worry she said don’t you worry
i’ll drink the blood that they took
until it pours from my eyes until it pours from my eyes
and maybe then you’ll realise that i don’t need help i don’t need pity i’m doing just fine
she’s free from him now, at least there’s that, but she told me she can’t help but miss the knife in her back i remember when my cousin’s abuser died (a different cousin) she said it doesn’t matter and that her jaw still clicks and her mind still plays tricks when she sees him at night and when someone touches her she’ll always flinch i tell my mother i still pray for a life nothing like theirs and i know we’ll always disagree
but she says instead you pray to be anything, but she says instead you pray to be anything, anything like me. anything like me.
AMANI MAHMOUD
i see the wounds they held closed with calloused hands i see the wounds they held closed with calloused hands
APRICOTS CW: RACISM
The fruits never taste as good as they do back home. Grapes here are a little too sour, a little too soft. Figs are always too big and dry, the rich syrup that drips from their core somehow lost among the chemicals and pesticides. The mulberries are never as sweet either. Back home, we’d pick mulberries straight off the trees, fingernails stained purple, and no matter how careful we were, we’d always find spots of the bright juices on our clothes. The stain never goes away. But it’s the apricots that I miss the most. The apricots here have no real flavour and are always a little too dry. Buying a bag of apricots turns into a game of luck. You break them in half, exposing their dark pits, only to realise the flesh inside is pale and dry. One or two might be good enough to eat, but not as good as the ones I used to have back home.
loosen the Arabic knot from my throat. I can learn to drop the r’s from the ends of words and to blend ‘good day’ into ‘g’day’, but this will never be for me to own. My daughter thinks it is hers. Those apricots were always better. They were the sweetest fruit, with just a touch of tartness that danced along the taste buds. Bite into one, and the soft skin would break away easily, the moist flesh meaty, with just a bit of juice. Back home, the apricots taste better. Here should be home. Here, in Australia, with my house and my family. Here where my brothers and sisters boarded a plane to reach a new country, to make new connections thousands of kilometres away. Here where a hundred different landscapes and raging oceans and borders and politics stand between me and the people who raised me. Here where war only exists on our TV screens, and where the electricity never cuts out.
Samira thinks her roots belong to this one plot of red land, and nowhere else. She doesn’t see the seeds that were sowed before her and the uprooting it took to bring her here. I see her now, sitting away from her family, hunched down low in her seat. Her eyes watch for every person that passes by our holiday cabin, and she winces when her uncles yell out ‘good morning’ in their broken English. When her grandmother blows out billows of smoke from her shisha and when the water bubbles up from the bulbous glass
But no matter how firmly I plant my feet, it is not home. I can cut my beard shorter, and
44.
HANAN MERHEB
white skin. She forgets the blood that courses through her veins is the blood of the people she rejects.
bottom, she shuffles her chair further away and covers her nose. “Bloody Arabs,” she says, her voice low. But what does she think she is? Does she think they look at her and see one of their own? Does she not realise that to others she too is the Bloody Arab she so wishes to condemn? “I was born here,” she tells me. “I’m not like you. I’m Aussie. Oi, oi, oi.” She thrusts her chin into the air and crosses her arms over her chest, eyebrows raised. Pride. A birth certificate and a passport are her claims to superiority. She thinks she is one of them and is better for it. But she forgets the ancestors that have carved themselves into her body. She doesn’t see my curved nose or her mother’s wide hips. Her grandmother’s thick hair and bushy eyebrows, and her grandfather’s murky green eyes. Her paternal grandparent’s widow’s peak and milky
The tattered flyscreen door bangs open onto the peeling wood behind it, and Samira’s aunties step out onto the front veranda, balancing plates of buttery fried eggs, oily green olives, and soft bread. They cover the glass table with their food, and when they can fit no more, they open up a folding table and cover that too with sliced tomatoes, pickles, onions, and pots of tea. I hear Samira mutter something about normal people having toast for breakfast, but she digs in anyway, her Lebanese appetite unlikely to be satiated by just a piece of bread. A family walks past us, bright green and pink zinc stripes painted across the bridge of their noses.
“That smells wonderful! Now that’s a breakfast.” The wife lifts up her straw hat and moves closer to us while her children giggle at the sounds of the shisha. I pass her a plate filled with a mixture of soft chickpeas, garlic yoghurt, and crispy fried bread, which she takes eagerly. Samira smiles, relieved at their approval. “Come, please, join us! We have plenty of food,” my brother calls, but they laugh and decline, and thank us for the plate of food. Samira’s smile vanishes the moment the words leave her uncle’s lips and she shakes her head, embarrassed at how inviting we were. This is where her pride should be, with our hospitality that extends beyond the colour of skin and the sounds of language. Where our love of food becomes our love for people, and tables are spread out across neighbourhoods and cities to share the meals made with the fingertips of our women.
HANAN MERHEB
Pushing away her plate of buttery scrambled eggs and spicy sujuk, Samira grabs her younger brother and a punnet of freshly washed raspberries and heads down to the sandy shores of the lake. She inspects each berry before eating, twisting the soft red fruit over in her hands, making sure there aren’t any hidden bugs. Does she remember the fruit from back home? Does she remember sitting on the shoulders of her grandfather and picking grapes from the vines that crawled above the driveway? Or sitting under a fig tree while her mother peeled the green skin for her? Does she remember plucking an unripe fig that hung low, feeling the milky white sap ooze onto her hands? She was so little then.
I should have taken her back.
my bags and spend fourteen hours on a flight trying to reach my country. Alone.
Maybe it’s all my fault. I never gave her a chance to truly see the country I call home. “When I die,” I tell my brothers, “bury me in I took her once when she was two and Lebanon. Don’t let them rest my body here.” watched her stand under the snowy cedar They laugh at me. trees, her chubby cheeks pink from the cold, “You’ll be dead,” they say, “it doesn’t matter and again when she was seven and she where you are.” But it does. It matters to proudly argued back to my teasing cousins me. Let my body decay into the soil that my in her haphazard Arabic. She used to dance outside the shops, her shoulders shimmying people ploughed, and let my bones settle into the same earth that belonged to my along to the sound of the traditional drums. father and his father before him. For a while, ‘Dad’ was forgotten on her lips and I became Baba. But then we never I break open an apricot just as Samira comes went back. back up to the veranda, her brother racing in front of her. To my surprise, the apricot Now, her only memories are tainted by the pictures of war and corruption that she sees isn’t too bad, its flesh a nice golden orange. on the news. When I suggest we go back for I hold my hand out to her, offering her one half, but shakes her head and turns away. a holiday, she argues with me, telling me that it’s my home, not hers. So I listen, and I pack She doesn’t eat apricots.
46.
CW: ANXIETY
Beside my mirror sits a small polaroid, clumsily stuck against the wall, that always catches my eye. My 16-year-old self stares back at me, square-framed turquoise-shelled glasses peaking over my nose. The camera’s flash illuminates the deep red tones of my low bun, when I discovered the euphoria that came with dramatic hair alterations, but not before my realisation of the consequences. In the background, my friend Lil wears a warm smile, her body poking out from behind my shoulder as she holds notes for an upcoming mock trial. This was back when we believed being a lawyer was as simple as shouting, “objection!” before whispering with co-counsel for validation and interrogating a 17-year-old high school boy named Liam struggling to remember his script for his debut role as ‘Trolley Robber’. I remember that moment in my life so clearly, not only because of the poor hair decisions and acting debuts, but because it marked the start of an internal compromise with which I’m beginning to come to terms.
What was supposed to be a social and rebellious time marked by firsts and mistakes—often one and the same—was filled with more tears than tequila.
I’ve had anxiety for as long as I can remember, and have watched family members on both sides deal with it too. It wasn’t until the time of that polaroid that I realised how much it affected me. I began to notice the anxiety when my initial excitement from party invites quickly turned to dread. I realised when talking to classmates in breaks made my stomach turn. Don’t even get me started on public speaking; that monster required weeks of Olympic-level mental preparation. What was supposed to be a social and rebellious time marked by firsts and mistakes—often one and the same—was filled with more tears than tequila. I am happy to report I maintain a healthy balance between the two now—you say emotionally unstable, I say why waste money on salt.
In my final year of school, I was given special consideration for exams on the recommendation of a teacher who knew me quite well and could see that my anxiety was getting harder for me to handle. I felt ashamed when people asked why I was escorted to a separate room, and didn’t feel much better when I was told a friend of mine was complaining how unfair it was and that I didn’t deserve it. Throw in the antics of teenage girls and the excruciating pain and pressure of the HSC, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for one anxious, anti-social young lass—albeit, a very fashionable one with killer hair.
It’s stopped me from becoming part of the stories written at friends’ parties I never attended, because the fear that I’d embarrass myself was paralysing.
Over the years, I’ve watched my anxiety rear its ugly head time and time again, at the beginning of each semester, bringing its own set of hurdles. It’s lost me introductions with could-have-been friends at uni, when I could barely get myself to class let alone make conversation that didn’t turn into incoherent garbage. It’s stopped me from becoming part of the stories written at friends’ parties I never attended, because the fear that I’d embarrass myself was paralysing.
It’s made me cancel appointments, it’s stopped me applying for jobs. I feel it on my days off, when the idea of everything I should be doing cripples me. I feel it on the days that I work, worrying that I’ll say the wrong thing to a customer, or spill something, or offend someone—even though these things are rarities and would in fact make work days far more entertaining. At the heart of it, it makes me feel like a child, with no control of the situation and no skills to get myself out. I feel locked out of my own life. I feel totally and utterly powerless.
LIZIE CROSS
Me and Her
When I tell people I have anxiety, I have been told on more than one occasion that I’m just dramatic and maybe it’s just that I ‘get stressed easily’. The idea that I use anxiety as a means to justify an overly dramatic personality is at times soul-crushing, but somewhat hilarious because admittedly I am the most anxious drama queen you will ever meet. My desire to dominate a stage is equally as big as my urge to run from it. The irony of all of this, of course, is that I am by nature an extrovert. A rare breed, with few reported sightings in the wild, anxious extroverts are inherently social beings, yet the idea of talking or even being in the vicinity of other people feels like someone is sitting on their chest and cutting off their air supply. When I let it slip that I associate parties with uncontrollable fear and that starting a conversation with someone makes me physically ill, to my delight people often remark something like, “But you’re so outgoing? How could this be? Can you even been extroverted and anxious? What is this madness!” This might be a good time to note I was Drama Captain at school, and maintain so in life.
The only real strategy that’s ever worked for me is acceptance coupled with brutal honesty.
My days are usually an alternating compromise between extroverted me, and the nasty bug that is my anxiety. I’ve employed almost every strategy to balance the two and maintain the illusion of a social life.
It makes me feel like a child, with no control of the situation and no skills to get myself out. I feel locked out of my own life. I feel totally and utterly powerless.
I’ve tried bribes: if I go to this lecture, then I can go see that movie (as was the case for an entire semester after my Nan passed away, or as I’ve come to call it, the Movie Mania of ’18). I’ve pulled the old: go, and if I really want to I can leave. I’ve even gone as far to just pretend I’m someone else, someone incredibly confident who can never say or do the wrong thing ever.
When that polaroid was taken, I had just devised a strategy of doing up my hair in fun and often bizarre styles to turn myself into a walking conversation starter and force myself to talk to people— even if the conversation was “Mate, what the hell is on your head?” The only real strategy that’s ever worked for me is acceptance coupled with brutal honesty— with myself and others. I apologise to friends when I bail on plans, or when I don’t message for a while. I try to explain that it’s not that I don’t want to go to that gig, or meet their friends, but that sometimes I lose the battle with my anxiety, and it just seems easier to give in to its demands. If they understand, then I know I’ve got a good one, and my anxiety begins to feel a little smaller. Luckily, I have an amazing group of people in my life who have on more than one occasion received panicked texts outside lecture rooms, and self-deprecating snapchats of my outfit hiding genuine fear about walking out the front door. Sometimes people don’t get it, and I’m back to being ‘stressed out’ and just a drama queen, and that’s ok. They’re the times that my anxiety and I sit together, like a reconciled divorced couple, and say, “Well, I guess they’re not for us.”
This is the truth as I have come to accept it. If you want to hang out with me, you’re hanging out with my anxiety. We’re a package deal.
I still say the wrong thing sometimes. I still scream internally when meeting someone new. And oh boy do I embarrass myself. But knowing that I’ve managed to get this far, and still have an abundance of beautiful people in my life whose parties I attend a little more regularly, makes it all a little easier to take. This is the truth as I have come to accept it. If you want to hang out with me, you’re hanging out with my anxiety. We’re a package deal. We may only have an appearance rate of 60%, and a response time of 1-3 business days, but we’re fantastic at organising parties and writing incredibly thorough study notes. Take it or leave it. 48.
SAM ABBOTT
‘LOOKING FOR THE LOST’
SAM ABBOTT
‘LOOKING FOR THE LOST’
SAM ABBOTT
‘LOOKING FOR THE LOST’
SAM ABBOTT
‘LOOKING FOR THE LOST’
UBER EVERY WHERE CW: SEXUAL ASSAULT AND HARASSMENT
56.
SAMUEL FRASER
MadeinTYO said it best. Uber every-fuckin-where. Growing up, we were told not to get in cars with strangers. Stranger Danger was a pandemic and any interaction with an unknown adult was a big no-no. Yet, with the evolution of shared economies and the convenience of ride-sharing services, apps like Uber, Ola, and Taxify are challenging what we believe. The introduction of Uber to Australia in 2012, the year of the apocalypse, meant that the world as we knew it had come to an end as predicted by the Mayans. We had gone from “don’t talk to strangers on the internet” and “don’t get into a stranger’s car” to summoning them from our smartphones to drive us around. It is strange that we have compromised our values and become so trusting of this fairly new service, which is now one of the top ride-sharing companies worldwide. And then there’s Uber Pool, the most affordable Uber ride, which matches your ride with other people heading in the same direction. That’s sharing a trip with not only your driver, but other random people. This is beyond terrifying for a number of reasons, not just because of the lessons that were ingrained in us as children, but it raises many anxiety-inducing concerns. Beyond the safety concerns of marginalised people in our society, there are the day-to-day worries of interacting with strangers. What do you say? Do you make conversation with every single person in the car? What is expected of you? Will everyone be rating you?
Although the ride-sharing service is reasonably safe, an array of Uber horror stories exist—there are even several subreddits dedicated to the topic. And while most talk about their driver speeding or taking a longer route to scam them for their money, there are still ample stories that are bound to give you nightmares or fear for your everyday safety. Many of us have encountered the seedy, middle-aged driver who will find us on Facebook after a trip to say “you are very beautiful!” shortly followed by an Instagram follow and comment on your most recent photo. And of course, this man has a profile picture which is an extreme close-up. While this encounter is uncomfortable to say the least, there are arguably far worse and far more terrifying stories you hear about. For example, the woman in Brisbane who was held by her Uber driver for more than an hour against her will, for what should have been a ten minute trip. Some could argue that these issues are inherent with any service that places you alone with a random person, but it also raises the question: should we be more hesitant to get in cars with strangers? Clearly, Stranger Danger is still a stark threat to many of us, especially for women and marginalised groups. Shebah is Australia’s first women-only ride-sharing service that successfully addresses the issue of stranger danger with a focus on safety. They are a “ride-share for the vulnerable” that uses “an inclusive definition of ‘women’ meaning [they] welcome trans, genderqueer women and non-binary people”. However, the app has sparked controversy—not only from fragile men that believe they are now victims of sexism, but it raises concerns about how the driver can discern the gender identity of customers. While I am still quite apprehensive about using services such as Uber Pool, and realistically cannot afford anything except for LimeBike, it is undeniable that these services have changed the way I, and many people travel. Yet, I am too passionate about increasing my surprisingly low 4.85 Uber rating to stop using the service entirely.
58.
LUCY TASSEL
AFTER THE
CW: CHRONIC ILLNESS Time only moves forward–yesterday becomes last week, becomes four months ago, becomes two years ago. Do you remember who you were two years ago? How do you hold on to who you think you are, when your life is irreparably changed? I was diagnosed with a chronic illness at twenty-years-old, in the midst of my first year at university. Rheumatoid arthritis, an autoimmune condition, caused my body lasting acute joint pain for two years before my treatments started to take effect. Over those years of tests and medication trials, my wrist was damaged and lost its flexibility irreversibly. For a long time, I was upset and frustrated about the condition. I always knew myself as an energetic, fiery and independent person. I loved bowling, loved kayaking, loved (Wii) tennis. I enjoyed playing guitar and liked to rearrange my room. Every summer I used to work at a book-printing factory, packing freshly-printed Australian Law dictionaries into large boxes. I practised karate for eleven years–I was a black belt. Being a woman, I had always taken pride in my physical strength and the ability to defend and attack if I ever needed. Two years of rheumatoid arthritis, medication side effects, and doctors’ orders to ‘rest at every interval’ whittled my physical strength away. I was weak and terrified of it– terrified of the pain I felt from daily activities, and the pain I might feel if I were ever in a situation where I couldn’t defend myself.
PAIN CHANGES YOU–IT BECOMES THE CORE OF YOUR WORLD VIEW–LIFE IS NO LONGER ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT, YOU CAN ONLY FOCUS ON WHAT YOU FEEL. YOU BECOME DESPERATE FOR THE AGONY TO STOP.
I lost my love for my usual pastimes and hobbies; I felt cheated out of the life I had seen ahead of the me pre-diagnosis, and I only had this condition to blame. The little strength I had was spent upholding an inner resistance or stubbornness, clinging tightly to what could be salvaged from the past ‘me’. Was I still a goodhumoured person, a loving daughter, or an enthusiastic nerd in class? I felt that the illness defined me–that I was no longer anything but my sense of vulnerability. Eventually I came to see that many aspects of my previous self still existed. Truthfully, I believe that when life throws you a curveball nothing can retain who you were. By the time you’ve gone through it, you’re already somebody new, simply realigned. BIG OR SMALL, WE ARE CONSTANTLY EXPERIENCING NEW THINGS, AND WE GAIN INSIGHT FROM THOSE THINGS, WHETHER WE CONSCIOUSLY KNOW IT OR NOT. WE ARE SHEDDING OUR SKIN AND REWRITING OURSELVES EACH DAY.
For some reason, we hold to the belief that we will be the same people we were yesterday, a week ago, or even two years ago. But if who you are is who you always will be, how can you grow or accept change? You deny the things that don’t align with your self-image and sometimes cause yourself more pain. Years ago, a friend of mine nominated me as ‘Most Likely to Change’ and I took it as an implication that I was somehow a dishonest person for having the capacity to completely transform who I was. Looking back, I laugh because it’s so painfully correct. I have come to realise that by holding myself to the life of the old me, I was committing myself to what I couldn’t do instead of what I could. I still haven’t worked out my condition to a tee, but I accept that rheumatoid arthritis is a part of who I am, whether or not I say so. For now, I’m content to perceive this as an opportunity to reimagine things. I wonder what I’ll learn tomorrow, or who I’ll be tomorrow. Who will I be in a week, or in four months, or in two years?
MEADOWBROOK OW
GREAT WAVE
RACHEL PERCIVAL
IS
ISABELLA JIANG
WHAT Perhaps it was my fault, after all. After everything. That night with my hands in my pockets. The wet earth cold when you flipped the rocks, and watched life run. The cold / the cold that does not flinch from the summer. Here is the question: What will you give? What will you give? & what will / you take? The rings that slid off easy, the belief that makes it hurt / the chasmic space between the meaning of me and me, the way your eyes flinch. How kindness is a cruelty sometimes, how pain cleanses & purifies. Snip the bud / & we grow a little stronger. I dream of a beetle unfolding its hidden wings. Spreadeagledspectre angel of pins & dusty words. What would I give? An ending more complete than the circle of your hands.
62.
JACK CAMERON STANTON
THE FLESH ENGINEER
CW: DESCRIPTIONS OF MEDICAL PROCEDURES, DRUG USE Now it’s dark. At the door I stroke Meow-Meow’s calico fur, and watch“Can you turn the music down?” stars explode in her bionic eyes. Purring, she gazes around the room,“Um, why, man?” showing none of the twitches or vomiting or flailing and drooling “Because,” he says, clicking his tongue between words. “Every that Anubis exhibited right before he dropped dead on my living room environment and object has its own acoustical signature.” carpet. She leaps onto the windowsill where she spends most her time“I need to groove while I work.” now, staring at the trains. He’s brought a Bloody Mary in a take-away cup and has a cigarette going. I sit near the door, in my purple chair shaped like a hand, and swivel I grab his arm and guide him into the hand chair. “Going to tell me left and right. about losing your eyes, then?” I ask. This morning I found Meow-Meow walking into a wall, retreating,“Not really,” he says. “It’s a painful subject. I pulled them out myself adjusting her step, then prowling into a different part of the wall. after a bad trip on some new stuff.” Maybe those eyeballs are faltering a tad. Just like Anubis, and Sally“Ah. Thought so.” the Pembroke Welsh Corgi before him. But hey, what choice do I have?“Thought what?” he asks. “By the way I’ve had eight of these already Emu Man’s paid enough to cover three-months’ rent, plus put away and I can’t even feel a thing.” He attempts to place the half-finished $200 a week (unprecedented). And no people have died yet. I mean Bloody Mary on the operating table. It tumbles and red liquid pours technically things got hairy with that girl, what’s her name? The one across the floorboards, splashing my Birkenstocks. who carried around a prosthetic heart in a backpack? With that tube“Here, no worries, none at all, cool things down a little man,” I say, twirled around her wrist like a piece of jewellery, snaking up her arm handing him the mojito in the ice-cream tub. and then disappearing into the sleeve. She finally rang me after ten“The hell is this?” of the hypothesised twelve months she had left had passed. “Just sip it.” So did I feel guilty when I heard the news? Pecking around for the straw, not bothering to echolocate, Emu Man That she’d been poisoned from the inside by a leaking battery inside finally finds it, but only after poking his blindfold a couple of times. a prototype bionic heart installed by a freelance flesh engineer? (AKA me?)“Look I get it,” I say. “The past is a black dog from hell, yadda yadda No. I mean, she ended up being fine. She shot right up that waiting yadda–” list and six months later she was strutting from social media feed to “Damn right it’s hell. It’s bleak. Especially if you’ve been taking hallucinogens with your ex-wife.” feed with a banging new heart. Damn, what was her name? The buzzer by the front door stirs me from my reverie. I hoist myself“And how is . . . Angela? Right?” He snorts. “Fucked if I know.” Then lets out a long sigh. out of my hand chair. “Emu, that you?” I ask, staring at the dead cockroach that has been“Right before she left me she got a job for FunCity. Now Head of Operations for their underground Sydney HQ. And God knows I can’t belly-up beside the door since Tuesday. “Mmhm,” he says. In the video feed the tiny Emu Man with bandaged find my way down there.” He looks at me. Well, he points his face in my direction. eyes shifts from foot to foot. “Oh.” “Come on up.” Emu Man uses the echolocation transmitter I installed for him to “If I knew where she was, think I would be here with you?’ “Ouch, man.” reach my fifth-floor apartment, clicking his tongue. A slow-going way to navigate thirty-six steps, so I start to prepare the“Yes,” Emu Man says, “maybe I’m past the age where love can be reduced workplace. I crank the volume of a Laurent Garnier DJ mix, then drop to pheromones. But life without her shrank, and I was mad at her for to the floor and smash out thirty push-ups, no worries. In the kitchen leaving, and it’s taken me until now to get over it, okay?” I grab an old ice-cream tub and use the bottom of the Bacardi bottle He does that freaky looking-but-not-actually-seeing thing again. ‘“I’m utterly convinced,” I say. to crush together limes and ice to make a very alcoholic mojito. A thump—either fist or nose—against my door cuts through the I retrieve the rope from underneath the operating table and tie it moody techno. Emu Man stalks inside, ducking his head to clear around his elongated body—about twice the size of the old dental chair—leaving only his hands unbound. the frame.
“Look, I could really do with some insurance.” He drains the last of by many dealers yet. Not advertised or anything. It’s being made by the mojito. “Know what I mean? That you know what you’re doing?” FunCity beneath Hyde Park.” “Sure, I get it. You’re not shopping for underwear, is what you’re saying.” I harness his head. “Heard about this. Apparently they found a lake Outside, a woman achoos. I collect Meow-Meow from the windowsill in one of the tunnels. Water crystal clear.” and hold her in front of Emu Man’s face. “Yeah, they bottle it,” Emu Man says, “and guess where I find my missing “Check this beauty out,” I say. wife? Down there, hooked on the stuff. Next thing you know—“ “Um, I can’t. Remember?” “You put it in your eyes?” “Then you’ve just gotta trust me.” I drop her on the rug. “Want something“Yeah, that’s why I had to scoop them out.” Emu Man’s words begin for the pain? Let me . . . ah, there it is.” I scrape a couple of long lines to slur; not long now. “They…they’ve, oh man…the next best thing. together with a plastic fork, pluck the curly straw from Emu Man’s One drop in each eye and twelve hours of tripping, no worries.” mojito and stick it under his nostril. “Sounds like my kind of jam.” “Here, big fella, bit of anaesthesia for you.” I guide him toward one of“Time slows down. Gets...dreamier. Only way I could avoid some the lines. Obediently, he cranes his neck and zooms the straw through permanent...oblivion...was to...to...oh man.” the crystals, not succeeding in following the line I cut out for him but “Shhhhhh,” I whisper. “Sleep.” taking enough for a solid bender. When he goes limp, I jam the forceps on, prying his sockets open. “Damn,” I say. “Solid, man. Respect. Are you nervous? You shouldn’t Pulling his bionic eyeballs from the operating table—heterochromic be—if you are.” blue and green—I get to work. Kind of guessing how much I should be giving him, I move the straw At daybreak some weirdo in monk robes with a shaved head drives into his other nostril then guide his head back to the plate. “I’m sick of clicking everywhere I go,” he says. “People reckon I’m some a Mini Cooper without any number plates into the driveway and honks sort of freak.” He reaches for the mojito, grabbing at air. He huffs, then outside my window. I wrap Emu Man in a blanket, but despite all the rib-nudges and nose-holding I can’t wake him. I bounce down the clicks his tongue and grabs the ice-cream tub. I wander around the other side of the chair and begin to unravel the steps and approach the Mini. The woman behind the wheel stares through blue-tinted speed dealers. I glimpse myself in the reflection. bandages, tied together by three paperclips. Emu Man grabs my wrists. “You know,” he says quietly, “no one has“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be Angela, would ya?” seen me without the bandages since my meltdown.” Even quieter. She doesn’t say anything. “Look, whatever man, give me a hand?” She follows me up the stairs “Not even Angela. Not that I’ve seen her either.” and into my apartment. I nod sympathetically. “You’re brave, Emu.” “You’re looking fresher than Emu, considering all the FUN you’ve “Oh shut up.” At last the bandages come free and, Jesus, man, his eyelids, especially been taking?” the right one, look like pincushions. I’m guessing he sewed that one She snorts. “Really believe everything a junkie tells you?” last. His eyes are creatures from a Clive Barker novel: two Cenobites We navigate the snoring, ketamine-soaked Emu Man down the stairs sewn with fishing wire that has come loose in some places and sliced and into the backseat of the Mini. She zooms away in the rising sun, straight through a red light and onwards north. straight through his eyelids in others. In my bedroom I check on Meow-Meow and find her a few paces from “Fishing wire?” I say. “Very unsanitary.” the bed, lying on her side, robotic eyes open and twitching automatically “I didn’t have a choice,” he says. in their sockets. I crouch beside her. Blood leaks from her mouth. “Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask, leaning in. “Shit no, but something tells me you’re not going to operate until I do,”I press my ear against her chest, the tick-tick ectopic. I press the emergency button underneath her chin that activates her in-built he huffs. His lips curve, breathing relaxes. His meaty clubs dangle off the armrest. defibrillator, receiving some collateral electric shocks. I start, and drop her. When I stare at her dead on the floor, I think first of Emu Man, “Well?” He sighs. “It’s that new drug going around. FUN. It isn’t really sold and his bionic eyes, then of Erica. Oh yes, that was her name. Erica.
64.
MANON MIKOLAITIS
MANON MIKOLAITIS
MANON MIKOLAITIS
MANON MIKOLAITIS
WHO ARE YOU IN A HORROR FILM?
You hear a noise from upstairs, do you: Go check it out, it’s probably your cat
Run straight out the door
Your friend cracks out a ouija board, do you:
You identify more as:
Don’t mess with that paranormal BS
Try it! It could be a fun experience
Your friend is possessed, do you:
What’s the worst horror story?
First tutorial ice breakers
A group assignment
It’s Halloween, you can be found:
At a party, showing off your couples costume
THE LOVERS
You’ve thought to yourself–what could be better than spending a romantic weekend camping with your S/O, getting it on under the stars? Of course you have, you’re in love. But you also didn’t hear Samara from The Ring sneak up behind you while you were thinking about how dreamy your S/O is. Focus on survival next time.
The Babadook
Pennywise the Clown
Freaking out in a haunted house
THE ONE WHO GETS POSSESSED
Let’s face it, you’re a little gullible. You’re very trusting of creepy kids who’ve told you that they need your help. You may have been one of those creepy kids. You’re going to need an exorcism for sure.
Call a priest
Perform an exorcism yourself
You would hate to be chased by:
Chucky
THE ONE WHO FALLS OVER
We get it, you’re clumsy, it’s part of your endearing ‘not like the other girls’ charm. But when you’re tripping over in your dreams while Freddy Kruger is after you, you’re toast. We love you, but we love to hate you when you trip over the only crack in the ground.
The Nun
THE LONE SURVIVOR
You’ve got your local priest on speed dial, and some spare holy water in your pocket. When someone suggests a ouija board, you shut that shit down. Destiny’s Child’s ‘Survivor’ is your anthem and so it should be.
RD O W S S O R C Y
K O PO
S
ACROSS 12: _____ horse (4) 15: Not of this world (12) 17: Anagram of “vile” (4) 18: Where the dead rest (8) 19: Evil spirit (5)
1: Casting lady (5) 2: Compete in a bee (5) 3: State capital of Oregon (5) 6: Laugh shrilly (6) 8: Existence following death (9)
11: Inexplicable event (7) 13: The _____ Reaper (4) 14: Uncanny, and a bit spooky (5) 16: Sharp cry (6)
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4: Casper (5) 5: Bully’s weapon (4) 7: October 31st (9) 9: Ron Weasley is one (6) 10: Terrifying experience (9) 11: Potter’s practice (5)
DOWN
Students’ Association Reports Mehmet Musa PRESIDENT Dear UTS Students, The period between the second and third edition of Vertigo has been a busy one for the UTS Students’ Association (UTSSA). We have passed a motion to train OfficeBearers and members of the UTSSA Executive in relation to a number of areas that is incidental to their roles. The UTSSA is hoping to implement Constitutional change. Whilst this process has been in the works for a number of years, it will hopefully be completed this year. We will need to have a campus resolution vote to approve the Constitutional changes, which will require a total of 200 votes, split evenly at the Broadway campus and also at Haymarket. This process will occur after the University conducts their own audit and University Council approves the Constitution. Following from that, we will need to update our by-laws as I believe they need refreshing, especially in the context of a new Constitution.
Furthermore, the UTSSA has hired the research company ‘EY Sweeny’. It has done so to further understand student needs and to see if the UTSSA has any scope to cover this. The EY Sweeny team has already begun conducting focus groups and questionnaires in order to gather qualitative and quantitative data. Therefore, if you get an email from there EY Sweeny team, please understand it is in fact legitimate— we have received many emails from students who think it is a scam or spam material. Hence, this research while costly, will provide us guidance in our future campaigns by identifying gaps in services that the UTSSA can fill regarding student welfare. I will keep council updated on this process. This concludes my report. Feel free to contact me for any student concerns or questions that you may think I could assist you with. My email is: president@utsstudentsassociation.org
Aiden More TREASURER HIGHLIGHT NUMBERS FROM THE EXPENSE SUMMARY
of the exec in events is not just for its own sake, but to ensure fiscal responsibility and accountability. Despite my own reservations as to the spending on both events I am happy to report that on checking in on the events that the funding levels granted were sufficient but not wasted and the turnout for both is a good foundation for more engagement and events in the future.
The highlight numbers for February 2019 were the 15,234 spent on the student legal service which goes under the category of Consulting. The 9,307 spent on Orientation. 4000 of which was Activate’s charge for 16 stalls and 3013 was for the 1500 notebooks from Respect Now Always. We spent 27,883.9 on printing. However, this includes Vertigo CLARIFICATIONS ON THE JANUARY printing, which was 25,515 for the month and 1,902 of which was for Vertigo posters, TREASURER’S REPORT and the rest was for Vertigo font purchases which were heavily debated in the Exec meeting. Mentions of “consulting” expenses need be clarified as expenses related the Legal service We also spent a 1,371 on Free breakfast of rather than solely consulting done at the which 733.98 was for the Summer session request of the SRC. It’s also worth noting Bluebird. the “printing” expenses remarked at the previous report include printing for Vertigo, SA FUNDED EVENTS which explains the large figures spent on I attended the International Collective printing in previous years. Clearing up these welcome event and the Vertigo welcome event details and others required meetings with and would like to congratulate both teams me and Mariah which was why I was unable on their organisation and their respective to present a report at the previous meeting. turnouts. The 2019 Executive team has For the Treasurer’s report I wrote but was taken a keen interest in making sure both unable to send in time, for the month of events had thorough accounting and good February, refer to the latest Vertigo edition, reasoning behind the spending of each dollar or feel free to email me. of student money. Discussions were For further details feel free to contact me at extensive about the large amount of money Treasurer @ utsstudentsassociation.org requested for both and for what they requested money for. This level of engagement
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Mia Dabelstein
Madeline Lucre
Lily Linnert
WOMEN’S OFFICER
EDUCATION VICE PRESIDENT
WELFARE OFFICER
It has continued to be a successful year for the Women’s Collective and we recently welcomed the 2019 executive team from elections held in Week 4. Congratulations to the 2019 Women’s Collective Convenor, Dana Rutner, the 2019 Grievance Officers, Olivia Stanley and Samantha Twinning, and the 2019 Social Media Officers, Jas Narisetty and Caitlin Wesley. The team immediately sprang into action, as we have been taking part in the Share the Dignity, April Dignity Drive, which collects donations of pads, tampons and other menstrual products for women who are experiencing homelessness or financial crisis. To conclude the drive, we are showing the short documentary, ‘Period. End of Sentence’, on April 30. The cost of entry is an unopened packet of pads, tampons, menstrual cup, or incontinence pads, and everyone is welcome.
This month as the Education Vice President I have been to the Rally for Kinely hosted by the NUS Disabilities department, a snap rally to call on the Minister for Immigration to not deport a deaf Bhutanese teenager who has been living in Australia for the last seven years. Kinely was being deported because he was deaf and his medical expenses were considered to be costing the Australian tax payer. Medical or disability issues is a shameful reason which the government uses to deport around 15 people per year. Thankfully due in a huge part to the collaboration with United Voice and NUS Disabilities and the hundreds of people who showed their solidarity and support for Kinely and his family they have been offered a three-month bridging visa. We must continue this fight post election to ensure we get this racist and ableist loophole changed. This month Mehmet and myself have met with Sally Vanham who is involved in the student voice project to find ways for the UTS Students’ Association can be better involved in decision making and consultation on university decisions. This project is in collaboration with several other university student organisations and is a great thing for students to be involved in. I have been in discussions with the Education Officer of NUS about the Education campaign this year, the NUS Education campaign will be having its NO to SCOMO party as part of their a future worth fighting for campaign. There will be pre-election parties hosted all around Australia on the 1st of May and one in Sydney in an aim to engage students in their democratic rights to vote out an anti student government and engage them on the issues which matter to them most as young people including raising Newstart, increased funding to higher education and TAFE, climate change and many more. Looking forward to the month ahead.
The UTS Welfare Collective offers a space that is open for those students at UTS who have an interest and passion in improving student welfare on campus. Students’ needs are often unmet, under-met or simply overlooked. The collective acts as a voice for students and provides representation for the wider student body, particularly to those from lower socio-economic backgrounds, to ensure that the services needed are delivered.
We’ve been active on a number of other fronts as well, most recently Women’s Collective members agreed to hold the weekly meeting earlier in order to attend a rally against the deportation of Kinley Wangchuck, whose application for permanent residency was rejected on the basis of not meeting health requirements due to having a hearing impairment. We have plenty more planned, and are keen to keep growing, so just a reminder that the Women’s Collective welcomes all non-binary and women-identifying students. We meet each Thursday at 12pm in the Women’s Room, as well as fortnightly coffee catch ups. Make sure you sign up through the UTSSA website and are in the Facebook group to stay up to date!
It is the job of the Welfare Collective to organise projects and initiatives that encourage access to affordable food, transport and housing, mental health support, academic support, financial assistance and free legal services to UTS students both on and off university campus. The collective is currently putting together care packages full of essential items that will be of use to students who are struggling financially and need assistance. Additionally, research is being conducted into ways to make counselling services more accessible to students at UTS. Being part of the Welfare Collective also offers a platform for activism and engagement centred around broader welfare rights including access to Centrelink, fair working conditions and the underpayment of students as staff, and opposing policies such as university fee increases, education funding cuts and cuts to Medicare. Your Welfare Collective is here to help you, to help provide you with the assistance and resources that you need and to support you the best that we can. individuals are encouraged to join and contribute to in order to make change and improve the welfare of students at UTS. If you have any questions or want to be involved in the collective at any level please contact us via email at welfare@ utsstudentsassociation.org we would love to hear from you!
HOROSCOPES Closing yourself up to reconnecting with old friends and family can hinder your own happiness. If you get an unexpected Facebook message from a high school buddy who you haven’t talk to in years, maybe say hello and see how they’re going! They might miss you and you might miss them, or they might be asking you to join their juice selling business that may or may not be a pyramid scheme. Only one way to find out!
You may be facing a bit of a rough patch with your romantic partner this week due to communication issues. You need to learn how to compromise to get to an outcome that serves both of you. If that doesn’t work, you should try coconut oil! It’s really helped my skin.
Groceries: $70 Rent: $220 Dumplings and Special Braised Eggplant: $3,600 Utilities: $150 Someone who is good at the economy please help the Geminis, they are dying.
With Mercury in retrograde and the Winter equinox on the horizon, you’re feeling sluggish and restless. The time will come this week when the equilibrium will be restored, and you can rise from the ashes to take your rightful place on the throne and no one will question your power then.
Your creativity is at an all time low this week, deadlines are looming, and you’ve been working six days a week. Your editor has been chasing you up for these horoscopes for the past week (sorry Lily) and you have been spiralling. This is definitely about me. Note to self: fucking chill out.
The stars have aligned for you this week, so be on the look out for hidden signs and messages from the universe. It could as subtle as a man blinking as he walks past you on your daily commute or it could be embedded in this horoscope. Read the first letter of each word. Multiply it by 10. Now halve it. This is your future.
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Things may seem unclear and you may experiance a diificut time this week seieng how things you do can affect othres. It’s like a cluod has shroded your vision, like a literral cloud is masking yourr eyes oh… fuck sorry I just found my glasses!
Negotiating has never been your strong suit and you’ve been finding it harder this week to stand up for what you deserve. Nope I’m not taking no for an answer! You have got to start now! No seriously, I’m not going to budge! You really can’t fight me on this!
Life is all about making choices and sometimes those choices are incredibly difficult. I imagine the choice to not wear shoes to class was tough but that’s okay, because we all make mistakes. Just don’t do it again. Please wear shoes to class.
You may or may not meet your soulmate this week and they may have a uh, face. You’ll lock eyes on the bus or maybe train depending on what form of transport is quicker for you or if Sydney Trains has cooked it again. You’ll smile, talk, and find common interests, maybe. You might even go on a date that night or the next week depending on your schedules. It’s really all up in the air at this point.
You’re growing tired of the 9-5 hustle. You’re in need of a change –a big change, like Escape to the Country type change. Well, that’s too bad because the age of retirement in Australia just keeps increasing and we all need to keep working in order to keep up with the cost of living.
With Venus entering your sixth house you will be faced with unfortunate circumstances. I have a few questions for you. 1) How did Venus get into your house? 2) You own six fucking houses?
JENNY CAO
HOROSCOPES
CONTRIBUTORS
NON-FICTION
FICTION
LIZIE CROSS – In an ideal world, Lizie is author of the international bestseller How I Got My Life Together and Became An Overnight Success, and is touring her Broadway show of the same name. In reality, she is a first year Media Arts and Production student who has been described as the lovechild of Leslie Knope and Chandler Bing.
AISHAH ALI – Aishah is a fourth year Law and Political Science student, spoken word poet and filmmaker. Her work involves deconstructing her own identity and challenging ideas around brown-ness and femininity.
THE DESPERADO OF EL DORADO – The Desperado of El Dorado is a foreboding writer from the leafy, arid shores of Sydney. A misanthrope with a penchant for mythology, there’s nothing more the Desperado enjoys than a full glass of bourbon, a tailored Trimalchio suit, and Warren Zevon’s complete collection on vinyl. JASMIN NARISETTY – Jasmin is a first year IT student with a secret passion for literature, internet activism, and political philosophy. She’s not an introvert, I swear. MEADOWBROOK OW – Meadowbrook is an aspiring writer and artist in her third year of a Bachelor of Design in Photography, and her favourite movie is Ratatouille. Find Meadowbrook on Instagram: @meadowbrookow
ISABELLA JIANG – Isabella is a stereotypical Gemini struggling with the knowledge she’ll never become a mermaid. HANAN MERHEB – Like most writers, Hanan Merheb has been making up stories ever since she was little, and life is all the more colourful for it. JACK CAMERON STANTON – Jack is a writer and critic based in Newtown, Sydney. His work has appeared in The Australian, Sydney Review of Books, Southerly, Mascara Literary Review, and Neighbourhood Paper, among others. LUCY TASSELL – Lucy is a fourth year Journalism and International Studies student and wants to state for the record that she is not scared of Jenna Price any more. She has seen The Favourite three times in theatre, which is probably all you need to know about her.
NINA PIROLA – Nina is a girl who is mildly panicking about the state of the environment. Stand too close and you’ll probably catch a ‘the world is ending’ spiel about climate change. Creative outlets are the cooling balm to this stress head. KATHERINE RAJWAR – Katherine Rajwar is a second year Journalism student who despite acknowledging her slim job prospects, will probably still argue that print/ radio is definitely not dead.
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AMPLIFY
SHOWCASE
CHLOE DIMOPOULOS – Chloe is completing her final year of Visual Communication. She finds joy mostly from sighting interesting characters on the street and recording them in her sketchbook. When she is not frantically scribbling, find her dancing to disco.
SAM ABBOTT – Sam uses the tactile nature of film photography to look for answers within his own life. Sam’s practice is therapy for himself that produces images as a result.
SAMUEL FRASER – Samuel is a Communications and International Studies student that is probably still bragging about being nine people away from Beyoncé at Coachella. AMANI MAHMOUD – Amani is a Law and Social Political Science student. When she isn’t stressing herself into premature grey hairs, she’s writing. She’s been writing creatively for as long as she can remember but began her spoken word journey a year ago. SHAREN SAMSON – Sharen is a Journalism and Law student who probably has her AirPods in right now.
OTHER JENNY CAO – Jenny is an award-winning singer, writer, director, baker, and candlestick maker. With a Pulitzer, Grammy, and Oscar under her belt, she’s set her sights on the extremely prestigious and sought after Gold Logie (literally the best award no joke). Follow her @jennycaovevo to find her work and selfies. TOM ECCLES – Tom is in his third year of Visual Communication but still isn’t fully sure if it’s where he should be or what he’s going to do afterwards. He gets by, by hanging out with his peers. RACHEL PERCIVAL – Rachel is a Visual Communication and International Studies student. When she’s not designing or photographing you can find her eating Messina.
GERALDINE BUZZO – Geraldine is a designer completing her Honours in Visual Communication. She has a lust for the typographically bold. Her work focuses on materiality, typography, and illustration. Find more of her work @buzz.oh AGNES CHOI – Agnes is a multi-disciplinary creative that expresses herself through fashion design and performance, exploring social and cultural concerns with an aim to stimulate critical thinking about the world in which we live. STASIA HENDRAWAN – Stasia is a Design in Photography student. Although her primary interest is fashion and editorial photography, she is particularly interested in incorporating niche and abstract concepts in her projects, particularly those influenced by the Surrealist era of photography and Dadaism. MANON MIKOLAITIS – Manon is a recent Photography Honours graduate currently residing in Melbourne. Her practice primarily involves working with found imagery, including moving image and photography, employing these mediums as vehicles for investigating the longestablished relationship between memory and photography.
How to Submit to Vertigo Vertigo is always on the lookout for pitches and submissions of creative fiction and non-fiction writing, visual art, think pieces, feature articles, news, and everything in between. Our sections leave you space to expand. Do you have something that doesn’t fit into a particular mould? We want to see it.
FICTION Short stories, poetry, flash fiction: everything we know and love about creative writing, or something we don’t know that will surprise us.
NON-FICTION We want non-fiction and creative non-fiction writing from all facets of life. Anything you’re interested in, we’re interested in too. AMPLIFY Youth culture, music, fashion, arts and lifestyle—this is Amplify’s bread and butter. Ranging from prolific to up-and-coming, this section will showcase individuals in their creative element through authentic conversation. We are looking to support and promote the creative scene of UTS and cover events near you. SHOWCASE This section is dispursed throughout the magazine, showcasing any design-related bodies of work including (but not limited to) fashion, animation, architecture, product, photography, and typography. OFFHAND Offhand is home to all the weird and wonderful things that don’t quite fit inside the box. We want your quizzes, games, satire, and comics to fill the back pages of our mag, nothing is too quirky or weird!
PITCHES Have an idea for a piece that isn’t complete? Briefly answer the following questions: • What is the working title for your piece? • What do you want to write about? • How do you want to write it—what is the structure, tone, or style? • How long is your piece going to be? If you have any examples of previous works please attach them to your email. COLD SUBMISSIONS Already have a completed piece in mind to submit? Send your work to submissions@utsvertigo.com.au with a brief summary of its content and which section you’d like to see it in. Ideally, you could also briefly describe how your work relates to our next theme. HOW TO CONTACT US Send your pitches, submissions, and nominations to submissions@utsvertigo. com.au and one of our friendly editors will get in touch with you shortly. Check out facebook.com/utsvertigo for the most recent callouts, or just send us a message to say hello. SOCIAL MEDIA utsvertigo.com.au facebook.com/utsvertigo instagram.com/utsvertigo twitter.com/vertigomagazine
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VERTIGO Front cover designed by Ady Neshoda and Marissa Vafakos in collaboration with the visual contributors.