Pelican Edition 5, Volume 86 by UWA Student Guild

ISSUE 5 VOLUME 86 AUGUST 2015 THE FICTION ISSUE

Pelican’s feeble attempts at poetry • Choice cuts from that creative writing unit you took The Drake fanfiction we’ve all been waiting for • Introducing your 2016 aesthetic • Short stories Exclusive! Bob Dylan: The Lost Tapes • Giving university admin the shits, one issue at a time

GUILD ELECTIONS NOMINATIONS OPENING SOON Nominations open on Monday 10th August for positions on Guild Council in 2016, as well as for Guild representatives to the University Senate and the NUS. Nomination forms will be available from our website and from Guild 1st Floor Reception (South Wing, Guild Village). Visit our website for more information on the positions available and the election process. Nominations close: Friday 28th August, 5pm. WEBSITE: www.uwastudentguild.com/elections CONTACT: elections@guild.uwa.edu.au or the Returning Officer Mary Petrou at marypetrou1@bigpond.com Close of eligibility to register as postal voter: 4pm Friday 7th August Close of Electoral rolls: 5pm Friday 7th August.

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EDITORS’ NOTE S

FROM THE PRESIDENT My creativity peaked during primary school, when I reigned supreme as Colouring-In Queen in local newspapers and before-school cartoon shows. Prizes included a Captain Birdseye themed party start-up kit, with everything you needed for your very own pirate/fishfingers themed birthday party, and a Bubblegum Monster branded Razor Scooter, won after I drew a one metre long monster in floral print board shorts on butcher’s paper, when they didn’t give any restrictions on format. While my artistic interests didn’t seem to extend beyond these heights you could say that being Guild President requires you to be creative in some ways, primarily thinking of segways into blatant Guild promotion in Pelican editorials. The Guild’s Public Affairs Council (PAC) is currently gearing up to run this year’s Fringe Festival and looking for more ways to foster cultural life on campus. If you’re interested in being involved with Fringe, keen to earn some $$ by busking or performing on campus, or just interested to know more about how the Guild could support your cultural/artistic/ creative project, please get in touch! Our PAC President Charlie Viska would love to hear from you (pac@guild.uwa.edu.au). Lizzy

FROM THE EDITORS Lucy woke at 8am to the smooth purr of her housemate’s Peugeot leaving the driveway, en route to his level twelve public sector job. She spent a long moment luxuriating in her Gorman duvet, its softly textured organic fabric carefully handcrafted by ethically hired Tibetan factory workers. It felt good. It felt locally designed. Closing her eyes for a second, her thoughts darkened. Would today be the day? Leaping out of bed and sliding into a pair of Zomp ponyhair booties, Lucy piled her hair into a trademark high bun and lit a cigarette. She checked the Guardian app on her phone for any live feeds, and quickly paused to scroll through the latest posts about the Greek financial crisis. An email alert buzzed to inform her about Pelican winning yet another award for outstanding student journalism. There wasn’t any more room in the trophy cabinet, but she had greater concerns to worry over. Would they remember? Opening her wardrobe, she carefully selected an immaculate white pantsuit, accessorizing with a quick swipe of MAC Rebel. Delta Goodrem had worn the same pantsuit on a recent episode of The Voice, but hadn’t looked half as fierce. Would this killer outfit be enough? Would she finally get what she wanted? Strolling out the door, Lucy walked down to Whatley Crescent, smiling sweetly at passing dogs. Entering Sherbet, she braced herself. She furrowed her brow in concentration. Determined, she approached the counter. “Ms Ballantyne! One cappuccino, right?” Finally. After a year and a half of daily patronage, they had remembered her order. Sipping her coffee with one hand and checking the live feed in the other, she allowed a cursory smile to widen her lips. Another day as a student editor had begun.

Kat felt the dappled Maylands light hit her face through her Gatsby-esque curtains. She stretched out her arms and rubbed her eyes – another day in paradise. She sauntered out to the kitchen, greeting male housemate #1 on the way, with a perfunctory but friendly ‘heeeeeeeeey’. She reached into the fridge for an egg. “Coles brand free range,” she whispered. She cracked the egg softly on the rim of her Ikea mug and placed it in the microwave, nodding her head to the Fleet Foxes song emanating from behind the bathroom door. Male housemate #2 was shaving. Pouring a strong black coffee from her moka pot, Kat pondered what to do with her day. It would be at least another three hours until Lucy deigned to extricate herself from her bedroom and they could talk about the magazine. Ah, the magazine. Kat sashayed back to her lightfilled bedroom and left the door only slightly ajar. She picked up the navy blue dress that was strewn over the back of her thrifted chair. Her most recent purchase from Gorman Buy and Sell, she enjoyed the sensation of the embroidery between her fingers. Kat slid on her brogues, and finally, she paused. She sat down at her mid-century desk, littered with the work of Adrienne Rich and Jonathan Franzen, and cracked a tinnie. She began to type. She mimed the letters as she hit the keys. “E… d… i… t…” She paused. She had always disliked writing editorials. She exhaled, deeply. Kat looked up, out the window, over the weird tropical plant that the overbearing neighbour had replaced the dead rose bush with, onto the streets of Maylands. She spotted some teenagers cradling a Mount Franklin bottle full of brown liquid, stumbling south. A young family were heading north, pushing a stroller. Her lips curled into a smile. “It’s okay,” she thought.

Contributors PELICAN IS UWA’S STUDENT MAGAZINE, SINCE 1929

Editors Lucy Ballantyne Kat Gillespie Section Editors Politics Brad Griffin Film James Munt Music Hugh Manning Literature Kate Prendergast Arts Emily Purvis Lifestyle Morgan Goodman Contributors Ashleigh AngusMegan AnsellNivedita Aravindan* Prema Arasu* Danyon BurgeJosh Chiat* Kevin Chiat* Samuel J. Cox* Hayden Dalziel*Tristan Fidler*Caitlin Frunks* Maisie Glen* Maddie Godfrey Matt Green* Alex Griffin* Holly JianJemma Lamber Richard Moore* Bella Morris* Bryce Newton Georgia Oman* Catherina PaganiEarnest Pickle Tom Reynolds* Leah Roberts* Mason Rothwell Bridget Rumball* Jasmine Ruscoe* Anna Saxon* Melissa Scott* Aakanksha SharmaLaurent Shervington* Laura Wells-

Cover Art Hayden Dalziel Design Kate Hoolahan Advertising Chelsea Hayes chelsea.hayes@guild.uwa.edu.au The University of Western Australia acknowledges that its campus is situated on Noongar land, and that Noongar people remain the spiritual and cultural custodians of their land, and continue to practise their values, languages, beliefs and knowledge. The views expressed within are not the opinions of the UWA Student Guild or Pelican editorial staff, but of the individual writers and artists. Getting involved with Pelican is easy! Perhaps too easy. Like us on Facebook, email us at pelican@ guild.uwa.edu.au, or drop by the office (it’s right next to the Ref!) ‘Thought Bubble’ by Danyon Burge

*Words -Art

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FEATURE

IS S U E 5 : FIC TIO N REGUL ARS SOCIAL PAGES............................................................. 6 CALENDAR.................................................................. 25 MATILDA BAY MUSINGS WITH TRISTAN FIDLER . . ...... 38 RETRO PELI................................................................. 46

FE ATURE S POCKETS.................................................................... 8 TWELVE KINDS OF L AUGHING.................................. 10 JOHN COLE................................................................ 11 THE PELICAN: A HISTORY . . ........................................ 12 HELL IS . . ..................................................................... 14 FRIDGE SAMPLER BUFFET......................................... 15 THE FIRST EXHIBITION . . ........................................... 16 AN INCIDENT AT THE GLOVE FACTORY.................... 18 UNDER THE SEA ........................................................ 24

SE CTIONS POLITICS. . .................................................................. 26 FILM........................................................................... 31 MUSIC .. ....................................................................... 35 LITERATURE. . ............................................................. 39 ARTS........................................................................... 41 LIFEST YLE.................................................................. 43

SOCIAL PAGES Send tips to pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au

Letters to the Editor

M300 Stirling Highway, Crawley WA, 6100 Email pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au Facebook /pelicanmagazine Twitter @pelicanmagazine Instagram @pelicanmagazine

Via Email To the editors of Pelican Magazine Thank you for meeting at our office last week to discuss your vision for the newly revitalised Pelican Magazine! We at The BO (The Bland Organisation) believe in thinking laterally, reaching newer, and fearlessly thinking, so it was our absolute pleasure when you contacted us to be involved in your decision to say ‘No!’ to the status quo. Attached is a prototype package for the new Pelican Magazine, featuring colour schemes, draft issue layouts and character designs for new mascot character ‘Petey the Pelican’. Once you’ve reviewed the designs, please let us know and we can arrange an invoice for the final product. Yearn Higher, The BO

Via Facebook I am embarrassed by Pelican and the face of the university it presents. Instead of spending all their time promoting meetings, the likes of which I have never attended, on Facebook, why don’t the editors actually just get on with creating a magazine? Self-indulgent, cliquey feminism has no place in student press. Once Published On Hijackd, Bull Creek

Via LinkedIn My attempts to promote my dad’s off-shore charity fundraiser, Laundry for Freedom, in Pelican Magazine were met with cold disinterest. Pelican Magazine has no interest in supporting the few students who actually want to make real change in the world, in contrast to their claim of inclusiveness. The editors had an opportunity to help poor citizens in the developing world to work for a fair wage by washing my dad’s clothes, but chose instead to spend print space slandering a man trying to promote climate rationalism. Sickened. Disappointed Libertarian, Dalkeith

Campus News with Meli s Peacocks steal cars, kill st

Third year arts student Joshua Night has lost his life in a savage Peacoc k attack. Sources say the attack took place in the Arts Building Courtyard, and is descri bed by experts as a ‘king peck’. This is not the first pea cock incident to result in serious injury . It was just two weeks ago that first year student Megan Grey was savagely attacked by a rogue peacock, leaving her blind in one eye.

“I didn’t see it coming, it was so quick, I never thought a peacock was capable of such violent behaviour ” Megan explains. Since the attack, several other students have come for ward with stories of the peacocks’ criminal behaviour. Third year science studen t Cameron Noble expressed his con cerns on the matter. “I heard one got done for carjacking.” It is alleged on the night of the 16th

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of July, witnesses saw a peacock steal an electric car that was cha rging in the Reid carpark. Sources close to the pea cocks have said, “Well that’s what you get for driving an electric car, you dickhe ad.” Despite their mild irritat ion, UWA gardeners, building maintenance staff and student animal activis ts continue to suppor t these volatile pea cocks.

UWA FACT You can’t major in pop punk, but you can probably work it into an honours thesis

PELICAN IS ONLINE www.pelicanmagazine.com.AU

After years, maybe decades, of editors deluding themselves that print is still king, Pelican has finally joined the world wide web. We promise everything you know and, er, um, love? about the big ol’ bird, plus plenty more clickbait and web junk to distract you from your studies. We’re basically BuzzFeed. Take that, Honi Soit! Wanna go viral? Pelican is accepting submissions all year round for written and multimedia content. Email pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au

THE FRESHER DIARY · PART FIVE In which we ask an anonymous UWA fresher to diarise their experience as a shit-scared first year. WADDUP DIARRAAAAAAY, Fucken tops weekend!!!!!! Went to this sweet as party in Peppy Grove and I s2g, Patty Chong was there. Can’t believe it’s already semester two - obvo smashed all my first sem units, #nailedit. Bryony failed like, two, maybe three units, but she seems chill about it. At least she did when she was pingin on Saturday night. Idk. Whatever. Omg, diary, mid-year rotto was the best. time. EVER. Whole #squad stayed at Geordie Bay, obvi. All the planning totes

paid off - literally so wasted from start to finish. Nobody’s seen Josh since, though. He yakked a lot. Bryony reckons he fell off the ferry haha. Anyway, it was so sick. On Wednesday there was this bulk initiation where all the engineering boys had to suck each other off haha so weird???? I was hell worried about B for a bit, I was gonna call for help but, haha such a loose unit, she reckons there’s always blood in her vom. Honestly we always just have the best time together. Highlight was probs Thursday night. Idk what happened, but I woke up on a yacht with like, all these Aquinas boys. It was like, what the fuck, but it was chill. We went to Dome. I’ve gotta run - mum’s having a Thermomix party. Networking opportunity!!!! Bye bitches!!!! G xxoxoxoxoxo

UWA FACT Has anyone found that lady’s scarf yet?

FICTION

POCKETS Words by Prema Arasu Art by Holly Jian

When the first limp noodle appeared in the pocket of Charles’ trousers, he chose not to dwell on it, and said nothing. He was with friends and they were sitting in the park at night, smoking cigars stolen from one of the boys’ fathers. “You always throw up the first time,” said one of Charles’ friends, as he blew a cloud of expensive Cuban smoke. Charles glanced at the single strand of spaghetti tangled through his fingers with mild surprise and tossed it aside hastily, then accepted a lit cigar from the boy to his right. “How is it?” He coughed. “It’s fine.” Charles continued to find spaghetti in his pockets. Sometimes it would appear in his grey school trousers when he put them on in the morning. This was not so bad. He could dispose of it quickly. Sometimes it would appear during class. He would have to wait for the bell until he could throw it out, and for the remainder of the class he’d be horribly conscious of that damp, unpleasant weight against his leg. He would fixate on his pockets, desperate to empty them of spaghetti, and he’d lose focus and shamefully have to ask his friends for their notes later. He began arriving late to classes, unprepared and disorganised. He forgot about tests, didn’t submit work on time, and was always excusing himself to use the bathroom. He said nothing. A biology teacher asked Charles to stay after class, worried about his recent decline in performance. She was a young and kind teacher who worked hard. She had secured her first job at the prestigious school through familial connections. She felt a great need to make a difference in the lives of each and every single one of her confused students, and was deeply concerned with the observable drop in Charles’ test results. 8

Charles’ usually languidly complacent face was contorted with misery. His wrists trembled and his lip quivered. “Is something wrong, Charles?” “No, miss.” “I’m concerned about your last test.” “I’ll do better next time.” “I do hope so.” Charles’ wrists trembled, his arms trembled and his body trembled. And his spaghetti trembled. “I have spaghetti in my pockets.” “Oh,” the teacher did not know how to respond. Her heart went out to the poor, shaking boy whose hands were too big for his body, his nose too long for his face and his pockets too full of pasta. “Your pockets?” “Yes.” “Which ones?” “My trousers.” “Oh.” “Usually. Sometimes… my blazer.” “Oh.” “It just appears there.” “You don’t put it there.” “No.” “How much?” “Not very much.” “Oh.” “It’s okay. It isn’t very much.” “Are you sure?” “Yes. It’s hardly anything.” “Oh.” Charles’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes it’s penne.” “It will get better.” He said nothing. The spaghetti got worse. It was endless. He said nothing. As soon as Charles rid his pockets, more would appear. His mind was constantly occupied, constantly waiting, anticipating the next opportunity to duck into a bathroom and dispose of the spaghetti.

UWA FACT Curtin’s new med school will employ Shonda Rhimes as an adjunct professor

eyes watered and his throat was acrid. Charles’ father’s mouth grew thinner and thinner and Charles’ mother’s knuckles grew whiter and whiter. His plate was buried under a mountain of spaghetti when he stopped, hoping that his parents would understand. It would be okay, he thought, for them to just know about it. They didn’t have to make it stop. They just had to understand, and maybe let him stay home on days when there was a particularly large amount of spaghetti in his pockets. It would be okay, he thought, if they just knew, and felt sorry for him.

He started to hate dressing in his school uniform, knowing that by the time he’d tied his tie, he would have to empty endless spaghetti out of his pockets. After weeks of dispensing increasing amounts into various bins, potted plants and drains, Charles became quite tired of the whole ordeal. He was moved to a lower biology class because of his failed tests and never saw the kind biology teacher again. He stayed in bed, spaghetti sliding out of his pyjama pants onto the sheets. He said nothing. After days of skipped school and feigned illness, he mustered the courage to speak to his parents, who, as any parents would be, were worried. His mother had cooked spaghetti for dinner. With mushroom ragù. Charles stared at the plate in front of him, trying not to weep. “Mother. Father. I haven’t been well,” “We know, and you haven’t wanted to see a doctor. We are very worried,” said Charles’ very worried parents. “I don’t think a doctor could help me.” “Then who can?” “I don’t know. You see, the problem is my pockets.” “Your pockets?” “Yes.” “What is wrong with your pockets?” Charles drew a deep breath much like the deep breath of cigar smoke he had inhaled when the first noodle appeared. He looked down in shame. “There is endless spaghetti in my pockets.” “We don’t understand, Charles.” He said nothing. He stood up, pushing his chair back and reached both hands into both trouser pockets, pulling out handfuls of spaghetti, dropping it onto his plate, on top of the lovely mushroom pasta and garlic bread. He reached into his pockets again and pulled out more spaghetti. His face grew red and his

“That is a lot of spaghetti.” said his father. “Yes.” “And this is causing you trouble?” “Yes.” “Well, why don’t you just eat it?” “I can’t.” “Why not?” “It isn’t that simple, father.” “I don’t see why not.” Some spaghetti fell out of Charles’ pocket and splattered on the floor. “I can’t.” “Have you tried?” “Yes.” This was the truth. “Well, try harder.” “I can’t.” “You can. Just put your mind to it.” “Okay.” “Good.” His parents resumed dinner. Charles stood there, spaghetti dripping out of his pockets. He said nothing. He went to school most days to stop his parents bothering him about it, although there was no point. He attended his sports training, music lessons and French classes mindlessly, absorbing nothing. His mind would be in his pockets and he’d go from class to class with no recollection of what had happened. He fell behind by such an extent that he was sure he’d be expelled. He couldn’t tell his friends. He thought that if they really cared and wanted to help, they’d have noticed a change, and would have asked. They’d ask why he kept disappearing between classes and ask if there was anything wrong, but they chose not to notice, despite Charles’ significant decline, and if they chose not to notice, they would not want to be told. It wasn’t as though they would be able to do anything in any case, thought Charles, although he continued to yearn for someone to simply ask him “is there spaghetti in your pockets?” to which he would reply “yes, there is,” and they would say “I’m sorry to hear that,” and although this would not stop the endless spaghetti, it would have made Charles feel just a little better. But nobody did ask, and so, he said nothing. Charles’ body was found in his room, pockets overflowing, rancid, decaying spaghetti spilling out of his dead mouth, spaghetti entwined around cold fingers which had torn at his throat, marked by ribbons of skin crusted with blood. “He seemed fine to us,” said Charles’ friends. “He didn’t say anything.” “If only he had told us,” said Charles’ parents. “We didn’t know it was this bad.” He said nothing.

UWA FACT At midsummer, the ducks feast

(for Tom Rossiter)

Someone opening a packet of Fruit Tingles. The last gasp of a woolly mammoth as it sinks into a tar pit. A hammerhead shark under glass in a Bond film. Four thousand years of failing the Chinese civil service exam. Exactly what happens when you put an egg in a microwave. The chorus of ‘Pride (In the name of love)’. Twenty four AA batteries rattling down a staircase. A hummingbird a precisely the right tree. What Tom Cruise was wearing in Cocktail. Hearing a yawning horse with the flu. Finding the right key in the dark. Dimples you’d never seen before.

by Alex Griffin

FICTION

Words by Bella Morris Art by Laura Wells

When I was little I thought John Cole was some kind of alien. A large head on a long body, like in vintage comics. His thin yellow skin contrasted with his large watery blue eyes; they looked too thin somehow, like they might peel, like onions. When I was little I thought John Cole was some kind of angel. I’d look up and he’d bend out of the sky for me. I only saw him on sunny days. The sun behind him would light up his thinning hair like a halo and he’d speak to me in low tones and elongated vowels, “Hello little girl.” He always said that to me, I’d make him say it several times. John Cole only ever wore black, layers of it, no matter the weather. He’d shiver and sweat, take his coat off and put it back on again, no matter the weather. His nose would run and his legs would twitch, he’d smile and give me lollies from his pocket. I had to ask a few times before he’d pick me up. John Cole’s girlfriend had curly hair and a bitter disposition. She gave me a gobstopper to ‘stop my gob.’ I didn’t like her, I sat on John’s lap and waited for mum and dad to get back. He taught me how to play Boxes on the last page of his paperback novel while she talked about people who were ‘cunts.’ I can’t remember her name. When we wouldn’t see John Cole for a while I’d ask my mother where he was, if he was okay, when we’d see him. She’d say she didn’t know, that he was fine, and we’d see him soon. Sometimes we saw him in passing, a dark figment flitting around the peripheries, he hardly ever stopped to talk anymore. Sometimes I’d see him in

the city and mum and dad wouldn’t notice him. He’d smile at me as he walked past. He looked like he was made of Papier-Mâché. I started to think maybe John Cole was a ghost. I saw him at the clinic one day, sitting off to the side, seeming kind of translucent. No one really payed him any mind. I sat by him and he smiled and gave me a lolly. This confused me some. When mum came to get me she smiled at him too, as we walked out hand in hand I told her “John Cole’s alive!” I think it worried her. We didn’t see John Cole for a long time after that. I started to think I’d imagined him, like the little girl down down the street mum told me wasn’t real. I thought I heard them mention him though, at night when I was in my room. Words like ‘sorosis’ and ‘fucked.’ The first one meant nothing to me and I knew the second one was bad. I thought maybe they were mad at him, that or he wasn’t real. They never mentioned him to me. He started fading in my memory. I’d see him from across the street and feel vaguely wistful. I was never sure if he was someone we knew. Then I stopped even thinking I saw him. We moved, my parents didn’t go to that clinic anymore, we never saw any of the people we used to. Daddy got a job and bought me dolls to play with. Third grade at a new school and I became obsessed with Cleopatra. Years later, when my mother died, I trawled through all my memories. I knew what ‘sorosis’ and ‘cunt’ meant then. Paper yellow skin over bones wasn’t alien anymore. I asked my father about everything, I asked him about John Cole. Had he died like Bonnie, like Kane, like John Van Gulik? Like Brian and Kevin and Mum now? Dad said he probably had, but he didn’t know. All he could really remember was that John was a ‘good guy.’ He was my favourite childhood friend.

UWA FACT Public sector grad position applications have already closed, you’re fucked hey

FICTION

The Pelican A History Words by Earnest Pickle Art by Danyon Burge Investigators note: [Two months ago, during the routine clearing of the Reid Library storage rooms, a book entitled “The Pelican: A History” by Earnest Pickle was found in a damaged collection of Australian literature. Inspection of the book revealed that an estimated eighty-three per cent of the pages have been torn out. The whereabouts of these pages is unknown.] [The tearing appears to have been a deliberate act. However, there is no clue as to motive or indication of when the deed was done. Being the only known copy in print, the book has been moved to the storage lockers to await preservation treatment. A copy has been made of the contents. This copy is presented below.] The Pelican: A History One of the most damaging reactions that we as human beings have towards outlandish stories is that of disbelief. The miraculous, the impossible, the wondrous – we have been taught that these kinds of events occur only in myth and fable, in the pretty lies that we weave for ourselves. But to give into this knee-jerk reaction is to surrender to oblivion the most remarkable truth of history: that the miraculous occurs every day; the impossible can happen; and the wondrous is not quite as separated from reality as we might prefer to believe. The Author has spent many-a-year struggling against his own Sceptical Impulse. It has not been an easy struggle – the very word denies ease! – but it has been most rewarding. For if the Author had not struggled, he would not have discovered a veritable treasure trove of history so unbelievable, so miraculous, impossible, and wondrous, that it has to be true. This humble Author has discovered the true history of the Pelican, and it is a marvel to behold. Our present understanding of history would tell us that the Pelican was founded in 1929 as a student newspaper with a focus on the arts, and a cursory survey of the paper’s collected clippings would seem to reinforce this interpretation. However, while conducting a rigorous investigation of curriculum standards in the period shortly after the University’s founding, the Author stumbled upon documents which would contradict this belief. Querying this inconsistency revealed further sources which suggest that not only did the Pelican exist before its supposed founding, but that it has a history that stretches back to and beyond the founding of our very nation! 12

The Author would advise the interested Reader to peruse these documents themselves, and to that end, they have been attached to the end of this essay in Appendix A, B, and C. [Unfortunately, when I found Earnest Pickles’ papers, the appendices were missing. They appeared to have been torn away – a clean line, most likely intentional.] However, for a Reader not well versed in the art of Historical Analysis, collating and clarifying said documents may be of difficulty. To that end, the Author has summarised the contents in the (lengthy) passages that follow. The Pelican’s true origin would appear to be anchored in the late eighteenth century. It seems to have begun as a series of letters between an English noblewoman, Jennifer Foster, and her husband, the explorer and merchant Perry Cansworth. Cansworth’s work as a merchant appeared to have kept him abroad for the majority of the couple’s marriage, but from the tone and nature of the letters, also presented in the appendices, this did little to stifle the fire of their passion for one another. In fact, it appears that the arrangement suited the couple most perfectly. Cansworth was an incorrigible adventurer, never able to remain in place for more than a year before the itch to seek out new lands and thrilling encounters overcame him, while the lady Foster was content to manage the family’s finances and properties, and maintain their upstanding reputation in the English social ladder. Furthermore, where her husband sought to derive pleasure from journeys of the body, it appears the Mrs Foster explored the world of her imagination through a voluminous correspondence and a hobby in writing. The Author believes that it is this couple’s odd and passionate relationship which gave birth to the newspaper we know today. For, in a letter dated 1778, Lady Foster said to her husband: “I do so enjoy your tales, but I’m afraid that many of our friends and acquaintances miss out on your dramatic telling. You are quite reticent when it comes to maintaining contact with those other than me – a flaw I advise you to correct, and soon! However, we both know that this is one flaw you are unlikely to resolve in a timely manner, hence I believe it would be beneficial to both of us if I were to be the one to reproduce your adventures and distribute them to our friends.” In his reply, Cansworth expressed his approval, and Lady Foster set to work.

UWA FACT All B.Phil students are guaranteed a seat on Virgin Galactic’s first voyage

FICTION Attached to the appendices are the first five letters in Foster’s retelling of her husband’s exploits. Note that while the first one is fairly plain in terms of writing, by the fifth letter, small embellishments to both the topic and the style have been made. For instance, while possible, given Cansworth’s other activities – which included snake charming, Irish dancing, and the collecting of various nuts – it is unlikely that he wrestled with a lion in the African savannah and came out with only a “nick on the back of his hand” to show for it.

Foster to be guilty of producing treasonous materials and dictate the punishment placed upon them.

Also note the increase in volume of these letters. Each one appears to be given a number out of a total. The first letter indicates an audience of ten; the second an audience of fifteen; and the fifth an audience of fifty. It appears that the tales of Cansworth’s exploits were so engaging, and the writing of said tales so superb, that Foster’s letters eventually become a small quarter-yearly publication, which she affectionately entitled, The Pelican after: “The similarity in name between [Foster’s] husband and the large, stuffed bird he has sent to [her] during his travels.” Once the Pelican was in print, its popularity increased akin to one of its namesakes taking flight. A document salvaged from the Cansworth Ledgers indicates that as many as fifteen hundred publications were distributed at its peak of its production – an astounding number for its time. And yet, despite this wild popularity, the publication is completely unknown by those of our present era. Why is this? one must ask. The answer, as this Author discovered, is chilling in its simplicity.

The question of whether this depiction of events matches the reality of the situation is unimportant. What matters is the outcome. Cansworth and Foster settled any remaining debts, stowed their positions and their wealth, and bid farewell to their homes and families, before boarding the third fleet bound of Newfoundland.

In 1785, Foster published a paper in which her husband dealt with the uprising of a colony in the East Indias. At first, her husband had been sent in as part of a small fleet by the Crown to put down the rebellion, but upon his arrival, he discovered that the rebellion was for a genuine cause. He discovered that the mayor of the colony was guilty of perjury and corruption amongst a dozen other crimes, and, bound to his conscience, he aided the rebels to establish a more just and fair society.

In this Era, the common punishment was that of Death. However, given their noble stature, the Cansworths were instead given the option of exile to Newfoundland to settle and raise a colony for the Crown. In the court notices, it was written that Cansworth contemplated death over the shame of exile, but was “put rightly to order by his missus.”

It is here that a good storyteller would end the story. The Reader has borne witness to the paper’s strange origins and have seen the effect it has had upon our society, an effect so devastatingly profound as that of the French Revolution. Surely, any more could only be met with Disbelief. But the Author is not a storyteller. He simply recites to you the truth that has been hidden by a scepticism that runs as deep as bone. The Pelican’s history is long and colourful, and this can be seen no more clearly than in the case of— [From this point onwards, the pages have been torn away. It is believed that the section above is a prelude to a much longer treatise on the history of the Pelican. Without the other pages, this cannot be confirmed. [As of right now, the search for the missing pages continue.]

It was a story that, according to Lady Foster and more than a few of her correspondents, was illuminating in its moral courage. However, the print run began to spark similar sentiments of rebellion among its readers. Issues were passed from hand to hand. Purportedly, over a thousand educated youths in Britain and in Paris read and were inspired by this tale of courage. For those of us who know our history, it is clear what eventuated from this small spark. In 1789 began the first French Revolution, and while it would be arrogant and unseemly to state that it was the Pelican that was responsible for this uprising, the publication no doubt played a significant part in the events that followed. Letters sent between Foster and her husband after the beginning of the revolution indicate that the part played by her paper was not without reprisal. Foster claimed that she had been investigated by officials from the Crown, and she urged her husband to return, lest something unspeakable happened. After this point, there is a gap in the letters. However, an astute reader will notice that in the appendices have been included a trio of Acts of Court. These proclaim Perry Cansworth and Jennifer UWA FACT Can UWA Marketing call us back please? 0410 925 475, ta

FICTION

Hell is

1. Asking a girl how her eyeliner is perfectly straight but her handwriting sucks 2. Snape killing Dumbledore 3. Lewis McKirdy 4. The Western Suburbs Weekly letters to the editor 5. Having one of those ‘take the elevator up one floor’ kinda days 6. Hitting the grape Fanta button on a vending machine and grape Sunkist coming out 7. My ex gf calling me last night to drunkenly break up with me 8. BuzzFeed Articles: ‘These 7 people didn’t know when diarrhea would strike. You won’t BELIEVE what happens next!!’ 9. Sifting through Humans Of New York posts for the most annoying top comments

Top comments on Humans Of New York posts that make me unreasonably angry 1. We get it there aren’t mountains in Saskatchewan. Have some imagination you miserable pricks. 2. I will give you a free one hour vocal recording session if you would like. 3. He didn’t create the idea that mineral rights are separate from property rights; if a property owner has sold the mineral rights to his land, then I would agree that the geothermal steam goes with it.

4. I feel kind of guilty highlighting how cute he is given the tragedy of the circumstances of his country 5. Someone invite him to thanksgiving! I bet he has some great stories and wisdom to share. 6. Fall down 7 times, stand up 8. 7. This page has got to be, hands down, the greatest contribution to society on FB 8. Poetically introspective AND a red head. She is the embodiment of Ireland! 9. I wanna hug him..... Idk why but I do! 10. Please let it be an investigative documentary on his sweater. I would sign on for an entire season

Words by Samuel J. Cox

UWA FACT Print is dead and Pelican killed it

Fridge Sampler Buffet

FICTION

Words by Kat Gillespie

CARIN moved the bed in first. It was a blue mattress from a verge side collection, scattered with small stains. After the last box had been unpacked, she closed her bedroom door and lay down. She could scrape her fingers on the linoleum floor, which was meant to look like marbled stone, and was slightly sticky to the touch. She felt too tired to get up and turn off the light to sleep, and when she shut her eyes their lids were backlit with a bright hopeful whiteness. In the morning, waking bathed in milky North Perth sun, Carin lacked optimism. She’d been a last minute applicant for the room and sensed wariness on the part of her new housemates, who were older and established and clearly comfortable with one another. They had instituted a very personal and in-joke based home décor scheme. At first, she fantasized about a moment of introduction or understanding, of mutual experience. She fantasized about the microwave breaking and the household being thrown into crisis, about watching an instructional online video on microwave maintenance and saving the day with her newfound microwave maintenance skills. She fantasized about celebratory bowls of instant macaroni and cheese being passed around, of cheerful exclamations followed by conversations about mortality and coffee quality and Instagram follower counts. Yet every day the microwave whirred as normal, and she spent hours lying horizontally on the mattress with the bedroom door closed, listening to the muffled sounds of the kitchen stereo and sardonic voices competing with each other. Her anxiety grew slowly and wearily, like an indoor plant. She felt herself yellowing at the tips. She decided to retreat with consent, to take on alienation as a personality trait. AS a means of passing time before work, every morning she examined her face for thirty minutes in the smudgy bathroom mirror, looking for The Telltale Signs of Ageing. She felt a sudden and intrinsic need to be obsessive about something, and this would be it. The cheeky growth of a tiny crow’s foot threw her into days-long depression, and the intensity of this feeling was like a fuel. She was twentysix but felt like she might soon become her mother. She supposed that this was a reasonable and relatable fear to have, one that provided kinship with crows-foot-eyed women of North Perth and the world at large.

She wondered if they considered her a weirdo, and whether they would ask her to leave. Certainly she had not contributed enough in terms of communal area decor. Her lone submission had been a wall calendar from the local butcher. There was a different cut of meat for every month, and public holidays were clearly demarcated in size twelve Comic Sans, italicised. It was funny, she thought, maybe. There was the dull acknowledgment of the inevitability of her leaving and them all leaving eventually, one by one and for various reasons, such as travel and money and yearning for the western suburbs. Everything existed according to a cycle of renewal. The microwave, meanwhile, would outlast all of them, be passed on to the next set of twenty-something tenants.

be sampled from. Cling wrapped and soggy, they had gradually accumulated in number. Occasionally someone in the house would have the idea of entertaining guests with them, this thought usually occurring when a supermarket trip coincided with a payday. Guests were however rare and, when present, mostly uninterested in snacks. The cheeses had become an exponential sore point in the household, and Carin supposed that by eating them she was doing everyone a service. With one finger digging at a yellowed circle of Brie, she indulged in a daily round of sexual fantasy. She was bad at fantasies, too imaginative. After a while they gave her headaches. The flavour intensity of the cheese helped assuage the headaches, distract from them.

ON Wednesday nights Carin had sharehouse ritual. Amber was at yoga and the boys at the Rosemount. She could linger in the kitchen or other common areas undisturbed, and do a fridge sampler buffet. The fridge sampler buffet was her own sacred invention, a tradition she felt she would pass down someday, to a child or friend or family member. It had holiness to it.

Her frequent fantasy was of sexual union with her housemate, Jake. Jake was blond and wiry, with a fake American accent that had gone, for the duration of their time living together, entirely unexplained. He was an electrician and fan of philosophy. In the Jake fantasies, Jake was strong but meek, bending over to display a prominent boniness that made his shoulder blades jut out like a set of awkward wings. He was deeply tanned. He told her in Starting with the topmost shelf, she would amorously placating tones that she looked very taste test every refrigerated item in small young and still had many years ahead to fulfill dabs. Swabbing from the top of leftover casseroles and breaking off tiny pieces of vegan her career potential. He stroked her back at night and didn’t go on about things too much. chocolate, she would take a small bite sized He was sweet, and kind, and one of those bit of everything, and chew furtively while people who declared themselves to be “bad at standing in the yellow of the fridge light. She would dive back in for tiny amounts of second the Internet.” helpings of each item until she felt full or After eating she would go for a run, barefoot, ashamed or both. as Charles Street stretched like elastic towards the city, a deep blue and orange in the dark. The cheeses, moist and neglected in a separate plastic compartment, were first to

Campus Waves Freshman Engineering Student First To Figure Out How To Avoid Socialist Alternative CRAWLEY, WA - Mitch Oswell, 18, has made a campus-first discovery, becoming the first UWA student to learn how to successfully bypass campaigners for left-wing student group, Socialist Alternative. The secret route that would leave any traveller unencumbered by student activists was discovered at midday last Tuesday, when Oswell was walking to his broadening Arts unit lecture in Fox Lecture Theatre.

“Nobody knows about it, but I’ve figured out the trick. You just have to walk the other way past Reid Library,” Oswell said. “It’s super easy, but I’m the one who figured it out.” Word of the discovery grew on campus after Oswell was overheard several times mentioning it in unrelated conversations. “It’s pretty cool that Mitch seems to know all these university secrets,” said James Pritchard, one of two friends from Oswell’s high school to attend UWA for higher study. “I think it’ll be a big hit at this party at Trinity later this week. I bet none of the second or third years know, so it’s a pretty big deal.”

FICTION

The First Exhibition Words by Jemma Lambert Art by Ashleigh Angus

“The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why.” - Mark Twain

Ducking out of woe-be-gone weather, she entered a redolent chamber; escorted by nobody, retrieving her bonnet and fiddling anxiously with its rim. There was paint, pastel dust and dirt beneath her finger-tips, despite how many hours she’d spent trying to scrub them clean. Momentarily, she was saddened to see that her hand-me-down bonnet had lost the rose she’d placed in the tight ribbon circling it. Her excited venture had thrown the pink reminder of home to the ground; likely now soaking amongst the muck of thawed hailstones - soon to be carried off by a common snow-plow.

These words moved stealthily in the very depths of her psyche, taking hold of her curiosity, and making her wonder: could this be the day? She nudged this question aside, making room to substitute it with reality.

She involuntarily coughed upon her entrance, spluttering like a wild donkey and using the chapeau to inconspicuously hide her sickness.

The streets of London were an ongoing crusade between a fine scent of bewitching petrichor and the ghastly stench of woollen socks worn one too many times. The latter seemed to overcome the former, as a petulant young woman hastened her way along Piccadilly road. She swerved to avoid both a gathering of lakeeffect ice and a dearly frost-bitten pauper. She was ailing, yet ambitious. Early, yet paranoid she was late. With chest-nut mittens glued to her bustled skirt and dulcet sugar-plum sweets jiggling in her pockets, she passed desultory street-dwellers in a fit of her own sniffles. The flu could not keep her from this. Nothing could keep her from this, from an evening of potential promise and fugacious, well-to-do banter. She’d left home for this; disregarded her humble, bucolic cottage, a cynosure of every spring flower in the county. She’d taken a chance, leaving just when her roses were due for hibernation. She had not slept a wink, for praying that it would all be worth the risk. Her slippers, peeking out from beneath the rims of an un-corseted tea gown, would have appeared to be civil enough from a distance. They were not. She’d coloured in their faded spots with ink the previous evening. They were beautiful imposters, this woman and her slippers. Around them played flurries of humming snow-flakes, as quintessential to a proper winter as chatoyant detail is to a canvas. Rounding an indented corner, she tripped upon an upturned tile and fell into the almighty shadow issued by her goal. It was the solution, the harbor of hope, the panacea, an omnipotent epitome of felicity, the architectural embodiment of dalliance and dreams. The Royal Academy of Arts. As her sandy locks pranced in a loose waltz behind her, she spoke the initials of the institution as if she were a fierce lioness. “Ra.”

1768. The year was not her own, but it plagued her mind as phlegm did to her gulping throat. December 1768, King George III founded this place. He gave us this. What a gift. She could not thank him enough, yet she tried. Gazing upon its glorious contents with child-like sparkles in her eyes and a tiresome smile, she kept on trying. The purpose of R.A.A. was to celebrate known canons of good taste. She recalled this constantly, the bubbling sense of adventure within her pleading to release itself, to make itself known. One hundred years after foundation, the R.A.A moved here, to Burlington House. The old slippers betrayed her, letting her slip once or twice upon the polished floor beneath her. She walked on a floor of refined memories, memories painted within an Academy designed for the sake of dreamers like her. Admiring the walls and the ceilings, she could name the artworks flourishing within the entrance hall off by heart. Nicknamed ‘Lucifer’s Box’ in her youth, her hot temperament had frustrated her to the point where she’d decided; memorise the artworks, or their beauty is lost on you. The Graces Unveiling Nature, by Benjamin West. Directly contrasting to Composition and Design, both painted by one of the most esteemed female artists of her time; Angelica Kauffmann, or ‘Miss Angel’ - as she was referred to by the Royal Academy President Joshua Reynolds. Indeed she was an angel. Only an angel could create such intimate yet monumental offerings. The imposturous woman felt guilty for not lingering

UWA FACT We need to talk about you-know-who from the Arts office

FEATURE

longer in the hall, for not paying greater attention to Kauffmann’s Painting or Colour and Genius or Invention at the East end. She held that common sense of tourist’s guilt with her; the overwhelming frustration of wanting to explore too much for time to allow. She now sighted a name she recognised, a name that reminded her of the reason she had hurried in the first place, the very reason she’d left home and lost her darling pink rose along her journey. Catherine Elizabeth Macraedy Perugini (nee Dickens) Exhibition. It was written in impossibly kind calligraphy, lurking beneath the painted image of a fair child in maroon robes staring forwards with little to no emotion. She moved on, entering a gallery far grander than she’d ever dreamt of. The entire Academy stank of dreams; the failed, the successful, and of those being created in its midst. As if the centre of focus, the gallery was simply a malodour of dreams. The room was lost in that gorgeous stink. She found herself thriving upon it and grinning. Perfume was the lesser scent in the room, as women from all corners of the globe graced one another with pearls shining against unblemished shoulder blades, suffocating charms, debonair partners, and smirks lacking creativity yet oozing conceit. The crowd was far larger than necessary, flocking within the containment of those towering walls. As both entrances struggled to deal with dire congestion, the imposter moved within the crowds and poorly attempted to blend in. After being pushed to the side lines, she took a deep breath and kept the strength of her back-bone in check. She was no noble lady, no kind friend of perfume or pearls, yet she’d been asked for no pennies at the door. She was a priority presence amongst the rich and famous of the art world, the bold and the beautiful. Keeping this fact in mind, she felt warm goose-pimples appearing in a cheeky fashion down her arms.

Realising that she was quite alone in a room filled to the brim with strangers, surrounded by walls coated in colossal, vibrant works with no space in-between, she began to wish she’d brought along a friend; her sister, her husband, even just that humble rose would have been more than enough. Looking unkempt in comparison to the on-looking women of class, she sort to hide herself. Turning abruptly away from the assembly, she was faced with the original fair, maroon-clothed child. After spending considerable time searching for anything artistically stylish within the painting, the voice of an Italian critic caught her attention by the ears. “Perugini is absolutely marvellous, is she not? I have never witnessed such smooth strokes before, in my entire life. She must be a fallen angel, to create such masterpieces. I swear to you, the shadow of her father plays no part in this. Her work could not have been showcased in a more fitting arena. The Royal Academy of Art stands just as charming, as precise, as organic, as inspirational, as angelic, as independent as the woman whose work it exhibits today.” Catherine nodded at the fair child, created through the whims of her own brushes. She pivoted, her face a mixture of delighted tears and an ache for more, and faced the once suffocating walls head-on. She offered them a droopy smile, weighted by her achievements. The walls were nothing to her, but the people were everything. Their eyes were stained in awe, as her excitement finally released itself in the form of a giddy giggle. That giggle said many things. I’m lost. I’m scared. I’m excited. I can’t handle this. I’m going to try. I was born. Today, of all days, is the day I find out why.

UWA FACT Lawrence Wilson will be partnering with New York’s MoMA later this year

FICTION

AN INCIDENT AT THE GLOVE FACTORY Words and Art by Kate Prendergast

Nosing at the Selangor canals in the industrial zone of Setia City, there is a large, grey, squat building of a dour aesthetic which one passer-by of no consequence to this story, nor to any other story, or even to himself, thought as “diligently unremarkable”. In the fifties, the building had been the site of a privately-owned packaging company; the primary business of which was the manufacture of corrugated fibreboard cartons, from which later would be excavated such various items as eggs, apricots and printers. After the business upgraded and the company relocated east, the property was bought by a Swedish noble for a moderately-inflated sum, and repurposed as the world’s largest manufacturing plant of surgical rubber gloves. The process by which a rubber glove is made is elaborate, yet simple, and almost wholly contingent upon one ingenious mechanism. This mechanism, coiled about the factory’s interior, and sedulously attended upon by discrete bundles of specialized labourers, has the appearance of a long, circling centipede. In the place of where a bug’s chitinous body should be, there is instead a black, segmented chain, looped around a conveyor belt. Attached to this chain on either side are hundreds of perfectly-formed ceramic hands. Each digit is gently and equidistantly splayed from the next. Almost luminous in their powdery white, the hands spin on ballbearings slightly out of sync with those beside it, such that the effect of the operation’s movement is one of a giant, butlerish, circuitous ballet of insect origin. Or as though the left hand of Mickey Mouse had a strange and sinful dream. The mechanism at use within the Setia City factory took a morethan-modest pleasure in its work. And this was lucky, for the travails to which it was subject took no natural amount of fortitude. Dipping its hands— or should I say legs, or should I say hands, either or, or both, as you will— into the various solutions of ammonia and chlorine, the machine experienced an unremittent burning sensation across a certain length of its body at all times, as parts of it slid through the chemical baths located on the factory’s main floor. Further up, past the baths, the hands dove in and out of a sortie of vaguely soothing liquids and gels, which built up gradually into a composite film of complex plastics. The machine would then twist through the doors of a huge oven, where the hands’ new accretions underwent vulcanization. In the darkened brimstone furnace, the embryos of rubber glove polymers slung sulphurs to each other across molecular divides, forming easy chain-gangs of supple co-dependency. Emerging to cool into completeness, the fully-formed gloves were at last shucked cleanly from the hands by pressurized bursts of cold air.

On average, 200 rubber gloves were produced every minute. The machine knew— without quite knowing how it knew— that it was the crucial operant in an important enterprise. After being tested at a number of stations for imperfections (which were not, let it be known, overly common), and sorted into diverse cardboard boxes according size, the congeries of loose and flappy pseudo-skins would journey along their various supply routes to universities and medical offices, KFC outlets and research laboratories, all across the Asian-Pacific, where they would serve as a cardinal line of defence against the cross-migration of numberless toxins. The machine was both the guardian of the flesh of man, and the protectorate of that which man sought to control. For this it was proud. Yet— or perhaps through due consequence—the machine was deeply repulsed by its organic template. For all its dexterity; for all its wondrous capacity for harp-playing, oil-painting, ear-tugging, pencil-sharpening and chest-stroking, the human hand was— by its reckoning, and in the first order—a thing of compulsive secretion. It oozed things continuously. Wherever it went, whenever it palmed or pressed or lingered, it left behind it an oleaginous stain. Without the vessels of containment the machine so assiduously accreted and then shed, from factory lights on to lights out, the contaminants endemic to touch would seethe past all barriers, like a horde of rats rippling unseen through a field of wheat. The image set minor ripples of disgust through the machine’s backbone. This caused imperfections in the production line, so that a batch of one hundred or so gloves was lost. Mira Chok had been a basic worker at the factory for one year, seven months. Her job was to manually remove any glove that— for one reason or another— had not been fully cleaved from the ceramic mould during the final air-jet process. For ten hours each day, she and seven others clad in aseptic white would sit to attention before the rolling chain, waiting with eyelids sprung to dully suspended stupefaction should an anomaly of rubber residue come whisking by. Mira’s proficiency and dedication towards her work was as much as anyone could expect from one committed to a job of such spectacular drudgery. Under strict employment policy, all workers were required to wear themselves the gloves the factory produced. Mira was none too complacent in this regard. It is, however, a sad truth that misfortune knows other byways than complacency.

UWA FACT Co-op bookshop accepts Bed, Bath and Beyond vouchers as valid currency

FICTION

In this instance, it came down to a bakelite ring. Mia had found it that morning midway through a solitary breakfast of black coffee and eggs, half-hid beneath the tablecloth of a cheap main-street diner not two blocks away from the factory. If the ring had been candid about its existence—disclosed itself flatly in plain sight— its qualities would have been that of the gauchely camp, a bit of tawdry refuse; and to pick it up a thing unseemly. But the manner in which that little glistening thing of jelly blue just lay there, so pert in its circular self, mediating turgid joy and shy devilry, to slip it on her finger proved to Mia something destiny could have fooled her into as rote. Mia slid the ring out from under the tablecloth, and put it on.

with a great wrenching the machine tore itself up from its bearings. It threshed with gawky horror to the floor, as hundreds upon hundreds of hands slipped and clacked and fluttered about for purchase.

At the factory, the ring was forgot. Snapping on her work gloves, the latex snared on a tiny nub of rough bakelite, sharp out of character. A tiny tear appeared in the glove, just below the middle knuckle of the left hand. The event and the outcome constituted something of a momentous chink in the cosmic fabric of mediocrity. Even the supervisor, a walrus-man with eyes that jabbed like screwdrivers, did not notice the puncture. Because of this grossly infinitesimal oversight, of which either all parties or none must be held to account, Mira could not fail to come in pale, unconscious contact with one of the ceramic hands. And so it went that the machine— for the first time since its mechanic stirrings— felt the touch of a living thing.

Witnessed also by the glass eyes was a great orgiastic palpation. The machine’s rummaging was both ferocious and impersonal. Digging and thrusting and sinking its way into soft melony forms, it was not long before no hand was left white. Fires spilled and swept about the factory’s hulk, and the shadows of workers pooling towards the exits oiled in flickering, anxious imprints across a floor slick with blood and oil. Many escaped. Others did not. Into which of these two categories Mira chanced to fall, we are, as yet, uncertain.

The workers serried, then split. Industry-standard surveillance cameras covering the full perimeter of the factory floor tracked and recorded this both— the serrying, then the splitting, followed by welter of panicked activity towards the main doors—and a paper was later written on the observations thereof, entitled ‘Crowd Evacuation Patterns in the Event of Unplanned Industrial Catastrophes: Analysis by Way of a Modified CBTT Model’.

It was unendurable. That tiny patch of not-rubber thing, hers, soft and warm, bearing secrets of muscle and marrow, of infinite blood factories and pipes— caused an alien acid to gush into some non-existent cavity deep within the machine’s abysmal heart. Its steel body fibrillated like a blind dog before an electrical storm, or a wasted eremite teething on the bitter fruit of revelation. Within the machine grew a hot, subterranean rage. Deception was what it willed to utter, and a ball of enormous hate fled like a million oil droplets to all the gloves it had so unwittingly shed; dead things that even now were lapping and nestling against the hands of a vast global consumery. At this the machine’s spine buckled. The joints of several ceramic fingers split. Knuckles grew bulbous and shone in sickly cream, and Cthulhic claws evolved with eager snapping. By their own accord, the hands multiplied, and the chain glowed a dull red as it spun faster and faster. Finally,

UWA FACT Hackett cafe’s recent makeover will feature on an upcoming episode of channel 9’s Reno Rumble

FICTION

WONDERING WHY YOU DIDN’T ASK WHAT I WANTED FOR DINNER I have extrapolated the future From your past sighs And the gifts you have not brought me in the present. Now I am unsure of where we stand Whether that be upon the seat carved by today or the edge of tomorrow I cannot understand the immediate, rather a littered path of longing That leads me away from your conversation and into the depths That dive between your words And swim sadly in a deconstructed alphabet Gazes into my eyes between breaths. While you sleep, I am afraid. I have read too far and too much Into myself.

by Bryce Newton

UWA FACT The UWA new Subway won’tRossiter be selling Italianare Herb Cheese bread to zoning restrictions FACT The brothers the and hottest siblings ondue campus

FICTION

A Dinner Conversation Words by Georgia Oman

She’s sitting at the table across from me, staring. Perhaps ‘sitting’ is being generous. Slumped would be a better word. It’s vaguely onomatopoeic, the sound I can imagine she makes when she slides forwards over the table like that, her shoulders hunched and her chin resting heavily on her hand, making a half-hearted effort to fight the inevitable pull of gravity. I can’t stand it when she looks at me like that, without saying anything. She doesn’t need to, I suppose, because her eyes do all the communicating. Why are you doing this to me? they seem to say. What have I done wrong? Why are you punishing me? And I can’t reply. The words get stuck in my throat, and I can’t force them out. I feel like whatever I say is gibberish to her – like she doesn’t understand, or wills herself not to. It’s not explanations she wants, after all, it’s change. Specifically, it’s me she wants to change, and I can’t. I’ve tried to make her happy, to do what she wanted me to do, day in and day out, but eventually I just got tired of trying. So there’s no use looking at me like that, I feel like shouting. Your eyes full of reproach like I’m the one letting you down. I have needs too, you know! But I know she won’t understand, so I don’t. There’s a distance between us, a gulf that I can’t bridge no matter how hard I try. It makes me agitated sometimes; I feel like I’m stuck and I can’t move. I get flustered and annoyed with myself, but it only seems to make her even more apologetic and anxious, like she’s the one that’s done something wrong. I can’t stand it when she speaks to me like I’m somebody that needs to be placated, in that soothing voice specially designed to calm me down when I’m in one of my moods. Sometimes when she does this, it only pushes me further. I don’t mean to do it, but I have a short fuse. To her credit, she never leaves me when I’m like this, as hard as I try to push

her away. I always regret it soon afterwards, when she holds me in her arms until the storm has passed She gives a sniff now and I prepare myself for the waterworks. She’s always on the verge of crying these days. Her eyes sparkle with barely-restrained tears, perpetually threatening to burst their banks and give way to the biblical flood that always seems to be just around the corner. But it’s a false alarm. There’s a used paper towel next to her half-finished bowl of l soup, and she uses it to wipe her nose. I wince, but she doesn’t notice. I swear that whenever it’s just her and I in a room (as it usually is, to be honest – she hasn’t felt much like socialising these past few months) she acts as if she’s completely alone. All inhibitions are tossed to the wind like I’m not even there. The soup is low fat, I notice. I can see the can from here, left on the bench beside the kitchen sink alongside the great glass mountain of half-empty baby food pots. I notice things like that, even if she doesn’t think I do. How could anyone not notice all the trashy celebrity gossip magazines lying all over the house like she’s toilet training a dog? Every screaming headline is the same. How I Got My Body Back My Body After Baby Post-Baby Super Diet Underneath each one is a smiling woman in a bikini, placed next to a photo of the same woman with a scowl and a heavily protruding stomach. I don’t mean to be rude, but I fear that, on a sliding scale, she’s looking more like a “before” picture than an “after”. And really, when she’s stopped trying to exercise, what does she expect? That was harsh. I take it back. I know she hasn’t found it as easy as she had hoped. I’ve heard her on the phone to her friends (like I said, nothing is private. She can talk for hours like I’m not even there).

‘He used to be such a good baby… no, he slept like an angel straight away! It’s just these last few weeks that he’s been waking us up in the middle of the night, screaming like there’s a bloody fire.’ Whatever you do, don’t get her started on the feeding, that’s my advice to you. ‘No, no, he’s still being difficult. We introduced solids, slowly, you know, and I thought he’d gotten used to them. But lately all he seems to want is breast milk. Should I be worried?’ It’s tiresome to listen to, I’ll admit, but I do sympathise with her. She’s trying her best. I do know that, I really do. Oh no, she’s standing up. She’s coming over here. She looks so defeated and I can feel my resolve shaking. No, I think. I’m not giving in. I can’t go on with this charade any longer. But still she comes, until she’s right in front of me, her arms on either side of my high chair, locking me in place. As if I could move if I tried. ‘Please,’ she says in a low voice, and in her hand right I can see that dreaded plastic spoon. Dear God no, don’t let it be there too… But it is, I can see it now. The little glass pot. She had it hidden in her hand all along. That jezebel! That charlatan! Fraud, trickster, swindler! It’s no use. She twists the lid and it opens with that dreaded pop. There’s nothing I can do to stop her. I open my mouth to complain, but all that comes out is an unintelligible wail. She’s already scooped up a shapeless spoonful of that disgusting green mash. ‘Open wide for mummy,’ she trills. ‘Here comes the aeroplane!’

UWA FACT The team behind UWA Confessions have recently acquired a book deal with Harper Collins

POLITIC FICTION S

PAST SELF I think I’m in love, with my past self every night I take her to bed caress her storm stained body tell her how bright morning will be

a captivating sheath of enchantment she lingers in the places light cannot reach

and when curtains become strips of sunlight, she’s gone i awake alone, search the sheets hoping to find her hiding place

an intangible frame of silent fragility the absent spaces are filled with her void

later I linger in shadows leave the fridge door open play her favourite records whisper her name in wet ink

but I think I love her every night as I take her to bed I cherish the storm stained memory, a body that didn’t know how bright morning could be

but it’s not until I crumple in sweat stained sheets that her sweet scent returns from the night: she emerges

by Maddie Godfrey

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Art by Catherina Pagani

POLITIC S

Disturbing Future Indeed Words by Future Wyatt Roy

UWA FACT Disgraced former health blogger Belle Gibson is a UWA sports science graduate

POLITIC S

The following is the foreword from veteran Liberal MP Wyatt Roy’s account of Tony Abbott’s time as Prime Minister ‘Nineteen Years of Conservative Brilliance’, published in 2040 Reflecting upon my own political career, I cannot dismiss the importance of Tony Abbott (or as the Australian public came to know him, ‘Uncle Tones’). I was elected to parliament in the tempest of falling Labor seats in the 2010 election. Despite our success, the Labor scoundrels stole a midnight march on us and secured a minority government with the help of some hippies and traitorous former Nationals. The next three years of opposition however characterized and emboldened Tony, and it was during this time that I saw his immortal greatness grow. As Opposition leader, Tony tore through Labor, and won a great victory at the 2013 election. From there he soared, introducing landmark reforms of Australian society and the economy, starting with the abolition of the Carbon Tax – a crowning achievement in his role as Minister for Women. Tony had always been an advocate of women. Many lefty detractors claim the opposite of this, but I have seen firsthand Tony smiling at women, shaking their hands, winking in a friendly manner at them, even listening to them! And all along, he did the hard job by making all of the decisions vital to their lives for them, like a gentleman. This chivalrous attitude toward women was most encapsulated by the introduction of the ‘Ironing Board Bonus’ in 2021. The bonus ensured a $1200 payment annually for women who maintained their traditional roles in the home. Boldly ignoring protests from lefty organizations, Tony always knew what was best for the women of this great nation. Like all great Australian Prime Ministers including Menzies, Howard, and Holt, Abbott was not always popular. His first term was plagued by criticism, especially fueled by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation which, after its reorganization under Turnbull, became the Abbott Broadcasting Network. Issues such as climate change, gay marriage and boat people all threatened to dislodge Abbott’s logical and bold vision. However once again, Abbott was too wise to listen to the voice of scientists, popular opinion, and the United Nations. When former Prime Minister (and former UN Secretary-General) Rudd referred to climate change as the ‘great moral challenge’ of our time, Tony was insightful enough to see what this climate

change nonsense really was – a ploy by green energy companies to wrong-foot their fossil fuel rivals in the market. Tony, a keen friend of coal and its benefits for humanity was able to carve a swathe through the greedy hippies that tried to destroy the coal market, and abolish the Carbon Tax set up by the previous Labor government. While nations all around the world gave into the green conspiracy, Tony knew better. Despite the sanctions against Australia currently being discussed in the UN for our noncompliance with internationally agreed carbon reduction schemes, Tony knew, as I still do, that soon enough this conspiracy will unravel, and his decisions will be vindicated. At the start of Abbott’s term, he declared that he would be the infrastructure Prime Minister. He built roads crisscrossing the nation, including the bridge from the mainland to Tasmania. Additionally, the NDN (National Dial-up Network) had provided Internet speeds of up to 20mbps to all homes within a 20-kilometer radius of the CBD of each capital city. On foreign policy issues, Tony was wise in always following our faithful friend and ally, the USA. When they engaged ISIS in the Middle East, so did we. When the US, in 2023 under Jeb Bush, invaded the rest of the Middle East, we obliged. Despite losing Western Australia to the Chinese after Abbott’s ill-fated declaration of war in 2028, I still firmly believe that he acted in the best interests of our nation. Domestically, Abbott made an impassioned speech in late 2015 about his stance on so-called ‘marriage equality’ in Australia. Looking directly into the camera, he stated “How will I be able to look my grandchildren in the eye and say that I allowed two people who love each other get married when I don’t agree with it?” Though marriage equality was eventually passed by the LaborGreens Coalition government in 2033, Abbott’s steadfast refusal made Australia the last Western country to have it outlawed, and for that I think we can all be proud. Resigning in 2032, Tony has since sat on the board of News Corp, started a charity for disadvantaged aristocracy, and has written extensively on his time in office. Tony, you will be missed, but never forgotten. Wyatt Roy Leader of the Liberal Party (2038 – Present)

UWA FACT Previous National Campus Band Competition winners include Alt-J, The Monkees, and FKA Twigs

POLITIC S

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love Same Sex Marriage in Australia Words by Leah Roberts Art by Catherina Pagani

People forget how unusual it is for Australia not to be at the forefront of progressive social change. Since the 1970s, Australia has tended to punch above its weight in terms of social justice. We were among the first nations granting universal suffrage to women, the Whitlam years saw the introduction of free university and health care, the final dismantlement of the White Australia Policy, and much more. Yet in terms of marriage equality, our legal system is now dragging hopelessly behind those of other developed nations. The recent decision by the US Supreme Court turned Facebook into a rainbow, yet the Australian government will not budge. Recent statistics have found that 60% of Australians believe in marriage equality, and that its support is growing. The stage of convincing Australia to accept the idea of marriage equality has passed – the next stage is looking at which avenues are available for us to change the Marriage Act and grant Australians the equality that we want. Marriage in Australia is technically more conservative now than in previous decades. Prior to 2004, the Federal Marriage Act stated that marriage was between two people – gender unspecified. It was the coalition government, in control of both Houses of Parliament, that changed it to state that marriage was between a man and a woman. Although technically marriage equality had existed up until this time,

homosexuality had been illegal when the original bill was passed. The Labor Party’s policy on marriage equality is to put the matter to a conscience vote, and agitators within the Liberal party are trying to convince their colleagues to adopt the same stance. That debate is unlikely to gain any traction while Abbott, whose stance on marriage equality has been made painfully clear, is still leader. A rough estimate found that so far 60% of currently sitting MPs would pass the amendments to the Marriage Act, and 25% remain unknown in their stance. The result of this is that with the Liberals toeing the party line, marriage equality legislation will not pass through the lower house under an Abbott government. Australia’s constitution does not mention marriage. This means that the kind of referendum recently held in Ireland could not legalise gay marriage in Australia. Although it would be possible to hold a national plebiscite vote, it would be difficult to convince the government to hold one. At the moment, the Abbott government is much more concerned with foreign policy issues and tightening security at detention centres. I do not believe that the required amendments for the Marriage Act will take place under our current government. Our Prime Minister in particular has made it clear that he does not want such amendments to pass. I hope that Australians do get a chance to vote on this issue, or that our representatives in government will vote on behalf of community wishes rather than their own. Why should these MPs be allowed to legislate on issues that do not affect them? There are many married heterosexual MPs who will not in any way be negatively affected by marriage equality. The legal processes are there. At the time of writing, the crossparty Same-Sex Marriage Bill is due to be introduced in August, though it is doomed to almost certain failure. If Ireland, the most Catholic nation west of Rome, can give into the wishes of their people and grant equality, what’s holding Australia back? It is time that we question our backwardness on this issue, and what it represents more broadly about our philosophy as a nation.

UWA FACT Scenes from Mad Max: Fury Road were filmed in The Pit

POLITIC S

Musings on political promises versus political realities Words by Brad Griffin The worst thing a government can do in a democracy is lie to its people, and when a government is elected, it is given a mandate to carry out its pre-electoral promises to the best of its ability. Australia’s two most recent governments, the Tony Abbott Liberal government of 2013 to the present, and the Gillard-Rudd government of 2010-2013, are both good examples of governments plagued by promises made immediately before the election, and then repudiated thereafter. In the circumstances of both, it is childish and pointless to simply declare the leaders of these governments to be liars. Many more factors are at play. The intersection of political promise and political reality dominates party politics in Australia. This has become ever more true as our system has experienced an increasingly ‘presidential’ style of campaigning, with our election campaigns being less communitydriven and more focused on leaders, slogans, and ten-second sound-bites. The rise of video-sharing platforms and the viral nature of online videos has made typical election campaigning a dangerous minefield of political gaffes and in some cases downright disasters. Who could ever forget James Diaz’s unfortunate inability to list even two points of his party’s plan to ‘stop the boats’ in the 2013 election campaign? Aware of this, politicians are oft likely to make broad, boring political statements that skirt around too-hard-to-touch issues in order to avoid making concrete statements that could come back to haunt them in government. Perhaps this is why Bill Shorten says little or nothing about policy – because he is wise to the media cycle and refuses to commit. Or more likely, he’s a boring, non-energetic campaigner. This is also the same reason Abbott brings every question asked to him back to his flagship (pardon the pun) ‘turn back the boats’ policy, because it has been a ‘success’ for the Liberal government, and they want to continually drill that into the population: We – have – stopped – the boats. Want us to say it again? So where does well-intentioned pre-election statement meet blatant political lie? On a case-by-case basis, it is impossible to know for sure. A responsible politician (oxymoron, I know) will firmly know their party’s stance on any issue, and will understand on which issues they can voice a personal

opinion, and on which they must toe the party line. However in some cases, genuine political promise is completely trumped by unexpected political reality. In what has been described as the line that doomed her government before it was even re-elected, Gillard stated, “There will be no carbon tax under the government I lead”. Unfortunately for her, the reality of a (poorly) hung parliament left the limp Labor party with little option but to ally with the Greens and submit to their request for a Carbon Tax in order to erect a functioning government. Combining this situation with ongoing leadership trauma made a deadly cocktail. The lesson learned from this experience is the way in which Abbott and the Liberals were able to use this to their advantage. It seemed almost every day you would see Abbott or another Liberal decrying Gillard’s ‘lie’ to the Australian people, Placards, ad campaigns, radio announcements, television appearances, all with a singular message: She lied. Though Abbott’s negative campaigning brought him extremely low approval ratings from the electorate, it successfully damaged the reputations of Gillard and Labor. Abbott’s own record is not clean. The day before the 2013 election, he appeared to

shut down Labor’s scare campaign against him. He announced before the nation that there would be “no cuts to education, no cuts to health, no change to pension, no change to the GST, and no cuts to the ABC or SBS.” I remember at the time feeling that this was Abbott’s ‘Gillard moment’. That was a long list of big promises and not a responsible move for a man who really should have known better. If he had not made that declaration, future cuts might have been more palatable to the Australian public. However, the election campaign is a fierce beast, and those who do not wax hyperbole are often deemed to lack vision. A fog of war does exist in politics. The space between opposition and government is occupied by not so much clear glass as it is the window of the microwave at your friend’s really dodgy student sharehouse. It is through this lens that opposition parties attempt to spy what they can realistically achieve once they have gained electoral victory. Attempting to discern between political fiction and genuine promises and which of those can realistically be carried out by a government is a difficult task. Frustratingly for Australian voters, it is one that shall exist for as long as parliamentary democracy does.

Campus Waves Pelican Magazine Experiences Fastest Circulation In Publication History CRAWLEY, WA - UWA student magazine, Pelican Magazine, has announced that is has broken its record for circulation speed. Over 80 000 copies have been placed on the Pelican stand outside the Reid Library since the launch of the ‘Protest’ edition, with coeditor Lucy Ballantyne stating it has needed re-fills almost every other day. “The magazine has had an excellent pick-up rate this year, but the latest edition has really

surpassed our expectations,” said Ballantyne. “We’ve never seen this stand empty so quickly.” UWA Marketing-Communications staff said they were unaware of the magazine, which features a cover criticising the university’s latest marketing campaign, after being spotted loitering near the magazine’s stands. When questioned, a senior members of the Marketing-Communications team responded “what is a Pelican?”. “I would certainly hope that if such a magazine existed, the editors would use it as an opportunity to promote their university, and show it the respect it deserves,” he reiterated.

UWA FACT Students who achieve five HDs in one semester win a free set of steak knives

POLITIC S

CLOSE TO HOME Domestic Violence in Papua New Guinea Words by Jasmine Ruscoe

Imagine living in a country where 70% of the female population have experienced some form of violence. Where it is more desirable for some women to sleep with their children in a jail cell than at home, because that home is too dangerous. Where more than 50% of women are raped by their husbands, and where opportunistic rape is a realistic threat, even to very young children. This is the situation of Papua New Guinea, Australia’s closest geographical neighbour, and it has created a disturbing foreign policy dilemma. While PNG’s gendered violence forms the basis of many of the asylum applications Australia receives, we still insist on settling refugees there– many of them women. Foreign policy nerds will know of the ‘non-refoulement’ principle found in Article 33(1) of the Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees, where it is illegal to knowingly resettle refugees in a place where they are at risk of further persecution. Australia removed this principle from our own Migration Act following the ruling by the High Court against the Gillard Government’s “Malaysia Solution”. Despite allegations of sexual abuse in the Nauru detention centre being found plausible by our own government’s investigation, the women and children involved are still being held in the same facility while further investigations are undertaken. While there is an Australian Federal Police presence in PNG, and some coordination with our Defense and Immigration Departments, this is not enough, especially if Australia insists on continuing an asylum process that further enforces harm upon these women. 30

Gender-based violence in PNG occurs for many reasons, including discipline, jealousy, revenge, opportunity, and punishment for alleged sorcery. Papua New Guinean law enforcement and human rights activists have also expressed concern that while cultural and traditional practices and beliefs once served as protections for women, they are increasingly used instead to justify violence and abuse. For example, they say, the concept of a “bride price,” has not adapted well to PNG’s modernising economy. Rather than a contribution to a new household, as it was originally intended to be, the “bride price,” has been distorted into more of a purchase price, which puts the woman in an indebted and objectified position and thus leaves them vulnerable. Many Papua New Guineans – both men and women – view what is here and now recognised as domestic violence, as a legitimate method of controlling or disciplining lazy or insubordinate women. It has historically been regarded as a family matter, not to be discussed publically, which has caused trouble in estimating and combating the incidence of attacks. Many women in PNG only report domestic violence when their injuries are so severe that they must seek medical attention. Despite this, the number of women who have reportedly been beaten in PNG is as high as 100% in some places. To make matters worse, a higher percentage of these beatings result in homicide in PNG than in some other countries because of their severity, but also because of the damage they cause to the enlarged spleens of malaria victims, common in PNG. Furthermore, in both domestic and nondomestic contexts, women are at risk of rape - including gang rape - broken bones, knife attacks, being burnt with hot irons, and even being burnt alive or beheaded.

Violence against women is illegal in PNG, according to both their constitution, and statute law. PNG is also a signatory to the United Nations’ Declaration Against Violence Against Women, and the Convention for the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women. Notoriously little has been done thus far, however, to effectively implement the principles and practices they encourage. For example, community based organisations regularly conduct training and awareness campaigns on domestic violence and assault, but these are proving ineffective, due in part to the fact that they primarily target women, despite men being the overwhelming majority of perpetrators. More optimistically, in 2013, the Family Protection Bill was introduced, which enables people other than the victim to report domestic violence, and domestic violence to be prosecuted as its own crime, rather than as assault. The 1971 Sorcery Act, which outlawed sorcery, was also recently repealed in an effort to curb the violent punishment of women for alleged witchcraft. These changes will hopefully lead to a decrease in violence, at least against heterosexual women. Homosexuality is punishable by 14 years in jail, even for those who apply for asylum on the grounds of their homosexuality – who are now required to be “out” to receive protection – and who are later settled in PNG. It is clear, at least to me, that Australia is failing women in need from our own corner of the globe. Whether or not our asylum policy changes, we need to at least step up and help Papua New Guinea become some semblance of the refuge we want it to be.

UWA FACT The UWA Arts faculty is set to introduce a Fashion Merchandising major in 2016

FILM

FILM REVIEWS of a discontented housewife, Madame Bovary.

GEMMA BOVERY Director: Anne Fontaine Starring: Gemma Arterton, Jason Flemyng, Fabrice Luchini, Niels Schneider Gemma Bovery, the latest film from Anne Fontaine, is a tragicomedy based on Posy Simmond’s graphic novel reimagination of Flaubert’s moral tale

Set in Flaubert’s home town in Normandy, local baker and literary romantic Martin Joubert (Fabrice Luchini) takes a keen interest in his English expatriate neighbours when he discovers their names; Charles and Gemma Bovery. Martin excitedly tells his family of the coincidence, and is disappointed with their scepticism. He becomes infatuated with Gemma and her strikingly similar attributes to her literary near-namesake, and finds himself willing her to mirror the actions of Emma Bovary’s tragic story. We soon discover the young anglaise couple’s move to Normandy is an attempt to save their marriage. However, Gemma is a modern Londoner married to the wrong man, and she does not enjoy the rustic countryside life as much as her unwitting husband does.

Joubert becomes increasingly agitated and invasive as the plot unfolds, and tries to meddle when he discovers that Gemma is committing adultery with Herve de Bressigny (Niels Schneider), the feckless son of the town’s wealthiest family. What unfolds is a series of farcical events, culminating in a tragic, yet hilarious ending. I entered the theatre sceptical to say the least. As a fan of the original Flaubert novel, I was concerned how a movie based on a graphic novel inspired by a novel would translate to screen.The words ‘Jane Austen Book Club’ come to mind. But I did surprise myself with some unexpected chortles, and rather enjoyed it. If you are a fan of Flaubert or farcical French comedies, then you will like this one. 3/5 Caitlin Frunks

The film centres on Riley, an 11-yearold girl who has just moved crosscountry with her family. It’s ostensibly a rollicking kid’s adventure story, but ultimately all of that adventure is just mere backdrop to an in-depth exploration of the cognitive processes of a young girl. This feels like a radical narrative direction for a kids’ film.

The way worlds are built in the film is phenomenal. Core memories form islands that represent personality, and a train of thought is a literal train. The film is probably going to be a popular talking point between psychologists and patients, and it’s the best artistic conception of how the brain operates that I’ve ever seen.

Director: Pete Doctor and Ronaldo Del Carmen Starring: Amy Poehler, Mindy Kaling, Bill Hader, Phyllis Smith

Inside Out follows the anthropomorphic emotions of Riley as they react to her emotional distress following the family’s move. Joy (voiced by Amy Poehler) and Sadness (Phyllis Smith) are forced to leave the Headquarters (where the core emotions of joy, sadness, anger, fear and disgust run the show) to journey inside the mind and fix Riley’s emotional damage.

Inside Out sees the return of Up director Pete Doctor, and it’s Pixar’s most original film since that 2009 gem. It marks the return of a sense of inventiveness and passion to the Pixar studio, which as of recent times has seemed like it was struggling with a bad case of sequel-itis.

The visual design of the film is exceptional, in particular a scene where Joy and Sadness start to break down into abstract concepts. The film’s use of colour stands out as a highlight, where specific colours are used to distinguish specific emotions.

I think Inside Out is the most complex film Pixar has ever made. It doesn’t have a villain and all the conflict is ultimately internal. This is a beautiful, funny and emotional film and what it’s trying to say is really special. The film tells us that sadness is an unavoidable part of the human experience; that sadness is necessary. As Lykke Li sings in a refrain that repeatedly came to mind during the movie, “sadness is a blessing.”

INSIDE OUT

UWA FACT Pelican Prom will destroy you

5/5 Kevin Chiat

FILM

JURRASIC WORLD Director: Colin Trevorrow Starring: Chris Pratt, Bryce Dallas Howard, dinosaurs! You know your franchise reboot is in trouble when its best moments are explicit references to the much, much better original. And when even those moments are empty, ultimately. But hey, who can argue with a billion dollars at the box office? They should have called this Jurassic World: Who’d have thought this could happen a fourth time? Set 22 years after the original Jurassic Park, the island of Isla Nublar has been

Jurassic World’s problem isn’t its ridiculousness. It’s bland. What made the original Jurassic Park a great summer blockbuster was that Spielberg used the technological restrictions of making a live action dinosaur film in 1993 to his advantage, namely to create tension and develop its characters. Note that in the

Told through a collage of found footage, archival work and interviews with Winehouse and her family, collaborators and close friends, Kapadia’s film masquerades as an objective outsider while bristling with pain and defensiveness. We don’t feel or even understand Winehouse’s struggle with mental illness, love, or drugs, but rather – in the wake of tragedy – grieve for something precious killed and rail against the forces that took it. Bitter with unspoken accusations, Amy populates Winehouse’s world with predators, opportunists and ineffectuals, and leaves none with hands clean of her blood.

AMY Director: Asif Kapadia Starring: Amy Winehouse Winehouse obsessive Asif Kapadia’s documentary hits cinemas four years after the star’s early death. What felt in equal parts shocking, mysterious and inevitable in 2011 has been largely left alone for the most part, although the shadow of ‘too soon’ still stands long over the footage. 32

successfully reopened by the Masrani Corporation, and retitled Jurassic World. How exactly they managed to regain control of the island is never really made clear, but who cares? Dinosaurs! Thousands of yuppies flock to gawp at the miracle of cloned prehistoric animals, but apparently this isn’t enough. The park needs bigger, scarier attractions to meet consumer demands. So they concoct a genetic hybrid: the super intelligent Indominus Rex. The movie’s own trailer points out that this is “probably not a good idea”. Surprise, surprise, the new dino busts out and runs amok, leaving it up to the park’s manager Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard) and Velociraptor trainer/resident hunk Owen (Chris Pratt) to save the day. Throw in a forced romance, a pair of incredibly annoying kids, and an utterly preposterous plan to use raptors to fight the Indominus, and you have your movie.

This has the unfortunate effect of victimising Winehouse. For a film which begins by illuminating her heart, her talent, her biting wit, and her emotional strength and maturity, the Winehouse at its conclusion – an infantile character helpless against the evils of addiction, the fiscal-gluttons and fame-hungry dogs surrounding her – is upsetting and suspicious. Even in the light of the truth, it’s so easy to reduce a famous woman from human to victim in pursuit of a narrative.

original, dinosaurs actually only show up for maybe 15-20 minutes. This is something Spielberg learned from the logistical nightmare of making Jaws with an animatronic shark, 40 years ago. The remainder of the gaps were used to illuminate Michael Crichton’s source material, an accessible interpretation of chaos theory via a vintage Jeff Goldblum performance. Of course Jurassic World is troubled by no such restrictions whatsoever. CGI allows filmmakers to do whatever they want. To its credit, the movie spends a commendable amount of time establishing cursory themes of animal psychology, and a broader theme of control vs. chaos. It’s just a little ironic that once the dinosaurs are set loose, the movie throws all that out the window and craps the bed with a sensory overload of consequence-less CGI. It’s just stuff for the sake of stuff. Meanwhile, the best JW can offer in response to Goldblum is New Girl’s Jake Johnson, whose sole purpose apparently is to comment on how ridiculous the whole scenario is. You and me both, brother. 1.5/5 Matt Green

Documentarians should take extra care to avoid this, and Amy lets respect dissolve into self-righteous anger. We start so close to Winehouse and end so far away from her, nothing clearer, nothing understood; looking through a sick voyeuristic lens at her body bag being transported from the scene of her death and at those closest her, grieving at her funeral, as though they deserved it. The woman renowned for her uncensored attitude is reduced to a vehicle for Kapadia’s justice crusade. Amy is an illuminating exploration of Winehouse’s story. It’s fairly produced, often funny, and in equal strides intimate and removed. The blame falls in fair places, but should a film about Winehouse be all about blame when even Kapadia can’t escape becoming one of the ambulance chasers he accuses by the film’s final curtain? See it for the brutally honest, hard-working and charming soul that was Amy Winehouse, but don’t let her slip away from you. 3.5/5 Richard Moore

UWA FACT Paul Johnson is set to suffer massive personal losses as a result of his investments in The Whole Pantry app

FILM

Wings over Hollywood Words by James Munt

What do Battleship, Star Trek IV (the whale one), Birth of a Nation and Karate Kid II all have in common? They were all filmed with the assistance of the US Department of Defence (DOD). For a cool $63mil, the makers of Ben Affleck-vehicle The Sum of all Fears were able to produce the film, replete with two rented B-2 bombers, two F-16 fighter jets, a National Airborne Operations Centre, three Marine Corps CH-53E helicopters, a UH-60 Army helicopter, four ground vehicles, fifty Marines and a goddamn aircraft carrier. All the Pentagon asks in return for access to this tax-payer subsidised military equipment, locations, or even costly DOD archival footage, is the ability to vet the script for anything it doesn’t like, and to appoint an advisor to make sure they stay to the approved script. Obviously this immediately rules out anti-war films, such as Apocalypse Now or The Deer Hunter, neither of which were approved for assistance. The reasons for less obvious refusals are both illuminating

and amusing. For example, unlike Iron Man, The Avengers was refused assistance, according to the Pentagon’s Hollywood liaison officer Phil Strub, because of its fictional organisation S.H.I.E.L.D.’s unclear purpose and trans-national nature, as well as it being too far-fetched; quite the opposite to the approved Transformers entries. The Pentagon is often reluctant to approve films involving alien invasions because of how ineffective the military is depicted against them, as was the case with the assistance-refused Independence Day. Without assistance, the costs of producing the film Thirteen Days skyrocketed, necessitating the use of digital effects and shooting jet footage in the Philippines. These kinds of cost increases mean that military censorship begins at the very start of production, with studios often encouraging writers to avoid including anything that would lead films to be rejected. In producer Peter Almond’s words, “There’s a kind of devil’s brew. The problem... with these big-scale projects that involve military assets is that we’re kind of dependent on them for comparatively inexpensive use of the assets in making our stories. So they have us kind of over a barrel.” The blacklist in 1947 saw over 300 left-wing directors, actors and screenwriters purged by the government in collaboration with studio executives.

Whilst Wings first featured bi-plane dogfight scenes in 1929, interference by military and security agencies intensified enormously thanks to Cold War hysteria. I Married a Communist and The Red Menace were just some of a slew of anticommunist films studio execs helped produce in response to the blacklist, which laid the basis for the Pentagon’s influence today. The Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps and, since 2001, even the C.I.A. all now have appointed Entertainment Liaison Offices. The Air Force’s boasts the catchy website title ‘Wings over Hollywood’. They are unabashed about their role in using films and TV to increase enlistment, an unsurprising one, considering the well-known boost in both recruitment numbers and confidence in the armed forces that follows overtly military films. The US Navy stated that after the release of Top Gun, enlistment of young men, wanting to be Naval Aviators increased by 500%. Some screenings even had enlistment booths outside cinemas, with Major David Georgi, saying of the kids in the audience, “[they] came out of the movie with eyes as big as saucers … [and asked] Where do I sign up?” With statistics showing an average of 22 US veterans committing suicide a day and the Department of Veterans Affairs estimating 11-20% of those who served in Iraq or Afghanistan suffer from

UWA FACT An animatronic duck with night-vision camera eyes lives in the koi pond. His name is Mark

WINGS OVER HOLLY WOOD CONT.

post-traumatic stress disorder in any given year, it’s easy to comprehend how eager the Pentagon would be to make use of such effective cultural influence. So eager in fact that advertising space on video releases of The Hunt for the Red October and Flight of the Intruder was offered to the DOD by Paramount executives in return for the scrapping of millions of dollars in production costs; the idea was only turned down after advice from Grey Advertising that both movies were “already wonderful recruiting tools” and advertising at the start of “what is already a two-hour recruiting commercial” would be redundant. Instead of waiting for that two hour army recruitment advertising space to be pitched to it, the DOD now makes an active effort to solicit studios with their own ideas. A range of script ideas are available to browse on the C.I.A. website, including the memorably titled ‘Robert Fulton’s Skyhook and Operation Cold Feet’. In 2010, starring in Act of Valor was made a formal task for activeduty, tax-payer funded Navy SEALs after Navy Special Warfare invited production companies in 2008 to submit proposals on a film explicitly aimed at boosting enlistment. But predisposition to enlistment and a support for the military starts early with children’s TV shows like Lassie and The Mickey Mouse Club having had scripts rewritten to make the armed services 34

more appealing to children. Additionally, movies often being forced to remove content that guarantees an R rating. A letter sent to the makers of The Right Stuff, a 1983 film about the post-war space program stated that “The obscene language used seems to guarantee an ‘R’ rating. If distributed as an ‘R’, it cuts down on the teenage audience, which is a prime one to the military services when our recruiting bills are considered.” After the C.I.A. and the Pentagon controversially did everything they could in giving Kathryn Bigelow and producers of Zero Dark Thirty access to interview officials, as well as both a translator and navy SEAL who were in the May 2011 raid to kill Bin Laden, was it any surprise at this point that it was routinely criticised for justifying the United States’ use of torture? Bigelow, who gushed about the C.I.A. agents that “fought bravely even as they sometimes crossed moral lines […] who gave all

Instead of waiting for that two hour army recruitment advertising space to be pitched to it, the DOD now makes an active effort to solicit studios with their own ideas.

of themselves … for the defense of this nation,” could not have given the agency a bigger public relations gift. Operation Hollywood author David Robb contends this practice of selectively leasing might not even be constitutional, citing the ruling from 1995 Supreme Court case Rosenberger v. University of Virginia that “In the realm of private speech or expression, government regulation may not favor one speaker over another.” As film critic J. Hoberman asserted in 2004, “It’s our Army. If you can afford the rates you should be able to rent.” In any case, the military industrial complex is by no means tiny. The censoring of films selectively provided tax-payer funded military resources sanitises depictions of US security forces and ensures they are subsumed under a pro-military and pro-war ideology. The implications of this must be understood in context: a drone program that has killed between 400 and 10 000 civilians in Pakistan alone, an unspeakably revolting C.I.A. torture report, detainees still in indefinite detention without charge or trial in an unclosed Guantanamo Bay, a vastly overreaching mass intelligence-gathering network and an unjust Iraq War’s questionable role in the formation of Islamic State.

UWA FACT In his downtime, Laurence the Peacock draws erotic manga comics featuring him as main character. They are awful.

MUSIC

NOTHING WAS THE SAME A piece of Drake x Nicki fan fiction Words by Bridget Rumball

It was spring 2012, and Aubrey Drake Graham had been sitting on a bar stool in the middle of a dim LA recording studio for hours, attempting to lay down verses to a new song.

Drake stopped in his tracks. He didn’t like the term ‘friendzone’. He thought it disrespectful. But as he watched Nicki stride into the studio, he wished that she could be his and his alone (in a mutually romantic sense, not a possessive one - as his mother had told him back in Toronto when was young, ‘No-one is ever anyone’s belonging.’)

‘I want to…your… fuck!’ he exclaimed, immediately disappointed in himself for swearing outside of a track.

In that moment, Drake realised he couldn’t keep it in any longer. He had to tell her the truth.

Suddenly, the studio’s doorbell rung, breaking Drake’s intense Canadian concentration. He threw off his recording headphones (apologising profusely as they hit the ground with a thud), and sprinted from the recording booth to the doorway. ‘I’d be grateful for any inspiration right now’, he thought.

Drake took a deep breath in, resting a hand on Nicki’s shoulder as he begun. ‘I can’t keep it in any more, Onika. I love you, and I have always loved you from the bottom of my heart. Ever since I met you in that recording studio four years ago, I’ve had my eyes on you you’re everything that I see.’ The words kept tumbling from his mouth as Nicki turned to him, her eyes widening in shock. ‘You’re the strongest woman I have ever met, and I respect you so much, as a best friend and co-collaborator. But I want to be more than that. You’re a good girl and you know it. All I want is your high love and emotion endlessly.’ Nicki looked down at the ground sheepishly, her face flushed. ‘I… I love you too, Aubrey. You have no idea how long I have waiting for you to say that.’ Drake’s jaw dropped. ‘You… you love me too…?’ She nodded before standing on her tiptoes and kissing him softly. Damn, Drake thought, I’m home.

‘Surprise!’ a female voice cried as Drake opened the door. Immediately he burst into a smile. Standing with a box of donuts in hand and a grin on her face was Onika ‘Nicki’ Minaj. To some, Nicki was one of the best rappers in the R+B game, collaborating with some of the most fearless artists out there and slaying the competition in her sky high Louboutins. But to Drake, she was more than that. She was beautiful, smart, powerful - someone he knew he was not worthy of. She’s my everything, he thought, respectfully. ‘Wayne called me and said that you were recording in LA for a few days!’ Nicki continued, as Drake pulled her as close as standard Canadian etiquette would allow him, with both hands kept to himself. ‘And I couldn’t go without seeing my Aubrey, could I?’ Drake laughed softly to himself. He didn’t mind Nicki calling him by his birth name. She’d always been Onika to him. Nicki continued. ’I hope I’m not interrupting your session?’ Drake couldn’t keep the smile off his face, taking the donut box (Canadian Maple Glazed) and placing it inside. ‘Not at all- I missed you.’ ‘Really?’ Drake nodded. ’Really. Thought about you every day of tour.’ ‘Oh Aubrey,’ Nicki laughed as she stepped into the studio, taking off her coat. ‘You’d have millions of other girls to think about on tour besides me.’

Nicki’s eyes sparkled when she eventually pulled away from the kiss, taking Drake’s hand in her own and letting their fingers intertwine. ‘Can I have a look at what you’ve got down already? I might be able to help with the verses.’ Drake paused for a moment, grinning as he repeated the words he had just spoken over in his head. I’ve got my eyes on you, you’re everything that I see… I want your high love and emotion endlessly… A knowing smile began to creep onto Drake’s face as he nodded his head, gazing into Nicki’s eyes. ‘I think you already have.’

UWA FACT Somewhere on campus, there is a jacuzzi & sauna. Ok, go.

MUSIC

MUSIC REVIEWS

Everything Everything - Get to Heaven (Sony RCA) Of all the possible indie-rock bands to tackle the thematic content of a world gone wrong, British four piece Everything Everything would have to be one of the most well-equipped. Known for their electronic art noise rock, the quartet’s third studio album Get to Heaven centres around the dismal descent of Earth into a technology controlled, personality devoid hysteria, from which there seems to be no real escape. Get to Heaven is a disillusioned examination of modern life. Everything Everything’s first two offerings, 2010’s Man Alive and 2013’s Arc, built solid foundations for the band’s eclectic musical style. Both albums were bracketed by art rock, with hints of electro-pop and 90s R+B thrown in for good measure. Get to Heaven manages to take this melting pot of stylistic influence to the extreme, with each song more complex than its predecessor. Lead single ‘Distant Past’ utilises disco guitar riffs; ‘Blast Doors’ and ‘Hapsburg Lippp’ are both angry mixes of R+B bass and spacey electronica; ‘We Sleep in Pairs’ shows off some The Bends-era-Radiohead instrumentation underneath a Jeff Buckley-esque vocal line. Everything Everything’s signature sound is still prevalent throughout - fast-picked guitars, ditzy electronics, chugging bass and drums, and Higg’s soaring trademark falsetto. But each song is given the time to come into its own, which helps propel the album’s entire theme. As Higgs himself says, Get to Heaven ‘reads and plays like a horror story’- and it is an extremely cohesive and well-executed horror story, at that. 9/10 Bridget Rumball Mining Tax – Degenerational Report (Workplace Safety CDRs) You might expect a band with such a specific ‘analogue synth meets economic mismanagement’ vibe to rely too much on gimmickry, but past the initial gag lies music which holds up pretty well on its own, and actually constitutes one of the best Perth releases in recent years. It turns out that big Gary 36

Newmanesque synth lines and reverb-drenched vocals about government debt go together like rum and coke, such as on ‘Budget Emergency’, a furious-yet-catchy tirade against governmental callousness. The synths are well arranged and manage to balance 80s cheese and compositional integrity well. As far as production goes, this is a good example of bedroom recording done right, with some remarkably wellrecorded vocals and a few stylistic flourishes like the opening to C.Y., which break up all the synths nicely. The production adds a bit of grit to something that could have easily descended into pure cheese – bits of the EP sound like they’re being pumped out of a car stereo tuned to a.m. radio, that’s had a can of V.B. spilt on it, and has started chewing up your cassettes. All in all it’s like ABC News 24 and your dad’s old mix tapes had a lovechild, and that’s a good thing. 8/10 Hayden Dalziel Muse - Drones (Warner Bros./Helium-3) Everyone’s favourite space rockers are back, this time treading unchartered waters. Muse’s Drones is a concept album, in which a protagonist falls out of love and becomes a killing machine under the control of mind-controller-psychopaths, only to break free and destroy the system from the bottom up. It’s hardly as complex or deep as The Wall, but it’s a concept album nonetheless. Each song’s intention as part of the overall ‘story’ is clearly told through Matt Bellamy’s straightforward, sometimes cringeworthy (having the word ‘drone’ in every song doesn’t necessarily constitute a storyline) lyricism. The first half of Drones is absolutely killer. Opener ‘Dead Inside’ is reminiscent of the band’s style on sixth album The 2nd Law, with its dark 80s synth groove and powerful, earnest vocals harking back to previous lead single ‘Madness.’ However, Muse shift into new territory

UWA FACT The Tav does stuffed hot cheese wheels and spiced gin on Wednesdays

MUSIC

on tracks such as ‘Psycho’ and ‘Reapers’, where fast guitar riffs and steady bass rhythm backing manage to combine the band’s stadium sound with long-forgotten feelings of aggressive old school rock. ‘The Handler’ is a particular standout, a dark combination of Royal Blood-like bass and brooding guitar with Bellamy’s falsetto intercepting throughout. The second half of Drones starts to veer away from this tight rock sound into Muse’s more trademarkedly bombastic, OTT comfort zone. This detour sometimes works to the group’s advantage, such as on DireStraits-esque ‘Aftermath’ or epic three part finale ‘The Globalist’but other times, things just get a bit too Queen-like. Overall, it feels like the album is split into two very well structured parts, with one narrative flowing throughout- a move that is either stylistic genius (following the depression and elation of the protagonist) or (more likely) a misstep in musical direction. Make sure you’ve got your tin-foil hat strapped on. 7.5/10 Bridget Rumball Eduardo Cossio - The Work Of Days (Independent) Perth’s own folk/jazz musician (and cutest man) Eduardo Cossio is back with his second solo EP, The Work Of Days. Consisting entirely of instrumentals, these tracks range from chilled out to laid back. Not that that is a criticism - the lounge vibe that Peruvian-born and WAAPA-trained Cossio presents feels authentic in its roots and assured in its execution. At this point I should reveal a reviewer’s bias: Cossio is a founding member of (now-defunct? who knows) The Whistling Dogs, who were one of my all-time favourite Perth bands. Although he didn’t write ‘MacGyver’, their best track, he contributed other gems such as ‘I Love My Cat’, as well as a ridiculous amount of talent over an equally ridiculous number of instruments.

The gentle grooves on this EP are great. The band lock in really well (although Macpherson’s playing sometimes sounds more like an eisteddfod recital than it should) and the melodies are catchy and simple. This is jaunty, easy listening music for happy days at home. 7/10 Maisie Glen French Rockets – Arc (Independent) Perth’s French Rockets have never been a band to embrace minimalism, and in keeping with this their latest album is heavily layered - seemingly held together by about 3 or 4 different types of fuzz pedal. Arc applies higher end production to the Rockets’ usual noisy psychedelic hard rock style,and really captures the immensity of their live show. Take for example lead single ‘Pulling Metal’ which maintains a level of clarity amidst the suffocating sheets of noise, solving a problem that has plagued previous releases. Sonically this album gives us the best sounding French Rockets material yet, and when you realise it’s been five long years since their last release you can forgive the guys for taking their time. However for all that Arc does right in terms of sound, it’s actually fairly sparse on ideas. A few of the tracks here including ‘Pareidolia’, ‘Dream Cycle’ and the Animal Collective-inspired ‘Keep Burning’ add nothing to the overall experience, merely filling out the track-listing and breaking the momentum of the album’s sharper tracks. Overall Arc does an excellent job in capturing the iconic live sound the Rockets are known for, but, in some cases this production quality feels wasted on mediocre songwriting. 7/10 Laurent Shervington

Putting aside his usual clownishly large array of instruments, Cossio is now content with just a guitar in hand and harmonica in mouth. His band of James Vinciullo (bass) and Francisco Munoz (drums) provides able backing to Cossio’s guitar work, while Alana Macpherson (alto sax) shares lead duties, most notably on fourth track ‘Child’. UWA FACT Laurence the Peacock has gone missing. No reward has been offered

MUSIC

MATILDA BAY MUSINGS #5: ‘Baker Street’ by Gerry Rafferty (1978) with Tristan Fidler Drifting away from the celebrations, Rosanna wandered away, drawing closer to Matilda Bay’s waters. Tears For Fears’ ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ could still be heard from the hired PA, above the din of exhausting conversation about the potential formation of a Little River Band cover band. Tears for Fears was slightly out-of-step with the Ventura Highway vibe the other members were into. For Rosanna, the song was the sound of an American prom she’d never been to, but always imagined. A sad slow dance under a blanket of balloons coloured in pastel pinks and faint blues, like the colours visible in the afternoon sunset Rosanna was looking at, the early evening intermingling of sky and sea. Rosanna spotted the green of a park bench situated in the sand, and thought it was too perfect. She took a photo of it on her phone before she sat down, her black leather jacket scraping against the chipped benchwood, her white heels dug into the damp sand. A new semester, another get-together party for the UWA Soft Rock Society (UWASRS). Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back. It’d hardly been three weeks and she still didn’t know everybody’s names. Hard to identify the fellas, all coming back with new moustache configurations and new corduroy jackets. And could they talk about something else other than Michael McDonald 12 inch vinyl acquisitions? Rosanna thought. What a bunch of stiffs. There it was: the scorching sound of a saxophone solo, and it was the unofficial theme song of the UWASRS, Gerry Rafferty’s ‘Baker Street’, which in her first semester, Rosanna could only describe as “That Lisa Simpson song.” Boy, did she cop a lot of flak from Georgy P., the UWASRS Vice President, who proceeded to soft-rock-splain the year it was released and the recent death of saxophone player Raphael Ravenscroft. They didn’t tend to play a lot of dance cuts at UWASRS get-togethers, just these soft tones where all you could do was sway in the breeze and recite the lyrics collectively. Rosanna was starting to regret ever offering her services as a Treasurer – were the future financial titans at Accounting Firms really going to flip out over her experiences logging in mandated club rentals of Swan River party-boat cruises for end-of-year Soft Rock Society summer blow-outs?

DYLAN : THE LOST TRACKS Jester Seeking Justice in a Cool Hat Gambling Hobo Woman Empire of Bees Has Anybody Seen My Tarot Cards? My Mother (Cheated on Me) Rain Falling Big Mountain Laying Down a Ballad (And a Chick) What Rhymes with Rambling? – Live Version Honey, I’m Bitter About Something Lonesome Leather Buckle – Bootleg Version One Too Many Divorces

“When you wake up, it’s a new morning. The sun is shining and it’s a new morning. And you’re going, you’re going home.” Despite her growing distaste for all things soft rock, Gerry Rafferty’s lyrics spoke to Rosanna still, that jaded, withdrawn croon of marching on and hoping for new things. She took out her “Soft Rock Society Members Only” membership card, and flicked it away in a defiant gesture. It fluttered in the wind, only to fall next to her feet. So long, Georgy P. and all you other dinguses. This morning, Rosanna’s lover had complained about the Klaxon factory setting alarm on her iPhone 4. They had regarded the alarm’s nuclear meltdown blare as the most “upsetting thing” they’d ever heard, which put them in an off mood for the rest of the day. As the saxophone continued to blare across the distance between her and the Soft Rock party, she thought about changing her alarm to the Raphael Ravenscroft/ Lisa Simpson’s Bleeding Gums Murphy tribute solo. Even though she knew she’d leave the club after this semester, the sound would be a more soothing wake-up call, hopefully to her lover’s relief, and it’d be the one thing she’d keep from the affiliation with the UWASRS. “Enough of this soft rock,” she thought. “Has the new Rihanna video dropped yet?” She plugged in her earphones and punched in the necessary key words.

UWA FACT The Pelican editors have not been nominated for the Cruikshank-Routley. That’s fine

LITERATURE

MR McTRUSTY’S PATENDED GUIDE FOR SPOTTING WELL-KNOWN AUTHORS IN SILHOUETTE Often, when you are walking your pet gerbil along the quay in the evening because your girlfriend left you and all she left was her gerbil (and her knickers, which you are wearing, and have not ceased wearing for 82 days, which is the number of days since she chose Algy over you because he was apparently “MORE SENSITIVE” and “WORE CUFFLINKS SO MUCH BETTER” and “HAS FOUND THE NEW RAP”), and you like spending time with the Gerbil (Jimbo), even though you kind of secretly hope another dog will snatch it up in its jaws and gobble it down because at least that would mean closure and you always thought gerbils were basically vermin after all, anyway, you’re walking, remember, and often when you’re walking, you spy, on your serendipitily murderous quay-side saunters, a figure in silhouette and you wonder if this somebody is Famous. But you can’t tell if they are Famous or not because all you can see of him/her is his/her contours (arousing as they may be, excuse me a second) (ugh that’s better) the interior of which is filled ENTIRELY with black, as though God were messing about in Photoshop CS Infinity and in a dark mood because he’s back to thinking about how he forgot to write the dinosaurs into the bible, so STUPID, GOD, ME, I, like he KNEW he’d forgotten something, and he probably shouldn’t have cut the pay of his editor, who happened to be Ezra Pound.

I, author of SIL-O-WHO? have made it my mission and sideincome to, for a small profit, help you when and if and invariably you happen to find yourself in a situation such as I have hitherto described (see paragraph 1 ya lazy skimping schmuck) (gerbil-possession and love-lorn state expected, but not essential). In our purpose to ensure you no longer have to fret at night, stewing in your own casserole of paranoid, sweaty regret, wondering if you had passed by cummings on a groyne (I see your thoughts- filthy), we have compiled a collection of the silhouettes of moderately to patently famous author-celebs (living and dead, because more things in heaven and earth, dreamt of, philosophy, etc), which- at your personal leisure and private perilyou can now study for days on end and endeavour to affix in your memory. A small extract from this volume has been published below. However, you would be a silly ass not to purchase the full version, for not only does it contain the silhouettes of 1,780 authors, but it captures and renders the silhouette of EACH of them in not one, not two, but 43 DIFFERENT ANGLES! See coupon for order and purchase of SIL-O-WHO?: The Complete Guide, which can be YOURS for a mere $600 along with small sample of your liver tissue, please, my doctor says it can’t take much more Johnny Walker.

UWA FACT Recent campus art installations have been placed in preparation for upcoming Ok Go music video

LITERATURE

BOOK REVIEWS Railsea China Miéville An imaginative reworking of the classic tale of Moby Dick by a daring and experimental author, Railsea (2012) is a fantasy work steeped in false science and the drama of humans at hunt. In place of the famous leviathan is Mocker-Jack, a great southern moldywarpe (giant mole), and the setting is a distant post-apocalyptic trash-planet traversed by train tracks forming a ‘railsea’. The reader trails through this world behind the faintly unlikeable, passive protagonist Shamus Yes ap Soorap (Sham), an apprentice doctor in the service of Abicat Naphi, captain of the Medes (the female equivalent of Captain Ahab). In contrast to the impotent and colourless protagonist is a scarcely explored, vibrant world that is dangled tantalisingly on the peripheries of the main narrative. Continuing his tradition of toying with language, Miéville litters the text with curious turns of phrase and invented words that might make a Baby Boomer frown, but should pose no problem to the liberally-minded students of a university campus. This is not an exercise in easy reading, and can be demanding upon one’s imaginative capabilities, with the author creating such vivid and unique imagery that one must pause to fully comprehend and appreciate what is being described. This made it a particularly strong contrast with the book I read immediately prior— the poorly written, but fairly steamy and easy-to-read, 50 Shades of Grey (I’m very single right now). In true postmodern fashion, Miéville readily breaks the fourth wall to matter-of-factly explain the reasoning behind aspects of the narrative’s structure and layout. Yet despite this, a third of the way through, it inexplicably about-turns and becomes an action-adventure novel at odds with everything up until then. Mirroring this, Sham abruptly develops courage and leadership skills completely out-of-character, that have a crew who never liked him following him into the railsea’s equivalent of the Green Zone. The world Miéville has created is spectacular, but this is an uncharacteristic error from the experienced novelist. Score: 3.5/5

Gentlemen And Sledgers: A History of the Ashes in 100 Quotations and Confrontations Rob Smyth Some of the most stunning works of sport history in recent times have come not from historians but from the cabal of talented writers who have circled the offices of Manchester’s The Guardian and London’s The Times. The cultural turn has provided the canvas for Jonathan Wilson’s brilliant work, as well as Rob Smyth’s own The Spirit of Cricket and Danish Dynamite – a co-authored work on the idiosyncratic Danish National Men’s Football Team whose golden age concluded in a shocking EURO tournament win in 1992. Gentlemen And Sledgers falls a little short of these benchmarks. The format of the book is 100 short chapters headed by a quote from either on the pitch, in the contemporary press, or rumoured to have been said out in the streets. This episodic structure is the main weakness of the book. Stories are tossed aside once their time is up, and there’s little consideration of how the events of one Ashes might impact another later one. It becomes so segmented that each incident described within seems localised, temporally fixed and consequently unimportant. Even the enduring legacy of the Bodyline series, which gets solid treatment in five chapters of Smyth’s stylish prose and influenced relations between the two teams for years to come, is essentially discarded at the end of its chapters. Smyth doesn’t even deign to focus on what happened to the England Captain Douglas Jardine after its conclusion. Smyth made his name as an esoteric and quick-witted ball-by-ball commentator on the Guardian website, and the best part of Gentlemen And Sledgers are the one-liners and retorts that were the mark of this work. However, on the whole, Gentlemen And Sledgers is more Twenty20 than Test Cricket, exciting when read in short, aggressive bursts, but without the narrative complexity to sustain interest for a whole five days. Score: 2.5/5

Best bit: An imaginative treat, you will understand only two-thirds of what you read.

Best bit: On W.G. Grace, page six: “Grace was used to doing unto the laws of the game as Uri Geller does unto spoons, and triumphing as a result, but on this occasion had urinated on the wrong nest.”

Worst bit: A stand-alone text, you are unable to return to explore this fully formed world and satisfy your longing for the railsea.

Worst bit: The feeling that you’re reading 100 straight Grantland articles and should get back to work.

Samuel J. Cox bought his baby nephew a pair of Louis Vuittons to “grow into.”

Josh Chiat is a crabbish, defensive opening batsman. He has never hit a six. UWA FACT Your mum only reads your article

The Novel Habits of Happiness: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel Alexander McCall Smith

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Meet Adriane Daff by Samuel J. Cox Having worked for a role-call of notable theatre companies, including Side Pony Productions, Barking Gecko Theatre Company and Weeping Spoon Productions, 30-year-old performer, writer and director Adriane Daff has had a busy career to-date. She will now take a starring role in the Black Swan State Theatre Company’s upcoming production of Noël Coward’s wordy, witty and poetical 1941 play ‘Blithe Spirit.’ The petite theatre-maker will play Ruth, the second wife of protagonist Charles Condomine, who must contest for his affection when his spirited first wife is brought back as a ghost during a séance. Contrived by the English playwright as a deliberate distraction from the horrors of World War II, Daff said that she wants people to connect with the classic story, as it remains joyous and relevant now. A 2004 graduate of the West Australian Academy of Performing Arts’ (WAAPA) ‘Theatre Arts’ course, Daff went on to study acting in NYC (2007-2009) and Paris (2011). “Those experiences shaped the kind of theatre artist I have become,” Daff said. “I don’t judge anyone who feels they want to leave Perth and try a different place. You learn things about who you are as an artist and, more importantly, the kind of work that you want to make. For me, the people that I love working with are in Perth.” Much of Daff’s most recent theatre has been a result of her collaboration with seven individual artists who came together to make new work here in Perth and then tour it. Named The Last Great Hunt, its ‘Hunters’ include Daff, Jeffrey Jay Fowler, Tim Watts, Gita Bezard, Arielle Gray, Chris Isaacs and Kathryn Osborne. With its second anniversary approaching, the theatre collective has produced one success after another and proved itself better than spending a night of pleasure with Daenerys Targaryen. In 2014, Daff and the rest of the creative team produced ‘Falling Through Clouds’, an intensely intimate and moving story detailing the efforts of a scientist (Daff) to bring birds backs from extinction in a grim dystopian future. They innovatively employed animation, puppetry and video, among other things, in the live

performance. “Incorporating modern innovation into any kind of art widens the scope of what you can create. Text-based theatre will probably always exist in a specific language so we’re pushing towards a non-verbal, more international style of performance. Rather than discounting traditional forms, it just means that there’s more out there to be consumed,” Daff said. Unlike in other works, Daff admits she has been less heavily involved in every aspect of the development of ‘Blithe Spirit’ as set, costume, lighting and sound roles are very clearly defined. “In a show like ‘Elephants’, all we (the Hunters) started with was an idea. We built every layer simultaneously during the rehearsal experience. Conversely, a Black Swan show brings on highly trained professionals weeks before the actors even get in the room. [Set and costume designer] Bryan Woltjen and the wonderful wardrobe department made beautiful costumes before we even started rehearsal! It was actually very helpful because they gave me so many ideas.”

After concluding her turn as Ruth, Daff will move immediately to a new piece by the Hunters being helmed by Gita Bezard. Currently titled ‘We Are Angry’, it is intended as a “highly political piece of theatre about Australia’s treatment of people seeking asylum in this country. Myself, J.J. Fowler, Arielle Grey, Gita and Joe Lui [a fellow Perth theatre maker but not a Hunter] will seek to psychologically unpack why this is going on in our country and have a discussion about how, when you know great injustice exists in the world at every moment, you can still listen to Taylor Swift, for example, and have a good time. There’s a lot of science that suggests that we are emotionally evolved so that we can’t take on the weight of the world, however we’re at a point where we actually have to do something. If something is out of sight and out of mind, how do we bring it into sight and into mind so that we can affect positive change?” ‘Blithe Spirit’ runs July 18 – August 9 @ Heath Ledger Theatre.

ART BARS Words by Emily Purvis You know, I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve just never noticed them before, or if they’re suddenly this trendy new thing happening in Perth at the moment, but I’ve been seeing a lot of Art Bars recently. Now, for me, the concept of both visual and gustatory pleasure has always been a favoured one, whether it be edible art or a glass or five of sparkling at a local exhibition opening. Either way, I’m fairly certain in my (limited) authority as a gallery regular that the intersection of Perth’s local art world and trendy bar scene is a fucking stroke of genius. I don’t know about you, but whenever I’ve had a few and I’m around anything remotely encroaching on the contemporary, I like to loudly bore the people in my general vicinity about all the subtle nuances of postmodernism that I learnt whilst studying for my year 12 Fine Arts exam all those years ago. Yeah, I’m that person.

But seriously, drunk people like to talk about the shit around them and then they like to buy the shit around them. I once very nearly spent a month’s worth of rent on an admittedly beautiful painting by a local artist unknown because I was too fucked for the sober and boring part of my brain to kick in with fiscally responsible concerns for my food and shelter well-being. I sound bitter, and I really don’t mean to sound bitter, and one of my biggest regrets is not being able to afford the painting (it would have looked great in the Pelican office). I am all for the Art Bar. It’s like they’ve amped up the liquor side of a gallery opening without skimping on the visual tasties. And honestly, what better way is there to bring local talent to the masses, break with the perceived pomp associated with gallery-going, and expose the diversity of the Perth art scene to the average hipster-Joe/ Joanne?

UWA FACT Why is nobody talking about that episode of Community where they get a Subway at Greendale?

ARTS

Arts Reviews MAXIMUM (PERFORMANCE) PICA Review by Lucy Ballantyne Seeing Maximum sent me into a tailspin. We’re talking full shame spiral. Never in my entire four-year arts degree, never in my brief, but you’ll no doubt agree ILLUSTRIOUS stint in student journalism, not even in reading fucking Barthes have I ever felt quite that out of my depth. At the show’s end, I gulped down what was left of my house red before bolting towards the train, manically typing ‘Alison Croggon’ into my iPhone’s search bar, wondering what the fuck I was supposed to make of this. Two things were certain: I looked great, and I had no idea. Maximum is the work of Natalie Abbott, pairing up with first-time performer and bodybuilder Rolan Kats, and is primarily a dance work. Abbott and Kats wear matching gym gear and whistles, and open the performance by chucking beautifully synchronized laps around the PICA Performance Space. The silence is deafening – I held a mouthful of shiraz in the hollow of my cheek for a good fifteen minutes, not wanting to kill the vibe with a gulp. Abbott and Kats really push it – the sweat pours from start to finish. When I got home, and off-loaded my concerns during kitchen conversations, the general consensus seemed to be ‘if you didn’t understand it, it was probably shit’. That’s not always true, though. In what will be here-to-fore known as The Moment of Clarity, I

lost the review I wrote of this show that night in a combo-attack of forgetting to save/laptop battery dying. No, I don’t back up. And I’m grateful I don’t, because losing the .doc allowed me the extra time to reflect on what makes this show special. The starkness of Maximum – in its lighting, sound design, and choreography – allows for an intense focus on Abbott and Kats’ bodies. Their flawless synchronization highlights their differences, but also their similarities. As they ran across the floor, after what felt like a hundred repetitions, I couldn’t help but hone in on the fact that, however marginally, it seemed like Kats the bodybuilder was struggling more than Abbott the diminutive (if only in size) dancer. My favourite of the show’s moments was what felt like an eternity (probably more like fifteen minutes) of Abbott jumping onto Kats’ knees in a kind of half-squat, inevitably falling down, throwing him an angry look, and trying again. Abbott utilizes these moments of repetition to illuminate ideas about the way we define strength, and how these definitions are gendered, and innately flawed. As for the two leads getting down on all-fours and grunting –still not sure.

WARNING: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are warned that the following passage may contain the names of deceased persons.

WARMUN THEN AND NOW (EXHIBITION) Lawrence Wilson Art Gallery Review by Emily Purvis A highly successful, collaborative effort between the Warmun Art centre and the Berndt Museum, Warmun Then and Now creates a working space that is designed to showcase aspects of this remote art centre’s production over the last forty years. This small, understated exhibition creates an intimate working space that is comprised of beautiful ochre and ink paintings, which present the unique history of Gija country and culture alongside the lifeways of the artists that create them. Your senses are filled when you walk into this space, with the sound recordings of Gija artist’s conversations and the pounding of natural, locally sourced pigment- the medium used by the artists to colour the country that they paint in their work. You are transported to this remote community as you gaze at the landscapes around you and listen to the Goorirr Goorirr song cycle that thematically links the Warmun artwork in the gallery. 42

A humble collection, just a handful of works are displayed after the devastation of the art centre by flooding just a few years ago destroyed most of Warmun’s paintings. The exhibition is incredibly warm, and when you enter you realise the immensity of the influence that the surrounding Gija country has had on the Warmun artists. Warmun Then and Now lives up to its name in the display of work by founding artists Rover Thomas, Paddy Jaminji, Queenie McKenzie and Betty Carrington among others, as well as the instillation of the contemporary work space of current artists who operate in the remote art centre. Warmun Then and Now will be displayed in the Berndt Museum at the Lawrence Wilson Art Gallery until December 12th of this year.

LIFE ST YLE

Your Last Semester Words by Nivvy Skivvy Art by Catherina Pagani I was going to write a really tacky piece about things you could do to stay at uni forever (transfer degrees, do a JD, keep going on increasingly obscure exchange programmes, etc), but I have instead decided to take the optimistic route, and impart some reassuring wisdom to the ever-increasing pool of unemployed university grads out there. So you’ve been at uni for forever, and have nestled into the comfort of guild discounts and getting away with shabby dressing. You finally sit your last exam and post pictures on Facebook of your smiling face against the classic backdrop of UWA’s limestone buildings, just to make everyone else who is still studying really jealous. But deep down, let’s face it – it is you who is terrified. As you scan the campus one final time, the ultimate question finally sinks in. Have you pursued your impossible? I don’t think I have. I spent my last semester staring at the campus, taking photos of the peacocks, finally going to all the

uni balls and parties cleverly dressed as a first year, and searching frantically for familiar faces to chat to in lectures and the library. It’s a horrible, horrible feeling, to feel as though a giant UWAWinthrop-tower-shaped monster is kicking you out of uni, lifting your wriggling and screaming body and dropping you right in the middle of Perth city, to assimilate with black-clad Matrix characters. I truly sympathise with everyone who is feeling some form of separation anxiety from uni. You essentially have two choices: You can find a way to stay, or face the music. If you do choose the latter, remember that those first few months coming into the working world are the most powerful in terms of making an impression. City folk getting you down? No problem - dress with bright colours. Greet and thank bus drivers. Strike up a conversation, and be bold about it. The important thing is that you connect – remember that people around you may have done uni at some point, and will know how you are feeling. And always remember that when the Winthrop monster isn’t looking, you can go back and hang out on campus, pretending you never left - on a weekend. After 5. 43

SUBCULTURES OF 2016: A VISUAL GUIDE Words and Art by Hayden Dalziel

1: SEA GOTH

The dark cousin of the Sea Punk, the Sea Goth eschews pastel colours in favor of actual marine life lashed to their tight jeans with bits of rotting fishing nets. Instead of shoes, the typical Sea Goth wears plastic bags filled with salt water around their feet, which they use to periodically re-wet their hair, staying true to the Sea Goth motto of ‘the wetter the better.’ Sea Goths constantly question the Sea Goth cred of those around them, and will try to outdo each other. Sea Goths can often be seen dragging around an antique naval cannon, or attempting to train live octopi to perch themselves on their hair. Many Sea Goths have died trying to live a purely oceanic lifestyle by growing gills.

4: BAROQUABILLY/ROCCOCOBILLY

Baroquabilly began when someone accidentally unplugged their earphones at an exhibition of Caravaggio’s works, blasting the room with Elvis. From this core group of witnesses the Baroquabilly movement gained cultural momentum and before long all the hip kids were rocking the quiff/delicatelyembroidered pantaloons combo. 44

2: ROUND-TABLE RUDE-BOY

A craze started amongst West-Indian youth, the phenomenon has now spread to many other countries around the globe through their music, which combines Ska and medieval bards on lutes retelling Arthurian legends. The RTR Boy culture is one of Chivalry and style in equal measure with many of the RTR Boys building complicated fortresses and gothic cathedrals in the streets. RTR Boys are also known for their innovative recording techniques such as being the first producers to master making condenser mics out of quarried stone and primitive treadmill-powered cranes.

5: PASTEL PLATOON

More of a tumblr aesthetic than a true subculture. A typical Pastel platoon party is part Tumblr meetup and part Second World War reenactment. Participants meet over drinks before getting to work digging trenches to the sound of Kate Bush. These are then filled with bubbles and the whole platoon strips naked, stands in the trench and solemnly listens to a lone bugle play The Last Post.

3: DADA DERRO

Dada Derros reflect the absurdity of suburban Australia in new and innovative ways that push the boundaries of what it is to be a bogan. Many a suburban family has been woken in the dead of night to the chant of “Jolifanto bambla o falli bambla, grossiga m’pfa habla horem” accompanied by the clanging of VB cans and the grumble of ute engines. Dada derros are also the only subculture required by law to not step within a hundred metres of a public urinal. They do not smoke the standard Winnie blues but rather an obscure brand called “Impotence.”

6: AGRICULTURE EMO

Emos who have reached the logical conclusion of their nihilism and self-referential sarcasm, giving up on urban living and pursuing a quiet life of subsistence farming away from their parents and the ‘conformists’.

UWA FACT A number of prominent Australian breakfast radio personalities matriculated from the UWA Law School

LIFE ST YLE

Shit White Girls Do Words by Anna Saxon Art by Megan Ansell “I’ve not been intentionally untruthful. I’ve been completely open when speaking about what was my reality and what is my reality now. It just doesn’t match your normal or your reality.” Quote from 1Q84? Close - an excerpt from the 60 Minutes interview with Belle Gibson, the disgraced Australian health blogger and author of The Whole Pantry who revealed last month that the brain tumor she claimed to have healed with kale and quinoa never actually existed. Gibson’s deception, which sounds like a rejected plot from an episode of House, was brought to light when the thousands of dollars worth of donations raised by the health guru failed to materialise. Gibson claims that she is good for the money, and that while she may never have actually had cancer (whoops), or that stroke (double whoops) or those two heart attacks (that’s just bad luck, babe), she was convinced that she did when she sold her app to Google for hundreds of thousands of US dollars. No, really. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that Gibson is a pathological liar, if not a sociopath. Even when directly asked what her age was during the interview, the blogger was unable to give a straight answer. Could it be Munchausen’s? Delusions? Is she mentally unstable? To be honest, probably. But we’re talking about fiction this edition and it got me wondering - how far is too far? This seems like the kind of shit white people do all the time. Obviously pretending to have brain cancer is a crazy, but Gibson knew all the buzz words, all the correct behaviour to gain the trust and support of the cancer community, and the sympathy of the wider world. It’s almost as though this is the next step of cultural appropriation - like that author who said he was in Auschwitz and got his penis got cut off by Nazis, but actually just lived in his parents’ basement and wasn’t even Jewish. Instead of simply appropriating the best parts of a culture, white people are now stealing their tragic histories to gain sympathy, attention, money, and fame.

Let’s talk about Rachel Dolezal for a second. The term ‘Transracial’ brings me out in full-on hives, but this is the word being applied to the former NAACP president of Spokane, civil rights activist and Afrikana studies instructor, who was ‘outed’ by her white parents last month. Essentially, she is a white woman who’s been tanning heavily for twenty years, and thereby living in permanent black face. When asked directly if she was actually African American, Dolezal stated “I do take exception to that because it’s a little more complex than me identifying as black, or answering a question of, ‘Are you black or white?’ I definitely am not white. Nothing about being white describes who I am.” Except it does describe something about who you are Rachel, because you are WHITE. I mean, we can all relate to how shit white people can be, but this is next level. It’s one thing for someone to identify with, appreciate and even partake in black culture, but it’s another thing for her to try to literally become black. Dolezal reported police officers for racial profiling and abuse, lead civil rights marches, and essentially stole attention from actual black women who experienced discrimination and violence based on their race. Earlier this year, Dolezal told a news organization that she had been born in a tepee, that her mother and stepfather had beaten her and her siblings, that “they would punish us by skin complexion,” and that they lived for a time in South Africa. Her art focused on the black experience and racial reconciliation, but there was still no question about her own identity; in college and in graduate school, she was known as white. In fact (get this) Dolezal sued her alma mater, claiming that it had discriminated against her being white. She said she was denied financial help because

the university’s attitude was, “You probably have white relatives that can afford to help you with your tuition,”. So, she was white when it was convenient - good to know. Stories like Belle’s and Rachel’s showcase a worrying trend. Privileged white people wanting to play the victim so much that they steal traumatic experiences from minorities, and trick that community into sympathising and supporting them. There’s this incredible arrogance in the idea that you can benefit from the suffering of others without having had to do the hard yards yourself - like chemo or you know, hundreds of years of institutionalised racism. But hey, I’m not entirely innocent myself. Sometimes I tell people I went to a public high school so I can blame any spelling mistakes on ‘the system’. It’s a struggle, but I hope my journey can inspire others. Where’s my Apple Watch deal?

RETRO PELI In 1971, Pelican editor Derek Schapper was arrested for non-compliance with the National Service Act, and the paper was urging students to SMASH THE DRAFT!

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