Pelican Volume 90 Edition 4 - Creators

06 REMEMBERING BOB HAWKE LIFE AND THE LAB: 12 A CHAT WITH SYMBIOTICA

46 THE CREATORS’ EDITION Booladarlung I Edition 4 I Volume 90. I July 2019 I EST. 1929

CREATORS

THE MAGIC OF CREATION Isabelle Yuen

All children are born with magic in their eyes and sorcery on their tongues. They play make-believe, spinning tales of knights on noble steeds and fairy princesses up in tall ivy-grown towers. Stories spout from their fingertips, woven into tendrils of ice and licks of flames that dance in synchrony, just because they will it so. A wonder to behold. Yet, adult onlookers shake their heads and settle into mundane small talk, content with being boring and bored. Why do we let the world bore us, and in turn bore our children, whose hearts soar beyond the confines of worldly reason, untethered by laws and physics of nature that we so desperately grasp for?

Humans only see a fraction of the colours other species can, yet even then, we spare little more than a glance for post-shower rainbows. The gift of creation, willingly given. But all too quickly and much too often returned, unwanted. The children are rarely immune to us as they get older, how could they be? Eventually, the drab and grey of mundane routine seep in and stain, draining the vibrance from within, leaving behind the remnants of a salty-sweet fever dream, and the rapidly fading fondness of a rose-tinted Sunday afternoon.

Some of us survive the mass culling. We carry the passion of creation within. Our spirits burn bright and the torch remains alight. We come in every form; you see us in doodles on grease-stained napkins, in stacks of unfinished manuscripts, in the soft cursive strokes of hand-inked letters, in the latte art on your morning cup of coffee, in a dancer’s worn out ballet flats, in the midnight toils of a student struggling with coursework, their canvas alive with acrylics and a sheen of sweat.

What people don’t realise about the process of creation, is that while the product is certainly beautiful to behold for onlookers, it is during the process that creators gain the most. The final presented product is often the result of countless edits, carefully curated and perfected for the public eye. Behind a published best-seller are hours of painstaking work, of crumpled drafts and grueling writing, of sleepless nights and wakeful dreams. No, there is little polished beauty to be found in the grimy dirt of hard work, in the calloused hands and tired eyes.

Instead, you find the healthy glow of raw vigor. There is raw beauty in that. Ask any artist, dancer, singer, writer, and they will tell you, the reward comes in praises

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Art by Chantelle Wilson // @DarkRavenDesign

and compliments, but genuine joy is derived from a satisfactory product delivered to completion. It is the time spent practicing, perfecting, polishing that is the toughest. A minute in the spotlight, the moment of reckoning, is one of relief. It is the moment that the curtains fall, when everything is laid bare, that we can heave a sigh and let go. The most important part of any piece is letting go; it will never be perfect, and we will have to accept that. When painters have added the last stroke, writers written their last word, it is crucial to leave it untouched. The beauty lies therein; passion to start, discipline to keep going, and restraint to end it. And so, a book will have its imperfect end, and we go on to tell other stories, each no more perfect than the last, because creation has never been merely about the end; it is only just beginning.

At the end of the day, the desire to create exists within each of us. Smothered by the necessary motions of day-to-day chores, perhaps so. It is a talent to create, some spit with jealousy. Certainly, there are a select few who are lucky enough to have been blessed with the gift of creation at their fingertips. They create without prompting, spin tales of gold from silken song, bewitching and beautiful, as natural to them as breathing. For others, magic has its ways. It roams the earth, dwelling amongst unsuspecting souls, whispering witchcraft and inspiring ideas. It is human nature to create, and those who harness it and make it their own, open the doors to a whole new realm of beauty. They realize that the magic of creation belongs to all, if only we reach out to grab a piece. It is right there, within reach. All you need to do, is look with your eyes, and listen with your heart.

PRES SOPHI SUSI TORIAL ITORIAL

TORIAL

Hey Gorgeous,

Monday May 20, 4:31 pm.

That’s semester one done, great job!

Whether you got straight HDs, or you’re taking all the same units again next Semester, you made it through the Semester and you’re hopefully wiser for it! In Semester 2, take life by the horns, and try something new – get involved with a new club, volunteer, apply for study abroad.

In my experience, it is hard to overestimate how much value these kinds of things can add to your time at university, and how much you can learn from them.

An exercise in free writing.

This issue of Pelican is called ‘Creators’, a topic worth talking about. Creativity is important for all of us now more than ever, and it’s crucial in arts and sciences. Without creativity we’d probably all live in a very grey world, without any art, music, drama, fashion, or even Netflix to enjoy. Equally, without creative people in STEM wouldn’t have been able to innovate and we’d still all be driving around in horses and carts with a life expectancy of 27.

Never discount your creativity – it’s an essential skill, especially as we move forward with the automation of more and more tasks – we can all be creative, but robots can’t. Human beings underestimate their ability to create, innovate, and adapt to change. Lastly, a big thanks to all of the ‘Creators’ who have put together the fourth issue of Pelican for 2019, especially the editorial team. Thank you for being the creators and writers of this beautiful edition, I hope you enjoyed it.

Take the bloody knuckles from the insides of your jean pocket and wash them carefully. Use only cold water as directed. Watch that the dust of the ride home hasn’t found its way into the scars. The vinyl flooring of your kitchen sags in the space behind the sink. The house hasn’t heard a whisper for days.

My umbrella has holes in it, the glue from your duct tape didn’t hold in the rain. Nothing was meant to make sense after this. I forgot the phone number to my house. The pot on the stove still boils after hearing your voice through the answering machine. I hope I don’t tire you. I hope I am just stressed. I hope you find time. I hope I do too. I hope you know I haven’t forgotten. I should save my ears from lo-fi hip hop video streams. How would you feel if I put my tea in the microwave? I’m only scared of the dark when the fridge lights don’t turn on, because then I can’t see the mould in my bread and the rot of my fruit. I don’t think it’s healthy to think this often. I don’t think it’s healthy to think at all. I don’t think. Bring me back to the heat where the soles of my shoes would melt, and the ants sought refuge in my socks. Why can’t Messenger auto-predict write my essays for me?

My nights run on the smell of an oily hag. And yes, you read that right. I don’t know what it means either.

I have to soak my jeans now. I don’t want the blood to stain.

Thank you for reading.

Staring at a blank screen can send a tsunami of shivers down your spine. So, if you’re gazing at the ceiling of Reid library awaiting your muse to bestow you a multimillion-dollar idea – watch out, it may just start to crumble. Your imagination is a marvellous thing, a gift, that will always be at your humble service to delightfully inspire (and entertain) you! Objectively, I can only ever be Susie, blearily typing at 8:37 PM, but in my mind, I can be anywhere, anything and anyone. I can travel to Athens and interrogate Socrates. I can swim in the depths of the Lost City of Atlantis. I can even be a duck, wistfully staring into the reflection pond and pondering existential thoughts. By contributing to Pelican you join a long line of ‘creators’ who have mastered the paintbrushes in their minds. So, let this edition be the spark: inspect page 20, pretend Oak Lawn is the crime scene and every student’s a suspect. Peruse page 7 then come visit the Peli office, where you can join us as we sit at Bob Hawke’s old presidential desk and bask in the golden days of the Hawke-era when freedom of the press was still a thing. (But be quick, we’re expecting the museum to claim it any day now!)

Because, in your mind even the absurd is achievable, the preposterous is possible and your life can become a ‘choose your own adventure’ book. So release your imagination into the wild tropical jungles. Be the host of your own outrageous party. And if things ever really go south you can always picture your lecturers on the weekend.

At the beach. In budgie smugglers.

Hairy chested and all. Then regurgitate it on the page with every single salient detail intact. See you in our inbox!

Sophie

Conrad xoxo

Susie

Fun fact: Conrad doesn’t like pina colada’s and getting caught in the rain, but can think of nothing better than mimosas and long walks on the beach.

HEAD EDITORS: SOPHIE MINISSALE SUSANNAH CHARKEY

CONTRIBUTORS: X = Words, O = Art AVA CADEE, X TAKUNDA CHIRENDA X ELOISE SKOSS, X

SUB EDITORS: ARTS: AIMEE DODDS & STIRLING KAIN CAMPUS NEWS: CAMERON CARR

PAULINE WONG, O DOMINIC KWACZYNSKI, X ALEX HOCKTON, O SIAN TOMKINSON, X JORDANA ELLIOTT, X GRACE OTTO, O

DIVERSITY: ELIZA HUSTON & ELANOR LEMAN

ASHLEIGH FROST, O

FASHION: MAJA MARIC & SAMUEL WORLEY

ELENA PERSE, X

FILM: THOMAS TANG & DOMINIC KWACZYNSKI LIFESTYLE: AVA CADEE & ELOISE SKOSS

MATILDA GERRANS, X JEREMY PASSMORE, O ISABELLE JOAN, X

LITERATURE: ASHA COUCH

& LAURENT SHERVINGTON

WILLIAM HUANG, X

MUSIC: PATRICK ROSO

MERLIN [-], X

POLITICS: JACOB MITCHELL

ISABELLE YUEN, X LUKE MORRIS, O ESTER MCDONELL, O

SCIENCE: ZOE CASTLEDEN

& LACHLAN MACRAE

MEGAN DODD, X

TECHNOLOGY AND GAMING: BAYLEY HORNE

EMILY GALLARDE, X

CONOR LEVY, O PIPER TIERNEY, O PATRICK ROSO, X DEBBIE GILCHRIST, O TONY LI, X LACHIE MACRAE, X

WANT TO JOIN THE PELICAN TEAM? DROP US A LINE AT THE CONTACT DETAILS BELOW! pelicanmagazine.com.au/

JESSE ROBERSTON, X ALYSSA SHAPLAND, X ALYSSA TANG, X JAMES BROOKS, X MAX RILEY, X DAC, O DAMON MACMILLAN, X CHANTAL WILSON, O ZOE CASTLEDON, X

fb.com/PelicanMagazine @pelicanmagazine pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au

COVER ART ASHLEIGH FROST, @A_FROSTART DESIGNED BY XANDER SINCLAIR

The views expressed within this magazine are not the opinions of the UWA Student Guild or Pelican Editorial Staff but of the individual artists and writers.

The Pelican team acknowledges that the UWA Campus is located on the lands of the Whadjuck people of the Noongar nation who are the original storytellers and custodians of their land.

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PROLOGUE 2 The Magic of Creation Isabelle Yuen, Art by Chantelle Wilson

CONTENTS 3 Editorials and Presitorial

4 Contributors and Subeditors

19 she, still Isabelle Joan

20 Revelation Elena Perse

6 Ol’ Silver’s Last Ride: Remembering Bob Hawke Max Riley 8 Aunts in Agony Ava Cadee and Eloise Skoss Art by Pauline Wong 10 Battling Bachlogs Sian Tompkinson and Jordana Elliott

25 No. 4 from ‘Fruit Salad Collection’ Ashleigh Frost

THE CREATORS’ SECTION 14 Polaroids Jeremy Passmore

30 Untitled Piper Tierney

18 Untitled Photographs Luke Morris

40 The Tomato Damon Macmillan 42 But They’re Still Up Jesse Roberston

26 Fairbridge Photo Essay Conor Levy 28 colour blast Grace Otto

17 Fish Out of Water Matilda Gerrans

39 The Pelican Holiday Science Guide Lachie MacRae

22 Words with Ester McDonnell Interview by Megan Dodd

12 Life and the Lab: The World of BioArt Interview by Zoe Castleden

16 Untitled Alex Hockton

36 Creation in Genesis and in Science, and How It Has Troubled Us Ever Since Tony Li

43 Fading Dom Kwaczynski 44 Fishin’ Grace Otto

29 ‘Limbo’ and ‘Waiting’ Jeremy Passmore

45 Game of Sims Alyssa Shapland 46 Smear review James Brooks

31 Elvis in Afghanistan Patrick Roso

48 yellow merlin [-]

32 Poetry Compilation Various Contributors

50 Boaring Intuitions #2 DAC

34 ‘Distillation’ and ‘Essence’ Debbie Gilchrist

51 Untitled Piper Tierney

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OL’ SILVER’S LAST RIDE

REMEMBERING BOB HAWKE Max Riley

A TRIBUTE TO ROBERT (BOB) JAMES LEE HAWKE, 39TH PRESIDENT OF THE UWA STUDENT GUILD COUNCIL AND AUSTRALIA’S LONGEST-SERVING LABOR PRIME MINISTER. He was West Australian. It’s a fact bitterly contested among Young Labor and Union staffers the nation over.

But he was one of us. A sandgroper by soul, if not by birth or profession.

There are many things that could and should be written about Bob Hawke, but it’s important to start with that because no other publication is going to say it. Being a Labor person in WA is tough enough without at least having some recourse to past heroes. Indeed, when Mark McGowan led the ALP to its worst state election twoparty preferred result in history just six years ago, most of his concession speech was made up of referring to the ghosts of Labor champions from WA. When the present is awful and the future is uncertain, what else was there to do?

Let’s face facts. This is (in an economic sense at least) the most conservative state in the country. It’s certainly the richest. While both those facts have fluctuated throughout the history of the Federation, what hasn’t really changed is WA’s tendency to back non-Labor candidates. Labor has been reduced to a single House of Reps seat in WA three times since the Second World War. It has not won a majority of WA House of Reps seats while in (or coming to) government since 1946. In peacetime, Labor never has. Our losing streak is older than Formula One, and two whole French Republics.

That is, except for when Bob Hawke was Prime Minister.

Where it happened four elections in a row.

Bob Hawke was to WA Labor what Australian Idol was to Shannon Noll. It propelled him to unforeseen heights, and most of the past decade has basically just been him milking the rep he got through it.

When Bill Shorten was running to be ALP Leader against Albo, he frequently declared that the age of Labor messiahs was over. The fact this statement could be said at all without a raised eyebrow is worth a comment.

There has always been a tendency within the ALP and the Labour movement more broadly to view its history through a quasi-religious prism. When one considers the largely Methodist origin of the British Labour movement and the Catholic base of the ALP historically, this fact is unsurprising. Labor has its Martyrs (Whitlam comes to mind), It has its Moses figure (in John Curtin), it has its puritanical heroes fighting hopeless battles against the forces of evil (Gillard and Beasley), it has its false prophets and its enemies, of which the worst are its turncoats (See any of Billy Hughes, Jack Lang, BA Santamaria and Mark Latham).

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While this telling of Labour History makes for great telemovies and comforts the party faithful during difficult times, it obscures the less dramatic (and I argue, more important) ways in which leaders impact the party and the nation. Bob Hawke was more than the character Richard Roxburgh played. He was more than the affable idiot in a ridiculous jacket that sung the first number in Keating! The Musical.

Bob Hawke was the man who proved that social democracy could work in Australia and the modern world. He proved that left-wing politics in Australia could be more than a bunch of fat guys in ill-fitting suits, sitting around a cigarette burned table trying to coordinate meat production while perpetually bitching about tariffs.

He proved that it could be more than an impotent protest movement that Middle Australia looked on with disdain. He proved that you didn’t have to be on an ASIO watchlist in order to fight the Tories. As a matter of fact, it was better if you weren’t. Most importantly, he proved that a country could adjust to the modern globalised world without resorting to the economic crudity and social cruelty of Thatcherism.

For all the far left like to whinge about how Bob Hawke was a neo-liberal shill, there was never any realistic scenario where Australia could maintain the economic structure that was known as the Australian Settlement.

It was hopeless, and it sure as hell wasn’t equitable. The Treasury lost billions to financiers in the seventies and early eighties trying to catch the true exchange rate.

As there was no real capital taxation system, the entire burden of this fell on PAYG taxpayers. The high tariff wall meant that working Australians paid some of the highest prices for food, transport, and technology in the world.

The capital controls on foreign investment meant that people who didn’t have inherited money were trapped in their social position. The only thing socialist about the damn economy was the enormous amount of state wealth transferred to Lang Hancock, the Packers and the rest of the white shoe brigade. Less than a third of students finished high school. Indignant people needing hospital treatment were given coloured lanyards in emergency wards depending on their ability to pay for a doctor. Growing old in Australia meant growing poor, as the aged pension could never truly keep up with inflation, and superannuation coverage was patchy and ineffective.

The age before Hawke was one of rampant tax evasion, bottom of the harbor schemes, state capture and a static class system. Remember that when anyone waxes lyrical about some mythical socialist past and the evils of the ALP’s turn to neoliberalism.

FACT: The next Tim Winton adaptation is set to be filmed at UWA. (Contact us to score a spot as an extra)

The true legacy of Bob Hawke is not properly measured by his popular depiction as a beer-swilling larrikin.

My gut feeling is that it’s measured in the little things that don’t often crop up in tributes. It’s measured in the forest named after him in Israel, a symbol of his warm and deep relationship with Australia’s Jewish community. It’s measured in the hordes of ordinary Australians who can fly cheaply around the country, because Bob Hawke broke the pilot’s strike, and opened up civil aviation in Australia. It’s measured in the sons and daughters of the Chinese Students in Australia who got to stay here after Tiananmen Square, and it’s seen in the ubiquitous green and gold colouring of Australian Sporting Teams.

The highlights reel might remember the “By 1990, No Australian child will live in poverty” gaffe. But they won’t remember that statement was simply Hawke misspeaking when commenting on the largest single expansion of social benefit payments to those in need in Australian history.

There are hundreds of thousands of vulnerable people (and their descendants) in Australia who live more decent, more dignified lives as a result of these reforms.

The last line of Blanche D’Alpuget statement made reference to the biblical golden bowl. In a group chat, I was in with a couple of Young Labor types, a few expressed that they didn’t know what it meant.

I have to confess that it didn’t immediately spring to mind at first.

It’s taken from one of the more famous poems of Ecclesiastes, where it’s said to represent the sum of human consciousness: the ego.

It’s perhaps ironic that the chapter comes to an end soon after with the teacher repeating the rather famous “vanity of vanities” verse. Indeed, the major theme of Ecclesiastes is the pointlessness, the meaninglessness of human activity.

Whatever you think of Bob Hawke, his life was alien to that very notion.

For better or worse, we’re all still living in Bob Hawke’s Australia. There are worse places to be.

Bob Hawke’s Presidential Fresher Welcome (Pelican, April Issue, 1952)

FACT: At a speed of 3.3 cm per week, the sunken gardens are predicted to completely sink into the earth by 2031 7

AUNTS IN AGONY Eloise Skoss and Ava Cadee

This month, we put ourselves in agony in order to answer your questions through the form of interpretive movement. We hope you learn a thing or two!

QUESTION

ANSWER

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FACT: You missed out on Mid Years. Not even once.

QUESTION

ANSWER

FACT: Who even owns an electric car to charge at Uni?

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BATTLING BACKLOGS & SPARKING JOY Sian Tomkinson & Jordana Elliott Meaningful Play is a new podcast hosted by UWA Media & Communication PhDstudents and staff Sian Tomkinson, and Jordana Elliott. In this interview, they have a chat amongst themselves about the process of decluttering, sparking joy, and thinking about backlogs as gamers. But first, they should probably discuss what they’ve been playing recently Sian: I finally finished Assassin’s Creed: Origins and all the DLC, so I’m moving on! The two big games on my next-to-play list were Dragon Age: Inquisition and Red Dead Redemption II. I went with Inquisition because I felt like a little fantasy. I usually would switch genres, but open-world games are so big right now that I don’t have much choice. I’m also playing Persona 5, but I keep falling asleep so that’s a bit slow going. They’re different in terms of how much leeway there is in the game’s structure, so that works for me.

Jordana: I’ve been struggling to put on my ‘git gud’ hat and become the Japanese shinobi I’ve always wanted to be in Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. The difficulty is beyond what From’s previous titles such as the Dark Souls series and Bloodborne plated up, and the flow of combat doesn’t quite appeal to me as much as it is consistently disrupted by death, which can happen in very few hits. There’s something inherently satisfying about the motion of rolling away from a boss and still having faith that you can turn the battle around and prevail (praise the sun!). I hope that once I master Sekiro’s combat system, the general flow of the gameplay will stabilize for me.

EARLIER THIS YEAR, JAPANESE ORGANISATION GURU MARIE KONDO WAS A SUBJECT OF CONTROVERSY IN ONLINE PUBLIC SPACES. PEOPLE WERE EXPRESSING THEIR OPINIONS ON HER PHILOSOPHY ABOUT DECLUTTERING. HOW DID WE FEEL ABOUT THE ONLINE OUTRAGE AGAINST KONDO AND HER NOTION THAT ITEMS SHOULD “SPARK JOY” FOR THEIR OWNERS? Sian: I had a lot of outrage about the outrage against Kondo! A lot of the opinion pieces seem to get defensive around her treatment of books as ‘komono’ or ‘miscellany’. I find it a little elitist. I mean I read a lot but it’s not important for me to have books on display. For some people it clearly is, and that’s fine! She’s telling you to check if they still spark joy for you, not forcing you to get rid of them. Anyway, I read her books a few years ago and really enjoy them. I found it helpful to learn how to let go of guilt and understand that often we are pushed to organise things rather than to let them go. I did find her Netflix show very American, reality-show-ish. Also some of the people are borderline hoarders!

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Jordana: Yeah, you have to wonder if online outrage sparks joy for its participants. I’ve only read Kondo’s book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying-Up, which was cheekily gifted to me by a good friend who knows I’m terribly messy. It’s an excellent compendium of tips and tricks, and in my own humble opinion, lacks the faddy, aesthetic (see: influencer)-driven approach to minimalism that has popped up recently. Kondo simply wants to help you tidy as she genuinely believes it declutters not only your physical space, but your mental space – something I think we can all agree on.

IS IT NATURAL TO ACCUMULATE A BACKLOG? Sian: I think it’s pretty common for players to say things like ‘I have so many games to play and not enough time!’. Partly because as the average age of players gets higher, they’re adults with less time. Also, partly because there are more and more sales. When you have more disposable income it makes sense to keep an eye out for sales and eventually build up a backlog. And then implement a no-buying rule. When Humble Bundle started out I got so many games for cheap, so now I have a massive backlog….of ninety-eight games. Keep in mind as well that compared to TV or film there’s a higher time and energy investment.

Jordana: In an age where we are spoiled for choice when it comes to entertainment media, absolutely. I currently have (and perhaps always have had) a backlog on all my gaming platforms. PC, PS4, Switch - and even my bloody 3DS – all have backlogs. Much like you, I’m partial to a sale – Humble Bundle tends to be my Achilles’ heel, but I also must admit to being that person that walks by an EB Games, JB-HiFi or Big W, and is easily lured in by the prospect of a cheap title. I think it’s natural to accumulate a backlog with games, simply as they do take time to ‘complete’ – though this depends on how you perceive completion. I think two PhD students with a gaming podcast discuss the concept of completion in their first episode, actually. Interesting stuff!

FACT: This edition of Pelican hatched from Shaun Tan’s (24-karat) gold mosaic egg.

HOW DO WE MANAGE WHAT GAMES WE PLAY? HOW DO WE MAKE SURE OUR GAMES SPARK JOY?

DO WE DERIVE JOY FROM YOUR PHYSICAL AND DIGITAL COPIES OF GAMES, OR GAME OBJECTS?

Sian: I tend to have a few games going at the same time for different situations. Generally I like to have a bigger, more intensive game as well as a lighter, less intensive one. I played Assassin’s Creed: Origins at the same time as the Blackwell series, for example. Origins of course is a big open-world game with lots to do, albeit repetitive, while the Blackwell series is a cute pixel-style point-andclick indie game where you act as a kind of detective trying to help spirits move on. I also tend to have a game I’m currently playing on-and-off with friends, like Civilization.

Sian: I used to get a lot of joy from merchandise. To an extent it’s about performing a kind of identity, signalling to others what you like – my favourite games, my favourite characters. I have Pop Vinyl figures of Ciri, Aloy, Elizabeth, Booker, Zenyatta, BMO, and Tails, for example.

They definitely perform a function for me – illustrating my favourite personalities or character designs. Here I think about what makes players feel like they’re gamers.

But when I moved into a little unit, I had to declutter, and I realised that some things I definitely still get joy from, but others I held on to because it cost money and I felt guilty. Whenever I finish a physical copy of a game, I evaluate if I think I’ll play again, and the answer is usually no, so I trade things in.

Some games I finish the main storyline and feel like I should complete the rest of the game. Or sometimes I’ll play part of a game and go ‘well that was enjoyable, but I’m not driven to finish it’. I try to use Kondo’s idea of sparking joy to let that game go. So I might think ‘okay, you did your job. I enjoyed part of the game but it’s not sparking joy anymore, so it’s okay to let it go’. That’s something I think Kondo’s philosophy is good for – saying ‘you filled a purpose, thank you for that’. It helps reframe the way I view unfinished games. Maybe it taught me I don’t like that style, or that I do but only in small doses.

Jordana: I have no management system currently, but in terms of how many games I play at the one time, it generally tends to be between 1-2. That tends to keep some structure for me. Any more than that and I begin to feel like I’m being torn between too many narratives, and I usually like to be fully engrossed and almost ‘monogamous’ when I’m playing a game? This is dependent on genre also – I never play more than one AAA title at once, but I am usually happy to pair it with an indie and/or mobile title. Anything that doesn’t consume much of my time, really.

I usually tend to keep my games, as I feel all of them spark joy for me as a collective in my bookcase. Although, there are a few titles I have in my physical collection I haven’t touched in months and/or know I’m not going to have time to play for a long time. I should probably dispose of them to avoid feeling guilty about not playing them!

Jordana: I have a ten-year-old Pikachu plush that I bought in Queensland when I was fourteen - I went full fan-girl and squealed over him much to the entertainment of the sales guy at the register, and he does genuinely spark joy for me. He’s so wholesome!

Overall, I tend to derive more joy from physical copies of games and merch than I do digital copies of games.

I find that digital copies of games, or rather, that long list of titles one often sees in their Steam library bestows more anxiety than joy…it’s not as if you can stick a few fairy lights on pixels and make them part of a cosy living space like you can physical items.

WHAT ARE WE THINKING OF PLAYING NEXT? Sian: I have no idea – I think I’ll just open up my backlog in Grouvee and pick something! Or if a friend recommends a game, I’ll get onto that. Since my thesis is nearly over with, I’ve been desperate to get back into World of Warcraft…

Jordana: Well, I’m already cheating on Sekiro with Shadow of the Tomb Raider, so probably that!

FACT: No one knows what happened to Lawrence the Peacock. No one but Jeff.

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LIFE AND THE LAB:

THE WORLD

OF BIOART An Interview with SymbioticA by Zoe Castleden

There’s a field in which UWA is a world leader. No, not mining engineering. No, not refectory renovation.

It’s biological art, the space where the frontiers of biology meet the thought-provoking power of art. I sat down with Oron Catts and Ionat Zurr, leaders of UWA’s biological art powerhouse, SymbioticA, to talk about medium, inspiration, and what role biological art can play in a world where the line between life and technology is increasingly blurred.

HOW DID YOU COME INTO THIS HYBRID FIELD OF BIOLOGY AND ART? Oron: My original background is in product design. I was studying at Curtin, looking at the ways in which biology and design can come together. What I recognised then is what is becoming obvious now - that biology is increasingly becoming an engineering pursuit, and at some stage, designers would be called upon to design biotechnological products. I found this prospect exciting, challenging and disturbing. I wrote my thesis as a speculative design thesis, imagining a future where that would happen - then realised that I’m much more interested in the questions, rather than the solutions. I decided to continue my research as an artist, because I feel that art is one of those really privileged places where you can ask open-ended questions rather than provide solutions or answers.

I had no formal scientific training - in high school, I specialised in biology but that’s about all. I approached a scientist, Professor Miranda Grounds, with this idea of looking at one specific technology called tissue engineering. We started the Tissue Culture and Art project back in 1996 looking specifically at the question if we can use living tissue as a valid form for artistic expression. The rest is history.

Ionat: I studied photography and media studies. I was working together with Oron who needed someone to document what was happening because we didn’t imagine we’d be able to take anything out of the lab.

Once I started to work with living materials - in my case, mammalian cells - representation and photography became less interesting than actually working with living materials. They are, in a way, problematic, but also very interesting and responsive and have their own agency.

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WHEN MOST PEOPLE THINK OF AN ARTIST, THEY IMAGINE SOMEONE USING PAINT, CHARCOAL, CLAY: WHAT ARE THE MATERIALS USED BY SOMEONE CREATING “BIOLOGICAL ART”?

O: From our perspective, biological art involves working with living materials and using the tools of contemporary biology - using life as both the subject and the object of manipulation. The ethos developed at SymbioticA is that artists should work with the living biological materials themselves and present the manipulated living objects as art, rather than using representations.

WHERE DO YOU FIND INSPIRATION FOR YOUR WORKS? I: Everywhere! Life is a big inspiration. We’re also very much looking at recent developments in the life sciences: research, technologies and applications.

O: It’s really hard to point fingers. We made a choice early on to look at living tissue - but we have expanded our interests beyond that. We tend to concentrate on things that make us feel uncomfortable because those zones of discomfort are indicative of areas that need more cultural exploration. We’re seeking to find places where we don’t have a cultural language. We suffer from – the way I put it - an acute poverty of our language to describe things that are happening to life. It’s the interest in life that really drives us.

I: I think it’s also because we’re living in a time of extinction, global warming, when ecologies are falling apart - but at the same time, we are creating new organisms in the lab. I think it’s a problematic but interesting time to investigate those kinds of relationships. Alongside that, we have Artificial Intelligence. We take non-living systems and relinquish our control over them - and at the same time we’re trying to assert full control on living material, on living systems that are out of our control, and that have their own agencies. This is a very paradoxical situation!

FACT: Brace yourself: the year twelve library invasion is coming.

WHAT ARE SOME ISSUES BROUGHT UP BY BIOLOGICAL ART THAT YOU SEE COMING TO THE CULTURAL FOREFRONT OVER THE NEXT FEW YEARS?

or for worse, for people to think differently about those technologies. If we had a utility in mind, I don’t think that we would have been able to think as freely.

O: More and more we see our work being quoted as inspiration for industry. There’s a growing number of companies around the world that are now trying to grow animal products in the lab. Ionat and I are credited as the first people to grow meat in the lab. We grew the first piece of meat in 2000 and we ate our first lab-grown meat in 2003 - as far as we know, that was the first time that someone put a piece of meat into their mouth that was grown in a lab rather than in an animal. Now, in the last at least five years, there’s been a huge growth of this approach within the start-up community. We give a lot of lectures responding to issues that we have regarding the application of this knowledge within this start-up culture.

We need to maintain at least a few pockets where people can engage in questioning the world rather than being solutionists. One issue with thinking about the world in a solutionist way is that you become blind to the problems that your solution generates, or you become blind to issues that are preventing you from achieving your solution. I don’t think everyone should be a problem seeker - but we need some problem seekers in the world and that’s something artists function really well as.

Basically, what I wrote my thesis about in 1996 is happening now. Companies are employing designers and creative directors to develop products in this field.

I: I think one of the problematic elements is that this is a technological solution for the damage we are creating in the environment, or for our guilty feelings about abusing or exploiting other animals. But it’s still exploitation, just mediated through technology. We don’t see our victims, we can’t look into their eyes - they are being abstracted further and further away in the lab.

O: We’ve been exploring the existence of lifeforms that fall outside any form of classification, be it scientific or cultural, and the existence of the laboratory as a new ecological system. Within our culture - and even within the sciences - these lifeforms don’t get a place in the world. We’re trying to find a place for them, to put them out there. We want people to acknowledge that we now have lifeforms which are not natural, that are not classified using taxonomy.

YOUR WEBSITE DEFINES YOUR RESEARCH AS “NON-UTILITARIAN, CURIOSITY BASED AND PHILOSOPHICALLY MOTIVATED”. MANY PEOPLE, PARTICULARLY PEOPLE IN THE FIELD OF SCIENCE, BALK AT THE IDEA OF “NON-UTILITARIAN RESEARCH” WHAT WOULD YOU TELL THESE PEOPLE TO MAKE THEM SEE THE VALUE OF BIOLOGICAL ART? O: There’s less and less space now for open-ended research. We staunchly believe that art has a function, but not a utility – and the function that arts generate is exactly because of the lack of utility. For example when we consider ethical issues around our relationship to life, if we had a utility for that, we would always hide behind it and this is what scientists do. However, as artists, we’ve got nowhere to hide. When we artists present a work, we expose those ethical issues in the most fundamental way and make them explicit. We talk about art as a mirror that reflects the world and you can say that the mirror has a function, that is, to see yourself.

Lab-grown meat for example. We were doing it before anyone else because as artists we were recontextualising those technologies. We opened the floodgates, for better

In a sense, we act almost as court jesters in a medieval castle. We can tell the truth to the king - but the price we pay is that we’re not taken too seriously.

WHAT ARE SOME CURRENT PROJECTS BEING CREATED AT SYMBIOTICA? O: Late last year we debuted a piece called “Biomess” at the Art Gallery of Western Australia. It involved working with natural history museum curators, curating life forms that challenge our understanding of the body, self, identity, sex, gender and reproduction - contrasting those with lab-grown lifeforms that exist outside classification. This work is currently at the Cooper Hewitt design museum in New York City. We also have a collaboration with the National Centre for Mammalian Synthetic Biology in Edinburgh. We’re trying to create a lifeform that exists across biological kingdoms, fusing a yeast and a mammalian cell to create a kind of “monstrous creature”, a lifeform that exists across kingdoms.

I: We also have some student projects in progress.

WhiteFeather is a PhD student looking at the ideas of witchcraft and tissue engineering, presenting these as an act of ecofeminism. She’s a textile artist working with tissue engineering as a medium. Drew Thornton is another student - he’s developing a retro video game where humans and flies will work together to fight an invading alien ship using light. He loves insects, and for him, it’s about trying not to look at insects as “us and them” - especially now that we are witnessing the biggest ever extinction of insects. It’s about reconciling our relationship with insects through humour.

Interested in the world of biological art? Along with SymbioticA’s postgraduate programs, Ionat runs two visual arts units with a focus on biology and science.

Looking for something less formal? SymbioticA host casual seminars in their (beautiful) office every Friday.

Information about events and exhibitions can also be found on SymbioticA’s Facebook page. Whatever suits you, Perth is on the cutting edge of this field – make the most of it.

FACT: Dawn Freshwater resigned because too many people jumped the moat.

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Polaroids by Jeremy Passmore // @upsidedowngallery

THE CREATORS’ EDITION 15

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Image by Alex Hockton // @hocktag

FISH OUT OF WATER Matilda Gerrans

THE SEA ROLLED IN. Everything was so pale this time of the morning, a watercolour in pastel; painting the light pink of the sky, the barely-there blue of the sea dripping into the sea foam and the white sand of the beach. There were a few seagulls on the beach, and every now and again they would launch into the air and sing their staccato screams into the air, but they were carried away by the wind.

It was nice, this scene. In a moment, the sun would take its brush and colour the sky with brighter, sharper colours, and the muted softness of the morning would be overtaken by the saturation of day. She half wanted to freeze the sun in its tracks, but the wind was whipping around her ears, bringing a chill to her shoulders.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she twisted her neck upwards, aching for the warmth to brush her skin.

Orange was interrupting the pink of the sky now. She loved the colours of the sky, but each time she looked up, her eyes were drawn downwards, towards the gently sloshing of the waves. She took a few steps closer. Her feet dug into the wet sand, a chill running up her legs.

A wave crashed, the foam dissipating, and a thin sheet of liquid glass rippled across her toes. It had been a long time since she had felt the water on her skin, smelt the sea air. It felt good.

She took a deep breath, trying to take in as much as possible. As a child, her father had told her stories about the sea. We used to live down there, you know. Before the rains. It was dry as a desert, and then it rained for seven years straight and the ocean came into being. We thought we’d never learn to survive, but here we are.

Children of the land and sea.

She’d loved that thought. Of being one with the sea.

Did we grow tails, Daddy? Did we grow gills? Then she’d learnt about science and facts and the real world and the real truth and that thought, the one that had rooted inside her mind and blossomed for so many years, withered and turned to dust. Still, she felt the water on her skin and smelt the sea air and counted the colours in this painting-that-could-be, and she felt something begin grow in her mind. She took another step closer

to the water. Then another. Then another. Until finally, her bare foot stood hovering above the sea, the other covered in the tide. Taking a deep breath, she slipped her feet beneath the water and almost cried with the giddiness of it.

The pains she taken to reach who she wanted to be were nothing compared to what she’d endured trying to forget who she was. A fish out of water. The tide receded, and she was left standing with one foot in the water, and one foot out. A sharp intake of breath cut through the air. The waves were pulling back now faster, and she had a decision to make before they came crashing back in.

She looked at the sand behind her, with the seagulls arguing over a scrap of food. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two fishermen, knee deep in the water, lines cast out over the ocean. They hauled in more plastic than fish. It would never be easy, returning home, but nothing ever would be. As the waves pulled out, she felt a tug in her chest. They were pulling her out. They were pulling her home.

The waves came in, and she took a step forward, both feet submerged in the water. She ran a hand through her hair, and then down by her neck, feeling the bumps and slits that lay there. She smiled.

One of the fishermen suddenly looked to his left. A splash had sounded, and he elbowed his friend. Both were eager to bring home a fish or two, but with the cool air tossing their hair, they were more eager to climb back into their warm beds. They peered into the distance, and the splash sounded again. Their eyes widened for a moment, astounded by what they had seen. The edge of a flipper, all glinting and golden, and they rubbed their eyes. Maybe they needed to head back home.

They packed up their things and stepped out of the water, and as they climbed up the dunes, the tail splashed once more in the water near the now-empty beach.

THE SEA ROLLED OUT. 17

Images by Luke Morris // @painting.po 18

SHE, STILL Isabelle Joan

sometimes when it rains I crawl out of bed and tip-toe down the hallway to stand in the laundry and the washing powder scent mixes all up in the humid air and the window is foggy and it’s dark outside and it smells like lonely and home sometimes I feel like I’m watching it all from far, far away it’s a black and white movie, scratched at the edges and I feel like I’ll wait forever under this streetlamp dancing my own slow waltz because there is one thing I can never say the hardened ball of stale air in my throat the walls too close for comfort

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REVELATION Elena Perse

Officer Wilson sat beneath the fluorescent lights, nursing a headache and a take-away coffee. The station was quiet, the silence broken only by the sounds of the other two officers moving about. Wilson had an hour left of her late-night shift and had been hoping to spend it finishing off some of her ever-mounting pile of paperwork. Instead here she was, taking a statement from some young guy who looked like he was strung out on every drug under the sun and hadn’t slept in a week. His shaky hands were resting on her desk, tendons starkly visible and god-knows-what under his nails.

When he moved them off the desk to make room for her clipboard, there was an obvious sweat mark in the shape of his palms. Wilson closed her eyes briefly and exhaled.

She opened her eyes and began.

“Can I have your name and some ID please?” she asked, trying not to let her voice bely the fact that she really wanted to be left alone with her rapidly cooling coffee and mountains of paperwork alone.

“I’m George,” he told her, sliding a driver’s license across to her. George Campbell, as the license confirmed him to be, was twenty-five but looked younger. His cheeks were pockmarked with old acne scars and his Adam’s apple was alarmingly prominent.

“I’M HERE TO REPORT A CRIME,” GEORGE TOLD HER IN A VOICE THAT GRATED ON HER ALREADY FRAYED NERVES. Wilson was a professional with twenty years in the force under her belt and she reminded herself that as she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she nodded at him, waiting for him to continue.

He wrung his hands, clearly working up the nerve to tell her what exactly he had to say.

“I...I think I saw a murder,” he said, so quietly he was barely audible.

Wilson glanced up at George’s round face and examined him closely. His pupils were huge, his eyes sunk in deep bags and lips chewed raw. He tilted his head slightly and his messy hair shifted, revealing a port-wine birthmark on his temple that she hadn’t spotted before.

“Go on,” Wilson prompted, suddenly feeling the need to be a little gentler with him, “Where were you?”

“Uh... on a corner. I’m not from here, I don’t know the 20

street name.” George looked slightly abashed. He looked back down at his hands, avoiding her eye. This was going to be a long interview.

“That’s okay, we’ll come back to that. Now, when exactly did this happen? Could you give me an estimate?”

Piece by piece, Wilson was able to get enough out of George for them to start investigating. In fits and starts, he told her that he had been out for a late-night walk, ended up somewhere that maybe he shouldn’t have.

George’s face had whitened as he gritted out his story, how he had stumbled across a group, clustered around a person. They were kicking him, hitting him, punching him. From a distance George hid and watched until the group who scattered, leaving a single prone figure on the ground. How he had checked the man’s pulse and felt nothing. How he had come straight here. Wilson watched as a single tear traced its way down George’s cheek, trailing past shadows under his eyes so dark they almost looked like bruises. His hands still hadn’t stopped shaking.

“Why didn’t you call triple zero afterwards?” Wilson asked.

George shifted uncomfortably before looking Wilson right in the face, the only direct eye contact they’d had throughout the whole questioning.

“I was... so scared. I just thought you could help me. Help find them.” he said simply. Wilson felt all of a sudden as though he was directly addressing her, as if George had come here, to this police station, for her help specifically.

Taken aback, Wilson could only stare back at him. As she looked at George, she noticed something - his port-wine birthmark looked like it had spread, almost like liquid dripping... Blood she thought, right as Officer O’Brien called out to her.

“Wilson, we need you now, we’ve had an emergency call.

Corner of Park drive and Queen street. In the car – right away!”

Wilson froze, torn between George and O’Brien. She turned to George.

“I have to go, but we absolutely want to hear the rest of what you have to say – would it be okay for you wait here? We’ll have someone to take the rest of your statement as soon as possible.” Wilson gestured to the junior officer a few desks away who looked like he’d just been abruptly woken by O’Brien’s shouting. George nodded, inclining his head so the deep red patch was

FACT: The Ref will be done in six months from whenever you read this.

hidden once again by his hair. It’s just a birthmark, Wilson told herself as she rushed out of the station.

Wilson and O’Brien hurried out of the car, heading straight for the shaking woman standing beneath a streetlight. Just beyond of the circle of light, a dark mass lay unstirring.

“You called this in?” Wilson heard O’Brien asking the woman, while she scanned the scene, only half listening.

She could hear the woman detailing how she had been out for a drive, had turned down this street and come to a screeching halt when her headlight illuminated the body by the side of the road.

“And you saw no one else at the scene? Only the body?”

O’Brien questioned. Wilson heard the woman make a sound of assent. “Alright, thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

Wilson slowly crouched down next to the body lying prone on the pavement, leaning over to look at the face.

She stopped, totally motionless. The face was George’s.

What Wilson had mistaken for shadows and a birthmark in the station were here unmistakably a smear of blood and lurid bruises. The world felt as though it had been suddenly, violently shaken on its axis. A vicious buzzing in her ears drowned out almost everything. She could feel O’Brien standing right by her and glanced up at him. “...looking at the time of death being less than half an hour ago.” O’Brien was saying, hands in pockets “At least judging by the time of the call, and what the witness told -”

“This man... He- I was just talking to him,” Wilson said, her voice sounding slightly strangled “He was... – I was just interviewing him, back at the station, someone should be taking the rest of his statement right now! How is he here? Why is he here?” Wilson turned her face away from the crumpled body. O’Brien awkwardly placed one hand on her shoulder.

“Donna,” he said. No one ever called Wilson by her first name, but then again, Wilson never broke down like this.

She just couldn’t understand, couldn’t shake the feeling of George’s dark eyes on her, the feeling that she had somehow failed him.

“Donna,” O’Brien repeated gently “It’s been a long night. I think you’re just confused. Tomorrow you can- “ Wilson suddenly shot up from the ground, patting frantically at her pockets.

“He gave me his ID,” she told O’Brien “I was in a rush when we left, I didn’t give it back, I’ll show you...”

Her hand stilled on a stiff little rectangle in one pocket and drew it out.

“See!” she exclaimed, “See, it’s him, it’s the same guy!”

She paused at the look of confused concern on O’Brien’s face and turned around the little rectangle to look at it herself. It wasn’t a driver’s license. It was a tiny greeting card, a bouquet of flowers printed on it. She flipped it open.

‘Thanks in advance. George’

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EDUCATOR, LEADER, CREATOR:

INTERVIEW WITH ARTIST ESTHER MCDOWELL/ YABINI KICKETT Interview by Megan Dodd

M.D: YOUR ART IS DYNAMIC; IT DOES NOT APPEAR TO CONFORM TO ONE GENRE OR MEDIUM. HOW WOULD YOU CHARACTERISE YOUR ART? E.M/Y.K: As I kind of touched on before, I can’t sit still and am always wanting to try something new. I think I’m quite tactile and like messing with textures so painting and drawing aren’t always going to cut it.

I started doing portraits in primary school, cartoons of my teachers and friends, that eventually turned into my main focus but I soon shifted to endemic flora of Bibbulmun country and landscapes. I generally just say I’m a mess, I like too much.

Esther McDowell/Yabini Kickett is a Bibbulmun Noongar artist based in Perth. Her creative practice is dynamic, spanning a variety of mediums, and has included workshops and exhibitions at The Art Gallery of Western Australia (AGWA) and Fremantle Arts Centre (FAC). Megan Dodd sat down with her to discuss her experiences and plans for the future.

MEGAN DODD: GIVEN YOUR ARTISTIC SUCCESS – HAVING EXHIBITED IN PERTH GALLERIES ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS, AND WON PRIZES FOR YOUR PRACTICE – IT IS FAIR TO SAY THAT YOU ARE A HIGH-ACHIEVING, GOLDSTANDARD ARTIST AND CREATOR. WHAT DOES THIS SUCCESS MEAN TO YOU? Esther McDowell/Yabini Kickett: I’m not sure about a goldstandard artist, but I’ve worked hard to be where I am and I plan to keep working just as hard.

M.D: WHY DO YOU CHOOSE TO REFER TO YOURSELF AS BOTH ESTHER MCDOWELL, AND YABINI KICKETT? E.M/Y.K: Esther is Hebrew for star, and my mother wanted to give me a Bibbulmun equivalent - I sign all my works with Yabini and do like it when people call me it. As far as the family names go, I hold onto McDowell in respect to my father, but use Kickett so other Aboriginal people can sooner identify and connect with me and my practice. My parents joked about conjoining their names to McKickett when I was a kid, and I’m glad they didn’t.

M.D: WHY DO YOU THINK PEOPLE HAVE RESPONDED SO PERSONALLY TO YOUR WORK, AND FOUND SUCH A DEEP CONNECTION TO YOUR ART? E.M/Y.K: I think for a lot of women in particular they like seeing a female artist do all they things she wants to do. I don’t want to become a one trick pony; I like trying everything at least once when it comes to my creative practice. It also seems to be women mostly that also enjoy my landscapes; I’m glad they identify and connect with it so.

M.D: WHO ARE SOME OF YOUR ARTISTIC INFLUENCES? E.M/Y.K: My mum was insanely good at carved realistic animal portraits in emu eggs, and I have vivid memories of her making them as a child. I love Bella Kelly, uncle Shane Pickett, and the colours of Jimmy Pike and Maggie Green.

I also adore Nalda Searls work!

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M.D: DO YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE GENRE OR MEDIUM TO WORK WITH? E.M/Y.K: I could always go back to a pencil and paper, they’re always a staple. Recently I’ve fallen in love with gouache - the texture and depth of colour are too yummy. I’ll probably never get sick of doing portraits either.

M.D: I REALLY ENJOY YOUR PORTRAITS. I LOVE THE USE OF LAYERS, BLOCK COLOUR AND MOVEMENT IN THE WORKS. IS THERE A CERTAIN METHODOLOGY YOU USE TO GO ABOUT CAPTURING THE ESSENCE OF THE PERSON? E.M/Y.K: I think my better portraits are of people I deeply care for or admire. I know them better, as cheesy as that sounds. I prefer doing older faces too because they’ve got more to tell most of the time.

M.D: I SEE THAT OVER JANUARY AND FEBRUARY, YOU RAN SOME WORKSHOPS AT THE ART GALLERY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA (AGWA). TELL US ABOUT THAT; WHAT WAS YOUR VISION WITH THAT PROJECT? E.M/Y.K: I’m not sure how to summarise this one, but it started with my anger for Jacarandas and London Plain trees taking over the streets of Perth. They’re taking up space as a foreign entity, being embraced, thriving and blanketing country they’re not entitled to. The idea of my work at AGWA is to educate the wider community on the difference between native and endemic flora (native being a plant from the continent of Australia and endemic being a plant from a specific Bioregion), and how they can use this knowledge to reform and try to fix their gardens, shires and communities in general. There will be several public art outcomes as it stands, so watch that space!

M.D: WHAT ARE YOU CURRENTLY WORKING ON? E.M/Y.K: I’m curating a show for NAIDOC week all about Design Woodley through DADAA at Ellenbrook Arts - it’s shaping up fast and will be a great one! Currently still working at the Edmund Rice Centre with my Moorditj Koolangkas and am also trying to build a body of work for a solo show!

You can stay updated with Esther/Yabini’s practice by following her Instagram profile, @yabiniarts.

Art by Esther McDowell/Yabini Kickett // @yabiniarts 23

HOW TO MAKE A MUM STUDENT Emily Gallarde

INGREDIENTS: One large brain Two quick working hands A bunch of patience A sprig of persistence A whole heap of courage A 3 cups of organisational skills (firmly packed) A lashing of determination A generous splash of humour One big strong heart

METHOD: 1) Take your large brain and two working hands and

5) Take the big strong heart, marinate it with the

set them in a warm spot and allow to cool to room temperature. They will need to be the exact temperature for all the hard work you will have to do.

remaining humour, chop it into small pieces so you can leave a little piece of it with each of your children.

Occasionally, you will miss out on swimming carnivals and assemblies, or you will have to study and write assignments instead of playing with them. Be sure to give some pieces to your husband as he will need it while he is working hard and helping raise the children. The humour marinade will help to soften the meat during the tough times. Use the balance in the mixture of organisational skills, courage, determination, patience and persistence. You will need a whole lot of heart to brave the assignments and exams, particularly those dreaded group assignments.

2) Cream together the courage and determination. This will form the foundation for your entry into university.

These two main ingredients are the most important to get you started, and they will continue to serve as a reminder during those hard times, as to why you embarked on this adventure of a recipe.

3) In a large mixing bowl, lightly whisk the bunches of patience and persistence along with half of the humour.

You will need this for the many late nights and long days that lay ahead. Also, if things fall apart, you will rely on the humour to put it all back together again. Add to the cream mixture of courage and determination to your desired taste, then set to one side.

6) Take all your combined ingredients and turn out onto a well-floured surface. Preferably, your dedicated study desk with a fancy laptop. Use your two room temperature hands and large brain to work the mixture. You will knead this for approximately three years. Once the dough is well kneaded, leave it aside to double in size, then it is ready for the workforce.

4) Finely dice your organisational skills and gently fold them into the courage, determination, patience and persistence mixture. The organisational skills will help bind the mixture together.

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Art by Ashleigh Frost // @a_frostart

Art by Ashleigh Frost // @a_frostart

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FAIRBRIDGE 2019: A PHOTO ESSAY

Images by Conor Levy // @conorlevy Fairbridge Festival – “a celebration of folk, world and roots music” – has been running for 27 years.

On behalf of Pelican, photographer Conor Levy went down to Fairbridge 2019, located near Pinjarra, WA, to capture some of his experiences 27

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colour blast by Grace Otto // @rockgoblin

‘Limbo’ and ‘Waiting’ // Art by Jeremy Passmore // @upsidedowngallery

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Art by Piper Tierney

ELVIS IN AFGHANISTAN Patrick Roso

WE WENT THROUGH A NUMBER OF AFGHAN INTERPRETERS BEFORE WE FOUND ATASH. Oh, his predecessors, none of whose names I recall, could translate. They were proficient enough however to communicate our plans to the Afghani policemen who would operate along side us. As a matter of fact, I suppose any one of them would’ve been alright in the role under normal circumstances. But ours were not normal circumstances. We needed someone with guanxi, a facilitator, a fixer able to smooth over the bumps between us and the locals. If they weren’t up to snuff, we’d send them back and demand a replacement. After a few rounds of this, the Pashtun Kepetan threw up his hands in exasperation and said “STOP!”.

Fair, I suppose, but not good enough. So, on our first night without a job on, we went for a walk over to the ANA’s part of the camp and banged on the Kepetan’s door.

An exasperated Kepetan told us, in his best broken English, to politely bugger off. However, we weren’t having any of that and told him to get his team out here.

He grudgingly obliged and soon the hard gravel ground outside his door was filled with soldiers feigning indifference, hands in pockets, kicking at the ground and looking away. As Australians, very junior partners in things, we weren’t at the top of their list of priorities. Yet we had developed a tenuous rapport that we could draw on if needed. Therefore, we could knock on their door in the middle of the night and the Afghan’s would oblige, if not too enthusiastically.

On this night, we told them that we needed more than an interpreter. We needed a liaison. What we got, was Atash.

Now, you put unprepared men on the spot like that and you’ll get this look. Atash did not get that look.

HE SMILED, SHOOK OUR HANDS AND SAID, “I’M YOUR MAN”.

He was good, too. Back in the old days before the War, he’d been well on his name to making a name for himself.

He fancied himself as the next Afghan Elvis, Ahmad Zahir reborn. He had run away overseas for a better life one day and never planned on looking back.

Then came the War. Atash says he returned he returned to do his part for his country, and we didn’t doubt him for that.

The next day, we went out with the Afghan National Army on a patrol near Tarin Kowt, in Uruzgan. Thirty reluctant Afghan soldiers and five Australians crammed into the back of several Bushmasters, setting off towards the hills of Dihrawud. It was rough going, soon the Bushmasters kicked us out onto the hard dirt and we had to walk the rest of the way. We spread out and moved towards a dried-up riverbed that led towards the hills. We were still

thirty feet from the first cover, a low mud-brick wall, when we took fire from the foothills on our left. Spluttering, inaccurate fire that was likely the business half of a crossfire somehow gone wrong. Still, it caught one of the ANA soldiers in the head before we made it behind the wall.

With no way of stopping their fire and a flanking party too risky, we called in the air-force and waited. There was a fair volume of lead coming in from those hills, but we were okay as long as we didn’t stick our heads out. Suddenly, I heard an electric guitar blasting and I looked behind me to see Atash belting out the lyrics to some forgotten relic of by-gone Afghan rock and roll.

I stared at him and he grinned like a maniac, “We aren’t going anywhere until those jets come!”.

His fellow ANA soldiers laughed and that was my introduction to the legend of Ahmad Zahir, the Afghan Elvis.

Later, when we had extricated ourselves from that situation and returned, I caught up with Atash and asked him what that was all about. That was first time I had seen our ANA colleagues happy about anything.

Atash, with his side-burns and knock off acoustic Gibson, was a throwback to 1970’s Afghanistan. It was a different time then, he told me. Things weren’t perfect, but they were “alright man, they were alright”. I inquired as to what the music was, and he grinned, telling me to come to camp after dinner.

He played for us that night, starting with Zahir’s 1970’s hit ‘Those Were the Days My Friend’. He sang of a free prewar country, when a man could drive his car to see films in Kabul and sit side by side in the cinema with Pashtun, Dari, Tajik. In a war where a lot of people talked about the Taliban, tribalism and bombs, I realised that Ahmad Zahir was more than a story. Ahmad Zahir, Atash insisted, was rock and roll. Crowds waited in line for days to see him live at the Hotel Continental in Kabul. Women used to style their hair like Jane Fonda and go to university, in a country that was this close to setting aside the old ethnic, linguistic and tribal divisions.

Much later, I would go to see Atash play at that very same Hotel Continental. The tables are crowded with a different sort now, American managers and CIA types, with Graham Greene’s “noisy bastards” ruling from here like Imperial Roman governors. The old waiters serve them, the same way they served everyone else that’s passed through their country. Up on the stage is a tall, flamboyant figure with side burns and a white suit. Those noisy bastards ignore him, yet the waiters are captivated.

Afterwards, we visited Ahmad Zahir’s grave. Bulldozed after the Taliban outlawed music of all sorts, the grave had been left to rot until being painstakingly rebuilt over the course of years by a diehard group of surviving fans.

Atash remarked that it was a mirror and I couldn’t help but agree. The cheap, decaying rush job that replaced the rubble was already falling apart.

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A VIKING’S SOUL Isabelle Yuen

We wield high sea harpoons To tame the choppy waves For cloudy minds breed thunderstorms We leave the unsettled behind

An anchor fashioned from flimsy fortitude A sunken ship beneath An hourglass, its steady sand trickle A siren call, beckon beyond brine rocks

Voyagers are factory-built based on the latest model of tough.

But they were built with fears too, because it is not strength that makes success it is surviving weakness.

These seas were never born tame, but neither were you.

Get going now, Before the sun sets.

MEMORIES William Huang

Memories kept, some left behind The ones you love, you’ll search to find When you stop to recollect What you are is what you’ve kept

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CASTLES Alyssa Tang

turrets hang high as you look up and see only eyes that undress your armour and stab you between the ribs red flowers bloom beneath your hands and a fog stares you in the face the man unzips your skin looks within doesn’t like what he finds breathe

THIS SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN WRITTEN Takunda Chirenda

breathe the moon highlights your tears so easily

I am tired of using personification to describe my mental disorders.

heave heave

Labeling anxiety as my roommate,

the grass hurts your knees

just because it is never behind in rent payments,

open your ears, my dear

living comfortably in the rooms of my body.

face the music let it bring you to tears.

I try to plaster my skin with eviction notices but it will not leave.

It will never leave me.

I am also tired of having to describe my saline tears as natural phenomenons.

My tears do not bring life like the rain, nor do they look as beautiful as cascading waterfalls do.

They are simply dense ovular-shaped liquid masses that contain too much pain to be locked away behind hurting irises.

I am exhausted.

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Art by Debbie Gilchrist // ‘’Distillation’ Acrylic spray paint on paper, 2019 (left) // and ‘Essence’ Digital print on paper, 2019 (right) // @debbiegilchrist1 Debbie Gilchrist is a mature age fine art student at UWA whose works have a focus on people and particularly faces. She is fascinated by faces, expression, and the personality expressed by the way a person holds themselves as opposed to just their visual structure”.

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CREATION IN GENESIS AND IN SCIENCE, AND HOW IT HAS TROUBLED US EVER SINCE Tony Li

“IT DOES NOT REJOICE AT WRONG, BUT REJOICES IN THE RIGHT.” – 1 CORINTHIANS 13:6 I was chatting with a friend of mine. When talking about the flaws of human nature, I made the following exclamation: “Evolution has no foresight…”

She timidly interrupted, knowing that I would certainly not agree with her: “I don’t believe that speciation occurs…”

I finished my remark: “…that’s why we are doomed.”— Good timing, apparently.

I believe that evolution’s lack of foresight has left us flawed in body and mind, and without being aware of and carefully working around this fact, we would get into some pretty big problems. Perhaps interpreting the smile (over me accidentally accusing her for dooming humanity) on my face as ridicule, she added a clarification: “I do believe that the Earth is old, there is too much evidence. I also believe that micro-evolutions occur, but there is no evidence for the occurrence of speciation.”

I have heard this line from many other friends and acquaintances, none of them can be said to be unintelligent by any means.

I wasn’t surprised at all. Given her alignment with Evangelism, I would be surprised if she had no issues with evolution. The difficulty of reconciling the scientific theory of evolution with the account of creation in Genesis is a common issue among my Christian friends and the wider Christian community— the Christian mathematician John Lennox rightly titled his book on this topic as Seven Days That Divided the World. Why am I writing about this topic then? Out of concern, or out of pride and love of dispute?

“And God made the beasts of the earth according to their kinds and the cattle according to their kinds, and everything that creeps upon the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.” — Genesis 1:25 To not keep a mystery too long: speciation occurs, and we have seen this. We have observed it happening with plants and insects right under our own noses, even under lab conditions. We see it in action with ring species, and we somehow ended up with eight different 36

species of giraffes and only-God-knows-how-many species of orcas. In fact, even creation ministries such as Answers in Genesis (AiG) and Creation.com freely admit that “we do not deny that species vary, change, and even appear over time” -- Instead, AiG states that no transition between “kinds” occurs.

Instead, I picked up a few pieces that did not end up on AiG’s “arguments to avoid” section: (1): “Mutations cannot create new information”—If this assertion is true, then evolution cannot produce anything that isn’t already existing, and so cannot be the origin of biodiversity as we see today.

Rather strangely, it seems that someone forgot Huxley’s typewriter monkey, who can write out the entire collection of Shakespearean works within finite time.

Certainly, generating some pieces of new information won’t be difficult at all.Also, the proposed absence of new information implies that the amount of genetic information within a species’ gene pool would be continuously shrinking. Perhaps, we can reconstruct the genomes of Adam and Eve through the genomes of current human population—bear in mind that everything we find in the genome of some individual should be traced back to them eventually. This would be a fun research project. Bonus research project: What linguistic conclusion can we draw from Genesis 11 (Tower of Babel)? How does it compare to linguistics as we know today?

(2): I’ve seen two types of arguments ascribing to complexity of organisms: (i): Irreducible Complexity a.k.a. “What good is half an eye?” argues that some complex biological structures cannot function without any of their multiple interacting parts, and as a result they cannot be evolved from scratch, since there would be no reward in evolving each part before the final assembly is completed.

However, evolution doesn’t form one part each time for a complex structure—it forms a simple structure with simple parts, then reworks them overtime. Darwin himself was able to find enough examples of different eye structures in the animal kingdom to draw an approximate route of evolution from simple to complex eye.

(ii): Complexity implies design, a.k.a. “If you found a pocket watch in the wilderness, you will assume that it was dropped by someone and that there was a watchmaker”.

This argument (about the existence of God) was put forward in 1802 by William Paley, predating Darwin. In a sense, Darwin was attempting to refute this argument by theorising the ability for complex structures to arise without design. (Notice a pattern here?)

A similar argument I’ve seen draws on the fact that many biological structures are surpassing the efficiency of modern human inventions in their function, and thus should be the result of design instead of a random trial and error process. However, human innovations themselves are filled with trial and error processes: Engineering design and pharmaceutical research requires a lot of trial and error, either in computer simulations or animal experiments. (Edison wasn’t the first person trying to make a light bulb.)

(3): Do fossil records include too many missing links to give favourable evidence for evolution?

This appears to have devolved into a finger pointing issue, as the two sides supposedly seeing the same fossil record make statements that are contradictory on every regard with little hesitation. We know that fossilisation is a very rare event, and so we can’t expect to find close to everything in it. We do have plenty of interesting fossil records on transitional forms between dinosaurs and birds, some amphibian mammals and whales, apes and human, etc. Evolutionists and creationists do interpret the same fossils quite differently: Pakicetus is widely regarded as a transitional form in whale evolution, while creationists often insist that it has nothing to do with whales. The same dispute happens for birds. I’ll be cautious here, though I guess it’s safer to stick with the consensus on what these fossils are. I did find something funny: many creationist sources state that there are no ape-human intermediate forms, and humanoid fossils are either fully ape or fully human… Except they have a hard time agreeing which is which, some even appeared to have changed their minds. Did I mention Orwell? No, I didn’t. My little research and this tiny essay will not do justice for this topic.

evidences, then wait to see whether its predictions fit newer evidences—the same way any science works. For example, through studying anatomical similarities, we can establish that some current species should have common ancestry, then it gives a prediction for potential new fossil discoveries or genetic similarities which can be confirmed by DNA sequencing — making predictions and test, nothing different from other fields of science.

“Historical science” does involve some assumptions, such as assuming the rate of radioactive decay/ mutation/speed of light stays the same in the past. This is sometimes referred to as ‘uniformitarianism’ and has occasionally been criticised. But there is nothing special about the past that makes it more unknowable than tiny particles and distant stars — both of them are as unobservable from the naked eye as the ancient universe. We should be confident about what science tells us about the past, just like how we are certain that stars are lightyears away from us, instead of being little bits of fire a few kilometres away inside the atmosphere.

Or well… Scientists do make mistakes, that’s how it works.

“What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; and there is nothing new under the sun.”—Ecclesiastes 1:9 For centuries since Isaac Newton, physicists frequently believed in a static universe—one that has no beginning, no end, and has always been the same — the antithesis of the typical theistic belief that “God created the universe.” This belief was strong: when Einstein discovered that the equations of general relativity suggest that the universe is not static… He introduced a ‘cosmological constant’ term to balance the equation in order to achieve an equilibrium solution within the statistic universe. Him and other physicists were probably already aware that something is off with the statistic universe solution — it is not stable, any slight perturbation of any term in the equation will send the universe into forever expansion or contraction into singularity. We all know the rest of this story, Einstein lived to see himself being proven wrong when calculations from Edwin Hubble and the Catholic priest George Lemaitre on galactic redshift concluded that the universe is, indeed, expanding. Hence proving that the age of the universe is finite, and that it has a beginning.

There is one more scientific problem: “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding.”—Job 38:4 Can we ever know anything about the past that we did not witness? In a philosophical sense, perhaps not—we might as well know absolutely nothing if we are ultrasceptical.

Some in the creationist movement draw a line between “historical” and “observational” science, stating that studies about the past (such as geology, palaeontology, and archaeology) is less reliable than studies about present phenomena, such as physics and chemistry.

But there is no such distinction in methodology. We make a hypothesis about the past based on observed

It would have been a dream for Thomas Aquinas.

Einstein’s colleague George Gamow recalled that he labelled the addition of the cosmological constant as the “biggest blunder” in his life. The controversy between steady state and Big Bang universe continued for a couple decades, but it was finally settled by the discovery of the Cosmic Background Radiation in 1965.

Physicists changed their mind on the nature of the universe in light of new evidence. I guess we should trust the geologists and biologists to do the same if they indeed found something extraordinary. We reached a fundamental division here: science makes mistakes and keeps learning—my friend thought, evolution probably will be disproven sometime later, so let’s stay with Genesis as we know it.

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In those days there was no king in Israel; every man did what was right in his own eyes—Judges 17:6 & Judges 21:25 Perhaps unsurprisingly, one of the biggest issues someone would have with the theory of evolution would be ethical implications.It is somewhat difficult to see humans as just another kind of animal, and some certainly believed that it was a valid excuse for them to forgo their humanity or to frame others as subhuman.

Black and Indigenous peoples were seen as the link between apes and human. Eugenic programs were set up to prevent “undesirables” from reproduction.The “Survival of the Fittest” slogan resonated disastrously with increasing nationalistic sentiments and imperialism, finally spelling out the unimaginable bloodshed of the World Wars. These three tracks of thinking intersected at Auschwitz.

Jesus said to him, “What is written in the law? How do you read?” — Luke 10:26 If we read a book without interpretation, it is just a collection of letters and symbols, and not useful for anyone unless they expect it to function as some kind of magic spell. For a thousand readers there will be a thousand Hamlets (Quite bizarrely, this saying seems be of Chinese origin) it is inevitable that our understandings of information will be shaped by our own unique experiences, perspectives, and biases. Whether we like it or not, it happens. Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, the potential for conflict between religion and science has been a concern as early as the 5th century, as Augustine of Hippo wrote in Literal Commentary of Genesis.

We should’ve known better.

“Usually, even a non-Christian knows something about (a non-exhaustive laundry list of natural phenomena), and this knowledge he holds to as being certain from reason and experience.

Modern genetics and observations on cooperative symbiotic relationships should’ve debunked the above nonsense as pseudoscience already. But somehow, we didn’t. In defence of Darwin (he was racist nevertheless), racism existed long before Darwin and found other justifications for itself:

Now, it is a disgraceful and dangerous thing for a heathen to hear a Christian, presumably giving the meaning of Holy Scripture, talking nonsense on these topics; and we should take all means to prevent such an embarrassing situation, in which people show vast ignorance in a Christian and laugh it to scorn.”

Genesis 9:18-28 was a bizarre story, I encourage you to read it in whole as my paraphrase will not do justice to its nuanced details. Noah’s son Ham did something evil, and as a result Noah pronounced a curse on Ham’s son Canaan, that he shall be a lowly slave. Incidentally, Ham was implied to be the ancestor of black Africans.

For centuries since the beginning of colonialism and the slave trade, from Anglican churches in the British colonies to Dutch Reformed churches in South Africa, to various Protestant denominations in the Southern US, the story of Noah and Ham was taught as a rationale for slavery and segregation. It was a common belief even well into the 20th century, as we can see in Martin Luther King’s speech Paul’s Letter to American Christians: “I understand that there are Christians among you who try to justify segregation on the basis of the Bible. They argue that the Negro is inferior by nature because of Noah’s curse upon the children of Ham. Oh my friends, this is blasphemy.” We should’ve known better, was it not potently clear that slavery was wrong? Not so much for American pastors and theologians in the 19th century, when they found themselves sharply divided.

Fortunately, we settled the slavery issue, but many other divisions remained for church communities to this day. I got side-tracked, let’s get back to theology.

In The City of God, Augustine argued for a metaphorical reading of Genesis 1; he believed that creation occurred in an instant instead of over six days. Thomas Aquinas also held such a fear. He acknowledged a diverse range of interpretation of Genesis among church fathers, and warned against overcommitting to particular interpretations lest such a position got proven wrong and caused “Scripture to be mocked by unbelievers.”

Many of us today are happy to interpret Genesis as purely theological, although there are dissenting voices as we can see from the influential Chicago Statement of Biblical Inerrancy (1978): “We deny that Biblical infallibility and inerrancy are limited to spiritual, religious, or redemptive themes, exclusive of assertions in the fields of history and science.

We further deny that scientific hypotheses about earth history may properly be used to overturn the teaching of Scripture on creation and the flood.”

The gloves are off and there will be no reconciliation if we reach this point. I have no clue how we shall achieve reconciliation; I wish there is an easy answer. But I guess since science is working wonders, it’s a good indication that we aren’t getting anything terribly wrong.

“How can Satan cast out Satan?”—Mark 3:23b “Can a demon open the eyes of the blind?” --John 10:21c

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THE PELICAN HOLIDAY SCIENCE

GUIDE Lachlan MacRae

It can be easy to feel bored during the long winter months. Cabin fever coupled with existential dread is a hard force to overcome indeed. That’s why we’ve compiled a handy list of fun science activities to keep you entertained these holidays. And the best part? You can do them from the warmth and comfort of your own home!

ISOLATE SUBATOMIC PARTICLES WITH A PARTICLE ACCELERATOR! Ever wanted to study the fundamental properties of matter from your couch? Well want no more, because now you can! All you need to do is construct a particle accelerator of sufficient size and start smashing atoms!

Isolating quarks has never been more fun! Here’s how: Step 1. Acquire absolute shit-tonnes of money. Obscene amounts of money. You didn’t think numbers went this high, but oh how wrong you were. Particle accelerators, unfortunately, do not grow on trees.

Step 2. Seek building approval from your local council before beginning any construction. They can, and will, catch you, so it is always worth playing by the rules.

Besides, what you are doing is not exactly discrete.

Step 3. Build a particle accelerator with a vacuum tube large enough to facilitate the splitting of atoms. There are a lot of magnets involved with these, so it is best to keep your credit card as far away as possible.

Step 4. Get to work smashing atoms! Physics has truly never been more accessible.

START AN ENDANGERED ANIMAL BREEDING PROGRAM! According to a recent United Nations report, one million plant and animal species worldwide are now threatened with extinction. That equates to one in four! Shocking, right? Well now you can do something about it, by starting an endangered animal breeding program right in your own backyard! You can help save wildlife and have cool pets to show off to your friends. Pretty neat, huh? Well, here is how to do it: Step 1. Enclose an area of land large enough for the species you wish to breed. Ten square kilometres should be enough for most terrestrial mammals. Do not worry about the type of land you choose; your animals will

eventually adapt to it. Or die. NOTE: Aquatic animals will require water.

Step 2. Acquire at least one female of the species you wish to breed. Multiple unrelated females are preferable for genetic diversity, but you can probably make do with just the one. Male sperm should be easier to obtain, but again, try to ensure that they are not related (unless you are a fan of birth defects).

Step 3. Breed the animals! Using the latest artificial insemination technology, you can breed these highly endangered species to your heart’s content! Good breeding programs will usually continue for decades, so be prepared to maintain the zoo you have now created for many, many years to come.

CONSTRUCT A THERMONUCLEAR DEVICE CAPABLE OF UTTER DEVASTATION THE LIKES OF WHICH THE EARTH HAS NEVER SEEN! Do you love striking terror in the eyes of your foes? Does the sight of a radioactive mushroom cloud warm the depths of your cold, cold heart? Well, why not construct a nuclear weapon these holidays, with our simple five-step guide!

Step 1. Decide which type of nuclear weapon you want. There are two main types: fission (where an atom is split to produce energy) or fusion (where atoms are combined to produce energy). Fusion bombs are generally more destructive but are significantly harder to construct, so that is a trade-off you will have to consider (especially on a student budget).

Step 2. Obtain either plutonium or highly enriched uranium, depending on which bomb design you choose.

Now, I’m going to be honest here, this is not an easy step. You need to be either: a. very corrupt, or b. very terrorist-y to get your hands on this stuff. Not saying it is impossible, but it is hard, so keep that in mind.

Step 4. Construct the bomb. Fairly straightforward stuff, I won’t bore you with the details.

Step 5. Establish your dominion over the Earth through sheer terror! Let the world tremble at the utterance of your name and kneel at the sight of your hand. Mutually Assured Destruction has never been so easy!

So there you have it – the ultimate solution to your holiday boredom. Science truly is a wonderful thing, especially when it is made so accessible! Enjoy your holidays, folks.

(I’m not sure if I really need to say this but please don’t build a nuclear weapon at home. All of these are probably very illegal, so it is best to just be productive in your holidays and get lots of sleep).

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Damon Macmillan

THE TOMATO

The sun shone brightly onto his back and he could feel himself becoming increasingly redder. The Italian summer had been just about perfect, sun every day, but still enough rain to keep him feeling refreshed.

Despite being alone, he’d enjoyed the time to think and appreciate everything in his life. The day was nearing an end and he fortuitously felt the wind turning him around to face the other tomatoes who he hadn’t seen all day. Without saying a word, they collectively watched the sun set over the mountains on the other side of the lake. Everything was just so peaceful and he wanted to remember this feeling of compete happiness forever.

-Beau was just finishing off the final preparations for his date tonight. He’d finally plucked up enough courage to invite Francesca to dinner and he wouldn’t let anything stop him from making the perfect impression. All he needed was one ripe tomato from his neighbour’s garden and he’d be set. So, without further ado, he stepped outside and headed next door.

It didn’t take him long to find a perfect tomato and he hurried over to it. Without a seconds thought he placed it in the palm of his hand, wrapped his fingertips around the top and pulled it from its tree.

-He let out a piercing cry as he felt his head being ripped from his home. His eyes were partly covered by the gigantic hands of a tomato’s biggest threat- a human.

It took him a few seconds to fully grasp what was happening. He’d only heard stories of human’s using tomatoes for food but the most terrible of thoughts ran through his head regardless. The human began throwing him up 30 centimetres into the air and letting him drop back into his palm. Each landing became more and more uncomfortable and there was absolutely nothing he could do. The man continued. Up, down, up, down, and on and on. He started to feel a little nauseous from all the spinning. The sun had set and it became harder for him to see his surroundings, making him more fearful of what was to come. He wondered how long this journey would go on for, but more than that, he wondered where the final destination would be.

-Beau watched as he tossed the tomato up and down in his right hand and whistled with glee. This was going to be the most perfect evening he thought as he stepped back into his home and headed for the kitchen. He placed the tomato down on the cutting board and went upstairs to get changed. Francesca would be here any minute and almost all the food was prepared. He put on his freshly ironed, blue button-up and tucked it into his slim grey chinos. Fixing his hair in the mirror he admired his good looks and practised a few short greetings for Fran. All he had to do was slice the tomato for the salad and he was good to go. And with an aura of confidence surrounding him, he headed back downstairs towards the kitchen.

--

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Although just a few short moments had passed, the warm sun glistening on his back felt like a lifetime ago. He was now alone, with only the slow ticking of a kitchen clock to distract him from his grim thoughts.

Nervously, he waited, with a cutting board beneath him and the sharpest of knives by his side. Eventually, the sound of footsteps became gradually louder and he began to see the shadow of the man who would soon take everything from him. His mind began to race.

The sound of the clock was now drowned out by the consistent heavy thumping of his heart beating inside of him. He watched, fearfully, as that same man wrapped his knuckles firmly around the knife’s handle. In the most futile attempt to brace himself, he took in a final deep breath. Shut his eyes as tight as he could. And waited.

But instead of hearing his skin being pierced as he was sliced through the middle, the sound of a doorbell echoed throughout the room. He exhaled and opened his eyes to see the man gently place down the knife and exit the kitchen. It was an absolute miracle, he’d been granted a second chance. He knew he didn’t have much time, so without even giving himself a chance to recover, he rolled off the bench and onto the floor.

-With the knife in his right hand, he lightly placed his fingers on the tomato so as not to bruise its skin. Just before he could continue, the doorbell rang and his heart began to beat faster.

“Okay”. He whispered to himself. “This is your moment to shine”. He dropped the knife and turned to answer his date. He arrived at the front door, brushed his hair to one side and dropped his shoulders as he exhaled. He placed his hand firmly on the doorknob, turned it and swung the door in towards him.

“Francesca! He said with enthusiasm. “Wow, you look…”

He paused for a moment, just like he’d practised.

“Stunning”. Nailed it, he thought to himself, rather pleased with his efforts.

She replied merely with a cute smile.

“Please come in, I’m almost finished cooking. Can I fix you a drink?”

Tomatoes bruise easily, it’s no secret, but all the adrenaline of the past few minutes masked the pain of the fall. It wouldn’t be long before his bruise would begin to show, but that was a small price to pay for escaping certain death. He knew he didn’t have much time, but just enough to roll underneath the kitchen table. It’d be the first place the man would look, but he knew from there he’d be able to make a swift exit out of the kitchen. He heard those familiar footsteps returning and watched the floor from his hiding spot. But things were going to get a lot more difficult he thought. Now there was not only one set of human legs, but two pairs entering the kitchen. How many people live here? He tried to keep calm and quieten his heavy breathing. He watched the man begin to search for him, picking up things on his kitchen bench and looking behind them.

Now would be the perfect time to dash for the exit. He turned towards the door but only to be met by the two legs of the second human standing right in his path. Did he take the risk of rolling between her legs, or should he wait for a better opportunity? Knowing he didn’t have much time, he made a split second decision to roll towards the open door. He rolled a few inches and stopped to look up at the humans. Their eyes weren’t on the floor, it was now or never. He rolled as fast as he could not taking a second to look back. As he passed through the legs of the second human he caught a glimpse of his final destination. It was only a few inches away. His momentum was building up. Two inches to go.

One inch. And just as he was reaching safety, he felt the clasp of that familiar hand.

-Not knowing at all how it got there, Beau reached down and picked up the tomato from the floor. He apologised to Fran and gave her an embarrassed smile. “Looks like one got away” he joked awkwardly. Beau turned on the tap and ran the tomato under the cold water. He turned it around slowly before turning off the tap and drying it off in a tea towel.

Beau made some nervous conversation as he quickly sliced up the tomato.

He smiled, “dinner is just about ready”.

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BUT THEY’RE STILL UP Jesse Robertson

The lights and the noise in the town go out, and even the sound of the sea dissolving slowly into silence. Blue sunlight replaced by night, but they’re still up.

I’ll be a good girl, she says, and she laughs and leans her shoulders into him.

You know you don’t have to be, he says. Just be however you want to be. That’s how I want you. And sand kicks up in the cold wind all along the beach and far out in the ocean fish and sharks and whales drift in the deep and with no concept of the moon, and way up above those two kids down there on the shore a couple of birds wend their lofty way through scattered clouds and caged unaware in the space between stars. And the sleeping town behind them benighted and rolled up in bed, and lastly, a man, watching the two of them from the bottom of the dune, watching them all night long.

Where does all that love go.

When they were young and watching for the sun to rise and on this very same stretch of sand she leaned back and stretched out her legs and just like she couldn’t even feel the cold she put her bare feet in his lap and he held them in his hands. He didn’t rub them, she was much too ticklish for that, and so he just held them.

Warm and smooth in his frozen hands and the sun was so slow coming up it was like it was never going to come up, not while he had her feet in his hands, it didn’t need to. Just the blue sunlight returning from so far across the sea and the sky trimmed pink along its belly and there was sand on her toes and he brushed it off with his fingers and she laughed, and the sun didn’t come up for hours yet. He wouldn’t let it.

And a couple years later when they went to the grocery store together and both of them laughing in the blinding light of the aisle and each holding a jar of something in their hand but neither knowing what they actually needed at home. In the end they’d just buy whatever and be back the next day to get what they’d forgotten, but again forgetting, and she would take her shoes off in the car and throw them behind her in the back seat and she sat sideways and leaned against the door as he drove, reached out her legs and put her feet in his lap and he with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the smooth bones of her feet.

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And later still when they both got home from work at night and they crashed on the couch together and still in their work clothes and watching tv and she rolled off her socks and put her feet in his lap and pointed her toes forward then back, forward then back, to try and stretch out her aching soles.

And then when the baby was asleep and they’d go to bed and she’d sit at one end and he at the other, and she’d read and he’d hold her feet sticking out the end of the sheets and him watching her reading and holding her feet and then he’d run his fingers lightly across the sole of her foot and she’d twitch and pull her legs away and giggle and throw her book at him. Then he’d crawl up beside her and they’d kiss and quietly have sex and finally after that they’d fall asleep entwined together.

And even later than that when the kids were all gone and it was just the two of them again and quiet nights spent together on the couch and with her feet in his lap and they weren’t so smooth anymore and neither were his hands but they were still so warm and she still so ticklish. And the tv blaring all night long and he hardly even noticed it when it happened just looked down into his palms at some point and they were empty.

Where does all that love go.

On whose feet did she walk.

The lights and the noise in the town go out, and even the sound of the sea dissolving slowly into silence. Night replaced by blue sunlight, and going slowly, but not slow enough.

Let’s go back to your place, she says.

Okay.

Are you gonna give me back my feet then.

Yeah, in a minute, he says, and still holding on. When the sun comes up.

FADING Dominic Kwaczynski

“DO WE JUST FADE AWAY?” Her distant voice calls, carried by the wind. She whispers again. Fade away. I awaken. Rising onto one elbow, I turn to face her. I open my mouth to reply but realise it’s not a question for me. Her back angles away from me and while her body slouches on the balcony, her head floats out over. Distant. I shuffle off the bed and creep up on her.

“What litters your mind this evening?”

I tap her on the head as I approach from behind. Her posture stoops low so I hover above her and notice her hands gripped onto the bannister are flashed red, her veins coursing with blood.

“Only things that don’t bother you in the slightest,” she replies, unmoved. I look for a hint of a wry smile. I don’t get one.

“Have you heard anything yet?” I ask. No reply.

“Eva?” I say into dead air.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” She says after a while.

“Huh?” “Outside, air, life, living,” she takes a deep breath as she finishes but her head remains focused and fixed. I catch her gaze. She observes the pavement below where a man walks by with a limp along the cracked and uneven ground. Up and down. Down and up. The concrete continuously swallowing and spitting him out as he wobbles across.

“I…umm…suppose,” I reply bemused, but not willing to press the subject further.

adjustment. Walking back to the bed, I contemplate going to sleep again and begin to yawn. It starts in my stomach and rises through my chest, but it hooks and stops at my neck. Stiff. I decide against sleeping. I shuffle the duvet to make the bed and the paper falls out by my feet. I raise the Time magazine next to my view of her. The woman scrunched between my fingers looks different to the one I observe in front of me. Her boney and faded complexion a pale comparison to the wellkempt and fresh appearance of the woman who graces the cover.

‘UNDER 25 AND CHANGING THE WORLD!’ I scoff at the headline. I imagine the follow up story. Ten Years On and Everything’s Changed but the World!

I drop the magazine again and let it sink to the floor amongst the other paper strewn across the room. Her manuscript now a remnant of last night, when it seemed like today would necessitate the celebratory drinking of wine and clanging of glasses. Now, the piles of paper that were once bound together with such promise flow across the floor, orderless and without meaning. She had not imagined the rampant rejection. Ten years ago she could have written about the reproduction of ants and it would have been a hot property. Back then she only had one motto ‘Forwards and onwards’ but now she added ‘...until you burn yourself out.’

I make the bed and decide to walk back outside and ask just once more, “Did anyone get back to you?”

She shakes her head. I rub my eyes again and join her by the railing. The silence starts to creep up on me so I decide to entertain her thoughts while I still have her attention.

“So do we just fade away?”

“So, It’s getting late. Is there anything else you want to do today, maybe post it once more?”

This time, it’s a question for both of us. We look down as a man gets swallowed by the ground.

No reply.

I look at my watch. The hands are far apart. Tick, tick, tick.

Its steady rhythm slowly constricting them. She coughs.

I look up but she hasn’t moved. My words lay suspended in the air above her. I step back inside. My eyes flutter at the sudden light change, causing me to rub them into

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Intro by Dominic Kwaczynski

Art by Grace Otto // @rockgoblin

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At my gym, there’s a quote on the wall that says, “Life is not about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

It got me thinking - If I could create every detail of my life and what I did with it, how different would it be from what I’m doing now? It’s not an unfamiliar concept.

Back in my perfect childhood, playing the Game of Life and The Sims meant that I could do exactly that. It is no wonder that our generation clings to nostalgia so much.

How about, as a thought experiment, we have a game now? Maybe, if we could see how the choices we make impact our lives – or our gameplay – like in the Game or Life or the Sims, things would be different. So, come with me on a journey into your past and your hypothetical future. We’re going into a land that I like to call, ‘The Game of Sims’.

It’s going to start out simple. Just choose your car colour and pick your body. Don’t feel that you have to recreate yourself in avatar form. You can be anyone you have ever imagined. Throw in some chiselled abs, maybe add some height or change your hair colour. In the click of a button, I can make my nose as big as my Dad’s. I don’t know about you, but I’m enjoying this way too much already.

Once you’re happy with how you look, let’s pick some personality traits. What do you dream of being when you grow up? What habits do you have that dictate whether or not people like you? What do you love doing? Go crazy. Be yourself, or someone completely different. I’m going to keep my determination, but maybe give myself a little push to use that more in the gym than at eating competitions. If you have something you’ve always wanted to do, put it in, make it happen.

Start your engines, players – we’re about to get on the road to the future.

You’ve just stepped out of your new car and you’ve reached a T-junction: do you pick a career straightaway or go to University? Now both of these come with disclaimers, so keep that in mind. Jump straight into a career and you’ll have potentially fewer choices in life, but you won’t be burdened by HECS debt so there’s that.

If you instead go for the University option, you will have WAY less money right now, but you may also have more choices about where you end up once you finish. Take your pick and let’s spin again.

Now, you’ve got to work out what your priorities are. How are you going to spend your day? Maybe you’re studying to become something in particular. You could be one of those gym junkie med students. I have no idea how they fit that many workouts into their schedules, but all my specialists look like slightly smaller versions of Thor.

Maybe you want to be an actress or a writer, or maybe you just want to own every business in Perth. Let’s set aside some time each day for reaching your goal. I’m going to make my better version write every day, so she gets that she actually finishes her novel, instead of always relegating it to the magical land of tomorrow.

You’re dreaming big, taking on the world. Now maybe you’d like someone to share that with? Are you going to dip your toe into the dating app ecosystem, or maybe just follow the growing trend of people ditching dates and buying more dogs instead? Approach someone and check out your Sim’s options: tell a joke, flirt a bit, work on your charm. Maybe spend some time going

THE GAME OF SIMS Alyssa Shapland

out more. I know the couch is comfy and Queer Eye is on TV, but you’re not going to meet other humans that way. Maybe you don’t like people and you’d rather hide in your bedroom. Pick your strategy for attracting or deterring potential partners. Let’s go to the Cat Haven, or to the Captain Stirling. Practice your smile in the mirror, French-tuck your shirt, and hit the town.

Look at you now – all in love or cuddled up with your cat on the couch. No judgement from me. The Game of Sims isn’t all smooth sailing though. It’s time for a twist.

You’ve spun and landed on something that will change your life, for better or worse. Maybe you’ve graduated from Uni and discovered that there actually aren’t any jobs in the field you love? I did Arts and I swear no one ever told me that was a possibility. Just kidding – engineers told me every day. Fun suckers. Perhaps you’ve had to move to a new country with your family or you’ve been dumped again. Whatever your twist is, you’re going to have to work your way around it. It won’t be the last one that comes flying at you from left field. Put on Adele and lace up your big man boots and let’s keep moving forward.

I wish we could keep playing forever; keep spinning that magic wheel to see what life has in store for us.

Unfortunately, real life is calling. You’ve got to go back now. Let’s review the play and see if we’ve learned anything. How have the choices you made in the Game of Sims affected your life? Maybe you’ve learned something new about yourself and where you want to be in future. Had I known that the Game of (Real) Life would bless me with Crohn’s Disease as my twist, would I have studied something else? Maybe, I would have done medicine or science and fixed myself and cured the world. Probably not. I love the Arts too much. Engineers are still going to think I’m a loser, but I’m pretty sure I can handle that. Would I have dated different people or ever even left my house? Hard to know, but I’m fairly confident I wouldn’t change much. I know I have a lot more spins and surprises still coming my way. We can always play again when you need to check in with yourself and how you’re doing.

The sign on the wall of my gym might just be right – we really could create the best version of ourselves to present to the world instead of just going to India and tweeting about how #deep you are. You can be anything you want to be. Take a chance. Do the thing you said you were going to last year but put off. Be grateful for what your spins on the Game of Life have given you so far. You’ve got so much life to live, so you’d better get started.

Your spin, player.

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SMEAR REVIEW:

RESEARCH, BIAS, AND James Brooks

“We rewrote a section of Mein Kampf as intersectional feminism and this journal has accepted it.” James Lindsay looks off screen, mouth hanging open. A YouTube documentary plays that tense, pulsing investigative journalism type of music that you hear in Al Jazeera or Four Corners documentaries. It centres on ‘The Grievance Studies’ affair, also known as ‘Sokal Squared’, after mathematician Alan Sokal’s infamous 1996 academic hoax.

The authors: James Lindsay, Peter Boghossian and Helen Pluckrose. The process: submit dodgy, badly researched papers full of postmodernist, ideological, left-wing drivel to high ranking journals and, if not accepted, submit to a lower ranking one until they are. The point: declaim the plague of “poor science [that] is undermining the real and important work being done elsewhere.”

Of the twenty papers submitted, four were published, three accepted but as of yet unpublished, six rejected and seven under review when the hoax was revealed.

The titles of the accepted studies include, ‘Going in Through the Back Door: Challenging Straight Male Homohysteria and Transphobia through Receptive Penetrative Sex Toy Use’ in Sexuality and Culture and ‘Human Reactions to Rape Culture and Queer Performativity at the Dog Park’ in Gender, Place & Culture, the latter being the first one to be accepted, five months after the project began.

In the documentary, Lindsay issues a damning indictment: “What appears beyond dispute is that making absurd and horrible ideas sufficiently politically fashionable can get them validated at the highest levels of academic grievance studies,” and later, “…

We have uncovered enough evidence, to suggest that this corruption is pervasive among many disciplines, including women’s and gender studies, feminist studies, race studies, sexuality studies, fat studies, queer studies, cultural studies and sociology.”

It seems like an open and shut case – cultural studies and social sciences are infected by an ideological slant rendering their research irredeemably tainted.

Yet Alan Sokal, the experiment’s namesake, argues: “Do the results of their little experiment vindicate their conclusion that ‘our suspicion was justified’? I would answer: yes and no, but mostly no.”

The question arises: why are cultural studies and social sciences being conflated in the first place? The first stems from critical theory developed by Marx, while 46

the latter (in the Western tradition) comes from the 16th and 17th century pursuit of creating knowledge of nature, our environment and ultimately ourselves, resulting in natural history, economics and linguistics (under philology) as some of the first fields of this type throughout the 18th and 19th centuries.

Of the journals that accepted and published the results, all seven are multidisciplinary journals that accept a variety of research, the scope of which depends on the particular journal. Gender, Place and Culture is devoted to feminist studies related to place and human geography, while Sex Roles, another journal that published a hoax article, accepts a much wider range of feminist perspective research.

As a side note, Gender, Place and Culture, the highest rated journal in the study, barely breaks the top ten of the already niche field of gender studies, and five of the seven rejected articles were rejected by specifically sociological or social science-based journals. Both the claim that corruption reaches “the highest levels of academic Grievance Studies” and the attack on sociology seem to be misguided at best, purposefully deceitful at worst.

The issues in these papers come not always from the research questions themselves, but from the conclusions reached. Yes, the title of the dog park paper sounds absurd, but from the abstract, there is a potential for interest – do humans treat dogs differently based on their sex and do we impose our human values and beliefs around gender and sex onto animals and nature?

However, the paper goes on to suggest that we should condition men as we do dogs in order to help prevent sexual violence. A bit of a leap.

This is where cultural critique and social sciences split: sociological, linguistic or anthropological studies do not make value judgments about the research they conduct.

Modern linguists do not privilege one dialect over another, do not say one language is better than another and do not make claims on how language should be spoken, just as the modern anthropologist does not make such judgments about different cultures.

The point of human science, like any science, is to produce models that explain how certain natural phenomena come about. The Sokal Squared papers (and cultural critique papers in general) however, go one step further and begin to make value judgments – there’s something wrong, here’s how to fix it. Cultural criticisms and discussions on how we should structure

THE ACADEMIC HOAX our society ethically are important but often are not purely scientific.

Further, the journals that accepted hoax papers are all overtly, transparently political; they wear their feminist heart on their sleeve, so to speak. So is it any wonder that they accept overtly political papers? At the very least, when you state the perspective and bias from which you are studying a phenomenon, the reader knows your bias and can see blind spots or explanations that may have been overlooked in your research.

And make no doubt about it – all research is subject to this bias to some extent, in that it privileges one perspective over another. The methods themselves may be rigorous, positivist and scientific, but the act of choosing what to study is based on what a certain field values most, or what a group of researchers value most. To say these values do not affect how a certain position is accepted is foolish. Just look at the reaction to any paradigm shift in history, from Charles Darwin to Einstein to plate tectonics.

This goes beyond just a shared scientific ideology.

Research is very rarely purely predicated on these values, and external influences are always interfering.

When research funding is frozen and cut, as it was by the Morrison government late last year, scientists feel this even more keenly. When ministers overstep their mark and personally reject the decisions of independent bodies for political points, as Ministers Simon Birmingham and Dan Tehan did to the Australian Research Council last year, this ideological infection becomes suffocating. Even ignoring the cuts, state spending on scientific research has been in decline since the early 1990s, with funding at its lowest in forty years, according to John Shine, President of Australian Academy of Science.

It doesn’t stop with the funding itself, either. With research funding, every application must include a statement on the contribution the research will make in terms of national interest, another transparently political identification.

As scientists we constantly ask ourselves: what is most important, who is it important to, and why is someone who hasn’t the slightest clue about what I even study influencing this decision?

It is all well and good to strive towards the ideal of a pure, apolitical science, but the reality will never be as utopian.

Scientists are endlessly expected to justify, justify, justify their research to the public, to the government and to each other - and with these hoaxes, distrust widens.

Distrust of our methods, our very existence, and even the idea of peer-review itself. Peer review has never claimed to be completely resilient to hoaxes or to remove the ability to commit fraud, as Carl T. Bergstrom, a Biology Professor from the University of Washington, says in his criticism of the hoax.

Yes, there are issues with cultural critique in that it is an interpretation and, theoretically, you can interpret anything, but this is not the fault of science.

For the authors of Sokal Squared to equate social sciences with cultural critique is dishonest, but to say interpretation of scientific studies by cultural academics (who are transparently ideological) is ‘corruption’ endemic to social sciences is even more so.

And, in an amazing lack of self-reflection, it is perhaps Lindsay, Boghossian and Pluckrose themselves that are the most guilty of allowing ideology to cloud the conclusions drawn from their research. Pluckrose has authored an article ‘Why I No Longer Identify as a Feminist’, Pluckrose and Lindsay have collaborated in Areo Magazine blasting ‘Identity Politics’, and Boghossian has appeared with far-right pundit Stefan Molyneux in a YouTube video titled ‘Feminists vs.

Atheists’, where he says “The left are the new racists.”

To single out human sciences as the only fields that face issues around fraud and retractions is wrong as well. All sciences are affected by fraud and retractions: Retraction Watch cites exclusively medical and human biology journals in their top ten most cited retracted papers.

In a post-mortem of his hoax in 1996, Alan Sokal wrote “[The publication of my parody] doesn’t prove that the whole field of cultural studies, or cultural studies of science — much less sociology of science — is nonsense.

Nor does it prove that the intellectual standards in these fields are generally lax.”

There is legitimate debate to be had around the way cultural critique as an academic field is structured, just as there is legitimate debate to be had around this with social sciences. However, Sokal Squared is not a good example of this, and the idea of academic hoax should not be touted as the gold standard of testing these fields.

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YELLOW. merlin [-] Content warning: depression, disordered eating, relationship trauma, sexuality, vomiting.

You sit down across from him, and you watch him run his fingers through his hair, unpolished brass in the sweet low light of the afternoon, you know that you are absolutely fuckered. Your throat convulses, and you excuse yourself through your teeth. You can feel them in your mouth, fibrous and rubbery, the taste almost making you cry. You cannot do this here. This cannot happen. Your legs tremble and you grip the table to steady yourself and the surface is sticky and sickening and you stagger toward the bathroom – the women’s bathroom, always the women’s.

You don’t look at yourself in the mirror, but you catch a flicker of yellow out of your peripherals. You don’t have time to close the stall door before you drop to your knees. Your stomach clenches, and your body shakes with violent retches as you heave sunny petals down into the toilet bowl.

Sweat beads on your forehead and your fingers are weak on the seat as you try to stay upright. Your mouth burns as you vomit and vomit and vomit and it runs down your chin, and tears are forced from your eyes and roll down your cheeks. The scraps of yellow float on the water below.

Your throat is warm, blisteringly warm, for a second, and spots of red bloom across the golden field. The petals keep falling from your mouth, half fresh and half bloody.

They tickle your throat and stick to your tongue and get caught on your teeth and the acid burns the new welts in your throat. You lean over the toilet and you gag until it feels like there’s nothing left inside you. You haven’t eaten all day – you’ve never hungry anymore. All that spills out of you are yolky petals and you cough until your forehead is resting on the other side of the rim.

You kneel over the toilet and a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. Over your cheekbone. Trails down your jaw.

You close your eyes and breathe for a second. You spit the last dregs out and reach up to flush them all away.

The water swirls in the bowl and there’s still a decent amount left so you stand up and wait for the cistern to refill.

You stand in front of the mirror and you look completely wrecked. Vomit is slick down your chin and your eyes are red and puffy. Petals cling to your check and your lips are lined with unnerving scarlet. Hair is stuck to your temple and your face is pallid under the washed-out light. You turn on the tap and try to bend so that you can fit your face into the sink and let the stream run over you.

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The water is refreshing and cool over your flushed skin.

You open your mouth and briefly gargle some tap water.

You grab fistfuls of paper towel and scrub the moisture off your face. You peel the leftover petals from the inside of the sink and flick them into the bin. You flush the toilet once again and the rest of the blossoms disappear down the drain.

The toilet door swings shut behind you and you stride back out into the tavern. One of your friends elbows you as you sit down and shows you what they’ve been laughing about in your absence. You chuckle around the last gasps of your fit, and you take a sip of the cider you abandoned on the table. He’s still there and still talking, and your eyes can’t help but follow the loop of his fingers as he gestures. His hands strike parallel lines in the air with each point he makes, and you reach across the table to steal a chip from him and drop it into the last mouthful of his drink that still lie in the glass. You cackle with glee at his expression.

you’re drinking that.

He tells you.

no doubt i am. reaching for his drink.

You shoot back, already

You scull it, chewing on the soggy chip as it comes down, not breaking his gaze. His eyes are blue like autumn rain.

The first time it’d happened, you’d coughed into a tissue, felt the flutter of the first petal leave your mouth, shining and lemon yellow against the white. An oval-shaped petal about three-quarters of the size of your thumb. You threw it out hurriedly, not wanting anyone to see. You’d known what it meant. How exactly you were the living apotheosis of human stupidity.

You’d known of him for years, and you’d only started talking after you began playing Dungeons and Dragons together. You were playing a naïve artist, and he was playing an enigmatic lady with impeccable make-up and no shred of honour whatsoever. Your characters met, and seemingly without the two of you even conferring about it, bonded instantly. You thought it would be a fun gesture if your character wrote love poetry to his, as a secret admirer.

The next nail in the coffin was when you thought that writing out the poems in full would be a good idea.

Might be fun, even. Being able to reference them later, write a romance arc out in full, with foreshadowing, and recurrent motifs. You’re not an overly accomplished writer, but you’ve written love notes to partners before and they’ve all been vastly over appreciative.

You write four of them, back-dated to previous weeks.

But the first one you write down, on paper, in front of

him, in cramped but immaculate cursive – the first one that you hand to him to feel the warmth of his fingers brushing yours. That was the first time. You drive a mutual friend home after the fact.

your lungs are calm and relaxed and there is no sign of yellow to be seen. He thinks that the woman he’s only kind of with won’t have a problem with this. You don’t question him.

i’ve made something akin to a mistake. You comment as you explain.

Months later, you lie on a bathroom floor – not yours, it’s been months since you’ve had a bathroom of your own. You had no idea this could turn out so terribly.

Yellow surrounds you and is stuck to the floor and you are sobbing past the wheezing coughs that wrack your body. Tears that feel hot enough to burn slide down your cheeks and your whole body shudders.

you’re an idiot. They tell you. They’re right.

It gets worse and worse over time. You get to know his friends and you fall in love instantly. Despite the lacerations that reopen in your throat every time your heart flutters, it feels almost worth it to know them.

You don’t know what kind of flowers they are at first, but you collect a neat looking assemblage of them and post it to a message board with an accompanying lie as to how you came across them. They’re yellow tulips.

You look up the meaning. You’d used flowers in your poetry, he’s specified that violets were her favourites.

Red roses for passionate love; white for eternity; pink for admiration; orange for affection. Tulips were love flowers as well.

Yellow for hopelessness.

Time passes. You talk into the late hours and you wish you could do more to help him than merely saying that things were going to be okay. That you could do something concrete to ensure that.

It’s too bright – far too bright and you raise your arms against it and there are petals falling from your fingers, bunched up under your nails and – and – and – There are silken scraps streaming out of your nose and bunched up into your ears and although there were tears there a second ago, down your face and from your eyes are cascading more and more of them. They fill up in your mouth and you roll over and you cough and cough and cough until there’s nothing left in side you.

Your bottle of rum rolls away from you but you don’t care.

Your hands slide on the floor and your forehead smashes against the cold tiles and you collapse. Your feet shift in your shoes and there are petals there as well.

Underneath you, the flowers are clumping together and sticking to you through all the spit that’s coating them, and your head is pounding.

Your friend reminds you that he’s straight. Straight guys aren’t generally into nonbinary people. Especially ones called him. Especially ones that already have partners.

You’re not a girl, true. But maybe you’re enough of a girl for something to happen. For some small spark to be sustained. You go around and around in circles about it. You want to wait until the story is over before you tell him how you feel, writing the poetry is fun and you don’t want to make things weird while you still have to hang out every Sunday.

You cry.

why do you have to tell him at all?

Your girlfriend asks.

Why?

Things never had a chance of being okay.

Somewhere close to you, your phone vibrates. You fumble around for it and eventually find it hidden in one of the larger piles around you. You have a notification. A message. From her. One word, and you hurl your phone across the floor until it smashes on something. You’re not looking anymore.

if you’re into someone, don’t be a bitch about it. Is your response.

One night, you’re alone in his room.

He doesn’t feel the same way.

He kisses you.

His lips are soft and kind and gentle, and joy sparks along your every nerve. For the first time in half a year, 49

50

Comic by DAC

Art by Piper Tierney

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GUILD ELECTIONS NOMINATIONS OPEN MONDAY 5 AUGUST Nominations for positions on Guild Council in 2020, as well as for Guild Representatives to the NUS open on Monday 5th August. Nomination forms will be available from our website and from the Guild’s Reception (1st Floor, South Wing, Guild Village). Nominations close 12:00pm Friday 16th August.

POLLING INFO Polling for Guild Elections will be held on the week starting Monday 16th September. For students not able to attend polling booths, postal vote applications are now available on our website.

Close of rolls & close of eligibility to register as Postal voter: 5pm, Friday 2nd August.

Applications must be received by the Returning Officer by 4pm, Friday 13th September.

Ballot papers will be mailed out to approved applicants and completed ballot papers must be received by the Returning Officer, Mary Petrou, by 5pm, Thursday 19th September.

Visit our website www.uwastudentguild.com/elections for more information on the positions 52available

and the election process or contact elections@guild.uwa.edu.au.