FREE Edition 19 | October - December 2017 Your Student Mag
This Edition Graduation: Celebration Meets Panic What Comes Next Morning Coffee Your Grabby Hands Self-care List
Verse Magazine is looking for its 2018 Editorial Team!
Verse is currently recruiting 4 UniSA students to create the dynamic 2018 editorial team! These roles are a chance to gain industry experience, put your creative problem-solving skills to the test, and connect with excellent people. You'll shape the wide variety of unique written pieces and spectacular artwork submitted by students, into six fantastic printed magazines. These roles are high pressure yet high reward! Find out more and how to apply at USASA.sa.edu.au/Verse Applications close November 1 2017.
Edition 19 | October - December 2017 Head Editor Caitlin Tait Editor Rubina Chitrakar Communications Editor Bridget Kerry Graphic Designer Rachael Sharman Contributors Chloe Cannell, Rachael Anderson, Isabella Fornarino, Patrick M., Isobel Logan, William Hill, Mark Vawser, Jordan Maywald, Ben Neale, Nina Phillips, Elycia Lee, Adriana Coscia, Grace Mackay, Madeleine Larkin, Sandra La, Alici Cutri, Arnis Silvia, Louise Ignacio, Anne Jackson, Elise Prestia, Bianca Iovino, Chloe Allchurch, Maria Kharitonava, Jessica Salamon, Chloe Coates, Jake Filbin, Laura Grace Park, Leticia Albrecht, Isabella Whittaker, Sara Eitzen, Abbey Matson. Cover Image Madeleine Larkin Printer Newstyle Design & Production Consultant Georgie Smith The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily representative of the views of USASA or the editors. contact@versemag.com.au www.versemag.com.au
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Original Cover Image by Madeleine Larkin
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Editor’s Letter Head Editor | Caitlin Tait
I’m a womn of many, many words. But I’m halfway to speechless right now. This year has been the greatest, and one I will always hold close to my heart. And almost all of that love is due to this magazine. Being able to read and print your work has been the biggest joy. I’m sitting on my friend’s kitchen bench writing this and getting teary. Rachael, our graphic designer, sent me a message today filled with gratitude and I cried reading it. I’ll cry when I see this edition in print, too. This edition is full of work to remind you that at every stage, you are not alone. And that’s a beautiful thing. So, for the last time, from Rubina, Bridget, Rachael and I – thank you. For all of it.
All the love always.
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Contents Edition 19 | October - December 2017 02 Editor’s Letter
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04 Graduation: Celebration Meets Panic 06 Ambrosia of Melody 08 Your Grabby Hands 09 What Comes Next 10 A Mix For: Falling in Love in the Summer 12 October 6th 14 Someone 16 Finding Happiness
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18 In[ter]view: Alissa Nightingale 23 You Were Rain 24 I'm Fighting You Just Can't See It 28 Imag[in]e: Madeleine Larkin 39 Home 40 Stewart Macbeth 44 Love : but not the kind you read about 46 Once Upon A Time : The Homonym Effect
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48 VOX: Student Voice 51 Self Care List 53 November/ December Calendar 54 Seville 55 I Know What I Know And I've Got What I Need 56 Triumph 59 [...] 60 Keen Knife Reviews 62 Horoscopes 64 Morning Coffee
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Words by Chloe Cannell | Images by Rachael Anderson 4
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Graduating from university can be daunting. But Chloe Cannell proves there are a whole lot of exciting bits, too. And remember: you’re not alone. The end of the university year means a couple of things: a lot of studying and stress, the anticipation of summer, time away from tutors and another year closer to the end of your degree or the end altogether. The end of university means the dreaded question, ‘So what are your plans?’ Now for some this question may not be so difficult to answer, and to you I want to say congratulations, but in my mind I’m slow clapping with a dead straight smile. You may scoff that for those unsure of themselves, like me, we’ve had 3 or so years to figure it out, but this isn’t enough time when you’re too focused on juggling your part-time job with assignments, family and maybe even a social life if you’re feeling risky.
You can have a stronger emotional connection with your Netflix than your partner because you’re an adult. University is this beautiful bubble between being a kid and being an adult. This usually means doing things you wanted to do as a kid with the privilege of being a freethinking adult under the law. You can come home at 3am because you’re an adult. You can make a meal with more sugar than Fruit Loops because you’re an adult. You can have wine and cheese night on Wednesday because you’re an adult. You can binge watch Pretty Little Liars in a week because you’re an adult. You can spend more than your income because you’re an adult. You can have a stronger emotional connection with your Netflix than your partner because you’re an adult. You can tell yourself your part-time job is only temporary even though you’ve been there for 3 years because you’re an adult. But since you don’t likely have commitments like a 9-5 job or a toddler on your leg, you can choose to
be a little dumb. And for the most part you’re excused because everyone knows at the end of this late teens early 20s moment in time you will be a grown up with a job in the field you studied so hard for. All this time spent prolonging exposure to the adult world means when you finally finish your degree it’s f**cking terrifying. You may have heard of a quarter life crisis but don’t laugh because trust me, it’s real. Don’t Google it because you will relate to it too much and become that GIF where your laugh turns into a cry. Words like ‘confused identity’, ‘misguided purpose’, ‘hopeless transition’, ‘panic’, ‘lost’, ‘anxious’ and other fun words and phrases like that come to mind. You want to be back in school when talk of the future was hypothetical but at the same time you want to be an adult because it seems more stable and ‘ok’. However, it’s hard to be an adult when you’re not respected by society for being a millennial. Psychologists have found that the onset of depression has moved to the early 20s in the past 30 years because of the stress associated with this time… hooray. But if there’s one thing I want you to take from this stressfueled rambling, it is: YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Your friends are probably going through this too so talk to them. Start a journal or a blog to note your feelings. Don’t do anything drastic (unless you’re in a truly toxic situation). Like you may hate your fast food boss but it’s probably just because they’re asking you to get out of bed at 7am. Make the most of your situation. But also, and I know this is probably not what you want to hear after years of study, don’t let your degree define you. You never know what you might be good at unless you try. Everyone has their own path so manage your expectations and accept yourself. Going into the adult world is scary but your parents did it so you probably can too.
Words by by Mark Vawser | Images by Jordan Maywald
Most concerts allow punters to have experiences close to heavenly. This piece explores some of the power and magic possible at a gig. The song started with a swelling of strings and percussion. I closed my eyes and let the music consume me. It’s not like I could see anything anyway. The crowd was dense and the lights were spectacularly bright. The drums came to life with a roar. The base drum started a rhythm that matched the beating of a great heart. Boom, boom, boom. A voice deep and low called out from the blinding light. The words stretched to create a soothing melody of their own. The guitars came to life and the room shook with their wakening. Above the din, the voice grew louder and more powerful. I listened to the words, internalising every syllable. I crafted the lyrics into a story of my own making. The crowd sang along with every verse, swelling and swaying with each note. As the crowd shifted, I caught a glimpse of the vocalist. His long hair, scruffy beard, and easy movements radiated confidence and feeling. The song amplified and I raised my arm to the sky. It was in that moment that I felt it, the atmosphere rising higher and higher as the music grew to its climax. I emerged from the crowed as if from an ocean. My field of view opened and I could see the stage in all its glory. None of that mattered, I only focused on the silhouette of the vocalist. His arm rose and his finger pointed directly at me.
I moved for it. Time slowed as I willed my body forward. I stretched my torso to its limits, contorting my arm further and further.
Time halted as our fingertips brushed each other, achieving what Michelangelo’s Adam never could. The vocalist, to my surprise, did the same. He leapt onto the barricade and reached for me. Like a vision out of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, our fingers grew close. With one last effort of will, I reached for him. Time halted as our fingertips brushed each other, achieving what Michelangelo’s Adam never could. Reality snapped back into focus and time resumed its forward march. The crowd that had lifted me slowly, now lowered me back to the ground. The wheels of my chair hit the floor with finality. The song ended, and the crowd chanted and cheered. I waited for the crowd to trickle out before reluctantly leaving the theatre. That night, forever a bright star in my mind. Alone in my darkest moments, it reminds me that I can bear the unbearable, the terrible triteness of my being. Edition 19 2017
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I am woman Woman, I am That man-oh-man That man-oh-man! I do not like that man-oh-man
Your Grabby Hands A word to the wise from Sister Seuss Words by Isabella Fornarino | Images by Patrick M.
I do not like your grabby hands I do not like them, man-oh-man Would you like them Here or there? I would not like them Here or there I would not like them Anywhere I do not like your grabby hands I do not like them, man-oh-man You will not line up in the bank And grab my ass as if a prank You will not follow me off the train Your steps quickening down the lane I do not like your grabby hands I do not like them, man-oh-man You will not kiss me on the bus Then skirt away without a fuss You will not holler at me from your car And rate my body from afar I do not like your grabby hands I do not like them, man-oh-man I will not be your piece of meat Or a destination where you stop to eat I will not take it on the chin Or smile back at your seedy grin I do not like your grabby hands I do not like them, man-oh-man I will not let you believe You can use your sex as a reprieve I will not be told to sit quiet While your eyes ensue a filthy riot I am woman Woman, I am I do not like your grabby hands I do not like them, man-oh-man
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WHAT COMES NEXT
Words by Isobel Logan | Images by William Hill
Grief is a deeply personal experience that can’t really be explained. However, Isobel does a magical job at it. Take pride in your new skin. It’s funny how grief works; it pushes and pulls to force its way in. But it can be patient too. It lies in wait with baited breath, desperate to get inside. It wriggles and squirms and it sinks its hooks deep. It moves down from the brain, seeping into the bloodstream and paralyses the body. Limbs become lead weights and heartache pins them to the mattress. Blankets keep the body warm but the grief inside turns the blood too cold. Eyeballs burn and itch as they shine, dripping salt-water until the dam has run dry.
The road to recovery never seems to grow shorter; a constant uphill, the twists and turns are all met with dead ends. It’s persistent and raw, always under the surface. It slowly sinks deeper, settling close to the heart. It is a wound that never quite closes but one day you wake up and proud flesh is now growing. beyondblue: 1300 22 4636
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Words and illustration by Caitlin Tait
A MIX FOR: FALLING IN LOVE IN THE SUMMER The sun is out and you’re spending all your spare time with the girl you met last month who is really cute and funny and kisses your mouth.
Wild Roads – Ella Grace On + Off – Maggie Rogers give me life – Lewis Watson Carolina – Harry Styles When Your Light Goes Out – Mr Jukes feat. Lianne La Havas Malibu – Miley Cyrus The Louvre – Lorde You Can Find Me – Jess Glynne Hurry Up! – Superfruit I Like You – The Preatures pink skies – LANY Magic – Coldplay We All Love The Same Songs – Lake Street Dive Tomorrow Never Came – Lana Del Ray feat. Sean Lennon
Search @VerseMag on Spotify to soak up some sun!
OCTOBER 6TH Words by Caitlin Tait | Image by Ben Neale
I’ve never liked summer. Even when I was little I dreaded the change of weather. The thought of legs sticking to school chairs and constantly squinting and always feeling halfway to dehydrated made me cringe. Spring is nice – but mid-October has always come with fury, changing 26 to 36 and bringing the worst out of me. This year is different. Coinciding with the sun coming out, I’ve met a girl. She sometimes writes in capital letters and hates baking (even though she spends a lot of time doing it) and calls me baby and pronounces the T is ‘cute’ in a way that makes me like the word for the first time. We eat rice and tofu and she likes my thighs and I love her arms and her only days off are Mondays, so I spend all week hoping the sun is shining for her. Last week she told me about a band and I said I loved them and she looked at me and laughed and kissed my mouth and she told me on our first date she doesn’t see the point in buying flowers for someone (she just fed me some of the cheesecake she’s making) and as much I like sunflowers and natives, I like this tornado of a woman – who has a fire in her belly (and just made me get rid of a bug in the kitchen) – more. Food shopping and washing up and after-work drinks feel like a love letter today.
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someone Words by Nina Phillips | Images by Louise Ignacio
She sits alone in the coffee shop. Bitter. Half empty mug upon the table in front, her fourth this morning. Nose buried in a book, a fiction, Trapped, her limpid eyes scan in search of something. Someone. Neither pretty nor plain, she is young and conscious of crocodiles, but, remains resolutely oblivious of their stares. My stares. Far off, hard rock blares. She takes a sip of her coffee. I catch myself cudgeling my brain for…
her name?
Escapes me. No one ever remembers her name. Someone folds and puts down his paper. Neatly. His hand gropes her shoulder. Violently. She doesn’t flinch. He looks vaguely familiar. Someone. I guess. Hard rock drones on, She Sells Sanctuary by The Cult. They leave, together. All that remains of her is the mug. Half empty, with a faint pink stain on the rim. And the smell of lavender, Young...
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Finding Happiness Is the pursuit of happiness a real thing? Words by Rubina Chitrakar | Images by Rachael Sharman
Part I The younger me always thought that the pursuit of happiness was life’s purpose, that it was the ultimate thing people did in their lives. People running after love, people running after money, people running after “the good life”; everyone, I thought, was ultimately chasing happiness. And following their steps to get to that point of ultimate happiness made sense to my naïve mind. My logic was simple: find something that would make you happy. Perhaps well-paid work, good circle of friends or perhaps just doing what you want to do. I landed a job where I worked as an editor. In other words, I got to do what I loved doing- reading thoughtful and well-written pieces, editing, and in that course, meeting talented writers, photographers and illustrators. And that did make me happy. Time passed. And with it, so did happiness. It was not that I grew tired of it, but it did not fill me with joy like it once did. Happiness seemed elusive. Maybe what I needed was to find people like me. And find people I did. My studies and work brought with it scores of pleasurable meetings with like-minded people. Wonderful people who now I have the pleasure of calling my friends. I surrounded myself with several friends and their company gave me the joy I always wanted. But that pleasure too was fleeting; it left me as soon as they were not around. There seemed to be an emptiness within me, a link I had been missing. Something I had perhaps overlooked in my pursuit of happiness. An epiphany was yet to strike me.
Part II Last year I left my home for Adelaide and decided to start living my life on my own. I did not have any friends or family here. What I had was freedom of choice; I could live as I wanted, away from all questions about life choices and away from all emotional baggage, a chance to start afresh. A chance to pursue happiness in a different land. My time here has been a learning curve for me. I have met amazing people and their amazing work, learned things I did not know, honed my skills and sharpened my knowledge. It has been nothing less than a thrill. With saying that it has not been without its highs and lows. Living on my own has been harder than I had imagined it would be. The idea of pursuing happiness got lost in between my studies and responsibilities. In all honesty, I did not have time to think about needing to be happy. And one day, when a friend was speaking to me about not needing to apologise for being your true self, it struck me. He had said that you could be you without thinking if it was wrong or right. It’s just who you are. That thought made me draw parallels between being happy and pursuing happiness. All this time I had consciously chased happiness, looking for a lasting thing instead of just enjoying the essence of the moment. That realisation has changed my worldview. I found happiness by being unapologetically myself. I go to the beach when the weather is nice, I go for a walk in the park when I need fresh air. I work hard and give every shot the best I can give. And I enjoy every moment I spend with friends, colleagues and more importantly myself. And at that time, I am truly happy.
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In[ter]view Verse Mag’s Regular Graduate Interview Words as told to Rubina Chitrakar | Photos supplied by The Nightingale Collective
Daunting (and amazing) as it may be, Alissa Nightingale, the founder of the The Nightingale Collective, tells us how she has managed to have a social enterprise that is making a difference and the ins and outs of the running it.
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How would you describe yourself? I would describe myself as inquisitive – I love discovering or learning new things. I’m also passionate about social change and some would describe me as an eternal optimist. How did the idea of establishing The Nightingale Collective come about? Was there any significant source of inspiration? The Nightingale Collective was born on a trip to Nepal while I was working for The Fred Hollows Foundation. It was evident that local artisans had incredible talent but were not supported for their work or had access to new markets. I wanted to bridge the gap between talent and opportunity and provide a platform for responsible commerce. My trip also coincided with the devastating Nepal Earthquake of 2015. I saw that the community not only required substantial aid – but they needed a stable economy and investment in their local industries for them to be able to rebuild.
When someone purchases something from The Nightingale Collective they buy some beautiful art, jewellery and accessories and the proceeds directly go to the people and communities to help recover and rebuild from natural disasters, war and many other injustices. We believe ethics and style do not need to be mutually exclusive. You could tell us more about the idea of purchasing with purpose? Essentially we are an online fashion accessories retailer, what differentiates us is our focus around ethical fashion, not fast fashion. While profit is important it is not our core focus. Rather our aim is to provide sustainable employment for women artisans, promote ethical production methods and play, even if a small role, in poverty reduction. We want to encourage a more socially conscious consumer, one who knows and cares where the product they buy is made, the stories behind the people who made it, and how their purchase can have a meaningful impact upon communities.
What has the reception to the collective been like? The feedback I hear from customers is they love the product but more importantly they love the positive impact their purchase is having after learning about the stories of the women artisans. We are still quite new and love getting feedback - we have some changes in the pipeline both to improve the customer experience but also the impact we are having on the women artisan cooperatives we collaborate with. How do you choose which products to promote? How do you go about sourcing the products? When sourcing our products we ensure the artisans, who are often women, receive fair wages, positive working environments and are supported by community development programs that improve the lives of their families and wider community. We largely source our products through international non-profits who are closely connected to women artisan groups. We believe these organisations are most aware of the challenges faced by women artisans and can tailor social development programs to provide further support. This includes community health programs in Guatemala, literacy courses for women in Afghanistan and supporting women who are deaf in Kenya.
Did you have to face any kind of hurdle while forming the collective? Or any difficulties you have experienced in working so far? As we largely work with developing communities there have been some logistical challenges. Australia is a new market for many of the artisan groups we collaborate with; this has meant at times we have incurred delays or higher distribution costs. Our partners also operate in remote areas like Guatemala where technology and internet access isn’t always readily available or reliable. This is in stark contrast to Australia where we are connected 24/7 across numerous devices! So we have to factor in more lead-time to allow for delays in communication. But we also think this can be a nice reminder to not let technology consume every aspect of our lives. And juggling my role with the Westpac Foundation and my social enterprise can be a challenge too because it can sometimes seem there are not enough hours in a day! In retrospect, had you ever thought that you would be doing what you are currently doing? Would you like to share your feelings about it? When I was studying marketing at UniSA I didn’t think I would now be working at one of Australia’s Big 4 Banks and have a social enterprise on the side. But I feel fortunate that I get to combine my passion for social enterprise in my role with the Westpac Foundation where I have had the opportunity to support other social entrepreneurs who are passionate about making a difference.
I also think the future of work will significantly change over the next decade both in terms of technological innovation and also the types of employment. Career pathways aren’t as linear and increasingly fulltime employment is not the norm either. For example I currently work part-time with Westpac and then on my own projects, whether The Nightingale Collective or marketing consulting. I think it’s important to be adaptable and a continual learner when building a career as industries and roles are constantly changing.
Is there any mantra that you lead your life accordingly or any values you hold dear? A quote that motivated me to start The Nightingale Collective was: “The biggest difference between the person who lives his or her dreams and the person who aspires is the decision to convert that first spark of motivation into immediate action.” I read it and thought – “I may not be quite ready, but I might as well give it a shot!”
Any lesson(s) that you have learned in this whole journey? I think a lesson I’ve learnt is to be open to opportunities and stay inquisitive. Many of my favourite moments in my career and life have been through taking a chance and stepping out of my comfort zone. I also think it’s important to have a genuine interest in the world around you and be compassionate towards others.
Any future aspirations or projects in line? I’ve recently relocated back to Adelaide from Sydney, so it’s exciting to be home! I’m keen to get more involved in and support the growing social enterprise scene in South Australia. I’m also considering completing further study (it’s almost 10 years since I finished my undergrad which is a little scary!)– so I may be back at UniSA some day soon!
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Words by Elycia Lee | Images by Rachael Sharman
you were a droplet but you were a drop of paint that fell into the puddle that was me and you coloured me grey then black you were a drizzle the calm before the storm clouded up my clear blue sky rained on my parade you were a shower temporary, confusing, you came and go like you weren't sure if this was your place to stay you always chose to run away you were a storm thundering, booming, loud you woke me up from my slumber brought chaos into my quiet life and left the way you came you were a hurricane swept me off my feet spun my world around turned things upside down like rain, you came too suddenly and took away the sun. like rain, you left me drenched after having your bit of fun.
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I’M FIGHTING, YOU JUST CAN’T SEE IT Words by Adriana Coscia | Images by Grace Mackay
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There continues to be a very real stigma around mental illnesses, despite the fact they are just as valid, and sometimes more painful, than a broken bone – as Adriana explains. Anxiety is a harsh war, an invisible battle against yourself. Continuous fear-driven thoughts deteriorate your self-esteem, paralyse your mind, numb your own conscious; it disables the very thing that keeps you alive. The tightening of your heart fused with an overwhelming sense of fear results to an unloving torment of anxiety. Picking, scratching, pulling and cracking are routine for your body. Anxious thoughts and feelings of tension spark the unconscious habits. It is only after you have pulled a handful of your eyebrows, or plucked a bouquet of eyelashes that you finally realise the growing mess upon your desk, but it is too late. As you pull each eyelash, you feel a sense of relief. A relief you can never
The heart becomes desperately afraid, aimlessly running from a threat that only exists within your mind. receive from any type of treatment or ‘therapeutic’ conversations. A relief gained through the manipulation of your own physical body in order to take shelter from the thoughts and darkness composed in your head. Your mind is like clockwork, always occupied with queries and irrational answers. Family and friends often comment, “You’re so fidgety”, so you place your hands by your side momentarily in a state of embarrassment. More often than not, your body can’t keep up from the clutter that occurs in your head, so you panic. You panic about the external environment, about what others think of you, about everything. Your mind begins to manufacture an unrealistic set of scenarios, that are very unlikely to occur, but you worry and panic anyways. You panic even though you are lounging on your couch with your family
around you, what most people would consider a calm or comforting scenario. It is within these circumstances that you realise simply how lonely it really is inside your mind, alienated from a place so familiar. Your mind once again juxtaposes your own thoughts and you find yourself trapped in such a vast, open space. The heart becomes desperately afraid, aimlessly running from a threat that only exists within your mind. The moments of terror almost feel like your thoughts are strangling you, one hand grasping your neck while the other tightens the vice on your head. It is undoubtedly the most excruciating pain you will ever feel; and once it hits, it snowballs through your veins, encasing your body. Within the haze of your mind, you become distorted by panic, no recognition of your environment. All you can hear is the banging drums within your chest. The uncontrollable sweating, clammy hands and incline of heart rate, are the only physical signs that you are entering a stage of anxiety and panic. You try to find help that you need, but don’t necessarily want. You struggle to talk to your parents about something that you wished they had just noticed about you, years ago. You begin to wish that mental illnesses were physically noticeable, but they are not. You begin to wish that they understood that breaking a bone is just as painful as enduring a panic attack, the emotional strain lasts longer than you would expect, longer than a cast on your leg. You begin to wish people understood that your stomach twists and turns because of the unknown each day. You often temporarily drift off, into a more pleasant world of your own. It is peaceful but only short lived. Sleep is seen as a sanctuary, a time where you are
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completely unconscious and ultimately relaxed. It is so freeing to be alone. You would rather sit in your room and avoid attention, than sit with a small group of friends, submerged with the feeling that you are plunging into a social inadequacy with a parachute that won’t open. Silence is your relief, and yet this very comfort leads you down a dangerous path. Silence is haunting; a domain where you are left to the sound of your own thoughts. “Are you ok?” A constant question that is hauled over you, adding to the pile of unwanted thoughts. You smile, and give a few frantic nods. Yet you question yourself again, am I really ok? Is it normal to stutter, to have blurred vision at random? Is it ok to be drowning in a pool of emotions night after night? You can’t always maintain that pretty, happy face because inside you, your thoughts are playing pinball. The feeling of not having control eats away at you, slowly but surely. The frustrating thoughts of not being able to control time is just like hitting a boundary in a dodgem car. You lose control of the wheel, your thoughts. You don’t physically hurt yourself, maybe a few scratches on your arms and legs, but the impact on your mind is as perpetual as denting steel. The concept that you can’t seem to understand replays in your head, just like a broken record. It repeats itself until you scream and become entirely sick of your own melody.
beyondblue: 1300 22 463 Lifeline: 13 11 14
edition 19 RELEASE PARTY from 5:30pm Friday 3rd November @ West Oak Hotel all welcome - nibbles provided
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The artwork of Madeleine Larkin
Imag[in]e Verse Mag’s Regular Student Art & Design feature Words conducted by Rachael Sharman Illustrations by Madeleine Larkin
Welcome to the world of student, Madeleine Larkin. Currently studying teaching at UniSA, illustrating is a mighty fine outlet to make something of everything. Combing line work with bright spots of colour Madeline invites everyone to interpret the way she sees the world.
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You have such a talent for illustration, especially creating unique and eccentric works. What has influenced you to study teaching? I love kids so so much and think that they are so so very important. I want to teach them to love learning and I wanna teach them to love and learn from every experience they find themselves in.
Specifically, what field of teaching would you like to go into? I would like to go into a field of dandelions, accompanied by a dragon with transparent skin. I want to teach primary school kids.
What’s your go-to playlist when you’re drawing? Oh and your mood song (so you know when you’re in that mind frame where the only thing that’s going to solve all your problems is that one song)? Oh my! My mood always changes and so do my musical needs and so do my drawings and so does everything. I super enjoy drawing to music that makes me feel as though honey is dripping from the sun and into my ears, especially with all this warm weather! Some songs that do this for me are: Intro - Yellow Days (Great Great song! If you are reading this please listen to it!) Windows - Sugar Candy Mountain 363N63 - King Krule
Is there a chance you would look at combining your art into your persona as a teacher? Oh yes yes yes! I wouldn't force kids to use art as their form of expression but I would and will encourage them to create things, constantly.
Fall in Love - The Babe Rainbow Summertime - Booker T. & the M.G.'s The Spider And Me - King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard / Mild High Club (this is a great song I love it!) I love insects a lot. Biophilia by Christopher Marley is a beautiful book that you should read/look at if you love insects.
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Do you have any dramatic influences in your life that have encouraged your drawing style? I enjoy getting really mad at myself while drawing but in the nicest way possible. This seems to translate into smooth lines.
Your art has a sense of excitement, the beauty of the unknown or unreal - I’m eager to uproot my whole life and move into your world. How do you view your work? My art is full of people, places, food, smells, sounds, feelings, animals, thoughts and so many things that I have experienced. Sometimes I draw a moment, a song, a day that I have experienced or I just draw what ever my brain feels like leaking out.
Name 3 new objects that you can merge into your next creation? 1. Blood 2. Sweat 3. Tears haha hehe hehe
Where to next with your illustrations? Or is it just nice as a creative outlet? I would love to learn how to make my drawings into vector files so that I can make t-shirts and fun things! If anyone reading this wants to help me out please feel free to message me! I just really like creating!
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Words by Arnis Silvia | Images by Louise Ignacio
And I returned to the place where I was born people called it home That home is a museum without visitors A maid cleans it every day keeping all stuff in its place That home is an abandoned playground left by the only kid as she moved out Pursuing her dreams to a better place so-called city That home is an empty arena left as the Olympic Games concluded gone the spectators and cheers gone those coaches and athletes That home is a rejoiced land survived after eruptions and quakes replaced them by volcanic ash gave birth to a new peaceful earth That home is a monument marked the hardship of the past which thrived to make today And I returned as the only visitor to a place where I was born people called it home
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Stewa rt Macbeth
Word sb
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| Imag
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Elise P
restia
This short story is a take on Shakespeare’s Macbeth, including all the drama, blood, and knife-work it’s known for. If you prefer to not read all the gory stuff, give this one a miss. Stewart lay curled up beneath the weight of his doona as memories of the day slowly filtered through the rising curtain of sleep. His stepfather slamming the door, shouting that he was going to the pub; the thud in the kitchen as his mother fell onto the floor. She would have huddled into the corner trying to become as small as possible - he'd seen it so many times before, seen the bruises and the damaged look in her eyes but he couldn't face it again, not that night; couldn't bear to look down on her lying on that cold linoleum floor, not again.
Stewart curled his hands into fists, tighter and tighter till his nails dug into the soft flesh of his palms. His stepfather had been yelling at him as usual. He'd come home late covered in mud and Duncan had raged at him, telling him not to trail his filthy footprints through the kitchen. He'd dragged him into the yard and hosed him down in water so icy cold it that leached its winter chill through to the bone. Yelling that he was a lazy good for nothing, just a wimp of a boy who'd never be a man, he'd taken the clothes Stewart's mother had brought outside for him and tossed them into the shed; told him not to come in till he'd washed every trace of mud out of his school uniform. Duncan finally allowed him inside, dragging him up to his room as he began his usual rant. "When I was young I had to fight for everything in life. I got up at 5 in the morning before the sun and chopped the wood for the kitchen fire before riding my bike to the local shop to pick up my paper round; two hours every morning I rode that old bike up and down the hills delivering newspapers just so I had money to buy
lunch; I wasn't soft like the youth of today who think they deserve everything handed to them on a platter. If you were my son you'd be a man, like me. But you're no better than your useless father. You'd be better off dead, just like him." As usual his mother had crept up the hallway, trying to calm Duncan down. "He'll change. I'm sure he's sorry, he didn't mean to upset you." She never really stood up for him against his stepfather. Would have been a waste of time trying anyway, he never listened, Stewart thought, and it always ended the same, Duncan would storm off to the pub, slamming the door and she would be lying on the floor bruised by his sharp, bony fists till Stewart helped her up and cleaned the blood off her battered face. "Why don't you leave him? He’s a mongrel!" Stewart had asked her once, as he placed his arm around her and lifted her into a chair. She'd just sighed. "It's not his fault, so don’t talk like that now. He just can't manage being out of work, he's always had a job. If Holden hadn't closed their factory down he'd be fine, everything would be different". Yeah sure, Stewart had thought. Duncan is just an arsehole. He's always been an arsehole and always will be, not having a job just makes him drink more; makes him meaner. Stewart hated Duncan so much it hurt. Hitting a woman doesn't make you a man! I'll never be like that; never be like him. He couldn't bear to see her lying there on the kitchen floor again. Every thought of Duncan burned in the pit of his stomach like a tight knot that gripped and cramped; it made his headache like something was inside, trying to force its way out. Stewart curled his
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hands into fists, tighter and tighter till his nails dug into the soft flesh of his palms. His shoulders shook. It had been a really bad day. At school they'd jumped him behind the bike sheds. Six of them. Pulled him down, smeared his face in the stinking, rotting mud and filmed it. The taste of the putrid sludgy grit he'd spat from his mouth lingered, a taint on his tongue. My life's a nightmare, it's like a wicked dream that never ends. Stewart had curled up with his thoughts in the dark, covered up under the weight of his doona, till he finally fell asleep. It was the whispers that woke him. They reached out from the corners of his room; harsh edged sighs they crept softly over the bare floorboards till they caught him where he lay, jerking him from sleep. Duncan slowly pulled the doona off his head and rubbed the grainy curtain of sleep from his eyes. He peered through the shadows cluttering his room. The faint glow from the streetlight outside fell through his partially open window and climbed the bedroom wall; the once smooth surface writhed at its touch. Distorted faces that seemed carved into the plaster like a mural, pulsated, shifting in time with the sudden thud of Stewart's heart. Warping, they twisted and turned, swelling out towards him then sinking back as if grasped and pulled by others that fought to face him. In the corners the shadows coiled, the darkness weaving in upon itself till subtle forms began to take shape, limbs twining around each other as if in a struggle to pull themselves above the wall of foul fog that held them in obscurity. They seemed to sense his eyes upon them and stretching towards him the shadows climbed, pale fingered, one upon the other. Stewart leapt out of bed and ran into the darkened hallway. The whispering trailed behind him, their tone rising to form three harsh and hardened voices that draped across his shoulders, spilling ill-omened suggestions into his open ears.
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"He's weak", they whispered, "not a man just a wife beater, a soft-bellied worm." "He's not worthy to rule this house. You're stronger than him." "Do away with him. You could take his place. Prove yourself the better man." Stewart slowly paced down the hall pausing at the doorway of his mother and stepfather's room. Carefully
Stewart dropped his hands as the dagger's point began to darken, a deep crimson stain that slowly spread, tainting the silvery blade. he pushed open the door and gazed at his mother who lay curled in a tight ball on the very edge of the king size bed. She looked so small alone in the bed, her bedside lamp left shining as if in a struggle to ward off the dark. Stewart turned. He knew where Duncan would be; too drunk to drag his sodden carcass up the stairs, he would have passed out in the lounge,. He stood at the top of the stairs and looked down into the hall where a sliver of light shone through the crack in the curtains, drawn across the front window. Testing each step, he slowly placed his foot down, pausing with every creak of the old stairs. He stopped on the bottom step as the whispering voices in his head grew louder. They seemed to force his thoughts out to take form, thickening in the night air. A slim dagger formed before him, it hung shining in the faint light that touched upon its blade. It seemed so solid Stewart reached out to grasp the handle. But there was nothing there; nothing there to grasp. He raised his hand and stared at its empty palm. But I can see it. Right there in front of me.
I can see the handle, right there by my hand. I can even see the pattern see how it is carved, deep into the bone! Is it just in my mind? What the Hell is happening... Stewart dropped his hands as the dagger's point began to darken, a deep crimson stain that slowly spread, tainting the silvery blade. Yeah, now I know what I have to do. Stewart lifted his bare foot and cautiously, as if stepping into a dangerous place, lowered it to the cold floor. With barely a sound he padded into the kitchen and stared at the knife resting on the bench. Stewart grasped the handle, his slender fingers wrapping around the cold steel like a glove. He paced along the hall to the lounge where Duncan lay sprawled on his back on the couch, arms spread wide as if claiming the entire space. One leg flopped towards the floor. His shirt was rucked up around his ribs exposing his belly; two buttons were torn open revealing the soft white flesh. Stewart stood over him. Bewitching, the voices gnawed at his thoughts; bogged them down, swamping them in the clamour. Stewart gripped the handle in both fists and plunged it into the gap between the buttons, twisting and turning it in the soft folds of flesh. Duncan reared up, flailing at the knife as Stewart stepped back. He watched Duncan fall and hit the floor. He lay still, jerking slightly on the grey splattered lino. Stewart gasped as a dark curtain seemed to rise in his mind. His hands felt sticky. He stared at the dark smears staining his fingers. Duncan lay still, at his feet. Racing to the kitchen Stewart filled the sink and plunged his hands into the icy water. He scrubbed and scrubbed at the deep red stains. The water grew cloudy, polluted by a red haze and his hands, they wouldn't come clean. The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1800 799 7233 Lifeline: 13 11 14
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Love : but not the kind you read about Bianca Iovino explains why that sweet Gucci bag can’t fill the hole in your heart. Nor can Ewan McGregor. Sigh. Words by Bianca Iovino | Images by Chloe Allchurch It’s cruel really. How we’re encouraged to run through childhood and adolescence, blindly and carelessly. Perceiving humans as intrinsic and complex creatures. Thriving off deep desires and passions. That our lives will be multifaceted and diverse. Call me cynical— hell, I do. It may be the struggle of adult responsibility or the fact I’m trying to come to terms with the man I love leaving my life. But the façade our lives are vessels destined for greatness is falling around me like picture frames in an earthquake. Those are genuine facets, no doubt. I don’t deny that. But I have come to a screaming halt in my twenties— and maybe I’m lucky to have gotten this far with my heart intact and my brain dominant. But I know now more than ever why we’re called animals. Any stage of Darwinism demonstrates our need to scope out the necessities for survival: Food Shelter Community And love. Love. The primal search for love is something many are born with, and the several types rear their head at various times. The mushy stuff: often at stages of great vulnerability, confusion and distasteful realisation.
Fundamentally, we don’t really strive to be the best at our job or to have the most money or to fuck the most people. It is our heartbeat that drives us. It speeds to a fast gallop as we evolve. We begin to gage why some people get out of bed in the morning, and others can’t find the strength. The reason people spend months of their lives embarrassing themselves on television and why some age like fine wine, and others turn sour like vinegar. It is love. Having someone or something to love and be loved back. You may not find joy in narcoleptic Argentineans, love ballads or Ewan McGregor, but Moulin Rouge said it all. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love, and be loved in return.” Underneath, that is all anybody ever wants. Everything is shadowed in its enormity. The void for a partner growing bigger the more our heart is bashed and bruised. The more we are convinced we are damaged or psychotic or hard to love. The more glowing skin crumples into worry lines and youth trickles into the wedding age. Try to drown it all you want with drink or drugs or sex or Gucci. Your heart beat will still be there. Driving you to your destination. And you won’t know where that is until it stops— if you’re lucky.
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Once Upon a Time: The Homonym Effect Words by Elycia Lee | Images by Maria Kharitonava
Homonym – noun. A word pronounced the same as another but differing in meaning, whether spelled the same way or not. after a week of clouds and rain suddenly the sky is clear but we're no longer the same and the reason for that isn't clear
then, we both wanted a can of soda but we didn't have change now, we both needed time meet someone new for a change
we met a few years ago it was in the middle of fall embarrassing, but i remember i was in the middle of a fall
sometimes i forget how you look like when for years all I've seen was your back it was that day when you turned away and from then you never looked back
you helped me up but laughed not the teasing but the amused kind i thanked you for your help you said you're just being kind
but often life plays tricks on us and we meet in the month of May you shake my hand, smile and say "drinks on me, if I may?"
thinking we'd never cross paths until we met at a basketball match we spent a day talking and found our personalities seemed to match
flustered, I shook my head and said "I don't know what you mean" I left feeling odd, slightly afraid and wondered if I sounded mean
when I went through times of difficulty you made my burdens light when my life was bleak and grey in the darkness you were light
in the words you said I couldn't tell between a truth or lie on this spectrum of friendship I wonder where we lie
but a few months later, we fought on a rainy day in spring the atmosphere between us was like tension in a compressed spring
I thought things ended long ago but today you dropped me a line enough of dancing around each other perhaps it's time to draw the line
whenever we were at junctions I turned right insisting I was right
life with you was a sunny day but it too was a crashing wave so this is where the story closes and I give my last goodbye wave
but little did I know that when you turned left, you really left
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V
X: Student Voice Looking to this year's Verse contributors to be inspired, motivated and comforted. Elycia Lee What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? Anything around me can be an inspiration for writing poems, but I’m mostly inspired by nature, especially skies and oceans. There’s just something about them that moves my emotions and helps me in articulating my thoughts into words. Just the very joy of being able to share my perspectives and creativity with others motivates me to continue writing. Any fond memory you have of home? Being an international student also means being away from home, so any memory of home is fond to me. One of my fondest and perhaps a more recent memory is the time spent with my friends in college, seven of us crammed in a car having deep talks till the A.M, going on road trips together and getting ice-cream from a Macca’s drive through after having dinner together.
Patrick MC What is the creative process like for you? Turbulent and spontaneous, with a lot of random sketches and note taking of ideas that come to mind. What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? I carry a sketchbook around with me to draw things I see. I also take inspiration from the experiences of myself and others.
Louise Mariel Ignacio What is the creative process like for you? My creative process can be quite spontaneous, as I tend to create beautiful things when I don’t think too much. What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? Music and fashion are my biggest inspirations and I’m always motivated to draw when I see illustrators and artists I idolise come up with the most gorgeous pieces. A work of art/writing that you love and why? There’s a particular piece from my Life Drawing class that I fell in love with. I was able to capture our model’s elegant poses in a short amount of time with the help of rhythm from the background music and a very cheap brush. I love it because it’s minimal, but certainly not quiet.
Arnis Silvia What is the creative process like for you? For me, creative process is an accumulation of what I see and reflect. I usually write anything before I go to sleep as the relief for any kind of feelings or an avenue for any thoughts I have that day. What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? I write as a kind of expression, I think I can express my thoughts, feelings, and reflection better through writing than talk. I am messy when talking, haha. A work of art/writing that you love and why? I always fond of Robert Frost's pieces for their rhymes and deeply uttered sense of feeling. I am so much influenced in a way I include nature as the background settings for my poems.
Isabella Whittaker What is the creative process like for you? My creative process is super experimental. I love trying new mediums all the time so I’m constantly thinking of new ideas, trying them out, failing or succeeding and moving on to something new. It makes what I do so much more fun and really challenges my artistic skills and knowledge. Any fond memory you have of home? Endless afternoons of painting in the the sun with my family. Watercolours, oil pastels, tie dye, acrylic, water on concrete, eriiithang. My sister and were encouraged to draw and have fun all the time. This creative mindset and love for visually expressing myself has shaped the way I am as a person and as a designer. A work of art/writing that you love and why? I don’t think I’d be able to choose only one of her pieces, but @manjitthapp has to be my instagram artist crush at the moment. Seriously, do your soul a favour and get your socks knocked off by her page.
Mark Vawser What is the creative process like for you? Procrastination until the absolute last moment, followed by a fury of writing and spelling errors. Diamonds are made under pressure, but so are garnets. What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? I collect books. I surround myself with shelves and shelves of my favorite stories, swirling my brandy while lounging in a leather chair. If by the end of my life I can sit in front of a bookshelf containing my own published work, I'd die a happy man. A work of art/writing that you love and why? George Orwell's 1984. It's a classic for a reason. The bleak world of Orwell's totalitarian vision of the future (now the past) shows us why critical thinking is the cornerstone of societal freedom. Criticize everything, accept nothing on faith.
Thomas Smith What is the creative process like for you? I have two methods for the creative process depending on what I’m working on. With a novel I usually push myself to write each day, chipping away at a far off ending until it’s close and then running the last few thousand words in a day or two. Poetry tends to be different, it’s usually by accident and from a place of deep emotion. What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? The story I’m working on normally pushes me along, if it doesn’t I tend to lose interest and work on something else. The thought of never making ‘it’ as a writer usually keeps me on time with a book or project, although I’m buggered if I know what ‘it’ is. Any fond memory you have of home? Watching snow melt on the downs, signalling the start of spring and budding trees. A work of art/writing that you love and why? Anything by Terry Pratchett is a warm hug and a pat on the back for trying.
Nina Phillips What is the creative process like for you? An endless existential crisis coupled with an angst-ridden cycle of crying, procrastinating and binge eating dark chocolate. It's messy, but, it gets the job done. What inspires/urges/motivates you to write/create? Although I often draw from my own personal experiences, interesting stories and/or themes usually help to drive and shape my writing. Particularly, when writing poetry, I tend to take inspiration from ideas I've seen elsewhere, whether it's in a novel, film or something else, and use it as a motivational tool as I feel responsible to do the original creator justice. Any fond memory you have of home? To me, home is the beach. Not that I can swim or fish very well, but, I have a really vivid memory of hanging out at the beach a lot when I was little and collecting all this seaweed for no real reason. A work of art/writing that you love and why? Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut, is an incredible novel that everyone should read! Every time I open it, I learn something new about myself and begin to question everything! Plus, "granfalloon" is possibly my favourite word to describe certain people.
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SELF-CARE LIST Words by Sandra La | Images by Alici Cutri
feeding yourself studying for that test doing errands with friends cleaning your room taking your time having that conversation you’re afraid of having giving your own life a meaning taking action against the problem(s) having a dance party in your room embracing your awkwardness confronting the people you’re afraid of confronting drawing stick figures being honest with yourself singing off key having a good cry and nice shower afterwards writing bad poems exploring the unknown parts of yourself running slowly letting yourself be vulnerable sometimes playing video games on easy
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November That’s a wrap! Join us for a party at the newly refurbished West Oak Hotel to celebrate the release of this very edition and say goodbye to the 2017 year and editorial team! All readers, contributors and magazine lovers are invited along for drinks and charcuterie platters.
What the heck is there to do around here? These things. 1st: Verse Mag 2018 Team Applications Close 3rd: Physiotherapy Graduation Ball 3rd: Verse Edition 19 Release Party 3rd- Dec 1: The Power of Illustration Exhibition: Kerry Packer Gallery
West Oak Hotel, Hindley Street (formerly Worldsend) November 3rd, 5.30-8.30pm
5th: Double Shot Coffee Fiesta 7th: Melbourne Cup 10th: Remembrance Day 18th: Christmas Pageant
26th: Medical Radiation Sciences Ball
December Jingle Bells, Batman Smells. 8th- Jan 19: Semaphore Summer Twilight Markets Adelaide Carols by Candlelight will be held at Elder Park on Sunday 10th December 2017!
10th: Carols By Candlelight
25th: Christmas Day 31st: New Year’s Eve
If you’d like to organise an event, join or start a club! Visit USASA.sa.edu.au/clubs
53 Background Images by Emma EditionCuppleditch 19 2017
SEVILLE Evening sun kisses a sea of rooftops Birds sing a goodnight song of golden summer, While you wake to August winter raindrops Where heavy distance robs nights of wonder. Oceans away now, but I see her skin glow, Golden on the terrace where we would start Lone in the plaza where we gazed flamenco Just stay. Breathed a fool’s hope you would not depart. Where buildings burn pink I only see her cheeks, Rosy from fleeting passion of a Spanish spree From lofty peaks I watch lovers enter the streets, As the sun falls behind Saint Mary Of the See; Love grows in me still like the Apple of Peru Pen to paper now- for you must know I am you.
Words by Zoe Kassiotis | Images by Chloe Allchurch
I Know What I Know and I’ve Got What I Need Words by Jessica Salamon | Images by Chloe Coates
Heaven has been stolen from my tight grip, Light has been snatched… taken from my eyes. Cursed from the start on this abandoned ship; Barely breathing, I let heavy heads rise. Half of myself has left without goodbyes; Never wanting a life, full of sharp edges. Torn between days with a blotchy disguise; But not conforming to puzzled pledges. Bodies float where they feel they’re most needed; Bones will bend to fit the mould of lovers. For the very last time, I have pleaded. I don’t belong under cautious covers. No metaphors needed to tell the truth; Buried in a place that I can’t call home. A rotten corpse of my own living youth; Trapped where only in circles, I can roam. I have learnt to walk on this Earth alone, As enemies blood boils on this surface. Doomed from beginnings is what I have known, Though my nightmares have helped me resurface. I’ve seen this soul a thousand lives before; Lurking beside me with a different face. The stare of the old life, stays behind doors, But I will search again to find its grace. The blood in the water is bittersweet, From shame that has washed away on my hands. Showing me no mercy would be a treat. Fire lighting the sky is part of my plans. My heart and head are now disconnected, With the world pulled away from my hard touch. No feelings at all can be detected. Mirrors have never gave me all that much. Apparently, I’m not the same person, As are the frames that hang on my white walls. Do not know where I went wrong to worsen; Pull through to twenty-two before death calls.
TRIUMPH When a person’s path crosses with a fallen civilisation, does the person have to bear the burden of their fate? He caught glimpses of the ruined towers first, rising like crippled malformed fingers from the dusty horizon. Then came the ugly masses of the cities themselves, great mounds of silver and glass that caught the diffused light of the sun above and glinted just so. The Bannerman had seen the corpses of a dozen civilisations in his journey across the Pale, but it never grew any easier. It didn’t matter the sin of their destruction; unchecked greed, curiosity, naivety, unwavering devotion to a flawed ideal. He recorded it all. They had been here, once, in the millions. A great army of hands, moving with a single unanimous purpose to carve through mountains and raise cities from inhospitable plains. But time is cruellest to that which is most beautiful, and as he crested a hill, the Bannerman saw only the final distant glimpse of a brief industrial triumph. The concrete and steel remnants of unchecked sprawl, now abandoned and collapsed under its own weight; both physical and historical. There was nothing sadder than a half-formed house, he thought. A mockery of aborted purpose. Not fit to fulfil function but too formed to return again to nature. To always remain as tombstones to what once had been, and an indictment of what it now was; a land of dirty shadows and decaying memories. There was always a sense of profanity to his actions. He walked over the graves of millions, he stole into the skeletons of their homes and took their legacies from them. What right did he to be the sole inheritor of their memories? Was it a finer fate that they are forgotten entirely? Swallowed up by the sands of time and consigned to oblivion? He didn’t know. He didn’t know now, and he’d likely not know the next time and so lacking in any great philosophic closure, he simply did his job. Yes, they had been here once, long ago. But not anymore, and that would have to be enough for him. The Bannerman descended the hill and moved on. He still had far to travel before he could rest.
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Words by Jake Filbin | Images by Laura Grace Park
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USASA’s second-hand textbook service sells books on behalf of students. When you sell or buy a book with us, it directly goes to, or comes from, another student. Browse the USASA books site to see if your book is in stock. USASA.sa.edu.au/Books 58
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[You found me while I was broken] Well, just about to break, I was keeping it together, With bits of string and bits of tape, I needed something more substaintial, Love and lust and more, And here you are, fallen in, I'm seeing you're quite a score.
You were there at my worst weekends, Now you'll stay for the rest of the year, Im happy that you've made promises, But also that we're playing it by ear, You know, I'll keep your hamster safe, Just as I know you'll help with mine, As what once became your sanity, Some clarity I did find.
So now comes the important part, A part that just makes sense, Will you become my sanity? And now, your words are? ___.
Words by Leticia Albrecht | Images by Isabella Whittaker
1- BREAD KNIFE Let’s be real, you’re probably buying sliced bread as it is anyway. But those beautiful serrated blades can saw through anything if you aren’t worried about how clean the cut is. It’s perfect for cutting anything that requires that sawing movement but that’s about it. It’s like the toolkit saw’s younger and less useful sibling. It will cut through a pineapple but it won’t dice your onions or spread your butter.
2- BUTTER KNIFE The humble butter knife. A staple in dining cutlery. But for a student on a budget, how many dining parties are you really throwing that don’t involve pizza? The blade could hardly break skin and would take a considerable amount of effort to do so, so it’s much better suited to soft foods. It does however make a mean vegemite on toast with its smooth edges making spreading a soothing experience. But at the end of the day, its prime use is to scrape your scrappy meal into the bin and that can be done with a steak knife.
Words by Bridget Kerry | images by Rachael Sharman
You’re a student not a chef, how many knives do you really need?
5- CLEAVER
3- CHEF’S KNIFE There is a reason they call this the king of the kitchen. It slices, it dices. It minces and it de-bones. But it also goes well beyond its intended uses. Need to open a bag of spinach? Pop the cap off a beer? It’s gotcha covered. It’s probably the most versatile kitchen knife ever designed. It’s only flaw is that its sheer size makes simple spreading tasks difficult.
This is a goddamn murder weapon. There is no good reason you should own one of these monsters as a budgeting student unless you run a bloody butcher or plan to kidnap your tutors and send their fingers in the post in return for HDs (sidenote: Verse does not condone this behaviour, not to mention there are better ways to blackmail). This knife is so severely sharp and heavy, it is made to chop through meat and bones. And if you're buying quality slumps of meat like that, are you really budgeting? C’mon
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4- STEAK KNIFE The steak knife is the only sharp piece of cutlery and quite frankly could be the only piece of cutlery (excluding the occasional spoon). Serrated or straight edged, both designs make chowing into that juicy steak (or vegan alternative) that much easier. And if you’re a bit of a risk taker, it’s pointy tip can substitute a fork in many ways. “It doesn’t count if it’s just the tip?” In that case you might require a proper fork.
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Let's all take a moment to accept, admire and appreciate how far we have come. But mostly, let's remember how far we can all go.
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March 21 - April 20
April 21 - May 21
May 22 - June 21
You've jumped hurdles. *almost there* #KANGAROO
It's a make believe world. *but it's not a fantasy* #DINOSAUR
Reward the pleasant. *be positivie* #ELEPHANT
September 24 - October 23
October 24 - November 22
November 23 - December 22
Revolutionise your actions. *yes* #PELICAN
Gather up. *you were made for this* #TORTOISE
You used to want more. *remember your past* #LEOPARD
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Words and Images by Rachael Sharman
June 22 - July 23
July 24 - August 23
August 24 - September 23
There's been a change. *it's what you wanted* #SALMON
Disrupt the current order. *make a mess* #DOG
Pave the way. *travel* #LION
December 23 - January 20
January 21 - February 19
February 20 - March 20
Bring on the nonsense! *you're still a child* #RABBIT
Pack up and head west. *time has come* #CAMEL
You've worked hard. *you deserve to be happy* #FLAMINGO
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Words by Sara Eitzen | Images by Abbey Matson
Morning Coffee Clinking of porcelain Rolling water boils Preparations are made The jar seal breaks A measure is taken Given in plenty The hunger deepens Salivating patiently Water is poured The level rises A blessed sight Bringer of life The most welcome aroma Hanging in the air A stirring begins
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