Verse Magazine Edition #9 | April / May

FREE Edition 9 | April - May 2016 Your Student Mag

Inside This Edition Survival The Chase Bitter Band Chat Murder at the Winery Distance: A Matter of Perspective

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contact@versemag.com.au www.versemag.com.au Head Editor Emmylou Macdonald Editor Jordan Leović Communications Editor Adrienne Goode Graphic Designer Nicole Scriva Contributors Angela Skujins, Daniel Zander, Maddy Higginson, Kurt Miegel, Jessica Johnson, Kelly Field, Zoe Butler, Jessye Gelder, Heather McGinn, Anne Jackson, Molly Paton, Tom Angley, Rhys Stalba-Smith, George Vlassis, Judah Cricelli, Victoria Casson, Alexander Degaris, S. Z. Telford, Pippin Ellis, Larsen Cover Alexander Degaris 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.

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Original Cover Image â–ś Alexander Degaris

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Editor’s Letter Head Editor | Emmylou Macdonald

The Monday–Friday university routine is back in full swing and with it comes the lingering feeling of never having enough time. The suffocating and debilitating realisation that your plate is full (or monstrously overflowing like mine) every day accompanies it, too. Work for money, study for knowledge, network to form connections and sleep enough to do it all over again the next day.

Kick your year off right with a healthy dose of indulgence, make it regular and make it good. Regardless of how packedout your calendar is or how swallowed-up you feel, entirely abandon your responsibilities once in a while.

We’re here to be your reprieve, procrastination, creative outlet and general excuse to take a break. Delve into the world of Eindhoven metal heads, escape to Milan, get inspired by successful grads or discover your lucky cheese.

We’re good for you.

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Contents Edition 9 | April - May 2016

02 Editor’s Letter

Page 08

04 Death Metal, Salad and Cher 08 Blending In 12 The Chase 14 Distance: A Matter of Perspective 18 Irony and Semicolons: A Lesson 23 Mind, Body, Fear 24 Survival 26 Tainted Fruit

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28 In[ter]view: Tom Angley 30 Second Chance 34 A Bird, A Flower, A Seam 38 Imag[in]e: Alexander Degaris 47 All is Well in Love and War 48 Murder at the Winery 52 Vox: Student Voice 56 Recycled D.I.Y Citronella Candles

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58 Anatomy of Mi Goreng: A Noodle Review 60 Bitter Band Chat: Larsen 62 Horrorscopes

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Words & Images ▶ Angela Skujins Metal music and Scandinavia have and always will be synonymous. The northern regions which have been hardened by ice, stone and relentless Winters birthed a second wave of Black Metal and in the 1980’s spat out incongruous and ill-famed bands like Mayhem, Darkthrone and Burzum. Corpse paint and shrieks rose from the Swedish and Norwegian mountains while cassettes and records coined the raw recording styles of Death Metal and its disciples.

Festivals like Eindhoven Metal Meeting (EMM) celebrate this metal heritage. Drawing over 2000 patrons to the two-day event, EMM celebrates offbeat frontrunners and

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memorialises metal fathers in the legendary Effenaar Stadium and its two looming stages.

It had only been my second time at a legitimate metal music festival. I attended Black Conjuration, a niche metal music festival in Adelaide, but use the term ‘attend’ loosely. After watching the headlining act, Portal, my heart wound so tightly I had a panic attack in the mosh pit. The band’s rigorous progressions sounded like a swarm of bees and I felt like putty in the gloves of their vocalist, The Curator. I’m a novice in the world of metal music but my boyfriend whom I attended EMM with, is not. He insisted on the festival because an event like this,

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so proximally in-situ to Scandinavia, is pivotal to my understanding of metal.

So, we found ourselves in a remote town bordering Amsterdam and Brussels and in a throng of metal heads.

EMM had already been raging throughout the previous day, and the pre-party and after-party, so the afternoon turnout trickled. The hair however, was in full force as the one degree wind tried to pierce the punters in front but their glorious locks moved through it instead.

Heavy boots crunched through the foyer and we met a bouncer who began to scrutinize my possessions.

“It’s a salad,” my boyfriend explained. “A truffle salad,” I corrected him.

A 30-year-old fan came bouldering through with a bouncer’s guiding influence. His sweat spoke of a day already spent and his wobbly hands told us how many beers he had, but behind him the Viking army collected.

Tall and broad, they amiably stood clutching their beers, peering into the stacks of band merch or jamming their coats into the last remaining lockers. Hoards of patches were sutured onto their denim jackets while bullet belts ran around their bellies.

The primary hall was the centre for merch distribution, crawling with cotton skulls and bloodied script.

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Punters donned their purchased black shirts to assimilate with the masses while they rifled through records. The adjoining gallery looked like a convention centre where ring-licked fingers of Dutch men traded AC/DC iPhone cases while investigating mountains of studded belts.

People have assumptions about metal fans: they are as terrifying as the music they listen to.

Aggressive distortion, volume and a pounding pace identify the genre while fans personify the audible aggression with loud-looking appearances.

This dichotomy was visual in the performance of Necrophobic, an original Swedish death metal band from the 90’s. The four-piece dominated the Large Stage with blackened snarls and angered expressions as the crowd contentedly punched to blasphemous Revelation 666. Fans thrashed to the rapidity of Joakim Sterner, the band’s original and only drummer, and politely apologised if they pushed their way into your drink.

They would almost always look around with shrugged shoulders and a gawking apology while vocalist Anders Storkik screamed on.

I saw niceties amplified in other halls. The official EMM advertisement screens warned of theft by saying, “it isn’t

metal to pickpocket” and we were asked because of our outwardly Australian accents how far we’d travelled to see the show. The only episode we encountered over seven hours at the festival was a 60-year-old drunken stray whom air-guitared over to us, but after offering nothing, moved onto someone else who happily reciprocated.

Marduk was on at 10:30pm and they’re a four-piece cult band from the 90’s with a brutally offensive reputation to straight-line the stereotype. At EMM they performed Black Metal tracks so fast and so furiously that as the lead singer, Daniel “Mortuus” Rosten, sung about Satanism the stage began to smell like burning coal. The crowd wore identical corpse paint and stood trapped in Mortuus’ dragon-like growls and Widigs’ double-kicked drums.

Taking a breath from the aggression estuary, I went downstairs. I thought I’d seen every face of EMM and enough blasphemy to set the Bible on fire, but downstairs I witnessed more than twenty boot stomping, merry metal heads butchering Gloria Jones’ Tainted Love over the PA system.

through Cher, Prince and Alice Cooper lyrics while dabbling in corny dance moves that likened them less to Vikings and more like uncles at a barbeque.

These fans didn’t sing about chthonic slayings but instead they bleated through disco. Metal music and Scandinavia are synonymous, but the assumptions hard-lining the fans aren’t. Fervently passionate about bands and die-hard in their paraphernalia collection methods, metal heads love the music and anyone who shares this appreciation.

They’ll look like an idiot air-guitaring with you or belting out Cher lyrics, and they’re symbolic of what you should take away from this article.

You would never assume all rap buffs are gangstas, so don’t assume someone who listens to any offshoot of metal worships Satan and wants to sacrifice your cat.

Sit them down for a conversation or save them a dance – overcome your cultural relativism.

While Marduk was blaring profanities only a staircase away and Gama Bomb commanding their crowds not far off, these fans were slipping over themselves and the lyrics to cheesy 90’s pop and 70’s soul. They bumbled

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Blending In Words & Images ▶ Daniel Zander Milan probably isn’t the first city to come to mind when you think of Italy — who could go without visiting Rome or Venice? I’d been to Italy before to visit family and more tourist-friendly spots, but the longest I’d ever stayed in the country’s second largest city, home to around five million people, was three hours on my way through to Switzerland.

After completing a study exchange in Central Italy, visiting family in the south and spending a few days with a friend in Veneto, I found myself on a packed train bound for Milano Centrale where I was going to spend two weeks with a friend and her family over Christmas.

Whenever I’d speak to Italians about how I wanted to go back to Milan and explore the city, they’d always tell me I was stupid, that i milanesi are cold and rude and the city is grey, industrial and dirty. In other words, I was going to have a shit time.

What I found when I got off the train couldn’t have been more different. I saw a warm, thriving, clean (okay, so it was a little gritty but who doesn’t love a bit of that?) and internationally connected yet very Italian city. The streets were open and bustling, old palaces and galleries stood perfectly maintained next to colourful apartments and busy shops. People were out in groups, hopping on and off the iconic trams and visibly enjoying life.

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What surprised me most, however, was how seamlessly I could blend into a city completely foreign and new to me.

In Australia we have this idea that Italians have dark skin and dark features, but as a half-Italian with a German father whose origins are in Berlin, I didn’t inherit many of those dark features from my mother. Milan is a multicultural city in the north close to Switzerland, France and Austria where it’s not uncommon for people to have blue eyes, orange hair, or like me, light to dark brown features.

It’s a strange feeling being able to fit into a place you’ve never been. Usually when travelling overseas you’re an outsider, you know you don’t speak the same language, look, or even dress the same way as many of the locals. In Lombardia with my friends, however, I felt like I could simply slip in to the city and explore without being treated like a dumb, English-speaking tourist which was ultimately a huge benefit since I was in the country to learn Italian in the first place.

I was given a more intimate look into the local culture and language — something that isn’t often granted to tourists.

Sure, we did some things only tourists do. We climbed the Duomo and took corny pictures of the cityscape from the rooftop, but we also went to quarters most visitors would never step foot in and enjoyed the Italian lifestyle the Milanese way. At museums and galleries like the Museo del Novecento, I was spoken to only in Italian; when ordering espresso

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at coffee bars nobody initiated conversation in English; on the streets I was often asked by Italians which metro stop we were at or for directions around town.

It was only after people heard my accent that they would either shit themselves at the thought of having to speak English or they’d look me up and down wondering how someone who looked like them and could speak their language seemed so different.

Fitting into a foreign place is strange but great. You get the benefits of constantly practising another language, people don’t treat you differently because you’re a foreigner, you meet and talk to people on a more personal level and you don’t have street vendors pushing crappy umbrellas in your face because it’s about to rain — ‘hi sir special price just for you’. The city took me in with open arms, my friends made sure I experienced as much as possible and I did it all just like a local Milanese.

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Words ▶ Maddy Higginson | Image ▶ Nicole Scriva I hike up to the church to mooch my breakfast as usual. The hunched priest is stumbling through the churchyard with a basket of fruit from his orchard. He hands me a pear with a toothless smile. We don’t speak the same language but we communicate with food.

He doesn’t let me inside while eating, so I lean against the wall, pear juice sliding down my wrist. The church is peeling and the paint flecks my clothes with white. The church overlooks the village, watches it, guards it. It is placed on top with the white, square houses tumbling down the slope towards the sea below. It glows bright from the sun like the star on a Christmas tree.

A man appears at the top of the stairs leading to the church. He is wearing a familiar blue uniform which is straining against his extended gut. He starts talking to the priest. I don’t know what he is saying but it can’t be good, so I toss my core and slip inside. I am instantly taken aback by the silence. The voices outside are muffled by the thick stone walls.

There is a strong smell of creaking, drying wood and hints of incense. It draws me in. I notice a woman sitting in the front.

She is wearing a black shawl that makes her indistinguishable. I’ve never seen anyone here before. I slowly make my way towards her with curiosity.

“Alexis,” she says.

Without even seeing her face, I know who it is and I flee. I go back through the pews, the man coming for me as I reach the garden. I dodge around him. He is uneasy on his feet. He yells after me and follows me into the labyrinth of stairs, winding down the hill and around the houses. My sneakers slip on the smooth worn steps but he is still miles behind.

I know that I am small and swift and no match for the bulk of the policeman. I have been here before. I know how this game works.

I break out of the maze and come to the busy square. It is Saturday, so the market is throbbing with people and ringing with voices. The villagers are bartering and dealing with the venders, swapping something for another. The stalls are piled high with glistening fruit and warm baked bread. I may have lost him, but I can’t get distracted.

When I reach my boat the rest of the crew are lounging on the deck, smoking. I rush along the teetering gangplank and say, “They know I’m here.”

The captain does not hesitate. The crew are ordered into action, untying ropes, pulling in fenders, guiding in the anchor.

The captain loves the chase. He has been running all his life, and now, so am I.

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The first week of uni just finished and I'm still alive which is a massive plus.

Words â–ś Kurt Miegel | Image â–ś Jessica Johnson

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If you too, like me, entered tertiary education for the first time this year, you would have been relieved to find out that the first week was entirely made up of get-toknow-you sessions which you’ve been exposed to your entire life. You know, the ones where you have to meet another random person in your tutorial, exchange some information and then introduce and sell this person to the class as if they were the latest washing machine which you’re pitching to a single viewer of Home Shopping TV. “This person is fantastic! They drive this type of car and live here! They went to this school! They are doing this degree! They fold away under the bed for easy storage!

Buy now and I’ll throw in their sibling for free!”

Well, maybe not quite like that, but you get the idea.

One question which annoyed me more than most was about how much you have travelled. It seems as if everyone in my tutorials has already managed to visit every continent on earth. I’m now convinced that everyone has either been to Italy or England at some point in their life except me.

I was proud to say I’ve been to three states in my life.

And really, I mean two since I’ve only had a passing acquaintance with New South Wales. I’ve been as far east as Melbourne and as far west as West Beach yet I would say I’ve clocked up more kilometres than all these globe-hoppers with whom I share a tutorial.

You see, I’m from the country. The sticks, the bush, whatever you want to call it. That means it takes at least half an hour to get anywhere to do anything and driving over three hours for a game of football or netball is not uncommon. Many of my former classmates would occupy a bus seat for close to two hours a day to get to school.

But we really don’t care.

Driving long distances and for long periods of time is just a way of life when one comes from the country. I was taken aback in my first few weeks of living in Adelaide when I found out that apparently Mount Barker is too far

away for a lot of city dwellers to get to. On the flip side, a fellow spectator at the Adelaide Oval told me that he doesn’t go to as many games as he would like since he doesn’t like the ‘long drive’ back to Tea Tree Gully.

I can’t comprehend those words. For the past six or so summers, I’ve driven the three hour journey from home to watch a three hour game of T20 Cricket, only then to drive the same three hour journey home. Six hours in the car, three at the cricket.

When people find out that I’m so untraveled, aside from giving me a look of both pity and slight superiority, they will usually ask whether I’ll travel in the future. And the answer is no. Well, probably not and there are two reasons for this.

Firstly, I wouldn’t class myself as a big spender and the thought of paying for air travel, hotels and attractions puts me right off. My crazy sense of logic deems it a lot more prudent to buy a coffee table book with pictures from all over the world. I don’t need to visit the Eiffel Tower, I can view it on page 132 in the living room.

Secondly, I have already done my fair share of travel in life.

Just not in many different directions. Most of it has been spent going up and down highways. Google told me that the circumference of the earth is nearly 40,000 kilometres and by using my rough estimating skills from Year 9 maths, I would take a guess that I have travelled around the earth at least 12 times in my life. That’s travelling to the moon with plenty left over.

In my head, I have already done plenty of travelling to sporting matches, events or to see family. It’s just not the type of travelling most people would think of. Sure, I could have exchanged a few miles to go see the lights of Paris or the rolling hills of Europe but is it as good as travelling a couple of hours to play the Perponda Grass Root Parrots on a 40 degree afternoon? Well, I know my answer but I’ll let you decide.

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Shot with a Nikon 5300 DSLR camera and a 55mm lens, Kelly Field's photography is inspired by the world around us. She finds the perfect shot in everyday life; driving at dawn, hiking around Deep Creek and spending balmy summer nights at the beach. facebook.com/kellyfielddesigns/

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Irony and Semicolons: A Lesson Words â–ś Zoe Butler | Images â–ś Jessye Gelder

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When pursuing literary mastery, it is very important that one knows their grammar, spelling and punctuation.

Nothing reeks of ‘wasted time’ more than a poorly crafted piece. As someone who prizes fine works of word smithing, I believe a lesson on two of the more confusing aspects of grammar and punctuation, irony and semicolons, is much needed. These don’t have to be daunting and horrifying; with a bit of practice we will have you writing satire faster than Alanis Morissette can sing her opening line of Ironic.

Irony Irony is one of those magnificent talents that no one in the world quite understands properly and rarely uses correctly.

Saying one thing and meaning another is a fantastic way to confuse or amuse your listeners. Used correctly, it really adds to your conversation. For example, verbal irony: ‘I sure would love to spend my precious and valuable time explaining the use of irony to you.’

Whilst some people will tell you that sarcasm is not irony, the fact is still that I would rather be in Rome, absorbing pizza and cute boys from afar instead of explaining to you how amazing irony is.

Dramatic irony is a personal favourite. Used by all the literary greats (think Shakespeare and Romeo and Juliet), it’s when an audience understands the significance of an event, but the leading lads and ladies do not. Think this:

Sir Pinklebury: ‘Don’t you worry chaps! There is absolutely nothing to fear in these deep, dark woods! Nary a scare to be had!’

Sir Finkledink: ‘But sir! What of those wolves we heard howling over winter? Will they not be still hiding in their dens?’

Sir Pinklebury: ‘Nay, the wolves be long gone as the spring approaches! They know strong knights like us will be a-hunting.’

Sir Finkledink: ‘If you’re so sure…’ ~~ Wolf approaches unbeknownst to the knights ~~ Sir Pinklebury: ‘ Let us be off!’ ~~ Sir Pinklebury steps forward into the shadowy trees ~~ Sir Pinklebury: ‘Look nothing heeeAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGHHHHH!’ ~~ Sir Pinklebury is eaten by wolf ~~ And here the audience would laugh and rejoice in the murder of the silly knight!

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Another important type of irony is situational irony. This is when a reversal of expectations occurs, and can be the most tricky to perfect. To be effective, one must ensure that the scene is clear, before the reversal. Imagine this: Lady Little is a small and anxious woman, pretty for her youthful age. She was worried about being attacked on her way home from an elegant party late at night, so as an extra precaution she slipped a small revolver into her purse. As she was walking home she tripped and stumbled, dropping her purse. BAM. The revolver went off, straight through her foot and brand new shoes!

The irony can be found in the fact that she had brought the revolver to keep her safe, but it instead caused her harm.

This particular type of irony can be difficult to get exactly right, but when used properly, it is a beautiful (and sometimes dark) way to enhance a story.

Semicolons Semicolons can be a distressing mark of punctuation. My year 8 English teacher began our first English class by announcing, ‘not one student of mine will be permitted to use the semicolon in any piece of work submitted to me!’

What kind of English teacher says that? To have a fully-grown adult telling me that I ‘must never mark my page’ that way made it even more terrifying.

But I have improved in the art of their usage and so shall you.

Let us begin with the point of the wonderful semicolon which is used to link independent clauses, two separate sentences that share meaning or replace the comma splice and use as a type of super comma.

See? We’re making progress here! Let’s consider the sentence:

Grandma forgot to get dressed today. She is crazy.

The two sentences are independent clauses - short, sharp and sweet. If we add in a semi colon, we get this:

Grandma forgot to get dressed today; she is crazy.

We’ve reduced the pause in the sentence without using and, but, nor or yet. And still, there is more!

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The semicolon can be used to invite the reader to read the first part as a rising inflective, and the second half as a falling inflective. It augments the excitement Grandma is already causing with her craziness and makes boring independent clauses into something more‌ thrilling.

You’ve already seen an example of the super comma, which is used to separate elements in a series that are already divided by commas, for example:

We are going to a few different places including, London, England; Paris, France; Rome, Italy; Vienna, Austria; as well as a few smaller towns on the way.

Isn’t that much clearer than nine commas? You would find yourself confused as to what was actually being listed!

Grammar and punctuation is easy!

With a little bit of understanding, and a whole lot of practice, grammar and punctuation can really make you into an incredible and expressive writer. Irony and semicolons are one of the harder concepts to get your head around but they really can improve and build on your writing ability. Fluency is much easier to attain when you understand the basics of grammar and utilise correct punctuation, leading to clearer sentences and much more interesting pieces.

With that comes the ability to persuade and convince your audiences, making writing even more exciting!

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Mind, Body, Fear Fears are either physical or mental but debilitating fears are both.

Words & Image ▶ Molly Paton I have a physical fear of lighting matches. It’s not that I’m afraid of fire; I don’t fear the absurd what-ifs of unintentionally burning the house down or setting myself alight. It’s not mental, it’s physical.

I hold the box in one hand, a match in the other, both hands shaking, and I bring them together, the box and the match.

The red tip to the striking strip. I drag it, quick, and then slow but it doesn’t light. I do it again, and again, and the match snaps in half. The red tip rubbed raw, still not alight. I get another match; my hands shaking as I attempt to hold it firmly, but not too firmly. I strike the box and this time it’s only once before the match snaps between my fingers.

I think that maybe the physical fear that my body has is a little more mental than I’d like to admit. I remind myself that I won’t burn the house down or set myself alight, but maybe the mental fear that accompanies this physical fear is not that I’ll light the match, but that I won’t. My mental fear of not being able to light matches gives my body a physical fear of lighting matches. Together they’re debilitating. I don’t know which one I had first, but they feed off each other.

The more matches I snap, the more I believe I’ll snap the next one, and I do.

And then the box of matches is half empty and my lavender scented candle to “Help Reduce Anxiety” sits on the table, wick intact.

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Survival Words ▶ Heather McGinn | Images ▶ Jessye Gelder

It’s my 32nd birthday. I’m on the bus to uni. I am having a quiet little cry behind my sunglasses. Today marks five years since I terminated a pregnancy.

The tendency of the people purported to be helping me, SAPOL and medical professionals, was to focus on my behaviour leading up to being raped.

Five years ago, I was the victim of a hate crime. I was raped. I referred to myself as a victim for approximately 48 hours before choosing to use only the term ‘survivor’.

I’ve always been a feminist and language is important to me so, in an attempt to empower myself, I changed the words. I was committed to telling my own story.

The victim blaming culture entrenched in the police and medical arenas in our country is truly outrageous.

SAPOL did exactly sod all to help me find and charge the perpetrators of this crime and medical practitioners repeatedly told me that my symptoms of chronic pain were all in my head. Eventually, with encouragement from my friends and family, I found a GP who listened without judgement but it took three years of searching.

I thought this small act of defiance would make my recovery easier. I would tackle the challenges that came in the wake of being raped with dignity, grace and great strength of character. The challenges I faced were many and varied. PTSD, chronic illness, chronic pain, depression, unemployment, an unwanted pregnancy; I could go on.

I am a white, middle-class, educated woman surrounded by a large support network but I still wanted to destroy myself despite these privileges. Every step along the way, I faced attitudes that alarmed me.

Rape as a crime is widely misunderstood. Its impact is underestimated. I, like many other survivors, found it difficult to hold down a job, lost friends and isolated myself from the world for a prolonged period of time.

Rape is bad news for the economy. Rape drives a wedge between the genders. I have difficulty trusting men and have had only messy, abusive, failed relationships since starting to date again. On a side note, if you’re

dating somebody who pitches a fit every time you want to spend time your friends, RUN. They’ll only end up dumping you via text message while you’re in hospital having a laparoscopy. What a guy.

You don’t go ‘back to normal’ or ‘your old self’. You’re something different. Wiser, stronger, braver. Five years on, I know that it doesn’t get any easier. You just get better at coping. You can do it. You’re not alone.

Surviving rape has its advantages. I can safely say that no bad day I ever have from now on will ever be the worst day I have ever had. I can spot a misogynist dickhead at 300 paces. I know exactly who my true friends are. I have a closer relationship with my family.

I always felt a mixture of shame and guilt at not fitting the gender norms or the beauty norms of our era but that is no longer. I’m too busy fighting the patriarchy to worry about the size of my butt. Perspective is a great gift.

I survived thanks to my friends and family, the doctor who listened and my own stubbornness. It’s been both transformative and horrifying. I want this to never, ever happen to anybody ever again. Even the men that did this to me. You don’t just ‘get over’ being raped.

Stand up and speak out with the help of White Ribbon – Australia’s campaign to prevent men’s violence against women. Visit whiteribbon.org.au

Tainted Fruit Words ▶ Anne Jackson | Image ▶ Nicole Scriva Side by side in deaths denying Beaks out-turned towards the passing Breeze, though slight, it breathes a moment’s Breath, resembling life, illusion Faux breath, ruffling downy feathers.

Wings too weak to glide, to hover Spiralling through crystal blue they Fall, now flightless, silent, grounded Wings inert, mere bone, mere feather.

Heads once sleek and held majestic Lie in dusty silence under Bowing branches, sagging, weighted Down with ripened apples, gleaming Green, like jewels in summer sunlight.

Underneath the laden branches Over earth-bound forms, enshrouding Ants are crawling, frenzied, feeding

In[ter]view Verse Mag’s Regular Graduate Interview

After graduating from UniSA with a Bachelor of Journalism and International Relations, Tom Angley is now a reporter for Channel Nine News. During his uni days, Tom picked up extensive experience working for media outlets including the ABC and Radio Adelaide which made the job hunt a whole lot easier.

Words ▶ Jordan Leović

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Tell us about the journey you took after university to land a job as a reporter?

I did a three-month internship with FIVEaa on their morning program while continuing to volunteer at Radio Adelaide.

After the internship ended, I was applying for jobs, both locally and interstate, when I got a call from Channel Nine. Their news director remembered me from UniSA’s television industry night and asked me to come in for a chat (interview).

Thankfully I didn’t stuff it up too badly. A few days later I started as an Assistant Chief of Staff before being offered a reporter role late last year.

What has been your most memorable moment while covering a story?

Hard to say! I’ve only been out on the road full-time for a few months. Covering our state’s firefighter training was pretty intense. Got to play dress ups alongside Kane Cornes and a bunch of other rookie firies as they did their thing.

How did you deal with the competitive nature of the journalism industry when starting out?

Worry about your own story and not about what your rivals are doing. If you’re producing good content and putting in the effort, then you’ll be sweet. Listen to the more experienced journos in the newsroom, read/watch the news daily and keep trying to improve. I’ve been owned by our main competitor Channel 7 a couple of times but you learn from it and move on.

How important is it to work for free during and after uni?

It’s vital. If you do a week’s work experience somewhere and think you’ll stroll into a job after graduation... Yeah, nah.

What advice would you offer to aspiring journos?

Community radio is a really good starting point. If you’re at a ‘big-time’ media outlet, try to dress business-y. Present well. Be persistent, but always polite. Relax: it’s okay to have a laugh. Oh and contribute to Verse Magazine, of course.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

I’d like to do a stint overseas.

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Second Chance Words ▶ Rhys Stalba-Smith | Images ▶ George Vlassis

Shuffling into the lunchroom on his first day in Hell, Greg meets a mysterious soul, who’s been there longer than anyone.

‘Uh, hey man. I’m, uh, Greg.’ He sat down next to the stranger at the last table in the corner of Hell’s lunchroom.

‘So, uh, look, I’m new here... I don’t get that we eat lunch...

Isn’t this meant to be damnation forever?’ Greg asked.

The stranger looked at his orange juice thoughtfully, then decided not to say anything.

on the table pretending to surf and smoke a bong at the same time. The Angel of Death was trying his best to keep his lunch in his mouth. ‘An’ you know what I said to the Old Man? Stop being crass Big Mass! I don’t care if it was meant to be an ornamental plant… I’m smoking it!’

Everyone erupted with laughter again, as Satan proceeded to throw himself from the table.

‘You couldn’t pronounce my name even if you wanted to buddy. And to answer the second part, I’ve been here a while.’ The stranger took aim at his peas.

‘Bloody Lucy! He’s such a pimple on your nose. You know he invented the whole high school hierarchy BS? It’s true. He modelled it off of how he runs this ship here. He’s an arse!’ Ben took a stab at his mashed steak.

‘He’s just ungrateful y’know? I been here too long Greg.

What’re you, like a couple days? You still look fresh.

Satan hasn’t got to work on you yet, I’d take it?’

Greg played with the food on his tray too. Mashing the peas into the mashed potato, doing anything to try and see out this awkwardness.

‘What? Satan’ll work on me?!’ Greg asked. ‘But, I wasn’t that bad! I don’t think? I wasn’t a believer really, I thought I’d get limbo. But—’

‘Just call me, Ben,’ he finally said.

‘See, it’s the really that gets you there. You weren’t a believer really. Which in Big G’s eyes means you were.

And seeing as you weren’t just caught in the wrong place wrong time yada yada, spend your time in limbo etcetera etcetera, you have to come to Hell. Satan, Ange, all the minions, they all do shift work. It’s a bit sucky, but hey, Sunday is normally a pretty good roast.’

‘So, do you have a name? You been—’

‘So, uh, Ben. What did you do? I mean you don’t seem bad. I guess people can mellow out—’ At that point a big uproar erupted from Satan’s table.

He was at the centre of attention telling a story.

His cronies were howling with laughter. Satan stood

‘But, aren’t we meant to have done bad things? Like you, if you’ve been here for so long, doesn’t that mean you’ve done the worst sin?’ Greg asked.

‘You wanna know why I’m here, kid? I was God’s partner. I helped him make this. All of it.’ Greg shoved his meal back.

‘You don’t do the crime then do the time! It’s eternity.

Eternity! Didn’t you read the book? It doesn’t matter what you’ve done - you did it! You went against God. No second chance. If you don’t want to risk it, sit in your room and pray all day. If you want the least bit of a tickle, you gotta get out of the room. And soon as you’re outside, pretty much everything you do, in context, can become a sin. That was my first wedge. So no, you don’t have to do anything bad to get to Hell. But you don’t have to do anything either. You had doubt. So that got you here. Where as the poor sods in Limbo just get magazines. No Sunday roast, Tuesday loaf, Thursday pancakes, or Fry Up Friesday. It’s literally the same issue of Moses Quarterly’

‘You think he could do it all in seven days? Sorry, six with one to rest. Hell no he couldn’t. He was an overly excited architect who contracted the work out to me. I did all the heavy lifting. I played the evolutionist, picking where to put you critters and what to grow. I make one joke. One joke! And I’m banished forever down here.

I built this little dungeon for God too, walked right into the trap. Last minute inspection, he says, then bang!

Slams the door. I waited forever down here in the dark.

Then after a while Lucy showed up. Thought I was the janitor or something. But he knew! He knew that if I was here, I predated him. So he kept his distance. Let the lion roam his own cage. Don’t feed, don’t screw around with him, just stay away!’ Ben got up from his seat and began to walk away.

Ben wiped his mouth with his napkin and threw it on the meal.

‘I’m sorry—’ Greg began.

‘But what do I do? I mean, can I tag along with you?’ Greg asked, struggling to keep up.

‘No you’re not. No one is. Sorry gets you nowhere.

That’s a dirty word. You can apologise all you want, but Ole Swamp Balls won’t change his mind,’ Ben said.

Ben had been smaller at the table but now he appeared to be in a larger form. His true form? Greg didn’t know, but he wanted to find out.

‘I’m sorry, who?’ Greg asked.

Satan and his cronies fell silent as they walked past.

They began to whisper. ‘Hey, uh, uh, Ben?’ Satan stammered. ‘The uh, Fields of Eternal Ripping are closed today… uh, for maintenance. So um, you know, you can’t go there—‘

‘You mean this?’ Greg said, producing a clear talisman from his pocket.

‘Can do what I want when I want, Sacktan. I built this place, you just run it.’ Ben said.

‘Nah, that’s just your holiday token. Everyone gets an allocated four weeks off each century. When that bad boy turns purple, you’ll be allowed to have some time off.

It’s cool.’ Ben kicked at the dirt.

Greg was running to keep up with Ben as they left the hall.

He seemed to grow bigger with each step.

‘Who’d you wanna call anyway? Did you have friends other than God?’ Greg asked.

‘You can do what ever you want outside the hours of 8 to 5. You’ll get ripped into, then lunch, then re-ripped, then home time. After that, you can do whatever. You’ll find a place though. Most start out camping, but you’ll learn to roomie up with some of the minions on low wage.

There’s an apartment complex in the North.’

‘Don’t worry man, I already used mine this year. See, G Boss still gives me some respite. Even though we’re not talking, he lets me call someone each year. You guys on the other hand are a one-off.

They passed admin and emerged from the building into the lungs of Hell. A signpost directed the waves of souls around the domain. Ben was looking over the crowd of heads and searching into the distance.

‘Hey did you get a token when you arrived? A call token?

They were giving them out for a while. You had one call back to the living world to who ever you wanted.

Any time, any place kinda deal. You get one?’ Ben asked earnestly.

‘Who do you call?’ Greg asked.

‘Well, it’s easy ain’t it? My nephew. Cheeses Crisp.’ Ben laughed.

Greg was transfixed. ‘Wait, what?!’ he said.

‘C’mon, hurry up! If you’re gonna tag along you gotta work for it!’ Ben said.

The minstrel’s bird is seldom stirred To anguish borne from thoughts unheard, But whispers whisked with silver spoons Words ▶ Judah Cricelli | Images ▶ Victoria Casson

Reflect a lace of pearl festoons, How little lumbered, whitest lines— Melodic, mantic, forks and tines— How taints in time would cease to see The rose-cheeked burdens sworn esprit.

A playwright’s wren would seldom spend Her leisures leched by learned men, Denied her rites of fastened bones, Her bolted locks a scoundrel’s stones, She’d wish to wander briefly when Brief etchings of brief tides-of-then— Gold-pendant and gold-gilded pen— Erode wry-wit and write again But tethers tusks to unsaid word, A bristling June-bull soon unfurred, And raptured rampant, silence spurred, A phalanx forward, flying fleur.

“A fair black flower”, rhymes the wren, “That fetid flower, tides of when, When brazen statute burns the waif, A heifer once, the lamb is safe From hecatombs and iron chains, If off-the-chance this blood-let stains, And distilled fine, these copper eyes Brew crimson from their comfort cries.

This wretched lamb, this feverfew, A blight-filled flower without you, The nightshade oil burns with grief, Eclipsed flower, black-stained leaf.”

By crimson means perfection’s gleamed Aligned along a crimson seam, for Hearts—rufescent passion play—are Crimson in their blood ballet. Or Carmine coloured pinkish ‘paigns, or Cerise tears in carmine veins?

Or scarlet ‘ffections that we say, A rose-red sanguine’s heart bouquet?

April

What the heck is there to do around here? These things.

1st: Physiotherapy Student Society Pub Crawl

Nutella-palooza Nutella-Palooza is an independent inaugural free-entry community event featuring cooking demonstrations, bakery stalls, chocolate stalls, food trucks and much more. Bonython Park/Tulya Wardli, Saturday April 9.

8th: 256 Shades of Gray: Med Rad Pubcrawl 9th: Nutella-palooza 11th - 22nd: SP2 teaching break

18th: Record Store Day

25th: Anzac Day

May 2nd: Verse Edition 10 Submission deadline 8th: Mother’s Day

UniTopia Back by popular demand, USASA will be bringing UniTopia to all UniSA students across all campuses.

Experience your very own on campus oasis, an escape to help you to unwind and de-stress.

19th- 20th: UniJam 28th: USALSA Law Ball 31st: UniTopia at Mawson Lakes

31 May - Mawson Lakes, 1 June - Magill, 8 June - City West, 9 June - City East If you’d like to organise an event, join or start a club! Visit USASA.sa.edu.au/clubs

The Art of Alexander Degaris

Imag[in]e The UniSA Student Art & Design feature

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Alexander Degaris makes ambiguity come alive with his unique take on sculpted art. Currently studying a Masters of Visual Arts, he has a lot to say through his dynamic work.

Words ▶ Emmylou Macdonald | Images ▶ Alexander Degaris You’ve said your work is reflective of various online interactions. What is it about the online world that you find so inspiring?

How accurately does your work reflect your own identity?

Is it a direct parallel to your personality or does it reveal another side to you?

I think purely the fact that you can really become anyone online and there is the potential to play different roles that you may not feel comfortable being in physical space.

While to an extent everyone’s identity can change on a daily basis, I think that in social environments online these changes can happen more rapidly and operate outside of discriminatory social structures.

I think that at times the work definitely portrays aspects of myself at one time or another, although it is intentionally ambiguous. My intent is more for the work to reveal something to a viewer that they may not have considered before or to resonate with their own experiences.

In your opinion, how imperative are digital spaces in forming one’s identity?

I think that for people who are culturally, socially or geographically isolated from positive representations of identities that reflect their own, digital spaces can act as safe spaces to explore, understand, formulate or discover their identity.

Who (or what) is your muse? Why? I try and use my experiences to serve as a springboard into creating artwork—to create something that at the end of the day hopefully communicates something about the experience of being human. Otherwise, I’m inspired by the wealth of artists that create work that has a similar political angle to my own.

What is the most challenging thing about pursuing a creative avenue? How do you manage it?

The most challenging things are probably managing finances and keeping spirits up when the bank account is down but also not doubting yourself constantly. I try to just keep positive, continually keep making and seek critique from as many people as possible.

Why do you think your art is an effective way to combat the conventions of hetero-normative and patriarchal power structures? Why is it important to you?

The video works that I am currently working on attempt to present gender as the social construct that it is and argue that we would be better off if gender didn’t consist of strict binary categorisation. The overflow effect of this is to present the possibility of a world in which gender and sexually diverse people aren’t ‘othered’ and subsequently not discriminated against. It’s important to me as I’ve seen the negative effects of those power structures on myself, the people I surround myself with and reflected within the media.

Whose home would you most like to see your art displayed in?

If Bjork had anything of mine I think I would be ecstatic!

I think some of my work might match her style.

Where do you see yourself after completing your studies?

Once I’ve completed Masters at UniSA, I think I’d like to live overseas for a while. Career wise, my goal is to ultimately be working in academia or to be able to survive as a fulltime practicing artist.

See more of Alex’s work on Instagram @alexandeer

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. -. .-.. .. --- ...- . .-.. .. ...

All is Well in Love and War Words ▶ S. Z. Telford Men!

Heed my words and steel your hearts. Today all is well.

The enemy awaits with fierce intent and murderous rage, yet I say all is well.

Do not wane in courage or falter in determination as this moment is our respite and our true salvation.

We must hold back the tide; stand stalwart against those who would wish to destroy you. This is our duty, this is our honour. In this struggle we find truth, in this fight we find our boulder.

And yet I say to you, all is well.

Our fate belongs to our own — not to our fear, not to our enemies but to our own.

In attrition we will rise to victory with gritted teeth and bloody wounds. We will push until our bones break and our skin peels but we will not relent.

This is life; this is the struggle that we are born into and are raised above mere mortals to overcome. It is not in misery that we sharpen our knives and load our rifles but in pride, in a burning joy of thrill and exhilaration.

There is no sun without shadow and in this there is no happiness without pain.

Push, I say push! Push forever onward into eternity’s longing embrace of shrapnel and damning mud.

In heavy measured steps we will march to victory. In methodical resilience we will reach our satisfaction.

This war will not last forever! This is the price we pay for our country, this is the price we pay for our children and loved ones.

The boulder will be moved. It will be pushed to the highest mountain only to be rolled back down. But I say again, all is well.

Within every British man before me lies strength and might that can never be quelled.

In our arms lies the ability to fight, in our legs there is such force as to move mountains.

In our hearts a pride and anger roars like the Devil’s own grand beast and shining in our eyes is the piercing hardship that tells me all is well.

Fight with me, in our relentless pursuit of victory we find only our enemies’ destruction. For we know that all is well in this moment, we know that crushing truths cannot withstand against our acknowledgment of our fate.

Brace your fellow brothers and make peace with that which needs be. For today we go over the top, today we march on our victory and push our boulder. We are British men; we do not stumble at the step of destiny. We embrace, we charge with great vengeance and we know that today in this moment all is well.

Now, what say you?

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Murder at the Winery Words ▶ Emmylou Macdonald | Images ▶ Nicole Scriva The Barossa sun is blazing hot. My forehead is covered in a blanket of sweat and so is the body at my feet. It’s the winemaker—he’s dead.

Red and blue lights flash rapidly in the distance, quickly getting closer. There’s no need to speed.

A couple of burly, uniformed cops race over with their chests puffed up and brows knotted, ready to roar. I flash my badge and they stop mid-gait. It’s my scene, not yours.

That goes against the grain. They tape off the area more sluggish than usual. Sloppy.

A picnic rug is embedded between the vines, bordered by grapes and cushioned by dirt. Two wine glasses are planted on the ground. One’s empty, one’s full.

Poison.

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Inside is littered with people. Some in tears, some hysterical, some completely blank. Don’t leave my sight.

The locker room is metallic and cold. A glacial hole-in-the-wall.

I need access to it all. They don’t have a choice. They oblige.

Spare keys, uncashed cheques, corked bottles and a suspicious photo—who defaced the dead?

I line everyone up. Single file. They wait on me to call their name. I take my time.

Their hearts are pumping. How much can they take? This is just the start.

The numbers dwindle, the clock ticks.

Tick, tick, tick.

Darting eyes, fidgeting hands, practised words. It’s you.

I accuse.

The guilt is heavy. The confession pours. It gushes. It spouts. It flows.

Careless in every sense.

A clanging bell begins to ring. It rings and rings. It doesn’t stop.

The door creeps open and the sergeant marches in. On a mission—it’s important.

Silently, she hands me a piece of paper. It’s heavy duty and sharp. It’s official.

Congratulations!

A thrilling and triumphant escape from Murder at the Winery with an escape time of 57 minutes 12 seconds.

This adventure was courtesy of The Escape Hunt Experience Adelaide. Find out more at adelaide.escapehunt.com

VO X: Student Voice During O-Week we gathered the thoughts, prospects and goals of UniSA students from Adelaide and beyond.

Words ▶ Adrienne Goode

Emilie Turcry Bachelor of International Business and Management, French exchange Why did you choose to study at UniSA? I’m actually on exchange from France, so it was one of my partnered universities. I really wanted to go to Australia, and my friend lives here in Adelaide so that’s why I chose UniSA.

Abbey Buckham Bachelor of Business (Tourism and Event Management) What rumours have you heard about being a uni student?

Probably that uni students are always poor and that I’ll have to look after my money.

Hazal Tokatlioğlu Bachelor of Economics, Turkish exchange What rumours have you heard about being a uni student?

I haven’t heard any myths about Australian university life, but I have heard that you might run into a snake in your bathroom. Stuff like that.

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Rachael Cursaro Bachelor of Education What rumours have you heard about being a uni student?

A lot of people believe that when you go to uni you’re on your own, but there’s heaps of support out there with assignments and just in general. You’ll find most of your tutors are happy to have a chat about uni work and assessments outside of tutes as well.

Barbara Canovas Bachelor of Architectural Design, Spanish exchange What are you most looking forward to about studying at UniSA? I’m really excited to travel around Australia because it’s so far away from home and I really want to see everything. I’ve heard there are some really beautiful places in the country and Adelaide is one of them.

Daniela Ventresca Bachelor of Business (Tourism and Event Management) What advice have you been given?

This is my third year being a uni student, but my first year studying at UniSA. I guess some advice is just to get involved because that’s something I did when I very first started and it changed everything.

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Tessa Kramer Bachelor of Environmental Science, Dutch exchange What are you most looking forward to about studying at UniSA? I’m looking forward to experiencing university in another country and to meet new people.

Zoe Lynch Bachelor of Business (Tourism and Event Management) Why did you choose to study at UniSA? Mainly because my course was offered here but all the facilities here are really good also.

Becca Meyer Bachelor of Health and Human Sciences, American exchange What advice have you been given?

Just to really get involved in the culture of Australia and with local students and to explore.

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Recycled D.I.Y Citronella Candles Words ▶ Pippin Ellis | Image ▶ Victoria Casson

Itchy mozzie bites giving you the shits? Then put this citronella candle on your windowsill to scare those little critters off while you’re outside with mates. If you’re not a fan of citronella, add a few drops of something stronger for an aromatic pong!

What you’ll need: Old candles Groovy tin, teacup, glass or other vessel Citronella oil Essential oil Wicks Stick Directions: Remove the metal from the bottom of the old candles. The wick can stay in and you can remove it after the candle has melted.

Melt the candles over medium heat in a large pot. I use two medium sized candles to fill a teacup While the wax is melting, use a hot glue gun to adhere the wick to the bottom of the cup.

Wrap the top of the wick around a stick and rest it across the top of the cup. This will help it stay in place.

Once the wax has melted, pour into a heatproof bowl. Add 30ml of citronella oil per 6 cups of melted wax.

Then add 15ml of essential oil and mix well.

Pour the wax into the teacups and let them sit until they harden.

Words â–ś Emmylou Macdonald

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Maggi Fusian Mi Goreng: Soy & mild spice They smelled sickly sweet. Candy-coated. The spices looked like finely shaved parmesan direct from Italy.

I was confused and so were my senses.

The soy flavour was non-existent but the spice filled in.

Chilli flakes covered the spongy noodles and crunched with each mouthful. It was audible.

They were dull. The taste mirrored my apathy—bland.

Chewing through the coiled noodles, I was lethargic.

I had no motivation to finish the cup just like the noodles had no ambition to excel at their job.

Maggi Fusian Mi Goreng: Singapore

Maggi Fusian Mi Goreng: Hot & spicy

Everything tasted the same. It was like I had guzzled a bottle of soy sauce and it had permanently coated the inside of my mouth.

This one had a fire extinguisher on the packet. Red hot in colour—so was the spice.

There was no hint of spice even though I’d emptied an entire sachet of chilli right on top. I was baffled. Where had it gone? Were they even chilli flakes at all?

I resorted to eating the rest of the noodles, each slurp cementing my regret. With every strand that made its way into my belly, another seemed to appear in the cup.

It was bottomless.

I forfeited. The monotony was too much to bear. I ate a burrito instead. It tasted like soy.

The first couple of mouthfuls had me thinking the marketing was a sham. I felt ripped off. I wanted to suffer through this. I was prepared. Then it hit me.

My tastebuds began their demise. They plummeted into the depths of Hell. The inferno engulfed my teeth, cheeks and throat. When I thought it was over, another piece of chilli sprung from its hidey-hole—SURPRISE. I couldn’t stop eating. Am I masochist or did they actually taste good? I’m not sure, probably both.

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Last week, we reluctantly sat down with UniSA four-piece, Larsen.

Larsen? That sounds like a brand of biscuits. The alt-rockers shared the importance of free beer, Nickelback-induced orgasms and why they haven’t bothered to get real jobs.

Words ▶ Jordan Leović | Images ▶ Courtesy of Larsen

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Briefly explain why your band doesn’t suck.

What separates us from other bands is that we put in the time and effort to make sure that we get the perfect shampoo to conditioner ratio when showering. We feel that this really comes through in our performances.

How do you deal with the fact that you will never be famous?

For us it’s not about the fame or money. We do it for a far more personal and meaningful reason: free beer.

Why don’t you just give up and get a real job?

Some say you sound like Nickelback, but worse. Much worse. What do you think of this?

What did John Lennon think when he finished writing Bohemian Rhapsody which then went on to become the biggest hit The Rolling Stones ever had? There's your answer.

Where are you playing your next yawn-inducing show?

Steven's mum's basement.

Thanks guys. You were remarkably average.

Catch them at triplejunearthed.com/artist/larsen

Please. Every few weeks we get paid $27 each and hoard free drink cards in the hope that the bar tenders don't realise the cards we're using are from two months ago. If that doesn't sound like a real job, we don't know what is.

Do you ever plan to move out of your parents’ basement?

Yes and into the garage.

If you do get famous, which you won’t, you’ll almost certainly die young. What’s your ideal death?

OD-ing on a pleasant mixture of burgers, codeine, beer and orgasms while Nickelback’s Photograph plays in the background.

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Stargazing â–ś Nicole Scriva

a

b

c

March 21 - April 20

April 21 - May 21

May 22 - June 21

ASIO had your phone wire tapped.

That sucks.

Your Dad will find your secret twitter account. How awkward.

You will have an erotic dream about Donald Trump.

Lucky cheese: Supermarket platter rejected smoked cheese.

Lucky cheese: Cream cheese licked off someone you find a bit sexy.

Lucky cheese: Pre-sliced cheese with weird cold and stale crackers.

g

h

i

September 24 - October 23

October 24 - November 22

November 23 - December 22

In 20 years you will move to Nimbin and sell seashells at an intersection.

This weekend you are not going to have a great time on Hindley Street.

Today someone will ask you if you are pregnant.

Lucky cheese: Laughing Cow cheese (lots of it though, like LOTS).

Lucky cheese: A Bega Stringer that has been in a child’s lunch box all day.

Lucky cheese: Slappy packet cheese topped with an icing of spray can cheese.

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d

e

f

June 22 - July 23

July 24 - August 23

August 24 - September 23

Next week you will accidentally call your tutor mum.

You will brush someone’s butt with your butt on public transport.

Your next group assignment will be an absolute disaster.

Lucky cheese: Cheezels (crushed and used like parmesan).

Lucky cheese: 64 slices of American cheese.

Lucky cheese: Powdered Easy Mac cheese.

j

k

l

December 23 - January 20

January 21 - February 19

February 20 - March 20

In 5 years you are going to be sucked into one of those email spam scams.

Oops.

Maybe today, maybe tomorrow you will accidentally like an Instagram picture of someone you’re stalking.

An Adelaide Metro bus driver will yell at you tomorrow (legitimately sorry about this, it’s so horrible).

Lucky cheese: Parmesan from those shakers at cheap Italian restaurants.

Lucky cheese: Night cheese.

Lucky cheese: $49.95 marinated goats fetta.

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