HINDSIGHT ISSUE ONE by Hindsight

HINDSIGHT

HINDSIGHT #01

FRONT/BACK COVER IMAGE erin alise borzak CURATED natalie ng

W: hindsightzine.blogspot.com

by Sam Ross

“Her body carries clouds all the way home.”

bod·y lan·guage

noun [mass noun] The conscious and unconscious movements and postures by which attitudes and feelings are communicated: “His intent was clearly expressed in his body language”

by Pia Wong

Silhouette by Pia Wong

Back up now for air,

staccato breath we’ll partake Our footsteps are their own race, this escape was never going to be one steered straight. We let our hands become grazed, with time and passion and endless stories Breathe in deep, smell this tainted air, we’ll force every love-note, restrain every care. Beacons of shining, burnt and rusted youth, our smiles are quaking philosophies and our fingers are trailing secrets Stop, slow done now, erase the years. Back up now for air, before life drowns us all… Soothe your dried out skin, your aching limbs, You’re already alive, my dear.

– Loren Wann

Cosmic Love by Mitchell Collins

late morning skin

LUCIA ROSE BUFFA photography

Lucia Rose Buffa

took all my clothes off and stared at my body, naked, in the full length mirror. The socks stayed on my feet because the tiles were cold and unforgiving. I didn’t turn on the light, so I could only see the shadowed outline of the slight curve from breast to waist to hip. I studied my body the way a scientist examines a specimen. It was beautiful. I detached myself from this vessel. I am not my body, it is the vehicle I use to get around in everyday life. And it was beautiful in the way every woman’s body is beautiful. I didn’t ‘love’ my body as we are told to, but neither did I hate it with a burning passion. I appreciated that it was mine, and that it held beauty within its form. I admired it as I would admire a painting or a work of art. But I will never let it define me.

– Grace Dobell

His fingertip slowly traced her freckles that were sprawled all down her legs, like

he was playing dot-to-dot on a 3D level. He liked to imagine the little brown spots each as a memory, they all told a story, like a token of each summer. He traced three spots in particular, he imagined these ones are from the time they spent a day at the seaside just sitting on the edge of the wharf listening to the wind howl and watching the waves dance below their feet, the first time their lips met, the first time he tucked that hair behind those ears, and the first time he really saw the beauty behind that façade. That day the sun had kissed her skin and left behind its trails so gorgeously for every eye to see. His hand travelled up from her knees and her thigh and to the curve that connected her ribcage to her hips, it concaved at such a degree that his palms wrapped around perfectly, and for a moment, he just held her. He could feel her body steadily rise and fall like the waves of the ocean that summer day. Her gaze locked on his, her green eyes the colour murky grass looks like on a day when the sky is deep dark grey and drizzles down endlessly. Her deep rosy lips curved with happiness and let a peek of those pearly whites, the loveliest smile he had ever seen. Her teeth had a little gap between them and they weren’t perfectly straight but to him they perfectly perfect. He let his hand travel up to her jaw line which she claimed was ‘too round’ and he traced his finger down her cheekbones which she said were ‘too prominent’. To her it was all ‘too this and too that’, it’s all just skin and bones to him, it shouldn’t label who you are, because underneath all that, he knew she was so much more than that. He held her wrists in his palms and he could see the blue lines of life hidden behind her pale skin, such a fragile thing. He felt the tremble of her fluttering heartbeat, the constant pounding beneath the skin, and he swears the world fell silent to the sound of her perfect melody. “You’re marvellous” he whispered. Confidently insecure she stared back, “Certainly not!” she objected. “Oh just look at the way my hair sticks up in every direction there is to go, and the way my freckles make my skin look uneven and flawed, not to mention my pear shaped hips and ghostly pale skin, just look at these knees, and these horrid purple circles that hang under my eyes and no matter how much sleep I get they never want to leave!” How incredible he found it that she could have so much hatred for her very own body yet he adored every little bit of her. To him she was so beautiful, so alluring, by the way she reached for her tea cup with her delicate long fingers, the way she would almost always wear knee-high socks even in those sweaty summer time days, the way her freckles told a story, the way her skin looked against his, the way she would tell him every tiny detail in the current book she was reading, and the way she could not remember what she had eaten for breakfast that day but she could remember the first conversation they ever had, or that night they talked about Jean Luc Godard films over dinner, or the pattern the lines on his palm made, or the first time he called her beautiful, because she remembered the things that mattered. And he just did not understand how everyone else wasn’t driven mad by this girl.

– Audrey Pfister

Christopher by Natalie Ng

ERIN ALISE BORZAK photography

Erin Alise Borzak

t’s funny how we’re all so completely and utterly different. Every atom and molecule and vein beneath our skin is entirely unique, yet somehow, we all ultimately long for the same thing. We want gentle fingers that will trail softly up and down our the spine in our backs. We want a couple of dollars to go buy icecream on a summer afternoon. We want to dance in the rain, to kiss in the rain, to hold hands in the rain, to run out of the rain. We want steady hands running a sure path through our hair. We want forehead kisses, and palm-of-our-hand kisses, and full-onthe-mouth kisses racing with passion, and tip-of-the-nose kisses too. We went to build snowmen and fill the air with laughter so it mixes with the pretty snowflakes above our heads. We want supple shoulders, and bare skin and quivering chests…collarbones that rise and fall with every breath. We want slow-motion blinking, and eyes that blaze with uncontrollable desire. We want blanket forts and an abundance of tea. fireplaces and knitted rugs and maybe a brownie or two. We want sea breezes intertwining our hairs with theirs. We want the ocean tide to kiss our toes. We want to talk for hours in candle-lit rooms. We want to fall asleep clutched in someone’s embrace. We want someone to know us better than we know ourselves.

– Loren Wann

Untitled by Sam Ross

Still There

She puts the mug down, and

looks at the speck on his tooth. Her tongue runs over the same space. ‘Will you fix it? Please.’ And then a suck and slice in that place. ‘Still there.’ And he turns red, and ink goes in circles from his cheeks. She keeps at it – speck or none – for another while.

In That Security

am awake and you lie there. I can smell your sleep. There is not much between us in this silence. But it does not last, and I will not rest until you leave. Then I can say I told you so.

– Joe Brennan

wonder about restless fingers that crawl jagged spines and of the skin beneath them encased in layers of goosebumps. I wonder about the palm of a hand pressed gently against the small of her back. I wonder about the trembling trails of hair sneaking an adventurous weave down the arch of a neck and why the hollow above the collar bones shiver slightly in the night. I wonder about the lashes that caress the rise of cheekbones and I wonder where they’ve been before.

– Loren Wann

thought I was a forgotten language. But then you came along tucked me under your tongue and learned me so well.

– Shi-Qian Yong

GEMMA TOPLISS Art

Gemma Topliss

And the Demon Slept

Her skin was clammy - damp and murky and discoloured, like the

ancient swamp that lay just a few metres from her back garden. Wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes made you wonder why someone so aged shook with nerves, fear and the silent rush of adrenaline. One frail hand was lifted to her quivering mouth and the other held a heavy metal demon. It fit perfectly in her hand. The tranquil breeze blew a tendril of wispy white hair across her forehead. She hardly noticed. Old eyes watered slightly, fixed with determination as she stared straight ahead. She could feel the cold, blunt barrel pushed lightly against her temple, her pulse throbbing violently against it. A sweat broke out and she could feel the vile thing threatening to slip from her hand. In the next surreal moment the deathly quiet that had hauntingly enveloped her, began to fade. No. Was that the chirping of birds? She blinked and a droplet of water escaped from the corner of her eye. Her fear-stricken hand fell away from her mouth and swiped away the tear. The soft breeze returned and gently pulled the strand of snowy hair back into place. In the depths of her subconscious, there was a dull thud, as the demon collapsed to the ground, lifeless. She glanced at it for a moment, and with a little sadness, she smiled. There was more than this.

â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Loren Wann

Self-imposed Exile by Zoe Vyner Kasif

Best Friends by Zoe Vyner Kasif

Self Portrait by Evelyn Challinor

Trapped In Another Dimension by Evelyn Challinor

by Gemma Topliss

CONTRIBUTORS

Art: Gemma Topliss Evelyn Challinor Zoe Vyner Kasif

flickr.com/gentle-insomnia flickr.com/photos/78622125@N05 flickr.com/-pisces

Photography: Erin Alise Borzak flickr.com/frito93 Lucia Rose Buffa luciabuffa.com Mitchell Collins flickr.com/mitchell-collins Natalie Ng flickr.com/dormita Sam Ross flickr.com/tel0s_ Pia Wong flickr.com/burningskies

Writing: Joe Brennan Grace Dobell Audrey Pfister Loren Wann Shi-Qian Yong

hazeltown.tumblr.com justanotherwasteddream.tumblr.com hell0-hurricane.tumblr.com rrictus.tumblr.com

HINDSIGHT ISSUE ONE ÂŠ hindsightzine 2012-2013 hindsightzine.blogspot.com