Volume 17: Interlude by Perspektif Magazine

VOLume 17: INTERLUDE

Acknowledgement of Country Perspektif Magazine acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the land our magazine is produced and printed on, in which we have been given the opportunity to create and share our thoughts, art and stories. We pay our respects to the Elders past and present, and emerging leaders. We understand that Sovereignty was never ceded.

PERSPEKTIF

Interlude Volume 17

Perspektif

Indonesian for Perspective (noun.) a point of view

Perspektif is a biannual print and online magazine dedicated to showcasing young talents and ideas about current issues. Each volume contains a variety of written and visual pieces from critical analyses to poems and personal essays, each centralized on a theme. Supported by kind donations and passionate individuals, our magazine is entirely free and run by a team of student volunteers. We hope that Perspektif will inspire and familiarise you with new ideas, and perhaps help you to challenge yours in the process.

VISION To be a platform that exemplifies the diversity of student experiences through showcasing ideas, talents, initiatives, and stories relevant to the youth.

MISSION To provide a shared space for discussions of timely topics and build a sense of community, while creating a magazine that is visually and intellectually engaging.

In t e r l u d e “I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun” -Jane Austen The curtains are drawn and the lights dim down. We wait for the next act in this play. The orchestra rests—a strange, yet rewarding, feel from the absence of sound. We sigh. Then, the steady beat of the drums within our bodies begin to wonder, Now what? Has the world always been this vast? There is a tug on the curtains, the silk illuminated by bits of the early sun’s ray glistening through the windows. Even under the open sky filled with possibilities, something seems different. Another pull at the curtains. We settle back into our seats as the sun continues to rise.

scan for the ultimate reading experience!

SHIMMER photography ANINDYA MEIV

CHANGING COLOURS photography LUTFIAH AL IZZAH

EDITOR in chief’S WORDS When I think of interludes in my life, the idea of waiting comes to mind very vividly. "Please be patient and wait" The phrase we perhaps hear at a doctor’s appointment, or when running errands at a bank, or it’s even one we tell ourselves when things seem unbearable – our hearts pressed. I think we’ve all been there. We’ve experienced the kind of anxiety of constantly having to wait for something that seems to stretch without an end. Especially in these past few years, with the pandemic keeping us at a long pause. Some of us haven’t seen our loved ones in what feels like forever, while the rest may be excited to venture into a new season of independence – away from the comfort of home. It’s a different waiting game for lots of people. Yet, through learning how to wait, we gain endurance. This gives us strength, a way to persevere through the atrocities of life. The pauses in our routines forces us to rest and breathe. We learn how to cope with the uncertainties, and worry less about the things we cannot control. It is quite liberating, in a way. We also learn to appreciate the miniscule, vivid moments that we tend to take for granted. Our 17th volume aims to reflect just this: the different experiences of time, moments and pauses that are felt by our contributors. We were in such awe after receiving many remarkable submissions that showcased so many talents in them. Contributors, we are honoured to be the home of your inspiring pieces. I also want to express a tremendous thank you to my executive team, as well as our officers, for being a major part of bringing this magazine to life! Truly, this would not be possible without the hard work of each and every one of you, my Perspektif family. Lastly, we hope you, our readers, will feel inspired after reading the magazine, as much as we were when putting it together. All love, Dwigdi Diksita

Managing EDITOR’S WORDS We are all made up of stories, moments that defines who we are and pieces put together by the things we do. In these bits are the people we meet, those we love and—often after a few lessons learned—lose. Then there are the in-betweens: the long way home that no one knows about, hours of playing chess mixed with dancing in the dark, pastel skies atop a hill within a dream. If we dig even deeper, we find diary entries hidden in a drawer, shades of a painting settled in a museum, the smooth lines of a sketch. Everything around us. The list goes on. I want to express my biggest gratitude for being able to relive these moments with you. To the contributors, thank you for trusting our magazine enough to share your imaginations, experiences, and giving us a glimpse of who you are. To those of you who continuously support us (no matter how small!), we see you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! These moments are yours and mine, gathered in the pages of this magazine. These interludes are ours. A special shoutout to my editorial team, whose been so wonderful despite being oceans’ away. I can’t wait to finally edit with you all, in person! And to my fellow executives & committee members, it’s been a chaotic past few months, but we pushed through and I’m ever grateful for every one of you. With love, Anindya

illustration ANGELINA KURNIAWAN

FOUNDERS Fauziyah Annur Rama Adityadharma Mary Anugrah Rasita

EDITOR IN CHIEF Dwigdi Diksita

EDITORIAL Managing Editor Anindya Setiawan

Editors Alexandra Teh Padmo Widyaseno Valleryna Putri Amanda Xaviera Quincy Jhon

CREATIVE Creative Director Michelle Felica

Designers & Illustrators Alicia Oktaviana Halim Andersen Chandradinata Jessemina Carmenia Sugiono Tiara Puspa Amanda

Webmaster Marceline Nathalie Layandri

MARKETING: SOCIAL MEDIA Social Media Director Astri Sanjaya

Social Media Officers Geraldi Maharlian Abdiel Jessica Quan Jesslyn Chrishella Vanessa Sutiono

Photographer William Evan Subrata

MARKETING: EVENT Events Director Angelina Kurniawan

Events Officers Kimberly Santoso Lorenzo Jocelyn Handojo Marcia Christina Thomas Vanezia Valentine Tjiong

L E S S O N S O F W A I TI N G F RO M A H U N D R E D -Y E A R- O L D - P A I N TI N G QUINCY JHON

J A N E D E A U X N OT J A N E D O E C.A.

LIMINAL S H U U J AT M I R Z A

M O V E M E N T I N P I X E LS D W I G D I D I K S I TA

2 AM SCENARIOS NAURA

I N TE RS TE L L A R : A W O R L D B U I LT O N ‘ TI M E ’ A S T R I S A N J A YA

TH E I N D E F I N I TE W A I T P A D M O W I D YA S E N O

W H E N W E S L O W D A N C E D I N TH E D A R K BEA R.

TH E M A N Y F A C E T S O F M O V I N G O N

TA B L E O F CONTENTS

A N I N D YA M E I V

R E A D Y , S E T , H A LT ! M O U D I S H A Z E E VA

SWIPER NO SWIPING! S A N D H YA LY E R

TH O U S A N D M O U TH S . ABHILIPSA SAHOO

S TO R I E S F RO M M Y S K E TCH B O O K H A N N A H S AVA G E

D A N C I N G W ATE R ALEXANDRA TEH

W ATCH O U T , TI M E MICHELLE MILLENIS

EXPOSED SARAH ROBIN

TH E H I S TO R Y O F I N TE R N A L I S E D C A P I TA L I S M & I T S R E L ATI O N S H I P TO D I G I TA L M E N TA L H E A LTH ABHILIPSA SAHOO

W I TH F O N D M E M O R I E S I N M Y H E A RT SARAH ROBIN

I H AV E W R I TE R ’ S B L O C K C.A.

TH E S TO R Y O F H O W I D I E D VELLA AMANDA

V E RTI G O GABRIELLE ROSE

A TH RO W A W A Y C E RTI TU D E S H U J A AT M I R Z A

N I M B L E - F O O TE D S H U J A AT M I R Z A

TI M E Z O N E S A S T R I S A N J A YA , A N I N D YA M E I V

PHOTO BY

THERESA FONG

THE REFLECTION OF NATURE photography FERRY FERDINANDUS

CONTRIBUTORS VOLUME 17

WORDS QUINCY JHON C. A. S H U J A AT M I R Z A D W I G D I D I K S I TA NAURA A S T R I S A N J A YA P A D M O W I D YA S E N O BEA R. A N I N D YA M E I V MOUDISHA ZEEVA S A N D H YA I Y E R ABHILIPSA SAHOO HANNAH SAVAGE ALEXANDRA TEH MICHELLE MILLENIS SARAH ROBIN A S H L E Y M A N G TA N I VELLA AMANDA GABRIELLE ROSE

MEDIA LUTFIAH AL IZZAH A N I N D YA M E I V FERRY FERDINANDUS ANGELINA KURNIAWAN D W I G D I D I K S I TA MOUDISHA ZEEVA HANNAH SAVAGE T E V YA A R T A N T O

LESSONS OF WAITING FROM A H U N D R E D - Y E A R - O L D PA I N T I N G words QUINCY JHON illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO I was ten when I first visited an art museum. I remember walking into the gallery, looking at people staring at abstract pieces. I remember the silence, but simultaneously, the gallery itself was loud. Thoughts and ideas echoed. I also remember exiting the museum after five minutes because I was ten and didn’t understand art. Art seemed like it was reserved only for the intellectuals, hidden for those who understand a language not many have deciphered. At the age of almost twenty, amidst the pandemic, I find myself reading on art history—on Picasso, Monet, Duchamp. I think the underlying reasons behind my sudden interest are two things: one, I have come to realise that I had too much time on hand. Two, I’ve started to feel empty with the absence of art in my life. It was never just a form of entertainment; it’s a story, a poem, a found puzzle piece. Looking at an art, we see the many lives that the artist went through and all the people surrounding it. Think about seeing Mona Lisa in the Louvre. The 500-year-old painting is currently living in the same era as you! But, today is not about Mona Lisa (although her truth is something the world is still waiting to uncover). Today is about Edgar Degas and his pastel, L’Attente. Degas is one of the founding fathers of impressionism. He was good friends with Monet, Manet (yes, these are two different people and, no, they are unrelated), Pissarro, Renoir, Cassatt, and the likes. The best way to distinguish him is by recognising that most of his paintings subjected ballerinas and their everyday lives. He drew over 1,500 ballet scenes throughout his life. The funniest thing is that Degas had only begun drawing these ballet dancers up-close after

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

illustrating them for dozens of years, through newspaper photographs, and used models to replicate the ballerinas. An impression of reality, so the name depicted. Degas even once said: "It is all very well to copy what one sees, but it is far better to draw what one now only sees in one’s memory. That is a transformation in which imagination collaborates with memory."” When one of his collectors asked him why he was so obsessed with ballet, he simply replied: "Because, madame, it is all that is left to us from the combined movement of the Greeks."” For a man who was on a contemporary revolution, this was quite conflicting. L’Attente (1882), or in English, Waiting, is a painting showing two subjects sitting on a bench with their backs against the wall. One is undoubtedly a ballerina, while the other is often referred to as "the companion."” Richard Thomson, an art history professor at The University of Edinburgh, wrote that young ballet dancers are often accompanied by their mothers as early as age six or seven to Paris. They act as the dancers’ personal dresser and guardian—checking the progress of their daughters and keeping up with examinations. So, it’s likely that the woman by the dancer’s side is her mother, a companion in her daughter’s ballet endeavour. I think about this picture a lot, reflecting on what Degas was trying to communicate about the beauty and human aspect he tried to grasp. Unfortunately, this isn’t as clear-cut as it seems. Degas wasn’t one of those artists who would write letters and manifestos to explain his work, but perhaps this is what makes his work more intriguing to the audience. He invites them to relate to the painting intimately.

interlude may as well be: the calm before the storm—a time for us to recollect our purpose. The companion’s appearance in the painting reminds me of the many uncertainties we might face during our periods of waiting. Recall the lives we’ve lived for the past 18 months: the questions of when, why, or what. We wake up, wondering if holding on to our hopes is even worth a promise. So here we are, sitting on a bench, next to a ballerina dressed in all the pastel dreams one can have. Degas nailed the contrast in these characters with the play of colours. I think the point is that there are always two sides to a coin. You can be the ballerina who accentuates rest as a part of the practice or be the woman who questions what the future holds. To us, the answer to this choice can imply much greater things. Degas left a space in his piece for us to interpret and decide for ourselves. I still question if I get to label myself an intellectual. These painters defied the lines of classical paintings and focused on the changes of light—a principle of impressionism. Blog writer, Ben Davis, expressed that en Plein air captures the changes in light and, hence, the changes that come with time. Nothing stays the same. Degas included one last fine detail in his work for us to realise, a version of waiting, his waiting, into art. He wants us to remind ourselves that even in the slow intermissions of our lives, just like this pandemic, our canvases can still decide to create beauties of their own. It may be hard to see now, but I promise you: there’s still light at the end of the tunnel.

Strangely, Degas never named this piece. Between its first and second owner, Waiting adopted the name on its own. Let’s think of it from the ballerina’s point of view. Waiting allows time to be static. It slows down the world that surrounds us. The ballerina may be at rest, preparing for her magnum opus. Simply put, she is the very depiction that every

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

J A N E D E AU X N O T J A N E D O E words C.A. illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

Jane Doe is the name given to a girl whose name and identity are unknown. Oftentimes, it is a name used to refer to an unidentifiable female corpse. However, once their identity is known, she is no longer a Jane Doe. I think being a Jane Doe is a lot of girls’ nightmare because, isn’t it scary to lose your identity and no one knows who you are? And in most cases, girls become a Jane Doe because they’ve been murdered or kidnapped.

I am Jane Deaux, just like Jane Doe but with a flair. This is (obviously) not my real name, but it’s what I sometimes feel like my name is or should be. Jane Deaux is a blank slate, so blank that sometimes it scares me; when my death becomes an unsolved case would the detective assigned to my case just dismiss me? Jane Doe, unknown identity. Jane Deaux is also probably the kind of name people use if they want to disappear because it’s still similar enough to Jane Doe, but different enough to be an identifiable trait. I guess it’s the kind of name criminals might use if they’re on the run or using multiple identities. Jane Deaux emulates a lack of personality and identity. I identify as a Jane Deaux because I myself do not know who I am and thus others won’t either. Every time I go to a Starbucks, it’s an opportunity to change my name or myself until the drink’s finished. I don’t have to be plain Jane. I can be sexy Lexi or even catty Cathy. Maybe that’s why ever since I was a kid I’ve always dreamt of becoming someone else—someone I’m not. I tried my hand

/ CREATIVE

at acting but it didn’t really work because I was too shy and never stood out from my peers. Jane Deaux blends in, she is nothing but invisible—a fly on the wall. Another simple way to become anybody but myself was through reading, which I did—tonnes of in fact. The next best thing was to write and create stories; inserting myself into my characters, writing myself into narratives that would not happen to me in real life. It’s a bit embarrassing to say that most of my original characters are self-inserts, but then again I feel like every author has put a little bit of themselves in their characters. It’s not out of the ordinary.

During this interlude of life, she finally has the time to discover and find her true self, shedding from her Jane Deaux shell. The horrible situation that everybody finds themselves in is probably a good thing for Jane Deaux. It allows her time to think and reflect. Names are quite often a self-fulfilling prophecy and she lets her name dictate her way of living for the past two decades she has been on this earth. She realises that it is a good thing, being Jane Deaux, because she doesn’t have to stick to one identifiable trait. She can be all of them. Instead of a fly on the wall, she can be a chameleon and use that to her advantage. Learning from her past, she uses that to help others who feel like Jane Deaux no longer feel bad about themselves—to instead embrace their identity or lack thereof, because when you’re at the bottom there is nowhere to go but up. Similarly, if you’re a blank sheet of paper there is nothing else to do but fill the blank paper with eloquent words and images. As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, in my eyes, Jane Deaux can be anything she wants to be.

CREATIVE /

LIMINAL words SHUJAAT MIRZA illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO

From dark to light And light to dark The transitions are seamless And before you check Things are liminal Across the surface Even as you inspect, Smooth out resemblances Into abstract voyages That take you nowhere And yet much in your face Across the ages The Ship of Theseus Lands from a trip again Hauled to the Hades Nothing seems real or Remains as it is

A Do-It-Yourself prognosis Surmountable still Till the tolls can take Their wages For the rights of passages Stuck To the fissiparous Self That dissolves into The next Completely losing track of its Contingencies.

/ CREATIVE

"Into abstract voyages That take you nowhere And yet much in your face"

CREATIVE /

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

Movement in Pixels words & photography DWIGDI DIKSITA

In a short glance, what you see are always the most beautiful. The high kicks. The long extensions. The pointed foot. But there’s only so much that the camera can capture. The sweat. The tears. The blood. Grit and perseverance: time poured out into perfecting such movements. Undermining the length and breadth of what a dancer has to go through can be easy. In the eyes of the audience, they are flawless—effortless, even. The endless hours of training are hidden under refined details of a repertoire. Yet in pixels, we see the fuel that drives and gives them life. The joy that radiates from a passionate dancer who wants to share her love for the art form.

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

2 AM SCE NARI OS words NAURA illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO

/ CREATIVE

We ran around, breathless, too tired to hide how happy we were. I could not tell where my laughter ended and yours began—our voices merged, intertwined beautifully like how I have always desired. You pointed out that my face was as red as sweet strawberries in the summer, yet you denied your own flushed cheeks. We sat down on the green grass, in the midst of a vast meadow, akin to those in my mother’s romcom novel covers from the nineties. We watched in silence as the sun sank, dunking in between the two mountains ahead of us. I looked at you long and hard, and the same fear crept in like last time. What if, one day, I was unable to conjure the lines of your smiles and the slope of your nose and the depth of your dimples? What if, one day, you were gone from my mind forever? But then I heard your sigh, a crystal clear sound that even the daisies were basking under. All those doubts were washed away, replaced with happier questions like a tide ridding of sad footsteps, and replacing them with shiny stones and shells. Would you mind if I called you gorgeous? Would you mind if I planted a kiss on your cheek? I wondered. You looked at me and smiled; you noticed my gaze, as always. "Why are you staring?"” Shyness won over my bravery. The only thing that came out of my mouth was, "Nothing. The sunset is just pretty." Your following laughter was akin to a song more beautiful than Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. I wanted to hear it forever. "Of course. It is pretty, as always." I knew it was time for me to ask the questions. I could not help but fiddle with the grass underneath me, and suddenly, the familiar sadness hit. Under my eye, the turf grew duller in adagio. "Can we come here again? Together?" I finally built up the courage to ask. I didn’t need to look at you to sense the softness of your smile. "Of course." Your voice was gentle. "When?" I knew the answer already.

did every single time we met. "Can I.. meet you before tonight though...?"” Your smile faltered. The sky was red just now, yet it quickly dived into a starless black. The choir of birds settled down, as if detecting the sorrow accompanying the sun rays that fizzled into the cloud-blanketed night. "You know we can’t."” I refused to look at you, because I knew that your hurt face was too painful to witness. But you kept a steady voice. "’ll meet you, as always, at 2 AM."” A deafening ring echoed from far away. We both looked for the source, but we knew what it was. You nudged me and said, "Come on, time to wake up."” You vanished just like that, and you never let me say goodbye. When I sat up, I was not in the safe space of my dreams—with green hills, clear skies, crisp air, and you. The sunset was replaced by remnants of sunrise outside my window, nature was replaced by my grey blanket, and your voice was replaced by the pounding alarm of my phone. You were right. The sun’s rays that peeked in through my window were duller than the one we saw in our hills. I covered my face with my duvet. I wanted to hide from the endless responsibilities and tasks that awaited me. My emotions washed over me, numerous all at once. I suddenly longed for a loved one’s hug, as memories from high school grew loud within this cold and silent interval, mixed with the city’s buzz right outside my walls. It was only five minutes past my alarm, yet I already missed you. I used to hate the silence of the deep night, yet now I was wishing for the clock to turn back to that time. You have filled that chilly space with your warmth, the quietness with your humor, and the dark with your twinkling eyes. Even after all the chaos of dealing with classes, handling meetings, and work, I have you to bring me to beautiful places. I was sure of that.

"We can meet tonight." So, tonight, I will see you again, at 2 AM. I braced myself to ask the next question, just like I CREATIVE /

INTERSTELLAR: A WORLD BUILT ON ‘TIME’ words ASTRI SANJAYA illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM I was 12 when the movie Interstellar(2014) came out. Back then, my brain did not have the capacity to appreciate the film’s complexities of love and loss, let alone comprehend a three-hour-long space adventure. It wasn’t only until I watched it during one of the many Melbourne lockdowns that I realised how genius the film actually is. Some may argue that it was all about mankind destroying the earth and putting itself in danger. Or perhaps, the yearning for space exploration, the curiosity of what’s out there? But as Anne Hathaway’s character, Brand, said: "Love is the only thing that transcends time and space."

I wish it didn’t have to sound cringey, but she had a point. The concept of time is only effective because love is its driving force. For humankind; the past who has built the earth and called it home, the present who may treat it wrongly, and the future who will carry the legacy. For family; the loved ones who you would sacrifice your life for because you would do anything for them to live comfortably. Replay the most memorable scenes of Interstellar in your mind. To me, these are the most heartbreaking, tugging-at-your-heartstrings tearjerkers. The scenes that get the hair standing on your arms and engraved in your mind even after you step out of the theatre, like the goodbyescene:

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

"I’m coming back," Cooper reassured his bawling daughter, and himself. "When?" Murph asked. The abrupt silence felt too long, like Murph was waiting for an answer that she knew she’d never get. This was the moment she realised that her father doesn’t know when he’s coming back, or if he’s coming back at all. At this point in the film, 12-yearold me wanted to go home and sleep, but 17-year-old me was emotionally drained in the best way possible. I found it difficult to be fixated on complex time theories or possible easter eggs, although they were intriguing and I was rather invested in the mixture of emotions that Cooper may be feeling whilst having to save humanity. Towards the end of the film, we realise that the film’s key moment was Cooper from the future sending a message back in time telling him to stay on Earth. This occurrence and its revelation are where the beauty lies. It’s one thing to create an emotional scene where actors cry then move on, but it’s another thing to display this moment of raw human emotion which carries a whole different message. The true adventure then began: a monumental exploration of uncharted territories in a place far and far away. With effective close-up shots, short yet emotive dialogues, and flawless editing, this seemingly insignificant scene was one of loss and sacrifice that surged to a poignant and moving climax. How the audience perceives Christopher Nolan films may be based on how they perceive time. Time is a recurring theme in most of Nolan’s films; whether that be reversing, bending or saving it, there was always some sort of time manipulation involved. The way he depicted his stories as non-linear established his presence as a unique and ambitious auteur, although some audiences may find his plots incomprehensible. Yet, this reveals the very reason why cinema is such a timeless form of art. The most memorable experiences involve relatable themes

and while not everyone has the same opinion, they can relate to the idea of time. During an interview with National Public Radio (NPR), Nolan explained how films are the vessel for humans as humble beings to experience time differently. Through camera lenses, playful approaches to time become sensible. Even more so when the topics of love, family, and friends are mixed into the conflicts that arise because this is where the genuinity exists. At the very moment when everything in my life pauses, I found Interstellar so moving. It convinced me that time may move faster -- a proof much needed during the stage when life feels stagnant.

meet again, clashed with hours of self-doubt, then eventually, a revelation that turned my life upside down and made me dread the year ahead. Time moved way too fast yet at the same time I was motionless. Undeniably, Interstellar is an effective film for utilising special effects and a Hans Zimmer-composed film score, but nothing moves you like Matthew McConaughey watching a video on a static screen. Beneath all the CGI, Interstellar explores love and family; specifically, a father’s love for his children that sends him across the universe, with the possibility of him not returning to their lifetimes—admitted by Cooper himself:

"By the time I get back, we might even be the same age."

Extended lockdowns, living away from family, relationships that almost happened but never did have accumulated into this void that is only getting bigger. It’s peculiar that a space film is relatable, more so than comingof-age or romcoms, but it comes down to the implications behind Cooper’s adventure rather than the space travel itself. The concept of time—the film growing on me as I grew older and the perfect timing of watching it during lockdown—has tied my life together the way it did with the film. Cooper, who was elated with the prospect of saving humankind but burdened by the cost of disconnecting with his family, was relatable. And despite being restricted to a 5km radius, my 2020 was nothing short of both euphoric and tragic moments. My nighttime adventures in an entirely new environment with people I may never

>> ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

Akihabara Street, Tokyo

Roppongi, Tokyo

Ttukseom, Seoul

Han River, Seoul

Konkuk University Station, Seoul

photography MOUDISHA ZEEVA 29

THE INDEFINITE WAIT May 2020 Two months have passed since a great calamity arrived in Indonesia. For two months now we’ve been forced to stay inside doing nothing in order to avoid a fatal contagion. Every place where you could have the least bit of fun has been closed down indefinitely. It’s been difficult, to say the least. These months were supposed to be my final moments of high school: first, a batch trip followed by a graduation party and, most importantly, a prom to cap off this crazy chapter of our lives. It was meant to be happening right now, but we’ve been forced to postpone until God knows when. Maybe it’ll happen when things get "better".

Yet here I am...still in Indonesia. Wasting my life by doing absolutely nothing but wait.

Spending these past two months stuck at home has been a rather weird experience. I’ve never had to stay at home for this long and I’m still...adjusting. I guess what keeps me going is knowing that I’m doing it for the "greater good" and that at some point we’ll be allowed back outside again—whenever that will be.

All I can do is wait, and waiting sucks.

Staying in better be helping reduce cases, because I can’t go through another month of this torture. I’ve been deprived of my social interactions and freedom, which hasn’t been doing my mental health any favours. I suppose one silver lining is that I no longer have to do any schoolwork, a welcome circumstance after a draining senior year.

The pandemic has gone on for little over a year now. Despite having nothing to do, this has felt like the fastest year of my life. Everything just went by in a blink of an eye.

Surely, things will improve in a couple of months. November 2020 I was mistaken. Things did not get better. Cases have actually been constantly rising since May. And I thought staying at home was supposed to help! Without schoolwork to worry about, I find myself having more free time than I know what to do with. I end up going through the same tedious routine over and over again. It’s as if my capacity for creativity and innovation has just been blocked, and I’m perpetually stuck in this state of mediocrity. I’ve never felt this emotionally drained in my life.

The only thing occupying my mind are thoughts of what and where I could be instead. I’m seventeen now. I should be out there living my life! What happened to making lifelong memories with the people I care about? Some of my friends have already left for university (lucky them) and are moving on to the next chapter of their lives.

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

Waiting for the moment I could go back to living my life to the fullest. Waiting to get out of this stupid house. Waiting until I can leave for university. Waiting for the pandemic to end.

If my life was a stage production, and the pandemic was the interlude, I would’ve left the theatre already. March 2021

All of a sudden, I’m now officially a university student. I still can’t wrap my head around it. University had always felt like a distant daydream to me. Not too long ago, I was just a kid in a primary school playground running around, chasing butterflies or kicking down anthills. Next thing I knew I was sitting down ready to start my first semester at a real university. Except...I wasn’t in a real classroom, I was in my bedroom staring at my computer screen. With the pandemic persisting, I’ve had to begin my university experience online. But so far it hasn’t really felt like a burden...yet. At the moment I’m just excited to be there—virtually, of course. With what little free time I have, I find myself reflecting on how I’ve changed over the past year. Strangely, I’ve started to warm up to the whole pandemic experience. Even though my life has been

generally uneventful, I feel like I’ve changed. I’m now more reserved and introverted, probably because I’m not interacting with people much. And to be honest, I don’t see this as a completely negative thing! I’ve gotten closer with my friends over these past few months, and reconnected with some people I’ve lost touch with as well. The lack of in-person interaction probably made us put more effort into maintaining our relationship. I’ve also started some personal projects that I’ve put off for a while, which has kept me busy and sane. On top of that, I picked up a couple of cool new skills that I never thought I’d have a year ago. The pandemic has made me more of a doer instead of a dreamer. Perhaps this is another silver lining. Somehow....a sudden disruption was necessary for me to gradually become a better person. Maybe I should stay in the theatre. October 2021 Without even realising it, I’m nearing the end of my second semester already. It’s fair to say that my initial enthusiasm about university has diminished at this point. These days, the stress of university work has become my main source of anxiety. Assignments come thick and fast, and I barely have enough time to fully grasp the course content. It’s been a lot tougher than I thought.

I’m not all that bothered by it anymore. As a university student, I’ve got more important matters to worry about. But sadly, that doesn’t stop me from subconsciously feeling the same anxiety I felt a year and a half ago. I’m starting to accept it though. Despite all the adversities that have been presented to me, I’ve come to realise that this extended period of near isolation has enabled me to grow. Sure, at the beginning, it took away one of my main sources of happiness: people. I resented the world shutting down because of this. I’ve always found comfort when interacting with those around me (in person!), so when the pandemic began, it was like I lost everything. But, I also gained myself. Being alone isn’t so bad now and knowing that has made me more resilient than ever. I now understand the true meaning behind an interlude. It’s not just a disruption to the story, but this in-between space that you use to prepare yourself for the next chapter of your life. If I had jumped straight from high school into university, I probably would’ve crashed and burned. Taking the time to mature and grow as a person has definitely made me more confident to take on this next chapter. Life doesn’t always have to be a marathon, sometimes it’s good to just take a break.

We’re still living amidst the pandemic, but things are (finally) starting to get better! It’s given me a new

breath of optimism that I’ve long been missing. But, although I’m now free to do as I please, I’m still not where I want to be, which is university. Nothing much has changed. Eighteen months on and I am still...just...waiting...

words PADMO WIDYASENO illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

when we slow danced in the dark *inspired by Joji’s ‘SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK’ (2018)

I don’t want a friend Slumped on my bed as the day has taken its toll on me. I bolt right up at the first line Joji uttered. The lullaby turned into a siren without notice. Blaring. I was jolted to life and died a little. Mind racing. What do you think? The question in blue. Nothing you should know of. Each lyric is a blatant betrayal to our unspoken agreement, to never speak of it and do what we do best— ignoring the fat elephant in the room. Each word so fitting, unlike the cap that never did. But then again, it’s been a long time coming.

Waiting to get there, waiting for you.

Butterflies flutter around every now and then with the thought of you. I hate them. When you were all smiles despite your half-empty mug, beaming despite the long wait. Instant replies in intense games. HAHAHA in all caps. Remembering small details, decaf please— catching me offguard. When my phone chimes with a message, listen to this. Silent looks but I am not the one talking. Are-you-okays at my fidgeting state. Statistics was an excuse but the real reason was you. Remember when a round of chess was just a game and coffee was just... coffee? Talking about everything and nothing, forgetting the time. And all of a sudden, every move felt like a crime. All a pawn to breaking the rule. Terrified that one move can have me cornered— checkmate. So cruel. When I’m around slow dancing in the dark, don’t follow me you’ll end up in my arms. I’m afraid it’s too late. Tripping over each other’s feet and stifling our cries.

/ CREATIVE

I’d hate to see you look at me like I was someone else. And as the chorus hits, I know you will. All warmth will be gone like your espresso that Tuesday night. Though I want to meet you once more, if it means that your eyes will be devoid of their usual spark— I’d rather not. Can’t we stay this way, even for just another verse? A traitorous tear threatens to fall from the thought. Hoping I heard it wrong, I restart the song. I don’t want a friend, I want my life in two.

words BEA R. illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

CREATIVE /

THE MANY FACETS OF MOVING ON (v) move on: to go to a different place, subject, activity.

i. i think i missed the gun at the starting line It was a quick process. I stepped out of bed one day, pulled my blinds so high that the railings almost broke into pieces, and made my way to the front door. When I hauled around the corner, the coffee shop seemed dead even with every inch covered by a conversation. The smell of espresso was bitter on my nose, on my tongue, on my skin. The winter sun itched. I flashed a smile at the barista, the kind of grin that doesn’t reach your eyes—if you know what I mean. At least I tried. Suddenly, the grass wasn’t so green anymore. I saw the dirt speckled over it from soles of heavy-duty boots; the dry soil that wouldn’t budge. I caught the empty spaces between it, probably pulled by some toddler while playing tag. Mud from the rain melted onto the sidewalk. When I put my sneakers over it, the mark was prominent. I knew it would be gone by the time tomorrow arrived, but I still wondered about how long it would take until all traces of it were no more. But I left before finding the answer.

words ANINDYA MEIV illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

ii. i’d break the ice, but it’s all thawed Some days, it was slow. Not painful or anything, just barely shifting. Like dropping a penny on the street and kneeling to pick it up, feeling every second that passed. But, it was unpleasant, for sure. There was no rain hazily pouring on my head, no piano ballad playing in the background. I had to drag my feet to get back home. The energy was drained out of me as I fumbled with my keys, trying to find one for my mailbox. I knew there was no mail. I knew it was empty—the same way it was the day before, and the one before that. Yet, I twisted and, click! it went.

Before bed, I pinched at my skin. Just double checking, I thought. There was no harm in doing that; the worst I could feel was a temporary pain. But then I remember how my dreams had always been so similar to my real life, and I wondered if sometimes it was okay to not be able to tell a difference, or to not prefer one over the other. Parts of my day played like a film reel in my head, like there was a projector somewhere in there controlling which scene came next. One after another, it went on. I couldn’t pick. I was only watching from my front row seat. My cup of tea was still half full when I fell asleep on the couch.

No surprises. I counted thirty-three seconds exactly on the elevator to reach my floor. It felt doubled. I felt scammed into staying in my life and my habits.

iii. hitch a ride on the breeze I read somewhere that your body shuts down when it feels overwhelmed. Like a filled kettle, warming up the water before boiling it until steam escapes from the top, you begin to reject what comes next and hold out a ‘do not disturb’ sign—except it feels more like being stuck in a foreign country with a terrible signal. There is no rest, no days off. You just keep searching and scrambling. Things become foggy. A friend of mine once said that stress makes you go into this little cocoon of a duvet, hidden from the outside world. But, I wasn’t stressed. I simply woke up one day with this odd feeling at the bottom of my chest, like I was gulping for air without even

trying. I noticed the hour-hand on my little alarm clock was slightly out of place, so I fixed it. Other than that, everything was normal—as normal as any Wednesday morning could be. I even listened to the same playlist I always listened to while brushing my teeth, the songs playing in the same order. Then, I made some toast, flipped them right as they started to become the slightest bit golden. Routines kept me sane. Yet, something was off. I felt ungrateful, like everything in life is going steady and I wanted more—more things to add to my to-do list, more lectures to miss so that I’d have something to catch up on, more feelings. I wanted phone calls but the second my screen lights up, I always picked the red button instead of the green. It was like a reflex, almost: I jumped at the sound, and quickly after my body automatically knew what to do. I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for the next one. When morning came, the sun itched less on my skin. i. ‘Starting Line’ by Luke Hemmings ii. ‘Earth to God’ by COIN iii. ‘Moon in the Morning’ by Adam Melchor

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

Ready, Set, Halt! words MOUDISHA ZEEVA illustration ANDERSEN CHANDRADINATA

If I were to visualise this moment I have inside my mind, it would look like papers, stationery, desks, chairs, and all other things thrown up to the air as if Hermione mispronounced a syllable while saying wingardium leviosa. They all stay stagnant in the air. College application essays, internship motivation letters, travel tickets, part-time opportunities—and somewhere within the disarray—my ticket home. My mind kept on replaying this particular scene like a camera filming a mannequin challenge doing a 360, and it isn’t a good sight to see whenever you close your eyes. With humanity still struggling up the slippery slope of the pandemic, it’s very easy to fall down the rabbit hole stagnant in the last place you thought you’d be in—a one bedroom apartment in the middle of winter with no heater. Within these transient times we were being told there’s going to be light at the end of the tunnel. So I’d rest, watch a couple of K-dramas, doodle over my assignments, read a handful of graphic novels, and give my soul away inside one-room karaoke booths. For us youths to stay within our illusion of unending adolescence, it’s natural not to let go of the little souls that kept us away from being behind the desk. But of course, these wide-eyed wonders are just mere idealistic temptations. Reality nags...all the time.

"Where do you want to work after this?" "Are you going to graduate school?" "Are you going to go back to Indonesia?"

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

It’s only natural that those questions come after me. I’m an international student doing an exchange program in her final year of university. I have no internship experience and no idea what to do with my degree. I’m still just collecting my loot with no purpose on where I can spend my treasure. The feeling of being cooped up starts to mold pleasantly because of all the travel restrictions, lockdowns, and social distancing regulations.. I thought Time willingly gave itself away for identity-seeking teenagers to settle at least somewhere. Boy was I wrong... While my colleagues are submitting their graduate school application essays or starting internships, I find myself unproductive. I yearn to develop a useful skill somehow, but I only keep hovering over the starting line: a constant nag in the back of my mind to scurry over and get it all figured out. If life is a marathon, then I’d have my feet stuck on asphalt. And now that we’re constantly in a ‘lockdown-no-lockdown’ phase, I now have an excuse to enjoy whatever it is that keeps me distracted to my benefit. Dilly-dallying on my everyday, there’s no doubt that anxiety is a potent drug ceaselessly getting me weak-kneed. Though within the thin gaps of procrastinating–under the pretense of resting—I uncovered a great wisdom that got me through for the time being. We often wonder whether our decisions are correct and that once we arrive at the conclusion of a could’ve, would’ve or should’ve, we regret and blame ourselves too much for being naïve. A subway ad I stumbled upon teased something along the lines of "...uncomfort means we’re on the right path" and has stuck with me ever since. Be it a fear of change or the torment of suddenly facing age-induced responsibilities, I’m slowly finding out that acknowledging these natural processes are shoving me on the right path, whatever that may be. I can say undoubtedly, that even within the state of feeling stuck, we are going somewhere, somehow. To view these dilemmas quarreling inside me in a third-person point of view gives the restructuring I needed. To see things in this retrospect enables me to reorganise the things I am passionate about and what I desire to be, as opposed to the ones that drain the life out of me. For those of you who expected some sort of resolve, my sincere apologies for disappointing. I will still hover around the starting line for the time being, though my feet are no longer stuck in asphalt.

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

SWIPER, NO SWIPING! words SANDHYA IYER illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA

It wasn’t that I was coerced into spending three hours of my Wednesday evening swiping across my blue light leaking screen. My thumbs were cramping and I was nearly squinting through my glasses, but the chance to bump into the someone who just might be my future boyfriend/fiancé/husband was enough to keep me going—not that my prospects were all that great. Suburban San Jose isn’t really a breeding ground for tall, skinny, brown-haired, strong-jawed, Timothée Chalamet-type men in their early to mid 20s, but at least I was making my rounds quickly. Online, it only takes me a few seconds to look through someone’s pictures and gather all the first date material—where they’re from, what they do for a living, political leanings—and most importantly, make a decision about whether to take a chance on them, or swipe them out of my life forever. Efficient? Partially. On one hand, dating apps allow me to comb through much of the Bay Area’s eligible men, hand-picked by algorithms, with lightning speed. But they also poison me with enough of the instant gratification drug that I end up viewing most romantic interactions through slightly crooked glasses. It goes something like this: if I’m not instantly attracted to someone or don’t feel a spark (what does that even mean, really?) within the first half of the first date, they’re clearly not worth pursuing. Much of my first-person research has led me to conclude that online dating and the world of swipes has changed the way young adults view love. It must have been easier for my parents’ generation to believe that love is something you would settle into over time, that it wouldn’t hit you over the head the first time you met your partner. It would slowly build, just as the trust, empathy and affection would, and then you’d wake up three years into a relationship, enraptured. But now, there’s almost no reason to put faith into the long-term development of love—if you don’t immediately hit it off with someone, you can meet twenty other people within the next five minutes.

/ SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

Earlier this year, I met Charlie1 on Hinge. We texted for a few weeks, working our way through comfortable conversations. It was the peak of the pandemic; no one was vaccinated, so we planned a date over Zoom. For over an hour, we chatted, learning where each of us grew up, the experience of going to school out-ofstate, and how we ended up working where we were working. It felt so good to meet someone new, but something was missing. We didn’t end up texting after, and I chalked it up to a mutual ambivalence. I’d deleted Hinge after I met Charlie, but brought it back after our first date, ready to move on. 1

Name changed

A week later, while rehashing the situation with my friend Sharon,2 I let it slip that there wasn’t a spark during the date. Glaring at me accusingly, she said, "This is literally the problem with our generation. It’s so hard to gauge anything after just one date. Give him another chance." Since Charlie and I followed each other on Instagram, Sharon suggested that the next time he added something to his Instagram stories, I should respond and see whether the conversation takes off. She was right (as good friends usually are). I reacted to his story, and we began talking again. We went on two more dates before the difficulties of dating while living at home kicked in. And while it didn’t end up working out, Sharon pushed me to take another chance, at a moment I was ready to call it a day and make my way back to Hinge. With most things in my life, whether it’s related to jobs, boys, or dinner plans, I’m pretty intentional. In the particular case of scouring through dating apps, this mentality gives me an excuse to breeze past people who I might have given another chance, had I not known other options were only a swipe away. If I’d met the users I didn’t think twice about swiping past online, in real life, would I have taken a chance on them? With the instant gratification and (almost) feeling of accomplishment that dating apps provide, it can be hard to take things slow and think about the longterm. Sometimes, I feel like I just need to press pause and let things, or people, find me. I can’t wait to meet "the one", but I sometimes feel that the anticipation— often resulting in 100 swipes an hour—causes me to miss out on meeting some really really cool people.

Name changed

SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY /

THOUSAND MOUTHS. words ABHILIPSA SAHOO illustration ANDERSEN CHANDRADINATA

/ CREATIVE

“It’s the words that are hungry. I’m not hungry for words, but they have a hunger of their own. They want to consume what I have experienced, and I have to make sure that they do that.” —Herta Müller, 2014 Art of Fiction interview with ‘The Paris Review’ when some god etched lines on my palms, I closed them in a fist, my hands were like birds at the edge of the sea, branch by branch, a tree that is infinite, seeded by an unknown ahead of me, words appeared in the dead-end of sight, with their thousand mouths severed like a hatchling’s loud cackle, ghost of a wildfire. they shut themselves in, wrapped in their own truths, and that comes from how they evolve, inside their nest sealed with two lips, fated to weave tapestries— a nebula of convictions, bridging the gap between space and time, their abundance indicates prophecy, and their absence is lamented by my sensibility. I saw in their mouths, probably, a thousand ways to bespeak the hunger to consume what has sustained me throughout the years, the hunger to shape my moral quandaries into something so sudden and gorgeous to behold. with their genesis I’m born a mother, my palms intensively crisscrossed with privileges of deriving and nurturing, feeding them the succulence of ripened thoughts, bathing them in the frigidity of aches, and making sure that the words do what they intend to.

CREATIVE /

Stories from My Sketchbook words & illustration HANNAH SAVAGE

Cars driving in at the Carlton Gardens vaccination centre.

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

Drawing offers escapism. A shift in focus. Scratching blunt pencils between lines, my own life becomes mute. I swear I’d be more immersed in other peoples’ conversations than they were, noticing the way their hands supported speech and the tightness of their posture.

At the park, the weight of overwhelming thoughts fell away. Indoors, I always felt the presence of chaos, the kind that creeps outside of my peripheral vision and hides beneath monotony and the sluggish pace of time. Outside my window, helicopters hovered to capture footage of marching - reflections and thought rants help to internalise it all, but when they left my head they’d only hit the ceiling and linger around me like smoke.

An afternoon of freedom before the news broke.

Gaining familiarity with the sights of Melbourne brought comfort during August restrictions.

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

In sharing spaces with mobs of cyclists, students sunbathing and parents minding children squelong on the playground, I found peace amongst the chaos.

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

Glances, almost hostile with masks concealing further context of expression, were shared between the rows of people sitting distanced inside the Royal Exhibition Building. The pianist’s melody floated beneath the grand dome ceiling and softened the quiet wait for my second vaccination.

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

Dancing Water words ALEXANDRA TEH illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA

/ CREATIVE

I am a mosaic of every thought and memory of my life. The city made going to the library a fascinating activity. So far, my favourite would have to be the State Library. The moment you walk past those double doors, you pass through people trapped in their own bubble, you could grasp a sense of who they are–what they are invested in right at that moment in time. . You find people scrolling through their phones, gazing at paintings, daydreaming. Squeaking sneakers on wooden floors. Mum would love it here.

that the basin embodies a heart mosaic. Its surface is made up of curvy glass pieces, water sitting on top of each. Come closer, Jasmine. Everyone wants something, you just have to reach in. Is that the water? I look closely into the antique basin and examine it like a rare specimen. The moment I stretch my hand, eager and impatient, with my fingertips barely about to reach in, something in me pauses. I hesitate.

At the centre, small steps lead to a hexagonal wooden podium. In bold letters, a sign is sealed with a chain: Don’t worry. The water won’t hurt you. UNDER CONSTRUCTION I shift away from the centre and sit on one of the desks under the glossy green lamp. As soon as my bum touches the chair, I open my laptop and stare at the screen. Slowly my eyes become droopy, my back slouches and my head drops. Just as I am about to doze off; I hear a voice coming in my right ear. Touch the water. I jolt and scan the room. The same voice comes again, this time in a softer register.

For some reason, the voice sounds like Mum. My hesitation vanishes. I dip my hand into the heart basin, touching one of the glass pieces that shapes it. Water starts to fill up the basin, and little by little water droplets from the glass pieces inside start to float. The bookshelves turn outwards. There is a rush. I look over the podium to see a flood starting to form below from where I stand. Tables are sinking and glowing books are flying in the air from the sudden howling gale.I hold on to the edges of the podium for balance. And just like that, everything comes to a halt. The water droplets are floating.

Touch. The. Water. What water? I look up from my bag trying to catch the source of the sound. No one’s here.

Magnetized, I move closer and touch one. Plop. It stretches, and there it displays the moment I walked inside the library. The lamps, the glass windows, the friction of sneakers..

Touch the water, Jasmine. The voice leads me in front of that same sign. My body felt like a puppet handled by invisible strings; I was magnetised and before I knew it my eyes focused on that one direction. I sigh, thinking my exhaustion is finally getting to me. Come closer. My head shoots up. Maybe I’m not just hearing things. I climb the steps to the podium; I lift the chain, duck slightly. A glass baptismal font stands in the centre of the podium. My eyes scan the inside and discover

I look downwards. What if I touch the flood? I walk down the small steps and place my palm against the water. fragments of all the different memories of my life play like scenes of a movie. The memory of my grandfather’s burial, three days before we closed his casket. He was still wearing his two jade rings, the ones that he used to let me play with while I sat on his lap. I would take his hands and knock them together to make a Clang! sound. My giggles were exchanged with the way he smiled down at me with his eyes. I’ve never seen my Dad cry until that day at the funeral. I thought he was fearless,—a superhero. But I guess, even superheroes have moments of weakness.

CREATIVE /

One specific memory struck me. It was the day I left for Melbourne. I spent the whole day with my family, right until they sent me to the airport with my cousin and her child. I wanted to postpone the trip. I wanted to press pause. Dreading it, I went to hug my Dad’s fat belly. I told him, I’ll try my best to make you proud ya? He looked down and smiled, eyes like my grandfather’s. I turned to my Mum, silent as I lay my head beneath her chest, hugging her tight. I didn’t want to let her go. But, I didn’t cry. I wanted to stay strong for the last time. At security, I finally lost it. I looked back and ran with heavy footsteps toward Mum. I embraced her in a hug one last time, tears rolling down my cheeks. She held me close, and I knew that she, too, didn’t want to let go. One year had gone by, and a year became two. It’s going to be okay, Jas, her voice echoed in my mind. I have not hugged her since; only thousands of video calls, halfway across the sea. "I miss you so much, when can I see you? Also, do you think I should have a facelift?" she would ask. The same questions each time, the same answers given. "I don’t know, I miss you more ma, and no you don’t need a facelift." The more I see her face, the more I see the wrinkles. She looks thinner, and strands of grey hair layer like lasagne. Still, she looks more beautiful each time. ‘Soon’ existed in alien time. Stay strong, I whisper to my heart, sobbing. You have made it this far. The water below mirrors my body with fragments of all my different moments. I stare at my reflection and ponder. In science class, we learned about how humans are made up of 70 percent of water. I wondered if our memories, like water, is an essential element of survival; it allows us to remember, shapes our identity, both the good and bad ones. Just like how water changes its shape when put into different containers, what surrounds us is who we are.

/ CREATIVE

Vital. It lasts. I understand now. I am a mosaic of every thought and memory of my life. I sit there quietly, staring at one of the hanging green lamps, cherishing the way it felt: the last hug I shared with my Mum, as I was wrapped under her breasts. Comfort.

CREATIVE /

Watch Out, Time words MICHELLE MILLENIS illustration ANDERSEN CHANDRADINATA

Go away There’s no turning back Such a ruthless chatter Cruel, it is cruel I became silence The kind that drowns In a daydream, sobs In the dark The night pulled me tight Who do you call yourself? A figure who comes And leaves without a moment To share, nothing This is not a riddle to solve!

You may be voiceless, unheard Your eyes may be closed But please Please Don’t make a fool of them Innocent kids Chasing their youth Restless men Striving to live each day Minds of distress And pain Isn’t it funny How you dream Of love and sympathy?

CREATIVE /

EXPOSED words SARAH ROBIN illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA Panic set in as smoke hit my face. My eyes widened and I was alert; I knew I had to get my wife and children out of there. I shook my wife to raise the alarm, grabbed the children, and lifted them over my shoulders. I got us all out of there as quick as I possibly could. I felt a hand grab mine and it pulled me back hard. "Tom, darling, calm down. It’s okay. Everything’s alright." I hurriedly looked behind me through the smoke. "There’s no time Georgia, we need to get out of here!" I yelled impatiently. I used my sleeve to cover my nose and mouth. My voice, muffled, as I told the children they would be okay and Daddy would take them to safety. "Tom, put the kids down. Let’s go sit somewhere quiet and I’ll get you a drink," she said in a hushed tone, blocking my way. "What?" I asked in disbelief. In the corner of my eye, I could see a crowd of faces staring at me and I was suddenly very aware of myself. I lowered my frightened, crying children onto the path as they ran over to their grandparents. Their little faces looked back at me with fear and confusion. I locked eyes with my wife who smiled at me reassuringly. She took my hand and led me to a bench by the greenhouse down by the end of the garden. Is he ok?, someone whispered as we snuck away from the scene I’d caused. I knew it was a mistake, him coming here, another person tutted. Their voices were loud in my head. "I’m sorry," I whispered as we sat down. "You don’t need to apologise." she slid her hand onto my knee. I held my head in my hands and breathed deeply. I felt embarrassed at my loss of control; I’d made a fool of myself, but what hurt me the most

/ CREATIVE

was that, at that moment, my own children were scared of me. I’m supposed to be their protector, the person they could turn to for help and guidance, and I had failed them. I lifted my head and looked at the clouds drifting slowly across the blue sky, willing the tears in my eyes not to drip down my cheeks. "It’s only been two weeks, Tom. We knew it would be difficult," her grip on my knee tightened. I scrunched up my face in frustration, "It’s only a bloody family barbeque, Georgia. Is this how I’m going to react to a campfire on the kids’ holidays? A sparkler on bonfire night?" "We need to give it time." Her eyes glistened in the sun as she smiled at me. "If we do need some help, we could go to therapy. But we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. For now, let’s just take things easy and we’ll gradually ease our way into these things, ok?" I took a deep breath and agreed, kissing her on the lips. "I love you, baby," I swallowed hard and she echoed the same back to me. "I’ll go and see the kids. I’ll leave you here for a bit." Her hand lingered on my knee before she went. She hadn’t been gone for five minutes when a warm breeze carried the smoke from the barbeque over my way, and I returned to my nightmare like a time traveller. I was there in bed again; I saw, heard, and smelled everything just like it had happened. I experienced the events as they unfolded, replaying a horror film over and over, unable to change any aspect of it and knowing the unfortunate events that were to come. Panic set in as smoke hit my face. My eyes widened and I was alert; I knew I had to get my wife and children out of there.

CREATIVE /

The History Of Internalised Capitalism & Its Relationship To Digital Mental Health words ASHLEY MANGTANI illustration ANDERSEN CHANDRADINATA

The culture of work is changing, and remote workers are taking advantage of the new digital economy to make their stamp in the world. It’s no secret that technology makes our lives easier, but the speed at which it’s been adopted has shocked us all. This, coupled with greater employee trust and access to travel, has catapulted digital nomadism into the stratosphere.

in just being alive, they need to be doing something productive to equate any real significance. Internalised capitalism is especially prevalent amongst young people who don’t have the same advantages as the baby boomer generation. Mounting student debt and a highly inflated housing market make it almost impossible for younger generations to get a foothold on the financial ladder.

Living in the post-pandemic world isn’t easy. People are still adjusting to new ways of working and are slowly utilising technology that allows them more freedom in the office. It’s a process that a lot of us have had to get used to in a significantly short space of time. Unfortunately, capitalism plays a major role in modern society and especially our working habits.

Internalised capitalism manifests differently depending on race, gender, and social class. People who feel guilty when they unwind best define the term. This contributes to poor digital mental health because achievements are undervalued and work is always prioritised over wellbeing. Forms of oppression such as internalised capitalism are sometimes difficult to recognise because they are perpetuated by cultural norms.

Since the dawn of the industrial revolution in the 1820s, western institutions have placed huge importance on work ethic and private enterprise. Over the next 100 years, big business was established, changing our working habits forever. During the late 1940s, the British colonial era came to an abrupt end. The western world could no longer rely on the slave labor of the commonwealth and introduced new capitalistic systems to curb economic decline. This is the most important transitional period in history and it can be directly correlated to the end of the Second World War. You might be wondering what all of this has to do with digital mental health? The period immediately following the Second World War is the undeniable catalyst of contemporary capitalist culture, which has done nothing but exasperate mental health issues in modern times. Financial institutions from around the world greedily bought into the far-fetched dream of capitalism, all whilst diluting unions and making it harder for people to speak out against injustices. This period in history is so important, because it was the turning point for the modern sway towards internalised capitalism—a new term used to describe a feeling of utter worthlessness. Andrea Hayden, a political science professor at Dalhousie University said, "Internalised capitalism is this idea that our self-worth is directly linked to our productivity". Her study showed that people don’t find inherent value 54

/ SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY

Digital mental health in a nutshell should be defined by the maintenance of a healthy mental state through the use of virtual mediums. It is a growing market that helps increase awareness and accessibility to mental wellness than ever before. The benefits are clear and the potential to provide care that is affordable, personalised, and accessible, is huge. However, the move to an online digital culture can be harmful to those who aren’t aware of the addictive ramifications, some of which aren’t even fully understood. Not looking after your digital mental health can drastically lower your quality of life and can have lasting negative effects on social relationships that are integral to ongoing development. It’s easy to become blindsided by screen time and equate social media marketing ploys to real-life interactions. But, at such a vital crossroads in history, we must act now to curb the systematic rise of digital depression and internalised capitalism. Over the last ten years, the digital revolution has sparked the biggest change to our working habits that we’ve ever seen. The transitional period from offline to online is an important topic that is yet to reach the mainstream. People are no longer confined to their dingy offices or forced to work a generic 9 to 5 just to barely make ends meet. The technology sector is bigger than ever and is innovating at a phenomenal pace. Some are nervous about adopting new working habits and are hesitant to speak to

higher-ups about complex mental health issues that arose, in part, due to the pandemic.

implement new and innovative technology in a way that supports mental health?

During lockdown, many are forced to reassess what was really important to them—in terms of working. It also gave managers a chance to put more faith in their employees as they transitioned to an online workspace. The concept of working online isn’t a new one, going back over the last twenty years. It just lacks the recognition that it deserves.

Communication is the key to the success of any fast-paced modern society and the same can be said for the individual. Communication technology and access to information have drastically improved our way of life, and social mobility is more attainable than ever before. There is still a long way to go, but the foundations have been firmly laid to enable people access to lifestyles that were once only obtainable by the wealthy.

More and more people have decided to work online post-pandemic. As of 2021, 36.2 million Americans work remotely, with that number representing 22% of the overall workforce. This is a massive 87% increase in the number of remote workers before the pandemic. The statistics are even more astonishing when you factor in motivation, happiness, and productivity. Working remotely just once per month reveals a staggering 24% increase in contentment in the workplace. Working online contributes to positive mental health in several ways, but the most important aspects are trust and freedom. Once these two crucial elements are established between you and your employer, you’ll be well on your way to attaining mental security. Developing cognitive immunity is difficult and it can take many years to transition into a comfortable state. But with the right strategy in place, you’ll start to notice the benefits almost immediately. Transitioning into a digital workspace doesn’t have to be complicated or convoluted. It can be a refreshing time that you use to take a step back to pause and reflect. We’re all bound to have anxieties about new ways of working, especially in the digital sphere. Implementing techniques that help you work towards creating a complete picture of your mental health will help you to identify any problem areas. You can then take appropriate action with your employer and get support. The digital revolution has definitely played a major role in making all of our lives easier. Intuitive tech, automated processes, and the rise of artificial intelligence have all contributed to the improvement of society. The important question here is how we

Obtaining one’s own sense of self is the most powerful aspect of becoming enlightened. Working towards this goal supports you in achieving a heightened level of awareness, which you can then use to challenge any internal stereotypes. Doing so will establish good habits around mental health and will allow you to develop a workable coping strategy. It’s about changing mindsets and breaking down the stigmas surrounding mental health issues. We live in a world where we are periodically penalised for oversharing or upsetting boundaries. What we need to realise is that these boundaries have been put in place to keep us ignorant and ill-informed. They don’t help people offset crippling mental health diseases and instead work to make us feel ashamed of not fitting in. The use of computers and the internet are hardwired into modern society and have revolutionized our lives more than any other medium to date. Relatively little is known about the long-term effects surrounding digital addiction on psychological functionality, mental health, and general wellbeing. We still have a long way to go to fully understand the nuances of digital addiction, but we do know that how we interact with computers in the future will have generational effects on the way that our minds function and interpret information. A culture of care is needed to curtail any negative effects associated with the digital sphere and a lot more research is needed to fully understand the modulation of our destiny. SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY /

WITH FOND MEMORIES IN MY HEART words SARAH ROBIN illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA

I’ll treasure the memory Of our last phone call Full of laughter And love And blissful memories Of playing hopscotch in the garden And watering flowers Basking In the sun Eating your homemade jelly With ice cream and sprinkles Please forgive me For not visiting you In your last days Selfishly keeping Good memories alive Avoiding the ugly truth That death is near But know that I love you With fond memories in my heart I’ll let you quietly slip away

/ CREATIVE

I HAVE WRITER’S BLOCK I stare and stare, H ead shaking A nd temples pulsing, it’s V ery upsetting that E very night I sit at my table W ringing my hands, hoping a R hythm of words and sentences would I gnite in my mind but T o no avail E mptiness fills my mind R epelling the colourful imagination just S ailing in an endless sea of nothingness B ut I still have to write L ittle did I know, the O wls have arrived, my eyes are drooping and sleep is C reeping in but alas I still K eep on staring at the blinking cursor.

words C.A. illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

CREATIVE /

TW: mentions of blood and death

It was a dreadful sight. If I had to compare it to something, let’s see...yes. It’s the same marbling you get when you wash down paint with running water. The same sort of pretty but sinister swirls of red ran through the river across the house.

The Story of How I Died.

There was an abandoned cart on the road, its contents spilled over and scattered around with other items. While it was a brutal enough spectacle on its own, the real issue lay on the opposite bank of the river. There she was, shamelessly bathing in the moonlight, as if she had not just painted the clear river red with her own hands. I stared at that sight for a second too long.

words VELLA AMANDA illustration ANDERSEN CHANDRADINATA

Then, I saw her cry. Real tears. Tears I did not know killers were capable of. They were like the desperate cries of a mother and the plea of a beggar. I could not remember what happened next. But I heard from whispers that she saved me. A pitiful person like myself, was given another chance by a deity. In all honesty, it did not matter to me how I got back. All I could recall was the clean clothes on my back when I woke up. Ever since then, I was loyal to her and only to her. I became her servant; I washed her clothes, cleaned her sheets, and made sure her baths were warm. I lived the rest of my life that way. Respect is a funny thing. To want to be recognised and loved by the object of our admiration. But I am patient. I waited for my rewards because I knew my efforts would not go to waste. She was aware of this, and I desperately wanted to see her smile.

/ CREATIVE

I tried making conversation with her multiple times after that, like bringing notes with me when I served her dinner. I saw poetry books strewed around her desk once. So, in an attempt to impress her, I kept a page of a poem from a book I stole. I did not understand what the poem meant. I simply liked the title, "The Gratuity of Patience."

I comforted her. In that dim room of hers, with the moon outside her window as our only source of light. She clung to me in tears. I could not bear seeing her so distraught. What could I do for you? I arrogantly thought.

Such an odd title for a poem, I thought when I first read it.

"Let’s go somewhere. Let’s just leave this place," I said to her as I held her hands in mine." Let’s go away"

"Do you perhaps like poetry?" I asked.

I saw the uncertainty in her eyes, but she nodded.

No response.

Do you remember that? You nodded.

"I am not very literate, so...I only know one, you might not even like it" but it’s by this poet whose name I could not pronounce, and I think it has something to do with patience?"

It was snowing that day too. But how long ago was that?

"Read it." Her voice was quiet.

My hands were cold, and my clothes wet, in this deserted area.

My eyes widened at her response and my hands trembled as I unfolded the paper. I cleared my throat and began reading it. When I finished, I looked up, waiting for her praise or anything. But I was shocked to see that she held my gaze.

Are you doing well?

Would you come to find me? I stood there in the snow, waiting for your arrival. I waited for you until the sun died and the moon came alive. I sat there out in the cold. All because of a promise you told me so offhandedly.

"That was... wonderful." She spoke oh-so-gently. I felt the floor sway beneath me, and I clutched the paper so tightly I heard it crinkle.

"You... are a patient person." You told me back then.

"I’ll make sure to bring more!" I said before I left.

amusing to you?

I was stupidly happy after that. I saw a glimmer of hope. It never occurred to me that someone as respectable and admirable as her would even cast a glance at a mere servant.

Still, I waited. Even if her promises were made of spider webs, a string of silky lies that I believed in.

You cannot expect the moon to concern itself with a mortal. A moon that shined so brightly in the night sky would not selfishly keep its light for a single person. Seasons had passed since then, and even her icecold demeanour had melted away. I noticed this. How could I not notice? When she called out for me with that sickeningly delightful voice. When she laughed so generously at me. I was naïve, and I fell for her act. I fell for her kind eyes and her aura, befitting for a deity like herself. She looked like a human, so beautiful and yet so untouchable. Her eyes were dangerously sweet, and I could never look away.

" I will wait. Good things happen to those who wait," I said foolishly, with a dumb grin on my face. Was it

How could I blame her?

She was like the moon that had suffered greatly and yet was so kind to me. The moon I would willingly suffer for. While I saw the moon, she saw a helpless person. A hopeless mortal, holding on to dear life; a reckless person who was too stubborn to stop, and will continue to wait because of a stupid line from a poem.

You cannot expect the moon to care for a mortal. When will that day come when the moon shines only for me? I shall wait. Out here in a barren land with frozen sand, I will wait for the moon to shine once again.

So—why did she cry so desperately that one evening? The same cries I heard all those years ago in the wreckage. CREATIVE /

PASSAGE illustration TEVYA ARTANTO 61

Vertigo Donna Summer’s ethereal voice melted on the record player’s rusting needle while she rolled each body of flour and sugar, water and yeast. She twisted until the two ends touched in harmony. I sat cross-legged as she sculpted the challah with calloused palms, embedding love within every crevice of the dough. Taste, Bubbe pleaded as the clamor of Queens, New York, crescendoed. Echoes of police sirens and teenagers beatboxing around the corner, mixed with the slam of basketballs colliding with concrete writhed through the hollow apartment walls. I can’t hear ya, but I know what ya saying. My Bubbe only reads lips. She refused to wear a hearing aid. She said she’d earned her right not to listen to people’s shenanigans. I ate and pulled apart bits of challah like Legos after a colossal collapse, while sitting on the floor watching 21 Jump Street thinking Tom Hanson was cute. Bubbe, grasping a handheld dustbuster, swooshed me away to clean the already spotless kitchen. After pretending to wipe away stray crumbs and dough remnants, I pulled out her scrapbook albums from the armoire and laid them out on the floor. I admired the photographs from her youth, the ones that time managed to filter out everything but her. Cheekbones slathered in bubblegum pink rouge and lashes drenched in the tar of Maybelline, hair permed and teased to maximum height—all immortalized in the haze of pixels. I’d sit on her couch on weekends as she told her stories of what young motherhood was like, living in the boroughs the same time that Walkmans hung on her widening hips and Madonna graced racks of magazine covers. I found the corresponding photograph of each narrative and traced its origin, longing to be embedded within them. I wanted to escape my bleak reality, to live without the constant friction of latex gloves between my hands and feel human connection beyond the clash of dots from my computer, like a failed Chuck Close painting.

/ ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION

Bubbe made up for the confiscated challah by taking me for a pastrami on rye at Ragtime Deli, right on Cross Bay Boulevard. Beads of sweat trickled along thick gold rope chains and deft hands pressed the ends of calzones. "I miss all a youse," she declared to the deli men. Her thick Queens accent was ever-so comforting to my ears. I spied Bubbe reaching for a box of Lorna Doones despite kvetching about going on a diet. It wasn’t the quantity in question. It was quality. Bubbe liked old things. "Antony, get me some hamburgah meat and a poundah peppah loaf." She stood adorned in an Iris Apfel carcanet, goggles, and a zebra print mask. This was the one day a week she could venture past the confines of her apartment. While Bubbe’s attention was leaning toward the specialty breads, I walked to the window staring at Cross Bay Boulevard that no longer vibrated with its bustling spirit: boarded up diners, barren avenues,independently-owned-turned-fastfood chains. My mind blurred the lines between past and present, hope and despair. Closing restaurants effervesced into the Silver Street Disco blaring "Stayin Alive" while girls pranced around with crimped hair in Jordache Jeans, and boys sat under fluorescent light with Members Only jackets—oblivious to the perils of 2020. I remained tethered to a romanticised version of the past as we walked out of RagTime. As Bubbe drove past the boulevard, I saw flickering street lights illuminating this desolate strip of the city. I ignored the darkness that pervaded Queens’ history. Instead, my time capsule took me to Crossbay Lanes as "Celebration" roared from the speakers, and swift feet in Reebok sneakers shifted towards bowling pins. Bubbe stood with her waist cinched by Gitanos while my grandpa grabbed his compact to check his pompadour hair. He’d bought her an Orange Julius and a box of Chuckles.

Bubbe continued driving down Cross Bay Boulevard to Ozone Park to Woodhaven to Rego Park. My nostalgic daze couldn’t withstand the chronic honks that reverberated through the potholed roads. Wading in and out of 2020 and the 1980s, I entered a state of vertigo. There was a strong sense of dizziness that caught me off guard and I was grasping for balance. Disillusioned by global warming, a devastating pandemic, and the inheritance of a fragmented nation, it was easier to surrender to a false reality. Hiding from the side-view mirrors, I held my eyes to the sky.

words GABRIELLE ROSE illustration ALICIA OKTAVIANA HALIM

ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

Everything goes by Hand in hand Stealthily the scales are Tipped

A T H R O W A W AY CERTITUDE words SHUJAAT MIRZA illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO

/ CREATIVE

For the balance to hit A tantalizing prospect As the grinder cuts through the Sobriety Of the forlorn, crashed out, Deadwood In the midst of what is lost— The sequence seems to stop In the eye of A grinding halt: A throwaway certitude And then— an interlude.

NIMBLE-FOOTED words SHUJAAT MIRZA illustration JESSEMINA SUGIONO

Do we live nimble-footed— By the sea And from the railings Of a heightened dawn? See the ripples rising around oceanic waves Invisible crossings that changed dates Across the time zones of nation-states Replacing the locus imposed On boundaries Do we fear the debilitating sense of precision— Pushing us in unintended directions Atomized even to ourselves? Like a memory bubble Trapped under the sweeping rubble Of an avalanche of fixity That seeks an illuminating sunray Cursory Does time chug along the arms of a clock— Silently losing out on the need to be free.

CREATIVE /

TIME ZONES words ASTRI SANJAYA, ANINDYA MEIV illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA

Against By Astri Sanjaya If everyone around the world had the same time zone, we wouldn’t be having this debate right now and life would be much easier. It makes no sense to depart at 7 PM then land at 7 AM the next day, after being on air for 14 hours. There’s only so much the human body can handle, and we need to start eliminating unnecessary problems like jet lag. The earth rotates once every 24 hours, which is the same duration as our biological clock that involves physical, mental and behavioural changes. When you travel across various time zones over long distances, you adapt unnaturally. Your circadian rhythm gets ruined as you feel sleepy during the day yet lie awake at night. Abolishing time zones equals adhering to a universal human biological clock, which contributes to a healthier lifestyle. Because let’s be real, we don’t need any more reasons to blunder our shut-eye schedule. Anyone who communicates daily with family and friends overseas faces the ever-troublesome cruelty of time zones. Everything can be done during the day, yet I can’t set up a meeting at 8 PM because it would be midnight where my friends are! But, waiting for an urgent reply only to realise that my friend’s in deep sleep and 15 hours behind is only one of the hassles. The problem extends to your education. 6 AM exams are apparently considerate because you’re that one overseas student. Group works with five people in three different time zones? Good luck. Don’t get me started on daylight savings. So daylight needs to be conserved or extended, hence you have to adjust your clock? Pure nonsense. If there’s anything that needs saving, it would be me.

/ CREATIVE

For By Anindya Meiv The sun is the big boss here. We only follow along. Time zones were developed as a form of one thing: compromise. There’s so much space on this planet of ours, we couldn’t possibly fit everything into the same time. If we did, it would be chaos. Think about it: everyone doing the same damn thing at the same time, all around the globe. We all wake up and do our routine. When we sleep, no news get written, no trends go viral. We wake up and Twitter is empty. Empty! There is no spontaneity, no curiosity. Sure, it’s exciting at first. You may even consider society to be organised, for once. You don’t need to worry about calculations (yes, no math!) and setting reminders when making plans with your friends abroad. My parents wouldn’t need three different wall clocks by the dining room anymore. You never have to wake up at 5 AM to catch the premiere of a music video. But as Taylor Swift once said: forever is the sweetest con. The bliss doesn’t last long. Besides, why would you want to share a sunrise with everyone else on earth? God, imagine the number of photos uploaded under that same hashtag. #Nature #NoFilter #GoldenHour And even if we don’t have time zones, the earth will keep rotating. It has to, right? A foggy morning in one place still means purple-pink sunset in another. Time moves on. Seasons change. We can’t just press pause. Doing that means one side of the globe would forever live in darkness, almost like an ongoing solar eclipse. Although not having the sharp ray of the summer sun poking at my skin sounds like a pretty good deal, I am not a vampire (unfortunately). I need my Vitamin D. They say word travels fast. If all students go to class at the same exact time, you can kiss cheating on exams goodbye. *PF does not support cheating on exams, or any behaviour of such kind. This is purely for a creative piece.

CREATIVE /

DISCOVER IGLU AND LIVE COOL IN MELBOURNE

IGLU MELBOURNE CITY

ABSOLUTE CONVENIENCE LIVING FOR THE MODERN STUDENT 229 Franklin Street Melbourne VIC 3004 +61 3 9002 5600

IGLU SOUTH YARRA

LATEST MUST-HAVE STUDENT ADDRESS 8 Claremont Street South Yarra VIC 3141

FULLY FURNISHED

UNLIMITED WI-FI

REGULAR EVENTS

FOR FULL OFFER DETAILS AND BOOKINGS CHECK OUT

www.iglu.com.au/melbourne

MELBOURNE PROPERTY BY BRADY PROPERTY GROUP

100% STAMP DUTY WAIVER Enjoy

savings of up to $55,000 on the purchase of selected 380 Melbourne apartments

Ready to move in NOW with a great selection of high quality 1, 2, 3 bedroom apartments

Walking RMIT,

distance

William

Monash,

Angliss,

Melbourne

Victoria University

Winner

Asia

Property Awards

FREEHOLD / Hak milik selamanya

(+62)21 - 574 0008

inquiry@brady.co.id

www.brady.co.id

Brady Group Jakarta

cover & illustration ANDERSEN CHANDRADINATA

Facebook + Instagram - @perspektifmag Youtube + LinkedIn - Perspektif Magazine Spotify (Podcast) - Beyond The Pages W - www.perspektifmagazine.com E - perspektif@ppia-unimelb.org

VOLume 17

InTERLUDE