Bloom I06: Flower Power by bloomxmagazine

Contributors Ellie Johnson Melanie Hobbs Mar Vilella Imogen Kathleen Vania Vela Kasey Charlotte Wood Lottie Allison Lavínia Vianini Laura Ferries Bethan Evans Caela Magale Eliana Jade Kayden Vargas Natasha Gupta Anayis N. Der Hakopian

Olivia Timmins Aisling King Elena Demireva Carella Keil Revika Sangamita Aamna Sophie Hutchison Esther Gonzales Emily Bayron Sophia Bosma Beth Walsh Isobel Scanlan Jessica Parker Zoe Schulz Brooke Heneghan Libby Pierzak-Pee

Editor's Note

This issue has been the most chaotic to put together so far so thank you for reading and thank you, as always, to everyone who worked on it this year.

♡

lauren x

I06 - AUTUMN/WINTER 2022

Playlist 1 I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker (with Flowers in my Hair)- Sandi Thom 2 Les Fleurs Minnie Riperton 3 Wildflowers - Dolly Parton, Linda Rondstadt, Emmylou Harris 4 Choking on Flowers - Fox Academy 5 Flower - Maebh 6 Flower Moon - Vampire Weekend, Steve Lacy 7 Daisy - Laura Marling 8 First Flower - Molly Burch 9 RHODODENDRON - Hurray For The Riff Raff 10 Flower Power - Greta Van Fleet 11 (Nothing But) Flowers - Talking Heads 12 Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes) Edison Lighthouse 13 Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) - George Harrison 14 Different Drum - Stone Poneys, Linda Rondstadt 15 You're So Vain - Carly Simon

I06 - AUTUMN/WINTER 2022

Contents fashion & beauty 8 creative writing 10 flower power 34 music 64 opinions 72 love&relationships 76 health & lifestyle 80

ART: MELANIE HOBBS, @MELAHOBBS, PERTH

Fashion & Beauty

ART: MAR VILELLA, IG: @AND_ROSES, SPAIN

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Sucrose We dance together under a strawberry sun, the ring around your neck twirling and jiving whilst the music rocks our hips. Only our fingertips, entwined strands of sugary silk remain still against one another. I wonder do you dream about me, too? by Imogen Kathleen, @imogens.corner, Reading

Every Time Every time I bleed, someone gets disgusted. Every time I speak, someone silences me. Every time I stand up, someone sits me down. Society wants us, "clean" silent seated We are children of the oppressed, Fruits of their resistance. Even when silenced, Our voice is powerful. Even when hidden, Our blood is beautiful. We change the world And that will never stop. We are magic. We are strength. It's time for it to be embraced. words & art by Vania Vela, @vania_mjv , México

MELANIE They call her ‘strong’ like the stem of a rose, bending slightly under the weight of the sun. They call her ‘brave’ like the patient daisy waiting for blood to turn to water on the battlefield. They call her ‘inspiring’ like the determined bluebell, vibrant and beautiful and alive in the absence of great light. But they miss the softness in how her upturned lips mould her cheeks into plums in how her dark eyes burn not like a flame, but like a furnace in a family home in how her braids hang like silk against satin dress in how her careful words wrap a thick blanket around friends in how her mind paints the world shades of lavender and cherry. You see, my friend is a radiant, growing thing with all the time in the world to become the leader she already is. Twenty-two’s too young to be a hero when boys and vodka and Beyoncé exist. Twenty-two’s too fragile to be a soldier when your feet have yet to hit the ground.

by Imogen Kathleen, @imogens.corner, Reading

PHOTOGRAPHY: KASEY, @KASEYSPHOTOGRAPHS, DEVON

Forbidden Fruit Why oh why does the forbidden fruit of my labour grow so close to the heart yet so far even oceans apart? Carved by my own teachings he flourished, he bloomed like the Japanese orchid. Only to be snatched away by his desire to explore the corners of our lands. Maybe I didn’t teach him the rules and regulations of love as I should have. Maybe I was too enveloped by his intoxicating grip and his devilish ways to question his unforeseen notions. I now pay for my foolery, my idleness to caress his every surface and nurture his every wonder. Left a shell of my former self I will dwell on the allusion to fairytale I have shaped for myself. My only escape from the dull futile being I have confined myself to. I now lay endlessly as most artefacts do behind the glass. Yearning for touch but too pain-stricken to lay out my vulnerabilities. My armour has been prodded aimlessly with hope of penetration or at least piercing the harsh cold exterior but I stay a recluse in my empty love-stricken world. His irises belong to someone far from my little crevice in my cursed neck of the woods. I often muse upon whether or not they stare into those dark swirling pools of danger the way I once did or if they too trace the outline of the scars upon his forearms as a bereft wife would to a husband at last returning from battle. My extant seemed preternatural without him by my side and the concept of him replacing me with such ease seemed unnatural and cruel. I was inebriated from the moment I found him perched amongst the shrubbery, weak and vulnerable. Fragile to the gentlest of touches I saw him to be beautiful, an ethereal wonder. A facade of cascading beauty is what masked his awaiting villainous metamorphosis.

WORDS: CHARLOTTE WOOD, @CHARLOTTEROBERTAWOOD, ESSEX PHOTOGRAPHY: KASEY, @KASEYSPHOTOGRAPHS, DEVON

PHOTOGRAPHY: LOTTIE ALLISON, @PHOTOGRAPHY LOTTIE, NORWICH

ANTICIPATION Before writing a poem You must vacuum the tapestry, clean the wine stain from off the counter, organize the words from the bookshelf of ideas. It takes dexterity, precision, tact. Knowing out to handle a double-edged sword. Before writing a poem you must unlearn language on a Sunday afternoon. You must rearrange the kitchen dishes, to feel the emptiness, the whiteness, to then fill it with soul, skin, wording. Before writing this poem it already existed in the spaces occupied by my silence. It existed before this rainy day. I ask if you believe in fate, I follow the sunbeams that cross the arms of a tree and reflect the golden of your hair. And I wonder if this poem, this one, would be placed in the section “of love” or “of observation” from a book I never wrote, never planned but which I know has always existed.

BY Lavínia Vianini

Málaga Jasmine by Laura Ferries, @lauraferrieswriter, Liverpool Sardines smoke over charcoal as gentle waves break and flow and seabirds swoop in high and low, I’ll take the day this way, good & slow bathing beneath the springtime sun laid beside the sequin sea a ladybird lands upon my knee visits me, then flies off, free polka dot black and red, wings fanning out like a Flamenca; Andalucía, land of fruit and flower, of orange blossom and wild jasmine in the street wet in the sudden Wednesday rain, the soft air is fragrant lemon bitter and cinnamon sweet; I breathe it in and tread the shores I’ve walked these beaches many times before, I listen closely to the ocean’s roar I scour the rough sands fill my pockets with souvenirs; pearly shells and shards little treasures gifted by the sea, once homes to marine creatures like this was once a home to me.

Málaga Jasmine by Laura Ferries

Sardinas ahumadas al espeto mientras las olas rompen y fluyen y las aves marinas vuelan, siento el día así, bueno y lento tomando el sol de la primavera tumbada junta la mar de lentejuela una mariquita aterriza en la rodilla lunares de negro y rojo alas en abánico cómo una flamenca; Andalucía, la tierra de fruta y flores, azahar y jazmín salvaje en la calle mojados en la lluvia de martés, el aire suave es fragrante limón amargo y canela dulce; respiro y camino por las orillas aquí he dejado muchas huellas, escucho al rugido del oceáno busco las arenas ásperas lleno los bolsillos con recuerdos: conchitas y cascaritas de la mar preciosos tesoros, regalitos que eran casas para la vida marina y érase una vez también para mí.

ALTERED MEMORIES THROUGH TIME Like most children everything around me seemed big, extravagant. Life was seen through rose tinted glasses; minor trips romanticised into grand adventures. That was the case with my playhouse. In hindsight, it was a tiny shed, it wasn’t anything worth raving about. But I loved it. I saw it as a mini home. Something that was mine, that I had complete control over. I saved for months and months. The full amount seemed ridiculous to me back then, a colossal sum that would take years and years to save up. I know now that it wasn’t anything extensive, quite cheap actually when I think about it. Mum and Dad gave me half. I was determined to get it for some reason, I didn’t even use it that much. I think I just liked the idea of it, something that seemed untouchable every time we went to B&Q. It was one of those things that went on my Christmas list every year. I had planned out every inch of the interior before I even had a penny to put towards it. Miniature sofa, floral curtains, colourful cushions, and blankets. The miniature sofa was nonsensical in all honesty, way too small even when I was younger. It was a novelty, something I pointed out to my nan when she took me to The Range. It reminded me of those tiny villages you could visit on holiday in places like Devon and Dorset. I was going for a shabby chic cottage vibe when it closer resembled a makeshift fort. I made the curtains myself. Well, my nan did. I just sat there and helped her pick the material. They were cream with 60s style flowers adorning them. They weren’t originally cream; they were supposed to be white. I guess that's what happens when you leave them outside with the flimsy plastic windows open. I thought them quite impressive, that they gave the dull wooden walls a pop of colour. I pulled them down a dozen times. I was way too heavy handed even when I first got it. I’d dash them to the side to open the windows (it got humid very quickly) and rip them right off of their little line. The playhouse was a hazard in itself. The doorway was unreasonably short, most times people left with a bruised forehead or a scratched arm from the awkwardly placed shelf. I used to fill it with DVDs. Usually Scooby Doo, Bee Movie and Sinbad. I watched them repetitively, still do. I don’t know how I managed to watch film after film cramped up in there during the summer without feeling claustrophobic. I had stages where I would forget the playhouse existed for months at a time. Odd, I know. When I would go back down there in the summer it would be filled with bugs or spider nests. I would refuse to clean it myself and claim the spiders had a dodgy pattern on their back. I would say they were poisonous, and it was dangerous for me to go near them, so my parents usually swept and cleaned the entire thing. Even then, I saw my playhouse as some magnificent wonder. When we moved, we decided to give it to the neighbour. I had no use for it anymore and there was no room in the skip. Only took 3 of us to lift it. Suddenly the playhouse wasn’t so marvellous or huge. It was just a rickety old shed from B&Q. It’s odd, I guess, how childhood warps beyond recognition over time yet still simmers familiar in the caverns of the brain. A moment that drifts momentarily into the forefront of our thoughts only to be snatched away by the now.

BY CHARLOTTE WOOD, @CHARLOTTEROBERTAWOOD, ESSEX

PHOTOGRAPHY: BETHAN EVANS, @BLODEUWEDD.FLOWER.FACE,MERTHYR TYDFIL

FLORENCIA she finds herself lying on the floor palms pressed on the cold tiles dried flowers taking up space next to her for what we all know they were watered down with heartbeats, pure static all thumping, growing on crestfallen, downtrodden planes and this is the closest she could ever be as ophelia in all her dissociating glory head first diving, chasing her end not without wildflowers and a swan song this is the closest she could ever be to falling down the bottom, the aegeans past the indigos a transition to the twilight blacks not castigated by whirlpools after whirlpools on 2ams graced with insomnia uncomplete without the breakdown, reasons shot down with i don’t knows, i dont knows, i dont know anymores this is the closest she could get to trudging in the midnight zone with no signs of the typical hurricanes ransacking her chest never mind that they leave marks just above her ribcage this is the closest she could get to being one of the silhouettes the eclipses past, trailing the next one just motions in a pair of rather blank almost lifeless eyes this is the closest she could ever get to not feeling and feeling everything, years worth of pain all at once and finally she finds herself lying on the floor surrounded by all her “you don’t understands” but sweetie, somehow, i do -sometimes meeting your self-destruction halfway (or more than) is the calmest it’ll ever let you be BY CAELA MAGALE. @GRAVEYARDTEARS ,PASIG CITY, PHILIPPINES

WHEN SURROUNDED BY NATURE

She sits patiently on a log, fallen long ago, covered in familiar green moss and a calamitous amount of wilted leaves; once alive and flourishing on the tree situated above, now finally at rest below. New plants are beginning to sprout from the crevices of the log, new life beginning after the funeral of the tree that once was. The dead leaves and gentle logs, now lost of their life, contrary to the traditional ideas surrounding the concepts of life and death are not out of place among the rest of nature. For they are still beautiful, and they are still alluring for the imaginative mind. Even after their time they still remain pertinent in nature; those with minds that wander, when passing through nature cannot resist pondering the appearance of what the location may have once looked like. How did that tree look long ago when it was barely a metre from the ground? For how long have those flowers been blooming for? Other questions will naturally occur in this mind, such as who else has walked this same path as I? The girl steps up from the log and wonders this as she stares into the iridescent water that runs in front of her. As she stares into the body water, it’s as if all time has been put to a halt. No yesterday, no tomorrow, simply existing, living and breathing alongside the many shades of green and rustling winds. She waits here patiently, for what may have been minutes or hours. What is she waiting for? The reality is that she doesn’t particularly know. She may very well be waiting for rain to fall, and fall until the body of the almost magical yet icy cold water begins to caress her feet… or possibly she is waiting for something else. All that she knows is that she hasn’t experienced yet and once she does experience that, that of which she has been aimlessly wandering around in hopes of finding, is finally found… she knows she will finally feel whole. That longing for something, only not knowing exactly what that is, overpowers all other feelings that are in her heart at this present moment, this specific point in time. Nature enhances that sense of wonder, she feels more intuitive than ever, she feels ever so much calmer, and with the knowledge she has, she continues to wait, without worry of how long she may end up waiting for. In this secluded wonderland she finally feels as if she is ready for what is to come next, she has zero desire to ever leave this place.

ART: MAR VILELLA, IG: @AND_ROSES, SPAIN WORDS: ELIANA JADE, GOLD COAST

Wildling I’ve gone to seed Grown wilder The way nature does When left to her own devices The way the buzzing bee dances Around its lover The lakeside honeysuckle Intoxicating nectar Drawing the hungry home Watch me bloom open. K

WORDS: KAYDEN VARGAS,@DRKMV2021, MOXEE, WA, USA

Writer she would have been an ornament to society, but she is not so content, so hollow. she is not pretty; she is undefinable, celestial. her mind is the night sky—a glittering chasm of reflection. when it spills over, she dips her pen in its inky blackness and finds poetry. and the real thing lies there, just beyond her reach, in the summer wind gliding through an open window, in the first pink-gold flush of light at dawn. she is a part of it, and it is a part of her. she does not know herself, but each line she writes reveals to her another piece of the puzzle. drunk on possibility, the words fall, stardust scattered on an empty page. BY NATASHA GUPTA, @NATASHA_BAHAAR, SARATOGA

ART: MAR VILELLA/AND ROSES, IG: @AND_ROSES, SPAIN

WER PO

R OWE P

WER FL

OW FLO

WER PO

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WER FL

OW FLO

CRUMBLING FLOWER CROWNS Adorn them with flowers For their love and their fight For the spirits they stand for And the ones who have to still hide Award them for standing tall As they call the end of bloodshed With scraped knees and bruises For mankind have stained the fields From afar and close With bodies lying dead at our doors Our flowers call out for social change With the pain and rage Switched out for peace For equal rights for every flower But with all the love With all that fight What was it for? As we now find ourselves Slowly heading back to the starting line Returning with aged crumbling flower crowns

BY ANAYIS N. DER HAKOPIAN, @ANAYISNDH, LONDON

PHOTOGRAPHY: ELLIE JOHNSON, @ELLIEJOHNNO, LONDON

SWEENESS/ LORI & TODD Lori’s golden hair dangled down her body, petals intertwined between the locks of summer. Sunshine dripped over her rosy cheeks as she lay sleeping between the wildflowers and the bees. Sylvia Plath poetry lay balanced on her lap – wind dancing with her sleeping body. Todd lay soundlessly beside her gripping roses that paired the sunset about to painted over their sleeping bodies. Receipts carefully folded and placed in the pocket of his trousers, later to be stuck onto Lori’s already covered bedroom walls. Memories, she keeps. Scraps of paper, receipts, photographs, newspaper clippings, love letters. Lori has them all. You are made of rivers and wildflowers. Bringing peace and love with your golden glow. Rosy cheeks blush, matching the sunrise in the Field you lay in. Strawberry milkshakes as you Ride through town, hand in mine. Todd spent hours writing those 5 lines in his miniscule bedroom. Little did he know, a year later the flimsy piece of paper would be stuck onto Lori’s wall, where she would read it every night and every morning. Lori’s thank you, was to smear neon red lipstick on her lips and kiss Todd all over his face. Smitten, embarrassed and in love he was, and has been since he first laid eyes on her, during the protest. The word ‘freedom’ carefully written on Lori’s sign, peace symbols and flowers covered the border in bright fluorescent colour. On that day, Todd learnt two things - he knew what it felt to be in love. And flowers are given as peace offerings; daisies held in hands highlight innocence. The rose in their vase is a new beginning. The lily of the valley is humility, and sweetness the world hopes to become. BY OLIVIA TIMMINS, @OLIVIATIMMINS._,BIRMINGHAM

JULY 1971 by Aisling King, @_aislingjk, Swindon

I. You are seventeen and your sun drenched hair cascades behind you. Cherry red lips pucker up in your side view mirror and freedom fizzes on your tongue. You shout the words to your favourite song, conducting the flowers you drive pass, sunlight shining from your fingertips. II. You are ten with bruised knees and the body you call home is becoming alien to you. Seventeen is the summit you ache for. Unimaginable you will ever be any older, that anything could be better. Your eyes never to soak in another candy floss sky behind a setting sun, for your golden years will be everlasting. III. You are seventeen and as soon as you can touch it, sand pours through your hands, each grain that falls serves as a reminder. Desperate to savour the moment, to remember this. This: the days before you basked in a sienna glow no matter the season, no responsibilities to bother the back of your mind. So you take the longer route home as the sky ripens to plum behind you. repeating each lyric on the radio as if in prayer. The scent of burning tyre and salt air, nostalgic for moments not yet lived. IV. Seventeen is faraway. The smiles from years past now linger on your face. Hair kissed by moonlight. The radio begins to play a song and its familiarity warms you. Your favourite song from when you were seventeen. Music and people and cities, you’ve loved many things since then. But when you hear those words, the sands soar back through your hands. As you close your eyes, the breeze whispers at the back of your neck. The scent of heat rising and freedom once again on your tongue. Once again you are seventeen, driving with the roof down in July, sunlight shining from your fingertips.

‘Praise the pill, bless our pads’ was the motto of the women of the 1960s counterculture. The counterculture rejected suburban domesticity and replaced it with spiritual, creative and sexual liberation. It devalued social dogmas which had been traditionally masculine aggression, material success, domination, war, independence; and instead celebrated love, sustainability, cooperation, empathy, intimacy and intuition. Women of that era are often unfairly reduced to stereotypical hippie chicks, earth mothers, nymphs in peasant dresses and their pivotal role in advancing the Women’s Movement is overlooked. But the slogan ‘Praise the pill, bless our pads’ reveals to us their ethos. The pill safeguarded women from unwanted pregnancies and sexually liberated them, allowing them to reclaim ownership of their bodies and sexual relations. Accessible female hygiene products and healthcare were the very societal advancements which brought power to women to reject societal norms and pursue alternative lifestyles. This notion resonates with us now more than ever after the US Supreme Court overturned its 50-year-old Roe v Wade decision meaning millions of women in the US will lose their constitutional right to abortion.

42-45 BY ELENA DEMIREVA, @DEMIREVADESIGN, LONDON

46 PHOTOGRAPHY: GLINDA BY CARELLA KEIL, @CATALOGUE.OF.DREAMS,TORONTO

FLOWER SHOWER They bloom in the unknown And end their lives in peace They're unbothered by the wars They do as they please Enchanting breath they have There's no power that they lack Scent of love and a touch like streams Brews the hearts of petals with beam They finally teach me how to dream Beyond and beyond, dear I offered them to you once Since you found solace in the blues. These blooming beauties are betrothed to our being It was done way before any ceremony Blossom your life with them, you'll have your epiphany.

REVIKA SANGAMITA,@REVIIIKA , NEW DELHI

ALL THINGS UNHOLY leave the table before the host swallow the shards of glass from the broken cup pluck the petals from a tulip one at a time drown in a hotel bathtub feel the last breath of a bird in the palm of your hand and photograph it later and bury it later. step on the lines that divide the floors leave your slippers turned inside out don’t knock on wood three times don’t knock on wood three times accidentally poison a plant accidentally kill a rabbit wake up with bloodstained sheets.

WORDS: LAVÍNIA VIANINI ART: AAMNA, @AFILLUSTRATES, BRADFORD

Strawberry Fields Ancient foundations Hidden beneath fresh stone Gone are the corridors Children once called home. Strawberry fields forever. Curled iron flowers On gates painted red Now a permanent structure Among the flowerbeds. Strawberry fields forever. Long gone is the laughter Of little boys and girls In these grounds cut off From the rest of the world. Strawberry fields forever. It isn’t hard to imagine How a Beatle might find Some tranquillity here For the corners of his mind. Strawberry fields forever. From here came a song That bound him to this city Psychedelic tunes for A place of such beauty. Strawberry fields forever. The manor is long gone All it’s children too Yet through this song This place has life anew.

by Sophie Hutchison, @sophiehutchison7797, Birkenhead

ART: MELANIE HOBBS, @MELAHOBBS, PERTH

PHOTOGRAPHY: ELLIE JOHNSON, @ELLIEJOHNNO, LONDON

TODAY Today the sun is shining And I will stand in its light Its warmth washes over me Reminding me of my own light The kind that others see But at times is hidden from me By the weight of the darkness around me Today the flowers are blooming Like the purple wildflowers on the side of the road As I’m driving by And I smile Because their soft colors add a glimpse of hope To my black and white world Where everything spins and swirls around me And maybe I will rest gently Just as they do Today the birds are singing They hum and chirp And float from branch to branch Their song rings around me, A beautiful melody That breaks into my thoughts And I think I will find a song to sing too I will find my wings to rise too Today I am strong Despite my anxiety Today I am loved Despite my worries Today I am worthy Despite my fears Today I am here ESTHER GONZALES, @ESTHER.POETRY, HILLSIDE

THE ONES BEFORE

On the days I feel myself crumble and watch my petals wilt, I remember the ones before me who endured worse pain at worst stakes Though I am hurting, I must find myself again to bring myself back to life to stand tall and let my colors shine For they remind me of the power they have given me and I cannot let that go to waste So I continue to grow and watch the fields before me lead the way

BY EMILY BAYRON, @POEMSBYEMILY_, TAMPA ART: MELANIE HOBBS, @MELAHOBBS, PERTH

THE GARDENS I am overgrown and messy. There are weeds growing in my yard that I will simply never pick. For I have decided to let them grow and overwhelm the gardens. I stopped trying to make the lawn presentable and pretty. I don’t pick out the dying pieces that make the neighbors stare. I will never again have mowed grass or tidy gardens. There are dandelions and wildflowers and roots, bursting from below. There are weeds growing as tall as trees and bent branches hanging over the broken fence. And in the mornings I sit on my porch with a cup of mint tea and admire my work. The unruly nature of the world I have designed. A world in which I do not hide the ugly and bent parts of me. I have become unafraid, unabashed, of the person I was, of the person I have become. It pains me to watch as the neighbors scoff at my unkempt yard. Their faces are those of discontent, as opposed to my embrace of my difference. It is in those quiet mornings that I wish for a world where we all let our gardens overflow. Where my dandelion seeds blow into your yard and bloom into lovely golden weeds. Where I could see the basil leaves my neighbors let flourish on their windowsills, a reminder of their grandfather. A lovely man who fought and died in a war he did not design. Maybe I would know them beyond the people I have imagined them to be; maybe we would trade recipes, and dine under moonlight. Maybe we wouldn’t feel so distant, but maybe we reap what we sow. I hope you let your gardens overgrow. \ WORDS: SOPHIA BOSMA, FLOWER MOUND, TEXAS PHOTOGRAPHY: BETH WALSH, @TINYBETH, FALMOUTH

I BUY MYSELF FLOWERS

I buy myself flowers Because no-one else does. But I don't think this means I don't deserve flowers. Sometimes from the market But mostly from Tesco. Tulips, wrapped in cellophane That will only live a day. I buy myself flowers To show that I care To prove I can be kind To the girl who likes flowers. I buy myself flowers Because no-one else does. They stand stoic in the morning And guard me every night. I buy myself flowers That sit on the sill Till they die three days later Then, I buy myself flowers.

WORDS: ISOBEL SCANLAN, @ISOBELSCANLAN, LONDON PHOTOGRAPHY: ELLIE JOHNSON, @ELLIEJOHNNO, LONDON 61

PHOTOGRAPHY: JESSICA PARKER, @PHOTOGRAPHY.JESSP, NORWICH

PHOTOGRAPHY: LOTTIE ALLISON, @PHOTOGRAPHY LOTTIE,NORWICH

MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC MUSIC ART: MAR VILELLA /AND ROSES, IG: @AND_ROSES, SPAIN

PHOTOGRAPHY: ZOE SCHULZ, @STUDIOZO__ MAWNESS, @MAWNESSMUSIC

PHOTOGRAPHY: TWILIGHT DANCE CARELLA KEIL, @CATALOGUE.OF.DREAMS,TORONTO

PHOTOGRAPHY: ZOE SCHULZ,@STUDIOZO__

FOXGLUVV, @FOXGLUVV

n an anonymous online survey I conducted on over 1,300 16-20-year-old girls across the UK, over 80% had experienced some form of sexual assault. Over 61% of these offences happened to young girls during their school years. These shocking yet relatively unsurprising statistics formulate two key questions: Why are the statistics so high in schools? What needs to be done to prevent these incidents from happening? Before I investigate this issue and what must change, here are some harrowing yet truthful answers to the questions posed. What would you consider to be sexual assault? Any inappropriate touching without consent. An act that has taken place without consent. Any sexual contact that is non-consensual. What do you think can be done to raise awareness of sexual assault? Educating men and boys. Educating people on the mental impact sexual assault can have, both in the long term and short term. Increased media attention. ‘Girls are passive towards sexual assault as they accept it’. Do you agree with this statement? Please explain your answer. I disagree. Sometimes girls appear passive because they are afraid of telling someone or don’t want to relive the trauma. Not at all- it’s something women have had to deal with, they get told to change their behaviour when education towards men on the matter is little to none. Yes, it’s been normalised within our society. The phrase “boys just being boys” is used as an acceptable excuse way too much. Girls are just too scared to say the truth out of fear of judgement and the feeling of embarrassment. It is evident from these answers that the issue is largely society’s fault. It is, however, vital to recognise that not all men take advantage of women, and men are also victims and survivors of unwanted sexual attention. Anyone can experience assault. Sexual assault is defined as 'unwanted sexual activity, with perpetrators using force, making threats or taking advantage of victims not able to give consent', according to the American Psychological Association. Whilst this is the standard definition, the survey highlighted people’s personal definitions. Most answers were similar, including ‘anything that is sexual and unwanted’ as well as ‘anything that happens after someone says no’ and ‘the continuation of unwanted vulgar comments.’ Having attended an all-girls school, our consent education was geared towards saying no. But not what no means. My education led me to believe that in a mixed/boys school, consent lessons would teach the importance of the word no. This anonymous study, however, revealed that many UK schools treat consent as a taboo. Individuals stated consent wasn’t taught in their

schools which is one of the main reasons sexual assaults occur. One person said, ‘educate boys on the meaning of no’, with another individual saying, ‘the sex-ed curriculum needs to change and fast. The lack of education surrounding assault and consent is causing so many girls to be too scared to speak up'. Arguably, the lack of education from a young age is increasing the number of sexual attacks. With UK children attending school from age four, it becomes the key place for learning and development. It is the setting in which children are taught right and wrong, so a lack of education surrounding sexual assault and consent makes the topic taboo. UK high school students spend approximately 714 hours in school per year. Whilst primary is the place for initial development, high school sees students settle into their innate selves, with their knowledge of right and wrong already developed. With this in mind, the lack of attention given to consent during a pupil’s older years again shows the education system contributes to sexual attacks. Students are not taught the meaning of no in a sexual context or that pressuring someone into a sexual act is sexual assault. They are also not taught the damaging implications of the reality of sexual assault. For society to progress and for sexual assaults to decrease, the school curriculum must alter. Whether it’s ensuring that there are classes surrounding consent or setting up support networks for sexual assault survivors, the school curriculum needs to reform to help lower the frightening statistics. Increased media attention could raise awareness of the issue by investigating the truth of assault and informing individuals of the penalties to help combat it. With sexual assault awareness month in April, you mainly see and read stories of that nature during that month. However, despite raising awareness of the issue, many stories are published to increase readership and ensure that the news organisation is kept relevant. With the media, a constant mass source of information for most, the lack of stories investigating the truth behind sexual assault almost diminishes its severity. It presents sexual assault as only relevant during April. By alerting people to the penalties (which must be stricter) and how sexual assault experiences genuinely damage people, the media could play a massive role in decreasing numbers. Damaging societal norms prevent individuals from speaking about their experiences and create a perceived passivity among women and young girls. In 2021, Rape Crisis England and Wales recorded that five out of six women who experience rape do not report the event, while four out of five men avoid doing the same. Over 40% found the incident embarrassing, with 38% saying it would be humiliating to report it. Society has taught women to suffer in silence, with the infamous “boys will be boys” statement too often used as an excuse.

When I posed the statement, ‘girls are passive towards sexual assault as they accept it,’ to the 1311 girls who took part in the survey, the majority disagreed while acknowledging society has silenced them. In other words, although they want to do something about it and express their opinions, they are subject to a lack of societal interest. Therefore they are unable or unlikely to discuss it on a large platform where change can be forged. One girl said, “many women I know, including myself, actively try to stop it progressing, but when you’re the weaker individual, you end up giving up the fight”. Whilst many women “discuss sexual assault with anger and disgust”, it is often only to close friends or loved ones, as many “accept it as life” and “don’t want to cause a scene out of fear”. In recent years through increased social media usage, the online community has served as a positive, safe place for women to express experiences whilst acquiring support. The MeToo movement, initially created by Tarana Burke, successfully created an online platform (largely on Twitter) for sexual assault survivors to display their reality. This has resulted in a support community, allowing women worldwide to unite and raise awareness on this issue. Whilst it should be recognised that there is an increased knowledge on sexual assault, not enough is being done to raise awareness about the after-effects. Additionally, societal norms have contributed to the rise in the perceived passivity of girls. Discussing sexual assault using damaging phrases such as “boys will be boys” almost teaches girls, particularly those of a younger, more impressionable age, that assault is something to simply tolerate. This shouldn’t be the case. Whilst “boys will be boys”, girls should not have to walk out in fear of attack and assault. Women are not objects and should not be treated as such. Society must teach the reality of sexual assault whilst also ensuring there is adequate support for people who may have experienced any form of assault.

♡♡♡ If you require support due to any of the issues raised in this piece, here are some people who may be able to help: Your local doctor Rape Crisis helpline: 08088029999 Women’s Aid NHS 111 Contraceptive Clinic by Brooke Heneghan, @brookeheneghanjournalism, Manchester

LOVE & RELATIONSHIPS

A retrospective on knowing your worth and learning never to settle for mediocrity

he world of modern dating is increasingly difficult to navigate. From disappointing Tinder dates to settling for anything with a pulse, romance and intimacy appear to be a thing of the past as hook-up culture reigns supreme. Dodging red flags is an Olympic sport, and temporary traffic lights are not the only things giving off mixed signals. Just uttering the word 'relationship' is enough to make any guy label you a psycho. With the scent of Lynx Africa heavy in the air, feelings are thrown out of the window as Gen Z would rather catch flights than feelings. Commitment is considered an ick, and a six month relationship is classed as an achievement. Whilst many consider hook-up culture to be liberating in the sense that it erases some of the stigma surrounding casual sex, particularly for women, it can leave others feeling anxious and dissatisfied by the lack of people looking for a genuine connection. Thanks to dating apps, it has never been easier to meet people, with sex readily available at the swipe of a finger. Gone are the days where you actually had to graft and make an effort with someone by taking them on at least three dates before the possibility of sex was even put on the table. Dating apps have become the shag equivalent of Amazon Prime. You can strike up a conversation with a random stranger within a two mile radius of your house, and, half an hour later, they’ll be deep inside you asking if you’ve ever done anal and if they can cum on your face seeing as you’re not on any form of birth control. With clear boundaries, good communication and a mutual respect and understanding for one another, casual relationships can be fun. I myself have been involved in a number of casual relationships. But whilst the benefits are appealing to many (regular sex with someone you find semi-attractive, no pressure to be romantic or intimate, and zero commitment), I am quite frankly tired of the situationship dance. It always starts out the same way. You meet a guy, usually quite attractive and begin talking. At first, he seems keen and interested in getting to know you. He’s not like other guys, you tell yourself naively. He’s taken me out for coffee, he reads for pleasure, Paco Rabanne 1 Million is not his signature scent, he’s not a selfconfessed gym-junkie, and he doesn’t carry a tote bag. The situation intensifies and before you know it, you find yourself happily caught up in a whirlwind of sex. Everything is going well. Maybe a little too well.

Then the inevitable happens. You catch feelings. You catch feelings bad. Catching feelings in a casual relationship bears a similar resemblance to Fight Club. The first rule of catching feelings in a casual relationship is: you do NOT catch feelings. The second rule of catching feelings in a casual relationship is: you do NOT catch feelings. But all hopes of salvaging a commitment are dashed when you inevitably hear the by-now recitable, situationship break-up speech: “Look, this just isn’t working out anymore. I think you’re an amazing person, and the past (insert amount of time you’ve been shagging) has been great. But I’m not really in a commitment sort of place right now. This was only a casual thing, a bit of fun. It’s not you. It’s me. Hurting you is the last thing I want to do, as I care about you so much. You deserve someone who gives you 110%, and I think the only way for you to find that is if we see other people. I hope you’re not mad. Can we still be friends? (i.e. please forgive me within the next three months when I’ll inevitably message you drunk and/or horny asking for a shag)”. BAM! The friendzone hits you like a ton of bricks as you attempt to understand what just happened. Did you misinterpret something? Google Translate is just as confused as you are. He said he wanted a relationship. He never mentioned wanting something casual. He’s taken me on dates, introduced me to his friends, told me he really likes me and saw something serious between us. And before you’ve had time to wake up and smell the coffee, you realise you were simply being led down the primrose path of utter bullshit. In my experience, I have fallen hard for some of the guys I was casually seeing. In most cases these guys never expressed that they were looking for something casual and stressed that they were interested in having a serious relationship. I was often left feeling confused, heartbroken, and, if I’m honest, a little bit pathetic as I realised these guys had just led me on, only to have no romantic interest in me. Let me tell you, casual relationships work wonders in destroying your selfesteem when you know a guy only likes you enough to sleep with you, but not enough to fully commit to being in a relationship with you. Casual relationships are perfect for the Chandler Bing commitment-phobes of the world. They are seemingly more convenient and enjoyable for many men, allowing them to have their cake and eat it too. This is not to say that all men are immune from being used or developing feelings within a casual relationship. Men can have all the benefits of a relationship without having to commit and develop feelings for one person, and can come and

go as often as they like, disregarding women’s feelings and emotions in the process. They don’t care that they have led you on. They don’t care that they have hurt you. They don’t care that you thought the connection you had was real. They still don’t care when you stupidly take them back as they promise you things will change, only to find you are nothing but a late night booty-call. At the end of the day they got what they wanted. They don’t care how much they break you as long as they get their fix. Most guys use casual relationships to inflate their egos, brag to their friends, and essentially ‘try before they buy’. Rather than spending time forming a connection with someone, it has never been easier for people to question what else is out there. It’s a classic case of could you be happier? Why put in effort to fully commit to someone when there are plenty of bigger and better boobs to explore? The fact that women’s bodies are of so little value to men and are considered nothing but a commodity, only highlights the damaging effects these types of relationships have on modern society. I would spend countless hours during my various situationships asking him to make more effort. I stupidly emphasised the times he kissed my forehead, picked me up and spun me around, thinking that every time he fell asleep holding me that he was equally as into me as I was into him. I grew frustrated at the fact that despite how frequently he came over, I was kept a secret. I gave these guys relationship benefits and constantly jumped through hoops to impress them, hoping deep-down that one day they would turn around and tell me how much they loved me and wanted to be with me. After they left, I questioned everything about myself, always believing it was my fault. I was too much of this and not enough of that. If I was thinner, dumber, smarter, more attractive, self-obsessed, maybe he would have actually liked me rather than seeing me as a doll he could pick up, use and discard before moving on to play with someone else. I couldn’t understand why guys couldn’t commit to a relationship with me, and yet they could seemingly commit to one with Lucy three weeks later. We all want to be loved and cared for. But with our standards at an all-time low, casual relationships have seemingly paved the way for people to settle for the bare minimum because it’s ‘better than nothing’. There is no passion, romance, or excitement about relationships anymore. People treat effort and romance within a relationship as a non-existent mythical entity, as infatuation and lust are considered more of a priority. The chase appears to be more exciting than the relationship itself. We shouldn’t have to settle for the bare minimum and stay in a mediocre relationship just so we can say that we are in one. People often stay in mediocre relationships and situationships because they don’t believe something more meaningful is possible. They also don’t believe they are worthy or deserving of being in a relationship with someone who truly respects and values them, and treats them the way they should be treated. After coming out of my last situationship, I decided, there and then, that I was done with casual relationships. They brought me nothing but grief and, nine times out of ten, involved me getting hurt. Now cynics may tell you that this article is nothing but a sympathy fest to make myself feel better, and I should go and buy my seven cats now.

But I knew I deserved better, so I decided to invest more time into making myself a priority. I needed to unlearn that the most important thing in my life was being in a relationship because I am worth so much more than that. I needed to learn to filter out guys who were bad for me and didn’t treat me properly. I needed to learn to love myself in ways no guy ever had. Most importantly, I needed to understand that my value as a woman should never change or be determined by my relationship status. Whilst my experiences have hurt me, they have also made me stronger. I now know what I want and don’t want from a relationship. When you wear your heart on your sleeve, you are more prone to heartbreak. But the most important thing to remember is to prioritise yourself, remember your worth and never settle for mediocrity. Despite what some of those guys told me, I know I am not a bad person. I deserve love, commitment, honesty, and respect. And when the time is right, I know that’s exactly what I will get.

BY LIBBY PIERZAK-PEE, @LIBBY PIERZAKPEE, LIVERPOOL

HEALTH & LIFESTYLE

TESTOSTERONE HELPED ME EMBRACE MY NONBINARY FEMININITY— AND MADE ME A BETTER PARENT G rowing up in a conservative town of 2,000

people, nestled in the secret rural life of the Pacific Northwest, my journey to understanding my queer identity was convoluted. With the Columbia River in my backyard, custodial grandparents guiding me as best they could and a staunchly conservative politic clashing for my adolescent attention, I was not given the words to describe my lived experience, let alone affirmed in it. While my first consensual sexual debut in emerging adolescence, in hindsight, was unabashedly queer, it wasn’t until my mid20s in graduate school that I openly identified my sexuality as anything but straight. It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my only child, also while in graduate school, that I could articulate that I am not cisgender. My gender journey since then has had its rough patches and its graces. Pregnancy was extremely difficult for me. I have an autoimmune disease and endured a high-risk pregnancy. Despite all this, I gave birth to a healthy kiddo via planned C-section, unable to breastfeed. In hindsight, all of this was a genderaffirming blessing that the universe offered me before I could articulate what I needed as a non-binary birth parent. During pregnancy, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the labels of womanhood being assigned to me. My pregnancy experience led to my rejection of the gender binary altogether, confirming my long-nagging suspicions and feeling that I didn’t fit into any gender boxes. At first, this was a highly distressing and traumatic experience. I felt like something was wrong with me. I loved becoming a mother but hated being a woman. My body felt like it belonged to someone else - I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.

In many ways, pregnancy took me out of my body. When my child turned 2, I started playing around with pronouns in my e-mail signature. I defended my dissertation and exclaimed to the world: My name is Dr Kayden Vargas. I am a non-binary person and parent, and my pronouns are they/them. In the last few years, “out” of the gender closet, I have cut my hair and picked up a second first name (or, as my 4-year-old adorably calls it, my “fashionable” name). In my search for gender joy, I have embraced my masculine energy and sworn off the performance of femininity associated with woman-ness and motherhood. It has taken me a meandering 30 years to find myself. I am 30 years old, have a PhD degree in psychology, and I find myself face to face with a truth that I did not expect: 6 months on testosterone has allowed me to reclaim my queer, nonbinary femininity and ownership of my motherhood. Pregnancy took me out of my body. Testosterone allowed me to re-inhabit myself. I spent many months terrified by the prospect of hormone-replacement therapy. I spent hours fearmongering, travelling down publicly available rabbit holes on the internet full of transgender trauma and de-transitioner rhetoric. I grew increasingly terrified that if I pursued what I desperately wanted to try, I would encounter irreversible changes that would scar my body forever. I worried about medical gatekeeping – would providers understand my transition goals as a non-binary person? I worried about my intimate relationships - would people reject me if I allowed myself to enter something that would bring me gender joy? I spent many hours crying to therapists, dietitians, and support people, sharing how I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. I felt like I needed to pursue HRT, but the prospect of starting hormone therapy was almost equally terrifying. The most-feared changes, like shifts in libido, bottom growth, and vocal changes, turned out to be some of the most liberatory and healing for me. One of the first changes I noticed right away involved my vocal cords. Within the first week or two of starting T, my vocal cords felt scratchy. Now I sit comfortably in a noticeably lower register that feels like

myself. My singing voice went from a low alto to a more gravelly baritone as my voice transposed itself into just the right key. My child and I regularly have sing-along dance parties, something I could never do before because of how much my pre-T voice bothered me. Another set of changes I noticed right away was my libido and bottom growth. I already enjoyed my high libido, and fear-mongering “feminists” like JK Rowling scared me into thinking I would become some angry monster of a teenage boy. This couldn’t be farther from the truth of my experience. Instead of turning into some sex-crazed monster society makes young men out to be, I simply experience more spontaneous desire. The addition of bottom growth, or the enlargement of the clitoral tissue resembling a small penis, meant sex was always novel because my body was constantly shifting at a reasonable but noticeable pace. Contrary to inflammatory warnings that starting T would lead to vaginal dryness and sexual discomfort, I felt at home in my sense of gender, and my sexuality became expansive and more playful. The presence of an even more fulfilling sex life added a sense of spontaneity and playfulness to my parenting. When I wasn’t so entrenched in trying to be a woman-enough-good-enough mother, I had time to dance randomly with my toddler. I had time to engage in passionate fantasy with my lover and revel in more-than-just sex types of pleasure-seeking in my body. All of these changes were things I was told to expect, and they turned out to be far more life giving than I thought they would be. Testosterone means I have joyful dance parties, fun pre-bath wiggles in the mirror (seriously, bodies jiggle. It’s fine and can be fun, I promise). When I started my gender transition, I thought I had sworn off femininity for good. No more gender performance that didn’t feel right! Less makeup! No florals! Elder emo rock boi vibes, all the way! As I began to masculinize, as my voice dropped, libido shifted, and muscle mass increased, I yearned for extralong stiletto nails. I perfected it by purple winged eyeliner. I am dedicated to my skincare. Suddenly, my chest doesn’t bother me anymore. My small breasts are a source of pleasure and intimacy that used to be overstimulating for me. I recognize myself in the mirror. I can sense what my body desires. Suddenly, my femininity doesn’t feel like a mask. Now, my femininity feels crucial to my rebellion as a nonbinary transmasculine person and parent. Investing in myself and the permanent effects of testosterone has allowed me to come home to myself and my child. I yell less, dance more, and love myself and my family even harder. I am feminine. I am masculine. I am everything that I want, and I thank testosterone for that.

BY DR KAYDEN VARGAS, @DRKMV2021,MOXEE, WA, USA 83

PHOTOGRAPHY: BETH WALSH, @TINYBETH, FALMOUTH

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