2023 Edition Five

Publishing the University of Melbourne's student writing and art since 1925

Edition Five 2023

News In Pictures: NTEU Staff Strikes Max Dowell and Josh Davis p. 12

1986 Animesh Ghimiray p. 26

FEATURED ARTIST MEDIA X SOUTHBANK Design: Yixuan Zhao p.11, 43 Creative: Zac Beven p. 58

BROWN RICE & KEROSENE ART · COMMENTARY · CULTURE · FICTION · NEWS · NON-FICTION · PHOTOGRAPHY · POETRY · SATIRE

Acknowledgement of Country Written by the Farrago Editors

Farrago writes on stolen Country in the midst of the 2023 Voice referendum.

We recognise First Nations Peoples are the true Owners and Custodians of this land.

A permanent platform in legislation and policy-making should be the bare minimum. And it is not enough. It must only be the first step for First Nations support and representation.

Farrago pays our respects to the Traditional Owners and Custodians of the land across the seven campuses of the University of Melbourne.

We pay our respects to the Wurundjeri people.

We pay our respects to the Yorta Yorta people.

We pay our respects to the Boonwurrung people.

We pay our respects to the Dja Dja Wurrung people.

This land holds the stories of generations of First Nations peoples whose caretaking and nurturing of land, water and culture sustain the lives of all of us today.

First Nations peoples were the original storytellers, artists, musicians and thinkers and their voices shape our ways of being today.

We pay our respects to the true Owners and Custodians of this Country on which we are guests.

Sovereignty has never and never will be ceded.

This place always was and always will be Aboriginal land.

Illustration by Olivia Sutherland

CONTENTS FARRAGO

33 Will Ai Be Able To Replace The Quintessential Humanity In Storytelling?

02 Contributors 03 Editorial

Janice Hui

UMSU

Hiba Adam and Disha Zutshi

Athena Chui

67 when we finally speak again

36 Vox Pop:

68 I like you the same way I

How Do You Speak?

Michelle Yu and Louisa Zhang

04 UMSU International

Janani Ramanan

66 Alice in the Wonderland

35 The Pacifist Papers Jesse Allen

04 UMSU Updates

65 Circular Peregrination

Stephen Zavitsanos

like the sun

Stephen Zavitsanos

39 Crocodile Bird

69 Woman's Defence

04 GSA

40 Tomato Sauce

70 Greta Gerwig: Girl, Woman,

05 Southbank Updates

41 I have memories, so I

Richard Ha

Katrina Bell

Jesse Gardner-Russell

D.H. Allain

Annalyce Wiebenga

subsist Guanhua Huang

06 Office Bearer Reports

42 ‘WORDS THAT MAKETH

NEWS

MURDER’: ARTISTIC EXPRESSION IN TIMES OF TURMOIL

12 News In Pictures:

NTEU Staff Strikes

Veronica Kwong

Max Dowell and Josh Davis

14 "You can Stop 1, but you

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can’t stop us all": Why Student Services staff at 757 Swanston Street are on strike “They keep having to reapply for their own job, again and again”: Why Scott, a PhD student and casual tutor in the Faculty of Arts, is on strike

RADIO FODDER

43 The Ballad of Darren: Blur’s mature departure from ‘90s angst towards middleaged regrets

Aqira Clark

44 “We always keep true to

ourselves”: Melbourne surf rock trio The Grogans on their latest singles and their journey so far

Selina Zhang

16 “The right thing to do is

Kate Davey

walk out with them”: Why Emily Kaji and Neera Kadkol, Student Library Assistants, are on strike

46 Radio Fodder’s Declassified

Chelsea Daniel

48 Radio Fodder’s Album Picks

18 Athletes of Resilience:

Gigs Survival Guide: Summer Edition

The World Transplant Games and The Triumphs of Organ Donation

Vanshika Agarwal

20 Empty Dwellings Double as

Victorians Struggle to Find a Place to Live

Ann Khorany

24 "We are not asking for

the world": Why staff at the University of Melbourne are on strike

Jordan Fenske

26 1986

Animesh Ghimiray

28 The Bachelor of Arts – A High Price for Free Thought?

Meagan Hansen

30 The Ugly Truth of

Spirituality: Exploitation over Enlightenment

Bea Barnett

Barbie

Ledya Khamou

76 Anthony Davis Keeley Zentgraf

ART

54 The home darkroom Y.B.

53 Brown Rice & Kerosene Michelle Yu

84 Artwork

Ghazal Ronagh

PHOTOGRAPHY 53 Ha Giang

Nalini Jacob-Roussety

COLUMNS

08 Different Perspectives Luyao Shi

22 About in Melbourne Meg Bonnes

25 There is Something in the Water: Radiolaria

Donna Ferdinand

Lochlainn Heley

32 As it was: Time After Time

at a Glance

34 The Unauthorised,

Harrison George

FEATURED SOUTHBANK ARTISTS 11 Art

Yixuan Zhao

49 Art

Yixuan Zhao

NON-FICTION

Jessica Rijs

58 Creative Zac Beven

CREATIVE

60 Whet your fires Eleanore

61 Unsheltered Eleanore

62 The misunderstood Hoi Polloi

Michelle Yu

63 Pieces of our hearts Nalini Jacob-Roussety

Nicole

Unorthodox, Unofficial Guide to Writing a Novel Under the Age of Twenty: Procrastinators’ Anonymous Claire Le Blond

71 Bleeding Marble:

Hera & Hephaestus

Rhylee L.

72 Metro Disjunction:

Top 10 Absolute Must-Dos in Melbourne CBD! Ledya Khamou

74 Both Sides Now: Silver Island Hannah Hartnett

78 Hubert's Travelog:

Journey to the East

Yicheng Xu

80 CHRONIC: Counter Culture Helena Pantsis

82 重复 Existence in Repetition Zhuzhu Xie

64 Homebound

Janani Ramanan

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EDITORS Carmen Chin Josh Davis Weiting Chen Xiaole Zhan COVER Duy D FEATURED ARTISTS Yixuan Zhao Zac Beven MANAGERS Akash Anil Nair Alexia Shaw Eldon Lee Iyaad Casim Jack Jeffreys Jaz Thiele Joel Duggan Lochlainn Heley Maya Hall Nishtha Banavalikar Yvonne Le CONTRIBUTORS Aqira Clark Ann Khorany Athena Chui Bea Barnett Chelsea Daniel Claire Le Blond D.H. Allain Donna Ferdinando Eleanore Guanhua Huang Hannah Hartnett Harrison George Helena Pantsis Janani Ramanan Janice Hui Jesse Allen Jessica Rijs Jordan Fenske Kate Davey Katrina Bell Keeley Zentgraf Ledya Khamou Luyao Shi Louisa Zhang Max Dowell Meagan Hansen Meg Bonnes Michelle Yu Nalini Jacob-Roussety Nicole Rhylee L. Selina Zhang Stephen Zavitsanos Vanshika Agarwal Veronica Kwong Y. B. Yicheng Xu Zhuzhu Xie COLUMNISTS Claire Le Blond Donna Ferdinando Hannah Hartnett Ledya Khamou Rhylee L. Yan Ru Lee GRAPHIC COLUMNISTS Helena Pantsis Luyao Shi Meg Bonnes Yicheng Xu Zhuzhu Xie ONLINE COLUMNISTS Jocelyn Saunders

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Creative Literature and Writ- Jaime Tan Judith Vu ing Society – C.L.A.W.S Kai Prideaux Breana Galea Mary Hampton Ola Wallis NEWS TEAM Samson Cheung Alain Nguyen Sara Vojdani Caitlin Hall Simran Khera Chelsea Daniel Stephen Zavitsanos Churan Zhang Tina Thakrar Dominique Jones Virosca Gan Elizabeth Browne Hannah Vandenbogaerde STAFF WRITERS Harshita Roy Animesh Ghimiray Joel Duggan Chloe Frances Julie/Jules Song Claudia Goundar Laura (Ira) Green Dominique Jones Maham Mannan Donna Ferdinando Sasha Mahlab Edward Carrick Selina Zhang Elizabeth Browne Vanshika Agarwal Georgia York Winnie Cheng iana abrigo Isolde Kieni-Judd NEWS SUBEDITORS Jordan Fenske Asimenia Pestrivas Kien-Ling Liem Claire Le Blond Larissa Brand Joel Duggan Meagan Hansen Katya Sloboda-Bolton Megha Iyer Linh Nguyen Mira Manghani Linh Pham Pamela Piechowicz Marcie Di Bartolomeo Sebastian Hugh Max Dowell Stephanie Munn Nicholas Eastham Velentina Boulter Rico Sulamet Veronica Kwong Samson Cheung Selina Zhang REVIEWS WRITERS Stephanie Umbrella Alexia Shaw Thalia Blackney Anushka Singh Thomas Gilbert Beatrice Van Rest Caitlin Hall CREATIVE SUBEDITORS Chathuni Gunatilake Ailish Steel Chelsea Daniel Annabelle Brown David Nawaratne Charlie Simmons Desmond Ng Chloe Pigneguy Dimple Maholtra Ern Syn Lee Emma Xerri Felicity Smith Georgie Atkins Harvey Weir Hayley Li Shan Yeow Holly Mcpherson Indy Smith Ilnaz Faizal Isabel Charlton Isobel Connor-Smithyman Joanne Zou Jaz Thiele Judith Vu Jessica Fanwong Katelyn Samarkovski Katelyn Samarkovski Linh Pham Katrina Bell Narii Hamill Salmon Ledya Khamou Sybilla George Livia Kurniawan Tah Ai Jia Marcie Di Bartolomeo Tharidi Walimunige Mary Hampton Vanshika Agarwal Matthew Chan Victoria Winata Matthew Lee Mia Pahljina ILLUSTRATORS Michelle Yu Alexi O'Keefe Nalini Jacob-Roussety Amber Liang Olivia Brewer Arielle Vlahiotis Romany Murray Ashlea Banon Ruth Jarra Crystal Wu Stephen Zavitsanos Duy D Sybilla George Emma Bui Felicity Yiran Smith NON-FICTION SUBEDIHarriet Chard TORS Indy Smith Angela Yu Jacques CA Annabelle Brown Jessica Norton Anushka Mankodi Jocelyn Anushka Singh Lauren Kimber Beatrice Van Rest Leilani Leon Bella Farrelly Lucy Chen Catherine Tootell Manyu Wang Charlie Simmons Meg Bonnes Cori Rushdi Michelle Yu Finley Japp Nashitaat Islam Isabel Charlton

Nina Hughes Olivia Sutherland Rachel Radhika Paralkar Tina Tao Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen Zhuzhu Xie GRAPHIC DESIGN Gaius Kwong Jennifer Nguyen Nashitaat Islam Nhat Duy Dang Zhuzhu Xie PHOTO & VIDEO TEAM Adrian Wong Alain Nguyen Angela Yu Anya Aw Arunika Madina Ben Levy Chenyi (Yolanda) Liang Erin O'Neill Ha Khoa Dang (Calvin) Hannah Ogawa Harshita Roy Heidi Zhou Jasmine Leong Karen Kan Karin Chen Kinsley Wang Lihini Gamage Maehula Datta Max Elwers Michael Sadegi Smiriti Hosur Tony Hao Yuyang (Angela) Liu Yuyang (Kevin) Sun FODDER BLOG TEAM Ainsley Paton Aqira Clark Bella Farrelly Catherine Tootell Claudia Goundar Crystal Lim Dimple Maholtra Harrison George Issy Abe-Owensmith Ilnaz Faizal Jessica Fanwong Joanne Zou Katelyn Samarkovski Marcie Di Bartolomeo Noa Shenker Sonya Chong Rebecca Weynberg Romany Murray SATIRE TEAM Charlie Robinson Charlotte Handley Julie/Jules Song iana abrigo SOCIAL MEDIA Amelia Han Bella Farrelly Charlotte Chang Elizabeth Browne Katelyn Samarkovski Maehula Datta Nashitaat Islam

This magazine is made from 100% recycled paper. Please recycle this magazine after use.

Farrago is the newspaper of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Farrago is published by the General Secretary.

The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of UMSU. If you want to raise an issue within the union and with the university, please contact the President and General Secretary. president@union.unimelb.edu.au secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au

EDITORIAL In the luminous echoes of Redgum’s ‘Brown Rice and Kerosene’, we find ourselves at the crossroads of memory and imagination, with war cries and defiance on the tips of our tongues. It’s the ‘70s—rebellion hangs thick in the air around a generation of dreamers yearning for change. In the midst of the chaos, a motley crew of students got together and formed a band. Armed with guitars and their voices, they didn’t just make music; they ignited a flame on behalf of a generation grappling with political turmoil and soaring costs of living.

This all sounds familiar, doesn’t it? History, as it once was over 50 years ago, repeats itself in a tormentous cycle. In 2023, as we pen these very words, the echoes of discontent reverberate through universities across Victoria, spurred by brewing dissatisfaction stemming from meagre wages and unfavourable working conditions. Staff from our own university are fighting for fair wage and working conditions in the longest strike action since 1856. Melbourne grapples with a severe rental crisis that has left thousands without shelter. Longtime Victorian premier Daniel Andrews has resigned.

We are thrust into the chaos, and we have invited you to channel the spirit of these turbulent times through the powerful connection between art and politics. We draw our inspiration and do our due diligence for these protests, these revolts and the irreverence that once defined a bygone era and has now returned to do so once more.

The stories and art upon the pages of our penultimate edition are the stories we gather from the underdogs, the unsung heroes who dared defy convention. These moments are what set the world on fire, laying the groundwork for change. Recreating the electric thrill of Molotov cocktails and dissonant chants. But this call isn’t just about anger and resistance—above all, it’s about hope. What fuels your optimism for a better, brighter future? What dreams and visions do you hold most dear, even in the face of such adversity?

The stage has been set, and the spotlight is in the form of Farrago Edition 5. Within its tapestry, the news, creative, nonfiction and design sections are ablaze with the essence of hope lit by the fires of revolutionary voices who will not back down before they are heard. We will keep dreaming, keep creating, and keep changing the world, one Farrago at a time.

Yours in the spirit of revolution and creativity, Josh, Xiaole, Carmen and Weiting

Illustration by Meg Bonnes

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UMSU

PRESIDENT

GENERAL SECRETARY

Hibatallah (Hiba) Adam

Disha Zutshi

Report not submitted.

Report not submitted.

UMSU INTERNATIONAL Richard Ha, UMSU International President Report not submitted.

GSA

by Jesse Gardner-Russell, UMSU International President These last few months at the GSA included our incredible graduate art prize ceremony and exhibition, and what a night it was. This was the eighth year that GSA has run our annual competition and this year we saw over 130 submissions from our diverse and unique graduate community. It was an absolute pleasure to the high-quality entries this year, and I would like to thank all the staff, students and guests which made the night so memorable.

We were also busy working for all of our 39,000+ graduate students, including lobbying the university to increase coursework scholarship payments for students in need, indexing graduate researcher travel scholarships, holding 2 Town Halls and have begun planning both the Graduate Ball for November and our first whole of graduate student survey.

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Finally, GSA is independently governed by graduate students. This year the GSA will be reviewing our Strategic Plan, and developing a new 2025-2030 strategy to guide GSA into a new era. Your answers in our whole of graduate student survey will help inform the GSA Board as to what services, advocacy and events you want.

If you have any issues, please do not hesitate to email me at president@gsa.unimelb.edu.au.

UMSU

SOUTHBANK UPDATES

By Annalyce Wiebenga, Southbank Coordinator

Greetings Loyal Farrago Readers!!

We’ve been super busy wrapping up this semester down at Southbank. Here’s just a few of the things we’ve been up to!

The Southbank Ball with the Music Students’ Society was a huge hit, with close to 300 attendees for a night of good food and music. Keep an eye out for it next year!

We’ve continued to run our weekly vegan BBQ every Tuesday from 11:45am-1:30pm with fantastic attendance. Our new Thursday morning breakfast (8:00am-10:00am) is also highly popular, particularly with Dance students. Our Breadbin stock is flying off the shelves, with contributions from student services here at Southbank and donations from students. Free, cheap, and accessible food remains our priority and is readily available throughout the week.

Our collectives have picked up, with high-quality catering and even higher quality chats and vibes throughout the semester. POC Collective, Queer Collective, and Disabilities Collective are autonomous spaces for Southbank students and friends to get together and share their experiences studying and creating art. Times and locations are accessible on our social media and on the UMSU website.

An exciting part of second semester for the whole university, but particularly here at Southbank, are the NTEU strikes. Our campus has jumped into both week-long strikes and we have helped to organise student support throughout the semester. Our interests as students are intertwined with the interests of our staff against university management. This is why we must support our staff, comrades.

To stay up to date on what’s happening down at Southbank, feel free to follow us on our: • • • • •

Instagram @umsu_southbank Facebook page: UMSU Southbank.

Newly revived mailing list: http://eepurl.com/hVhYGD Check out our webpage: https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/communities/southbank/ Or email us at: southbank@union.unimelb.edu.au

Illustration by Zhuzhu Xie

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Disabilities | Alice Zhao and Adam Whitehead

UMSU

Report not submitted.

Indigenous | Harley Lewis Report not submitted.

People of Colour | Mohamed Hadi Report not submitted.

Queer | Mehul Gopalakrishnan and Leslie Ho Report not submitted.

Women | Ngaire Bogemann and Alessandra Soliven

G*rls are slaying, g*rls are g*rling, g*rls are patiently waiting for this semester to be done!

As our term as Women’s Officers draws to a close, we want to thank you all for a great year! The fight for safety on campus and a truly equal campus culture continues, but we’re proud of all the steps forward we’ve taken and can’t wait to see what Akanksha and Micaela get up to in this role in 2024.

Oh and also – come to the Judy’s Punch launch please! Details on our socials <3 Xoxo Ngaire and Alessandra.

Activities | Arya Kushwaha and Tvisha Purswani Report not submitted.

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Clubs & Societies | Kimmy Ng and Renee Thierry

Creative Arts | Savier D'Arsie-Marquez and Abbey Crowley Report not submitted.

Education Academic | Taj Takahashi and Mary Kin Chan

i am so emotionally burnt out lol, but here’s a photo from when times (read: mental health) was better pls come to the student pavilion kitchen on 26th october 1-3pm for a final hurrah, i’ll be making coffee for you!!

Education Public | Carlos Lagos Martin Report not submitted.

Environment | Emma Dynes and James Gallagher Report not submitted.

Welfare | Yashica Mishra and Ishita Ganeriwala Report not submitted.

Illustration by Zhuzhu Xie

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UMSU

Hello! We have been really busy at C&S recently! We hosted our annual Clubs & Societies Awards Night to acknowledge the incredible efforts of our clubs at UMSU. We know that clubs are run by students and for students, and their volunteer efforts should not go unnoticed! We have also been busy affiliating and processing lots of new and exciting clubs. As we near the end of the year, AGM season and policy reform are top on our agenda!

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COLUMN

COLUMN

‘Different Perspectives’ by Luyao Shi

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Graphic Design by Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen

for and against Written by Claire Le Blond

for Greta Gerwig’s Barbie (2023) is indeed sublime. It is, in its own precociously pink way, a 21st Century Odyssey. From being introduced to picture-perfect Barbieland where women do everything and anything and the Kens just Ken (minus Allan – Allan, are you free next Tuesday, I am free next Tuesday), then journeying to the confronting, un-feminist Real World, and ending with the ultimate, poignant scene, this movie is a genuine joy. Every part of the long, eventful adventure we experience alongside Margot Robbie’s stereotypical Barbie is genuinely worth watching. From my perspective, as someone who is more into the behind-the-scenes parts, every part of Barbie is produced excellently. Barbie’s set colours us and itself pink; its soundtrack slaps. Moreover, the Barbie doll’s cultural history is woven throughout, making the film excel as an outstanding reflection on womanhood. It was a privilege to watch Robbie lead this film. And Gosling indeed deserves the Golden Globe, at minimum, for his role as Ken; however, I’d like to campaign for America Ferrera as a potential for Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars. To conclude this review of Barbie: yes, I can affirm that Will Ferrell is indeed mother and you, dear reader, are KENOUGH.

against I rated Barbie 4.5 out of 5 stars on Letterboxd (see @clbiswatchingU). To preface, I enjoyed the film. I laughed out loud. Unfortunately, as much as I would love for Helen Mirren to narrate my life, I cannot fully vouch for Barbie’s status as a film that is concerned wholly with feminist ideology – it has an inherently corporate existence. Central to this commercial identity are the recent reports of Mattel expanding into its own (hopefully less convoluted) MCU. Yes, Barbie is a beautiful inquiry into the nature of womanhood and all the repercussions of patriarchy; however, Barbie exemplifies how critiques of this nature have become intrinsically linked with capitalism. There is indeed choice in beauty and style, and in having interests and making sense of one’s self. But when so many of those things such as handbags and makeup are just marketing and perpetuations of capitalism, not the choices of womanhood, it becomes nefariously inauthentic. Barbie is genuinely funny, but it is also genuinely a commercial. It’s a promotion for a toy that has been associated with how we perceive and live out girlhood, ever since its creation. Barbie gives us, the viewers, a strong reason as to why we should buy more of these toys. For that reason, its achievements as a film cannot be praised in total good conscience.

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SOUTHBANK FEATURED ARTIST: Yixuan Zhao FEATURE

'Illuminate' by Yixuan Zhao

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NEWS IN PICTURES: NTEU STAFF STRIKES In Weeks 6 and 10 of Semester 2, National Tertiary Education Union members at the University of Melbourne went on strike in what they say is the longest industrial action campaign on campus since stonemasons working on Old Quad downed tools in 1856 to fight for the eight-hour workday.

Edition 5's News section contains a series of photographs from the opening rallies of each week's strike actions below, followed by interviews with and an an op-ed from striking staff across the University, explaining in their own words why they took industrial action that cancelled over 500 tutorials.

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Photography by Josh Davis

Photography by Max Dowell

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NEWS

" You can Stop 1, but you can’t stop us all": Why Student Services staff at 757 Swanston Street are on strike OPINION: NTEU members and UniMelb alumni at 757 Swanston Streer wrote to Farrago in the leadup to the Week 10 industrial action to explain why they were going on strike.

You might hear that by going on strike this week, staff are causing harm to students in delaying important processes related to their education.

But those of us who work in Student Services know that it’s University management who are responsible for the crisis we find ourselves in.

As a colleague put it, when speaking to a rally outside Stop 1 during our Week 6 strike, “there is harm [at this university] every single day. This is at an organisational level. It is being directed to the staff with our workloads—non-directed overtime, lack of resourcing and secure work”, which leaves students waiting for crucial support and resources for weeks or months, and staff overworked and burnt out.

This workload crisis in our area is one of the main reasons we’ve decided to undertake another week of industrial action.

If you are a student of the University, you will have been impacted by this crisis without even knowing. This is the same reason that you struggle to get access to your tutors, and lecturers. It’s the same reason that getting support from Stop 1 takes longer than you ever thought it could.

Or if you have tried to register for ongoing support and had your circumstances worsen as deadlines pass before you get an appointment.

Successive restructures across the university have also seen hundreds of professional staff lose their jobs. In 2014 the University began a wholescale “streamlining” of Student Services that resulted in 450 jobs being

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cut, and specialised faculty-based services completely eradicated.

Our workload crisis is exacerbated by the fact that many job vacancies at the university go unfilled for months on end. These neoliberal measures mean that student experience has suffered, while more and more work ends up on the shoulders of fewer staff because while the number of staff dwindles due to job cuts or people moving on, the work doesn’t.

This is why one of our key claims this bargaining round is that management must replace workers who go on extended leave, and they must find new staff to fill vacant roles. At the moment, staff that remain are left to deal with completely unreasonable and unmanageable workloads, and many teams are pushed to the brink.

In Student Services, the result of this is tangible in the wait times students experience for queries about course applications, help with timetabling and special consideration or the frustration students feel due to the lack of face-to-face appointments in which specialist staff can answer questions and provide advice.

These teams work incredibly hard to process students’ requests and make themselves available, but the fact is the volume of enquiries is often simply too much for the existing workforce to handle.

Job security is another one of the key claims we are striking for. Higher education is among the most casualised workforces in the entire country. 60% of staff at the university are currently on insecure work contracts. This includes casual employees,

many of whom are academic staff, who are strung along by the university for years, offered work semester-to-semester, never knowing if they have a job for the upcoming 6 months, and denied the rights and entitlements of their permanent colleagues.

The amount of money the University saves from this is astronomical, as well as literally criminal. Through their organising efforts, casual employees of the University of Melbourne brought to light the biggest wage theft scandals in the country, forcing management to backpay staff around $45 million.

Professional staff in Student Services face similar issues. Many of us, including staff who process key administrative tasks like subject enrolments, find ourselves on fixedterm contracts. The University relies on a big pool of casuals to staff front-line teams and fill the gaps across Stop 1. For some of us, the contracts we have been offered have been as short as 4 weeks. It's an impossible and incredibly stressful existence.

Staff in Student Services share the frustration of students at the university. We have decided to strike again because we want to send a message to management—we won’t put up with the status quo and are determined to fight for a university with decent working conditions and a high standard of education.

Join us on the picket lines, and link up with the Students Support the Staff Strikes campaign to show your solidarity. Our fight is stronger together, and as our banner says, “you can Stop 1, but you can’t stop us all.”

Image source: UniMelb Students Support Staff Strikes

NEWS

“They keep having to reapply for their own job, again and again”: Why Scott, a PhD student and casual tutor in the Faculty of Arts, is on strike Selina Zhang speaks to Scott, a PhD student and casual tutor in the School of Social and Political Sciences, about why he joined the NTEU's industrial action campaign this semester.

“I’ve always loved the ideal of the university as a place of learning, as a place of new possibilities...”

Scott, a doctoral student and casual tutor in the School of Social and Political Sciences, describes witnessing the disintegration of this ideal with “growing horror”.

Despite initial misgivings in the lead-up to the Week 6 strike, his concerns over the precarity of academic work compelled him to take part.

“You have jobs that basically should be continuing and ongoing, being parcelled out as casual jobs. So someone’s doing the same job, year after year... and they keep having to reapply for their own job, again and again,” he explains.

“It makes it very difficult for staff to commit to their jobs, or know where they’re going to be, this year or the next.”

Two and a half years into his PhD, Scott always knew the workload of writing a thesis and teaching classes was going to be demanding.

But the University’s failure to substantially decasualise academic positions has made him question whether it’s worth it.

“I love teaching, I love research. It’s my favourite thing I’ve done... [but] we’re doing all this work, and then what’s waiting at the other end? Just this endless, insecure work? It can be very demotivating, and demoralising.”

Desperation to secure one of the limited ongoing roles available means doctoral candidates often push themselves well beyond the already full-time capacity required for a PhD. Besides the core task of researching and writing thesis chapters, many are churning out additional journal articles and taking on extra classes for teaching experience.

“I’m looking down into the future in academia, and that’s what really stresses me out,” says Scott.

“There’s all these things I’m going to have to do within the next year and a half, if I’m going to have any hope of getting decent work afterwards.”

He says this pressure to constantly improve their chances of gaining full-time work has led to a decline in the quality of scholarly research.

“People saying, ‘I wish I actually had time to read. I wish I had time to think.

I wish I had time to do quality work’...

That’s not a reflection on their intellectual abilities, or their dedication. It’s a reflection on the model that we’re working under.”

Although the Week 6 strike was followed by some limited concessions from the University on a secure work target, Scott acknowledges any chance of a complete upheaval to the current model remains uncertain.

“I was not optimistic that this particular strike alone would change their [the University’s] position... What we need is something that’s sufficiently disruptive,” he says.

Scott is striking again this week alongside thousands of other staff and students to maintain pressure on University management to meet their demands at the bargaining table.

“I don’t know what the outcome is going to be. But I know what the outcome will be if we do nothing, which is that things are going to keep getting worse.”

Photography by Max Dowell (left) and Selina Zhang (right)

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NEWS

“The right thing to do is walk out with them”: Why Emily Kaji and Neera Kadkol, Student Library Assistants, are on strike Chelsea Daniel speaks to Emily Kaji and Neera Kadkol, casual Student Library Assistants at the Bailleu Library and the Eastern Resource Centre, about why they joined the NTEU's industrial action campaign this semester.

The entrance to the Baillieu Library looked very different in the last week of August.

Throughout Week 6, students and staff from the University of Melbourne could be found out on the picket line outside the library trying to win student support for the National Tertiary Education Union’s (NTEU) ongoing industrial action campaign.

Unlike most students who joined the strike out of solidarity with their tutors and teaching staff, Emily Kaji and Neera Kadkol had a more pressing reason to be out on the Baillieu picket. They don’t just study at the University of Melbourne; like hundreds of others across different faculties and departments, they work here too.

“I think one other person amongst casual staff was part of the NTEU.” Kaji and Kadkol are both employed as casual Student Library Assistants—the staff you can see on the more quiet levels of libraries across campus, returning books and letting you know when it’s closing time.

The unionisation of the library’s casual workforce is a relatively recent development. While Kaji noted that staff on permanent contracts were often proud union members, when she started working as a casual Student Library Assistant, or SLA, the union’s presence among the casuals was minimal.

“I joined around December 2021. I definitely knew there was a union presence

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among the full-time staff, and I think it was mentioned in training.”

“But at [the] Baillieu, I think one other person among casual staff was part of the NTEU.” Since she began hosting workplace meetings at the Baillieu in late 2022, building the union’s presence amongst casual SASS staff, Kaji says that the strike rate of casual staff is now “over 90%”.

“We can do something about this, right?”

Kadkol has been an SLA for over eight years, but her involvement with the NTEU only began last year—she had previously figured that as a Master of Publishing and Communications student who did library work on the side for some industry experience, the tertiary education union wasn’t really for her.

“As a student casual, I felt very removed from everything... we had it pretty good.

At the time, before last year, we were getting enough work, and I was quite complacent, I guess”.

Kadkol noticed a drastic change last year when shifts became more precarious for casual workers.

“I used to work at Southbank [Library], I’m at ERC now. We are used to less shifts over winter break. It makes sense, but last year there were six SLAs at Southbank, and five shifts a week. There was only one three-hour shift every day, Monday to Friday.”

Photography by Josh Davis

For Khadhol, the prospect of working only one shift a fortnight was not feasible. “Hours have been reduced in the past, but this was the most severe reduction; one of us was missing out of work each week.”

It was this experience of insecure work and underemployment that drove Kadkol to get involved in union organising in her workplace.

“I began thinking, we can do something about this, right?”

“At the end of the day, we are in the same union... the right thing to do is walk out with them.”

As students in the Arts faculty—the first work area to vote in favour of a weeklong strike— striking for Kaji and Kadkol is about more than just their interests as workers and union members.

“As [library] staff, we have this issue, but we also have this feeling of solidarity”, Kaji says.

“We’ve seen our tutors putting up with shit and going through shitty conditions, I feel a lot of solidarity with tutors.

I know they email me and help me outside of working hours, and they don’t get paid for it... that little bit of kindness makes such a huge difference to me.”

Kadkol agrees. “We see how precarious Arts tutors... well, tutors in general, but Arts especially being the ones striking, have it”.

“You see the staff’s dedication, and it’s

NEWS

Emily Kaji, picture supplied.

sad to see them be put through these shitty decisions”.

Kadkol believes that students who work at the University have an essential role to play in the wider industrial action, being able to bridge the divide between striking staff and students who have had their classes cancelled.

“It’s quite helpful for the campaign as a whole to have us, students as well as staff, because we have this perspective, we can be like [to other students] ‘they do this for us.’”

Kaji says that the solidarity students feel with their tutors was a recurring point of discussion in the workplace meetings where the SLAs voted to join the strike.

“The conversation was about how much we love working in the library, but also a lot of the discussion when we voted was, ‘It is not just about us.’ At the end of the day, we are in the same branch, in the same union, and these are our fellow union members... the right thing to do is walk out with them.”

“It’s about rent for us, it's about the cost of living.”

While solidarity with tutors was a major motivation for the SLAs to strike, Khaji and Kadkol say that SLAs have their own suite of workplace issues that need to be addressed.

While the two maintain that a pathway to secure work is the ultimate goal for this strike, they concede that most SLAs do prefer being casual.

Neera Kadkol, photography by Selina Zhang.

However, even though she personally wouldn’t take it, Kadkol notes that in the eight years she’s worked as an SLA, she’s never been offered the opportunity to move to a part-time or full-time contract.

“Not all SLAs want part-time... but a pathway for those who want it is important”, she says.

The main focus for the SLAs is a pay rise that matches the rate of inflation— currently 6.0%—as casual workers and university students have both been hit particularly hard by the rising cost of essential items.

“SLAs as casuals and students, we are holding out for a pay rise.It’s about rent for us, it's about the cost of living and all those other buzzwords,” Kaji says.

When the 2.5% pay rise from May last year was discussed, the two laugh. “I didn’t notice a difference in my paycheck day to day,” Kadkol says, “[but] I do notice how expensive going grocery shopping is.”

Kaji shrugs off the change as insignificant. “2.5% is nothing... groceries are not going up by 2.5%.”

In the twelve months to March, the cost of groceries from Woolworths and Coles rose nearly 10%, compared to a 7% inflation rate over the same period. Both companies posted over a billion dollars in profit each in the last financial year, and have been accused of price gouging.

Another change Kaji and Kadkol want

to see is paid casual sick leave, which the SLAs currently don’t have access to. They used to have access to COVID payments to stay home when infected, but those have been cut, with some staff members having to choose between not spreading the virus or going hungry.

Kaji puts it plainly: “It's fucked; it is an unkind way to deal with a pandemic that’s still happening.”

“The amount of times I’ve had to miss work because, like, I can’t actually get out of bed... to at least get paid to miss some of these shifts would be so good,” Kadkol says.

Kadkol, who lives with an ongoing disability, says that the ideal amount of annual sick leave would be five days—the same as the Victorian Government’s Sick Pay Guarantee, which library workers are not eligible for.

“It would make a massive difference”.

Kadkol says, however, that the need for a pay rise is more immediate.

“The pay rise is a much more pressing issue now than it has been in the past... and we used to get more work than we do now”.

Despite the stress and pressure of a week’s lost wages, both Kaji and Kadkol remain optimistic about their involvement in the unprecedented strike campaign.

“Higher risks lead to higher rewards,” Kaji smiles.

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FEATURE

Athletes of Resilience: The World Transplant Games and The Triumphs of Organ Donation Vanshika Agarwal explores the triumphs and tenacity of organ donors and recipients at Perth's 2023 World Transplant Games .

Marina Thomas was just two years old when she first suffered renal failure and had to have a kidney transplant.

However, her body rejected the new kidney and she ended up in the intensive care unit just days later. Her parents were immigrants from Croatia and barely spoke any English when they first moved to Australia, but they were intent on saving their baby girl. Marina was the youngest Victorian to start dialysis.

After three kidney transplants and years of dialysis, Marina has come a long way in terms of her health. She is a professional tennis player and has won gold in the Australian Transplant Games in 2018, and more recently in doubles in the 24th World Transplant Games that took place in Perth just two months ago.

“I am a very competitive person... and being able to play sports and compete with others that have been in the same situation as me was a great opportunity!”, she says.

According to Transplant Australia, more than 1800 people are on a transplant waiting list at any given time in Australia, and Marina is just one of the few people who has gotten a second chance at life.

The World Transplant Games (WTG) is one of the largest promotional events for organ donation and has existed for more than 40 years. Their whole premise is to organise a moving sporting event that takes place all over the world, just like the Olympics, but is catered towards organ recipients and donors.

Chris Thomas, CEO of Transplant Australia, says that recipients “often emerge out of the transplant with a fear of

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movement”. Evidence shows, however, that a slow return back to full movement and physical activity is the best way to maintain an organ transplant — which is exactly what the WTG aims to promote.

Beyond acting as a catalyst to get them moving again and on the path to recovery, sporting events like the WTG also help recipients build connections with others who have been through the transplant experience.

“The stories that have come out of the World Transplant Games, I will take with me for life. I’ve also made friends out of it,” says Marina.

Beyond the recreational and social opportunities it provides for transplant recipients, the WTG has another equally important purpose — to promote life-saving organ donations.

Transplant Australia works closely with several social enterprises through the WTG to raise awareness of the importance of organ donations and shed light on the positive impact they have.

One such social enterprise is Body Buddies. They sell plush toys in the shape of organs, and have been donating 50 percent of their profits to Transplant Australia ever since they started. They were a community partner with WTG and conducted several promotional interviews with organ donors and recipients to highlight the message of organ donation on their social media channels.

Despite this outreach, Transplant Australia noticed that although the majority of Australians say they are willing

Photography supplied by World Transplant Games

FEATURE

to become organ donors when asked, not many of them follow through. Why is that?

“The challenge is that we [as donors] never actually get to benefit from the donation process... we’re not around to see what happens,” says Chris. This is why Transplant Australia works to cast a spotlight on the lives of those who have had a transplant, to highlight the difference that donors make.

Furthermore, even if people do register themselves as organ donors, they often don’t inform their families—who must consent to the donation process for it to go ahead— about their decision. However, when a registered donor dies, the doctors can’t act upon it without the family’s consent.

This is particularly difficult when the family doesn’t even know that their loved one wanted to be an organ donor in the first place. In 2023, only 56 percent of families gave their consent for the doctors to proceed with the organ and tissue donation of their loved ones.

Aayushi Khillan, CEO and founder of Body Buddies, was inspired to become an organ donor herself after attending the WTG. She registered as a donor after her first day at the Games, and made sure to discuss it with her family.

When asked about the reasoning behind her decision to become a donor, Khillan said she had “ never met happier and kinder people on this Earth... I learned how lucky these people were to be able to get a donation, but not everybody is!”.

Khillan highlighted Bennett Haselton, an American living

kidney donor who donated to a baby girl he had no connection or relationship with, as a particular inspiration.

“That to me, is a whole other level of selflessness,” she says.

When looking back at his experience as a donor, Bennett describes it as the most rewarding experience of his life.

“Her parents just sent me a picture of her at five years old and she’s doing great.”

Although he is one of the very few living donors in the world, he hopes that the media coverage will help people realise how much they can help someone just by signing up as a regular organ donor. “It seems like currently very few people outside of the organ donation community know about the World Transplant Games”, he says.

Gordon Rutty (pictured centre) is another living kidney donor who attended the WTG in Perth and is passionate about raising awareness about organ donation. He was a big part of this year’s games as he transported the signature ‘Gift of Life’ baton all the way from the Gold Coast to Perth on motorbikes with his friends.

“Being at the event and seeing the joy of competitors as they crossed the line... many of them broke down,” Rutty said.

Marina and the hundreds of other athletes who compete at the WTG are living proof that an organ transplant can not only lead to a second chance at life, but also a better quality of life. She strives towards a better version of herself everyday and encourages everyone around her to learn more about organ donation. And for people who have just had a transplant, she says, “put your runners on, get out there and sign up [to the WTG]!

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FEATURE

Empty Dwellings Double as Victorians Struggle to Find a Place to Live Ann Khorany investigates why people like Hengying Wu (pictured) are still having their rental applications rejected despite record numbers of Melbourne's apartments currently unoccupied.

It is Saturday morning, and I am about to head out of my apartment and go to university.

As I walk out, I see the corridor is full of people standing in a parallel line that extends about 6 metres long all the way to the lifts.

There are about 45 people there, all waiting to inspect an apartment that has recently been put on the rental market.

I start to wonder: why is there such a high turnout to inspect one single apartment, when there’s so many empty homes all across Victoria?

Let’s break it down.

What are unoccupied dwellings and why are there so many of them?

The Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) defines unoccupied dwellings as residences, such as houses, apartments or flats with no one living in them on the night the census is conducted.

The most recent census data shows that the total number of unoccupied dwellings that were apartments or flats in Victoria has nearly doubled in the past five years.

Demographer Glenn Capuano said there are a few reasons why the number of unoccupied dwellings was high in the 2021 census.

“Higher density is very concentrated in [the] inner city so there was an increase in unoccupied dwellings particularly in

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the city of Melbourne because during the pandemic there were a lot of overseas students who left and went home,” he said.

“More people moved out to the regions, a greater share of people worked from home on the census night because of the lockdown and a greater share of people were temporarily away from work.”

However, a closer look at the data suggests there may be another reason for such a high unoccupancy rate across residential units in the state.

A 2019 report released by land tax advocacy group Prosper Australia found that 16 per cent of investment properties in Melbourne were unoccupied.

The data, based on water usage from each household across Melbourne, showed that more than 65,000 dwellings were empty in 2019 alone.

While the ABS does not have a specific classification for residential dwellings that are investment properties, the Reserve Bank says that household tenure type could be a good proxy for assessing the proportion of housing stock held by investors versus owner occupiers.

This would potentially place investor held dwellings into the ‘not applicable’ group, making them the category with the highest unoccupancy rate.

To address rising housing costs and similar issues surrounding underused and vacant dwellings, Canada recently introduced a new law prohibiting foreign

Photography by Ann Khorany

investors from purchasing a residential property in the country for two years, starting from January this year.

This aims to give priority to residents and citizens living in the country and make housing more accessible and affordable.

When approached for comment, Consumer Affairs Victoria did not speculate on whether the government would ever consider implementing a similar law and how that would potentially be applied in Victoria.

In Victoria, residential properties in certain local government areas that are unoccupied for more than six months per year are subject to a vacant residential land tax of one percent of the property’s value.

This means that an investor will have to pay $4,500 for an apartment worth $450,000 that remains unoccupied for more than half the year.

What impact do unoccupied dwellings have on prospective tenants?

Hengying Wu is a recent university graduate who will have to move out of her student accommodation unit as her contract expires in a few days.

She has spent the past month going to inspections and lodging applications for rental units, but she is one of the many aspiring tenants struggling to secure an apartment due to the tight rental market.

FEATURE

“It is so difficult,” she said.

Attending multiple inspections has made Wu realise that she is not only competing with applicants located in Melbourne.

“I met another student who’s applying for an apartment for her friend who is currently back in China,” she said.

Having a limited amount of time to find a place to live in while also competing with more than 40 applicants at each inspection—excluding international applications—is adding extra layers of difficulty to Wu’s search for housing.

she has seen people desperate to find a place to call home accept poor living environments as a last resort.

in the past five years, the number of unoccupied dwellings has simultaneously increased.

“We see students moving into unregistered rooming houses where people are sharing bedrooms with strangers just to get a basic bed and with very uncertain precarious conditions,” she said.

Recent data released by CoreLogic shows that since the 2021 census, the median rent in Melbourne has increased to $507 per week.

Farouque said that it is important renters are aware of their rights as tenants.

“I just feel this is impossible,” she said.

“Just because you move into a house that may have some flaws, [that] doesn’t mean that you have to accept those flaws because you have the right to request repairs that are considered urgent,” she said.

Increased competition for rental units is also pushing some applicants to offer landlords payments that exceed the listed rent price, an illegal practice known as rent bidding.

“We do have a big challenge out there, but it’s not that tenants are without any power whatsoever; there are rules [such as] when moving into a place, you need to have a heater that works.”

“For example, if it’s $480 per week, they would raise it to $500 or even more to secure the apartment for themselves and they would pay like six months’ rent in advance,” she said.

According to Farouque, the increasing unoccupancy rate across private dwellings, low vacancy rates in the rental market and rising rent costs are all key factors exacerbating the rental crisis in Victoria.

Wu said if she does not manage to find a new place to live in before she has to vacate her student accommodation, she will have no other option than to move into a short-term rental or Airbnb.

Advocates call on the government for reform Director of Community Management at Tenants Victoria, Farah Farouque, said

“We've seen some people’s rent increase from [an extra] $30 a week to hundreds of dollars so that actually means that some people can't afford to remain in the existing rental properties, but then the competition is so huge, so they’re sort of between the devil and the deep blue sea,” she said.

While more apartments have been built

There has also been a 14.2 per cent rise in the average rent for apartments and units in the past 12 months.

To address this, the Victorian government has pledged $5.3 billion for a Big Housing Build project set to boost social housing through building 12,000 affordable dwellings by 2024.

Farouque said that while this is a good initiative that provides people with secure and affordable housing, more needs to be done and that starts with all levels of government collaborating to fix the current rental crisis.

“Tenants Victoria is now of the mind that the government should introduce a fairness formula regulating or capping rent increases,” Farouque said.

She also said it’s quite worrying that there are empty dwellings being held up by investors and not being put on the market.

“We’re in the middle of a rental crisis, all properties that are rentable should be made available, [but] the thing is that it’s a market situation and we have no means to compel these investors to do so, but it is a concern,” she said.

Data visualisations created with Flourish

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'About in Melbourne' by Meg Bonnes

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NON-FIC

"We are not asking for the world": Why staff at the University of Melbourne are on strike Written by Jordan Fenske

“We’re not asking for the world, we're not asking for a complete revolution for how the University is run straight away, we're asking them to work with us.” — Leonard, University of Melbourne teacher.

In October 2021, the Enterprise Bargaining Agreement (EBA) for the University of Melbourne expired and has yet to be renewed. An EBA is a legally binding agreement which outlines staff working conditions, wages and pay for working hours. The lack of renewal has left many University teachers working more hours than they are being paid for and suffering from burnout, as they attempt to meet outrageous demands for grading deadlines and taking on large class loads. While there are approximately 2,500 members of the The National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU) at the University of Melbourne, it is reported that one out of ten union employees are not securely employed. This means that more than half of the staff are hired on a per-term basis and are unsure whether or not they will be asked to come work the following semester.

While there is no clear reason for the University to keep so many teachers on casual or fixed term contracts, the easiest answer is power. By keeping teachers and staff on these short term contracts, they are essentially deeming everyone replaceable. It also leaves teachers in a state of fear, wondering when or if they will have a job next semester. Additionally, it encourages the teachers to not only take on an incredibly high workload for meager pay, but also discourages them from protesting or speaking up about it for fear they will not be offered another contact. Adele comments, “that's how they make it economical, through fear and shame.” When I asked about benefits with Adele and Beth, they each discussed that the benefits are, in reality, not very accessible. “The University is after every pound of flesh from its workers,” remarks Beth. They explained that while they do get annual leave, they have been told to only take it when there is a semester break, which defeats the purpose of leave as the University is already on break. Along the same lines, if a teacher is sick, an event which of course, is always sudden and unplanned, they must find their own replacement for their classes. This means they must give another overworked teacher more classes or teach whilst sick. One teacher explains that they “worked through Covid and [were] praised for doing that”. The inability for teachers to not have appropriate measures and support in place for when they get sick is something that must change. Along with these unsettling conditions faced by teachers, the financial disparity must also be discussed.

Around 40 million dollars has been calculated as the total withheld salary for staff and all the University has done to try and remedy this is by paying small, inconsequential amounts in backpay. With the increased cost in living, NTEU members are hoping to see a pay increase that will allow them to support themselves and continue teaching. While staff members are struggling to get paid a fair amount for their hard work, the vice chancellor makes a reported 1.5 million a year and lives on campus, rent-free.

Left with no other options, the union has agreed to strike.

The union members have already posed two strikes, one for two hours and another for a whole day. Many teachers reported that the University continuously says that they will make an offer, but according to David, “don't keep to their own timeframes or don’t come with anything at all.” The best offer they have received, according to James, was a six per cent pay increase taken out of their superannuation. “It feels like I'm being dangled a carrot with these supposed opportunities,” Beth laments. Teachers are constantly awaiting these supposed pay raises or longer contracts, which most still have not seen. Adele articulates her perception of the University's view by saying, “being professional means being okay with being exploited.” The members have already completed their first round of demonstrations in Week Six of Semester Two 2023, but as the University has yet to take action to meet the union's demands, they will be continuing their demonstrations on campus in Week Ten. This has now become the biggest strike in Australia's University sector in decades.

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Illustration by Weiting Chen

Illustration by Lauren Kimber

COLUMN

T h e r e I s S o m e t h i n g I n T h e Wa t e r

Radiolaria Written by Donna Ferdinando If sequins were the key to feeling pretty, then so be it. Their shine and sheen paired well with the luster of gold and I had discovered a growing affinity for all things beautiful. The desire ran deeper, however, at the touch of satin mesh under my fingertips, the movement of ruffles at my heels and the way the fabric clung to the curve of my hips. I imagine myself wrapped in flounces of satin upon a divan, siren scale-sequins trailing down an arm bearing a volume of the love letters sung from Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf and my lips would chant "Virginia, Virginia, Virginia”. Who my Virginia could be, though, I could not yet fathom.

I could sense a creature beneath it all, a sequin-scaled satin-soaked creature with soft translucent flesh and scarlet tentacles. It lay dormant beneath the soil and I imagined it in my mind brushed out with soft inks and pastel chalks and dollar-store colored pencils. It was, above all, a pretty creature and though I imagined it beneath soil of some sorts I could not imagine the stain such dust and grit would leave on its sensitive flesh. I would dig at the soil every day to gaze in awe at its beauty and into its gaping maw I would feed the sequins and phantom forms and phantom lips and satin and embroidery and mesh and tapestry; and it would churn out to me all manner of things beautiful. We had a deal, it and I. Pretty things for pretty things, an eye for an eye, heart for a heart, veins for veins, nourishment and sustenance (for it) and beauty and value (for me). A symbiotic relationship that ate away at my savings; one I craved and desired nonetheless.

The creature was my Eden. Instead of fruit, ripe and tripe dangling from frail branches, I had embroidery upon silk and wings billowing at the corners of my eyes. It grew miracles from the material I nourished its flesh with and in turn I tilled the soil, and watered its roots, and pruned the dead, immaterial loose ends of its branches, and when I had no material to give, I let its roots latch on to my arms and let it feed itself from the sustenance that flowed hot and humid beneath my skin. It was a small price to pay, for when I awoke upon completing this desperate measure there lay next to my head something more valuable than all the gold, frankincense and myrrh of the world combined.

And, perhaps, there were moments of doubt. The price seemed too high and too vast to pay at times. And on the days where I had to give up my arms to its roots in exchange for another pretty trinket the nausea, and the stings, and throbbing migraine where my spine met my head blended into a pulsing mess. It was a trial, to be sure. A trial to be borne as best as one could, but it faded, as it always did eventually, and the reward (as fleeting as it was) was better. Who would say otherwise? Nothing compares to the sensation of being all a-glow as if you've been doused in sunlight itself; its jewels dripping down, down, down the curve of your throat wrapping tighter and tighter like a creature’s tentacles.

Plenty have said otherwise, certainly. Or attempted to at the very least. And words can be fleeting, can be chosen to be fleeting, if you've got the right attitude about it. Oh, they certainly tried. It began with pleas and begging; then came the scolding and the berating, until it turned to silence or barely restrained violence. But those words, they flitted away… too fragile.

I hated flitted words. I hated them more when they were formed into barbs and arrows that pierced my skin to bruise the flesh of the creature as well. Words were meant to be poetry, the perfect concentration of casual conversation into art and music. Letters were made to flow from one syllable to the next with all the ease of a stream, not meant to pierce and cut and shatter. I hated the way they made me feel, all small and invisible when I had become accustomed to sparkling and shining and glowing with a sheen that seemed to draw all the light from the outside and into the very pores of my skin.

And so, when they came at me again with their barbed words and speared scolds, I plastered a smile (a gift, a miracle) and led them to the maw of the creature myself.

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NON-FIC

Content warnings: heavy mention of political violence, gore, rape, torture

1986 Written by Animesh Ghimiray

Seed of hope I remember sketching in an inaccurate geographical designation along the seams of my little journal— scribbled through that sketch in capital was the word ‘GORKHALAND’. It was 2013, and the resurgence of seeking separate statehood had led to an indefinite strike. Temporary school shutdown was fun, but I wondered, why were the adults around me largely unbothered?

“When I was your age, the sounds of bombs and fires had become the norm for us,” my mom recalled, as we spoke over the phone. “I was 12 and school had just finished. And then we heard the rumour that there was a mutilated head hung along one of the lampposts near Upasakh [a book store in central Kalimpong town].” She paused, audibly shuddered, then continued: “We thought it was a good idea to have a look. Baba would’ve killed me if he would have found out then.”

She was referring to the 1986 statehood demands of a small yet hearty region along the Himalayan belt consisting of Three Sister Hills: Kalimpong, Kurseong and Darjeeling (and their constituent surroundings). Gorkhaland—a term coined by an emerging leader by the name of Subash Ghisingh in the same year—pushed forth this vision by forming a new political party called Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF). With his faithful underlings, Ghisingh began organising peaceful demonstrations. He conducted speeches educating the sincere public on the identity crisis that pervaded the inhabitants of these beautiful hills: ill-recognition of Indian-Nepalis as being Indian nationals, as well as the perceived economic plight at the hands of the West Bengal state government. Thus, he instilled a passionate dream through this movement—a movement that took a fatefully aggressive turn in the year 1986.

Challenging stigma This dream found itself materialising on 5 April 1986 with a peaceful march that was characteristic of challenging democracy’s stigma—peaceful protest of what Nayan Pradhan, then chief convener of the party’s Kalimpong unit, claimed the subject was the two counts of crimes committed by the communion of the central government and West Bengal state government: apartheid and genocide of Gorkhas.

This gained the attention of the accused.

Ghisingh chose, as a core component of his instillation of cause, a clause that had created—even among the literate world—an identity crisis for Indian-Nepalis: Article 7 of the 1950 Indo-Nepal Friendship Treaty of Peace and Friendship Act. Under this Article, Indian nationals and Nepali nationals can, on a reciprocal basis, essentially have citizen rights (residency, conducting business, owning property, etc.). This morphed into a dogma that lasts to this day – a Nepali-speaking Indian national is viewed as a foreigner.

During a second, bold step where the Three Sisters – Kalimpong, Kurseong and Darjeeling Hills called for a 72-hour strike starting from the 12 June on to 14 June the same year. GNLF, backed by a now ‘enlightened’ public, conducted numerous demonstrations which openly critiqued an international act, that, according to Pradhan, raised further concern within the national context.

Illustration by Jessica Norton

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NON-FIC

27 July, 1986 “They never announced it.” Pradhan repeated as he recounted the firing of rounds that heralded the beginning of two years of violence, suffering and tumult that was to follow. What he was referring to was the unannounced issuing of Section 144 CrPC Act (under India’s Code of Criminal Procedure)—“power to issue order in urgent cases of nuisance or apprehended danger”—by the state government in Kalimpong.

It was announced that, on 27 July, all of the hilly regions will be observing the burning of physical copies of the 1950 Indo-Nepal Act to further establish what the GNLF’s and the people’s views were on the subject. Kalimpong, additionally, observed a procession while being unaware of the ex parte enforcement of the Act. At around 10am, the procession made its way to the centre of town. Thana Dara, a police station perched on top of a slope overlooking the main road, caused heads to tilt in confusion when people saw a strange increase in the density of police force. Turns out the Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) had arrived to “restore order”.

As soon as the crowd was in sight, the CRPF opened fire, initially to “scare the civilians home” as Pradhan put it. Caught by surprise, and with the conjecture that this was another way of suppressing this movement, the crowd retaliated by pelting stones at officers. This escalated into a traumatising and bloody 20-minute-long confrontation, as officers began firing at civilians randomly. A close friend of Pradhan’s was shot dead in front of his eyes. The chaos that ensued that day killed 12 people: some from gunshot wounds, some were trampled and hundreds were injured.

For the lack of detailed verifiable documentation of this fateful day, accounts vary and polarised imagination has the opportunity to run free. Thus, I expect a quiet uproar in my own account of this event from my elders.

Consequences Ghisingh labelled the West Bengal government as “political brokers”. It was also an open secret amongst the people that he also did not like to share power, and many speculate this obsession for complete control was what led to the weakening of the movement over the next two years. Pradhan claims, as did Ghisingh in his 1987 interview, that “combing operations” were undertaken to suppress and silence the movement. Male figureheads in households and youths, innocent or not, were captured, tortured and murdered. Unprotected, houses were be raided by an undercover militant force, Pradhan explains, called the Kundali force, who were, in his words, “savages with no morales…They looted unprotected houses, and kidnapped the women of the house, took them into the forest and raped and tortured them.”

In 1987, around the same time Ghisingh’s GNLF declared a 40-day bandh (strike), Basu declared GNLF and its independent militant force, the Gorkha Volunteer Cell (GVC), to be a “terrorist group” and enforced the Terrorist Act in response. Much of this had to do with the burning of government facilities in Kalimpong and elsewhere, as well as the claim that the GVC were receiving an ‘international’ supply of sophisticated weaponry. As became clear when reports were made, this “sophisticated arsenal” consisted of homemade pipe guns and gelatin bombs. The government then retracted and reworded their claims, saying that “[these weapons] are crude but effective.”

With tensions rising between the GVC and GNLF, there would be fights between members whenever one crossed the other’s path, and eventually this encouraged some of the ill-intending members to start conducting atrocities against people they had personal problems with. My father was a founding member of the student chapter of GNLF (GNSF: Gorkha National Student Force), briefly before he relocated to study Agriculture in Cooch Behar in 1986. During a visit home, he ran into a former colleague of his, who had now become an active youth member of the GNLF. He candidly shared how he had tortured and killed a few individuals he’d had a personal vendetta against. Gruesome, gory details were shared and that was the last time they talked.

Legacy The 1986 Andolan stands in local history as one of the boldest movements made, and as Jyoti Basu, then-chief minister of West Bengal, recalled in a 1987 interview: “The slogans caught on…although it was unrealistic according to us and bad for the country, we called it a divisive movement. It became a matter of national concern.”

Momentum gained came at the cost of a worsening economy, violent atrocities against innocent people, sabotaged career opportunities and the GNLF’s unravelling. The patience of the modest cohort of Gorkhas eventually plummeted and their morale grew weary. The people wanted peace. Nayan Pradhan recalls visiting Ghisingh’s office (presumably in Darjeeling) disappointed that they’d just conceded to accepting partial autonomy (through what came to be known as the Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council). With a grim expression, Ghisingh adjusted his signature Nepali topi and muttered “Bhai, what can we do? Look at Kalimpong. We’re losing our own people. At this rate, we won’t have anyone left when we get accepted as Gorkhaland.”

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The Bachelor of Arts – A High Price for Free Thought?

Written by Meagan Hansen

Last week, in a desperate attempt to pay my outstanding student amenities fee, I stumbled upon something terrible—something truly awful. Something that invoked an even greater sense of fiscal terror than the horrifically overdue sanction awaiting me on Canvas.

My student invoice.

As an Arts student, I am well accustomed to jabs about my lack of career prospects and my infeasible educational journey. I’d always ignored them, swatted the words away like flies in the Australian summer.

It was not until I discovered the $5,000 waiting on my HECS from last semester that I started to consider that maybe these taunts had some merit.

I spent the remainder of the evening bitterly refusing to pay the fine, all the while cursing myself for not choosing a STEM major. I broke down, I had a procrastination shower, I called my mum.

But by the time she went to bed, she’d talked me into the realisation that if I was paying over $30,000 for a tertiary education, I should at least have some H1s to show for it.

By 11pm, I was back on the study grind. +++ At the beginning there were little pokes, bubbles of thoughts forming in my brain. Little questions that I didn’t mean to ask. I would be ordering a latte, and my brain would go, hmm, isn’t it weird that almond milk is marketed as an environmentally friendly alternative to dairy milk, whilst being horrifically water inefficient?

But it didn’t stop there.

The next week I would go back for an oat cappuccino, and I would wonder if the high-pitched voice adopted by the barista serving me reflected an underlying power imbalance between servers and patrons, prompting hospitality workers to subliminally assign themselves to a submissive role in customer interactions.

Only a month after that, I would buy a Castro’s hot choccie and consider that, despite the official spatial delineation of study and social zones on campus, students overrode these boundaries by constructing independent and collaborative meanings that better served their interests as both tertiary students and social participants.

And just like that, the little mundane aspects of life had become brittle and scrutable. The simple act of ordering a coffee had been shredded into strips of meaning in my hands.

I had become an Arts student.

The strings that wove into the fabric of my day-to-day reality could be stretched apart and examined, and I could begin to understand how each interaction, each decision, each moment of daily life could become a PhD thesis.

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Illustration by Felicity Yiran Smith

NON-FIC Maybe this skillset is not financially feasible, but there is value in being able to understand society in a way that most people can’t and that reflects a comprehension of reality beyond our immediate interactions with it.

I like to think of society as a machine, humming along to a steady, predictable rhythm. It’s durable, composed of endless moving parts; cogs and couplings and wires that fulfil their assigned purposes in an eternal pattern of monotony. This process continues exactly as it is designed to, drudging relentlessly through time until its various components wear down and are replaced.

But then there are Arts students, the loosened nuts and bolts that rattle around and around in the endless labyrinth of the structure around them.

Eventually, the momentum rattles them too much. They fly loose.

They crash and bounce in a way that the machinery isn’t meant to, defying the constant, predictable motions of the parts that encompass them. They jam into the hidden crevices of cogs and chains, grinding the steady and anticipatory humming to a jarring halt.

This ability to temporarily see outside of the social structures we operate within is a rare, expensive and irrevocable power that only the B-Arts is designed to teach.

Everyone walks into Arts Discovery in their first year, eager to learn about politics or film studies or linguistics, but no one tells you that you’re not really there to learn content at all.

Arts students watch the same lectures, attend the same tutorials, read (or don’t read) the same readings, but by the end of our semesters, none of us can really agree on exactly what we just learned. In Science, you might learn about cancerous cells or the composition of the universe. In Design, you could study how to construct an apartment building or how to use different 3D modelling technologies. Commerce might teach about how to manage a budget or the signs that a country will have an economic crisis.

But Arts teaches a mindset.

Looking back on past subjects, the content sometimes— albeit rarely—sticks out as being particularly relevant to my aspirations of being a journalist or a foreign correspondent. But little fibres break off from each essay, each lecture, each tutorial; they clump together in my brain, forming clots in the neural pathways that I once used to understand the world around me. They poke around in weird places and make me curious about even the most banal things— down to how we drink coffee.

But, as my peers at UniMelb so frequently note, this ability to think alone does not make you employable. $30,000 is an awful lot of money to spend altering your understanding of the world. It is even more infeasible for international students, who pay almost four times as much for this realignment of how they interpret reality.

The world will always need Arts students, people who have been trained to engage with reality in its raw and unfiltered form; people who understand their exact situation within the machinery that continuously whirs around us and will identify and redirect society when it moves in a direction contrary to the common good. However, to continue sustaining the education of free thinkers and conscious social participants, fees should be lowered drastically by politicians, particularly those who graduated from Arts degrees at a time when they were free of cost. $30,000 is too high a price to pay for free thought.

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Content warnings: Heavy mention of cults and cult practices

The Ugly Truth of Spirituality: Exploitation over Enlightenment Written by Bea Barnett *The names cited in this article have been changed to protect the identity of the interviewees.

“That would never happen to me.” is the continuous lie we tell ourselves, almost a prayer that we are as logical and level-headed as we believe ourselves to be. Imagine how many people think this before doing exactly what they said they wouldn’t.

However, the problem with humans is that we are overly optimistic, and despite willing ourselves not to, we always seem to end up in some prickly situations. Such as people agreeing to take LSD and live a spiritual life on a ranch with an ex-prisoner named Charles Manson.

We all want to believe that there is more to our existence than just the world around us, whether through religion or the simple motto “you only get out what you put in”. Spiritual mediums seem like the perfect solution, answering all of life’s questions in a way that always leaves you feeling reassured. Yet, although it can be a great way to deal with grief and uncertainty, spirituality must be approached with caution because a trip to the psychic can end in a life in a cult.

Sacha, a former University of Melbourne student, has been visiting a medium for many years since the passing of a close family member, as she finds it a beautiful way to deal with grief, and connect with deceased loved ones. Sacha’s belief in mediumship is not entirely without scientific basis. Psychologists have recorded brain scans of mediums when in trance states claiming to have a spirit writing through them, and they found that certain brain areas that should be used during writing are not activated, indicating there may be something supernatural going on. Furthermore, some studies have also found that some mediums’ readings are accurate in highly controlled situations.

Alas, we cannot carry around a CAT scan with us to every medium visit.

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Having engaged in spirituality since childhood, Sacha knows well the dangers of mediums. She warned me, “There are a lot of people out there who claim to be clairvoyants who are just trying to get your money and influence you.” To avoid scammers, Sacha said finding a medium should be done through word of mouth, as simply looking up google reviews is not enough. As for booking your first appointment, she said, “Say as little as possible, just say my name is this, my birthday’s this and whatever they ask for but only the bare minimum.” These days it is important to not give the medium too much information, because they can easily look you up on social media and get the information from there, which is known as a “hot reading”. On the other hand, a more old-fashioned way to be scammed is through a “cold reading”, where the medium simply takes one good look at you and figures it all out.

However, it is not just scammers to look out for, but also spirituality schools, which claim they can teach you how to reach your higher spiritual power, find love and help others, through spirit guides and past lives. These schools advertise themselves as a place to find yourself, to learn your purpose and to take control of your life, therefore feeding into the largest and most universal desires we have. Venturing into this world can be enlightening, however it is dangerous for those susceptible to delving in too far or for the wrong reasons. Despite not appearing like a murderous commune of disciples, these schools can be financially exploitative and their practices verge on cultish.

Many mediums are attached to spiritual schools. It just so happened that for all Sacha’s careful selection, her medium was part of one particularly concerning school, with headquarters in Victoria's Mornington Peninsula. Their teachings involve karma, angels, reincarnations and some unconventional beliefs about fixing your pet’s limp. Of course, such teachings come at a hefty cost and with a questionable accreditation. Young students, un-

Illustration by Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen

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sure of the world and their place, make for ideal candidates to bring back for the spiritual leaders to meet.

So it passed that a few times Sacha’s medium mentioned that she could feel that Sacha had the power of spiritual foresight, and discussed how she could train to have a future in spiritual counselling. However, thankfully Sacha declined. Many individuals who have low self-confidence would take this as bait. Who wouldn’t want Hagrid to turn up to their door one day and say “You’re a wizard, Harry.”?

Freud proclaimed that religion “is nothing but psychology projected into the outer world”. A very real risk of resorting to spirituality is the restructuring of thoughts as a form of spiritual bypassing. Coined by psychologist John Welwood in the ‘80s, spiritual bypassing is the tendency to avoid psychological issues by using spiritual views to explain them. This often occurs after someone has experienced a difficult life event to avoid confronting it. On the other hand, those with high narcissistic tendencies are also prone to spiritual bypassing, and this spiritual ability gives them power over others, thus inflating their ego to “god” levels. Spiritual bypassing can present as finding correlations between two uncorrelated events, such as believing that your dreams can predict the future.

Therefore, sometimes it is not exactly the medium’s fault, but it is nevertheless their responsibility to understand that some people are susceptible to taking their words as gospel. Given spiritual bypassing arises from believing everything a medium says is true, Sacha warned: “A medium's advice should be taken with a grain of salt.”

Furthermore, research by Gabriela Picciotto and Jesse Fox has indicated that different personality types can make someone more susceptible to unhealthy spiritual bypassing, and people should be aware of this before attending a medium. Picciotto and Fox found bypassing is more likely for people with an unhealthy attachment style from their primary caregiver or partner as well as scoring high in the Big Five personality traits of neuroticism and, potentially, openness to experience. They also found Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is linked to spiritual bypassing, as having the answers from the spiritual world means they can take mental control over life.

Spiritual bypassing can cause severe relationship and friendship consequences. I interviewed Rachel Sans, whose close family friend joined a spiritual school. This friend, let’s call her Jane, started seeing a medium, which led her to complete a spiritual counselling diploma from the same school Sacha’s medium was from. Rachel said that after this Jane “became convinced that her husband was holding her back from realising her true potential, causing her to become quite resentful towards him, and her sister who she used to be close to.” Rachel believes that her friend’s obsession with the spiritual group was because they fed into her insecurities and played into what she wanted to hear.

The situation escalated quickly, and Jane left her husband shortly after beginning the spiritual counselling diploma. Rachel said “She used to work in the hospitality industry, co-owning a business. She now works as a spiritual counsellor but only has two clients and must work a second job on the side to pay the bills.”

The online Cult Education forum, a chat website for those who have been affected by cults, has many similar stories where a loving family is heartbroken after being left in the dust by someone who has found their ‘true self’. This common theme occurs because living with someone affected by spiritual bypassing can result in many awkward conversations and fights, with both parties believing they are no longer acknowledged or understood.

Yet, often this is the headspace the spiritual instructors want their students in. Regarding the same Victorian spiritual school that Jane and Sacha’s medium were involved in, one member of the chat forum wrote “Members of my family have been blamed by the cult leaders as the cause of why the members are unhappy and insecure.” This, according to other stories on the cult forum, can result in divorce or detachment.

It may seem like a movie, but this is very real and very much happening in Melbourne. Therefore, before beginning your own spiritual journey you should do some self-reflection and ask yourself why you want this in your life, and maybe rethink if you have any of the above-mentioned personality traits. Also check out the online cult education forum to see if your medium is linked to any of the suspicious spiritual schools. Spirituality can have a lot of benefits for grief and self-development, but you shouldn’t lose yourself along the way.

Sources: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/321492923_Exploring_Experts'_Perspectives_on_Spiritual_Bypass_a_Conventional_Content_Analysis https://www.atpweb.org/jtparchive/trps-16-84-01-063.pdf

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as it was

Time After Time Everyday histories are often overlooked by the bigger, more spectacular, or more reprehensible. We remember the names of great kings and terrible tyrants, beguiling spies and stoic inventors. Seldom do we remember the common people, the people behind the success, the silent contributors; those whose names were blotted out of the history books, and those who never strived for fame or fortune. But, among the mundane and forgotten are everyday victories measured in black and white photographs, strong lattes, and cold cream.

Who were these people? What did they do? What lives did they live?

How different are we from them?

It’s fair to assume in our world of digitalisation and automation that we wouldn’t have much in common with French pilgrims from the 1900s, or an ancient English woman living in Roman-occupied London. Yet, our daily routines can mirror that of the not-so-distant past.— These small realisations of connection and continuity appear unexpectedly but are fondly reflected upon.

One winter night while somewhat begrudgingly applying cold cream to my face, I looked down at the pot, surrounded by scattered tubes of lipstick, a powder compact, and a fluffy makeup brush stained pink.

The cluttered, organised chaos of my sink-turned-makeshift-vanity reminded me of my grandmother’s stone vanity. I remember sneaking into her bathroom while she and my grandfather slept, using a white plastic step stool to reach the stacked drawers. One by one I’d open each drawer, pulling out lipsticks and powder puffs, creating a spread. I would spend an unreasonable amount of time slathering on mystery creams and most likely expired lip gloss all over my face, in an attempt to be just like her and the women I saw in the movies.

There they were so elegant and serene while doing things as ordinary as applying rouge or Pond’s to their tired faces. Now there I was standing in front of the mirror, no longer a little girl in need of a step stool, but a woman of twenty-two, applying the same brand of cream to her face as thousands of women have done before. A shared ritual amongst the generations.— While digging through a teetering pile of fading black-and-white photographs and dusty postcards that have been dumped on a table in a stall at Queen Victoria’s Market, I paid no particular attention to the various phantom faces printed on the cards, staring back at me with ghostly eyes. Looking at forgotten photographs has always drawn some melancholy from me. Photography was not always an accessible and cheap medium, meaning these photos were taken with purpose and intention. And somehow, for whatever reason, these images ended up on a cold and uncovered pile, available for purchase by strangers. I doubt the subjects of the photographs would have expected their images to have been seen by hordes of passing strangers and subjected to grabbing hands. How lonesome they must feel.

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Written by Nicole

I continue to absent-mindedly flip through the photographs until one slips onto my hands. It was an A4-size, black-and-white portrait of a young couple. Their clothing is distinctly late 50s-early 60s, the woman with a beehive hairstyle and the man in a crisp button down and slim tie. They are walking hand in hand up a steep hill, their bodies hunched over in a struggle to remain upright on the incline, but their faces express a different concentration. Both grinning from ear to ear, bodies struggling but turned towards each other, watching each other's feet. A simple photo but beaming with warmth and familiarity.

The universal experience of love and joy captured in a stolen moment is immortalised in print. I don’t know their story nor why their photograph ended up in my hands. Captivated by the sincerity and simplicity of the photograph, I broke a self-imposed rule and purchased it for six dollars. The smiling pair now remain firmly tacked on my pin board, a gentle reminder that love really can be found in the most unexpected places.— In a small cafe in Brunswick, laughter fills the room. Between each person, a collection of coffee cups bridge the gap. We drank our oat lattes while watching passing strangers.

While seated on the benches of Castro’s Cafe at the University of Melbourne, an iced latte melts in the spring heat as two new friends get to know each other. He, a bit too jittery from a rouge afternoon caffeine kick.

One Saturday afternoon in the CBD, with my head on his shoulder, we waited for our mirrored names to be called out, in anticipation of my latte and your triple shot flat white. We walked around the city, coffee cups in hand, weaving through the crowds and ranting about whatever, not knowing what was to come.

A misty day on Mount Dandenong began with the passing around of flat whites, oat lattes, and long blacks. A birthday celebration, surrounded by rhododendrons and fuelled by one too many shots of espressos.

Some of my fondest memories were accompanied by the presence of a common cup of coffee.

These everyday histories of mine will not be recorded and archived for future generations to study. Perhaps in the passing years, these tender memories will be forgotten, replaced with newer experiences and thoughts. These memories are mine and mine alone, and they will go with me when I pass, but the physical reminders of my presence will remain. Perhaps not bearing my name but the ritual will be the same. I am not the only girl to have feelings for a boy. I am not the only girl to have raided her grandmother’s dresser in an ardent attempt to be more like her. I am not the only girl to find laughter and peace while holding a cup of coffee. These universal experiences are so common, so plain, yet these are the experiences that give life its meaning.

Illustration by Amber Liang

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Will AI be able to replace the quintessential humanity in storytelling?

Written by Janice Hui *This piece was written during the 2023 WGA-SAG-AFTRA strikes.

In May 2023, the Writers Guild of America (WGA) began its still-ongoing strike protesting against writers’ cut of the profit made from their movies and shows on streaming media such as Disney+ and Netflix currently, and the threat of artificial intelligence (AI) putting them out of their jobs. A larger movement later snowballed in July when the Screen Actors Guild and American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (otherwise known as SAG-AFTRA) joined in on the protests for better pay for their labour as well as job security. Months have passed since the strikes’ inception, yet the WGA and SAG-AFTRA maintain the grip on their demands, causing extensive disruption to the American film and television industry. Among the unions’ concerns, the onslaught of artificial intelligence being used in creative industries has become a massive cause for concern. AI, like Frankenstein’s monster, has become a feared creation of mankind with capabilities that grew beyond our own.

The trend of commodifying art forms is by no means a new concept in the film industry. Over the decades, Hollywood has tried different tactics to make movies more palatable and attractive to the general public–with certain genres favoured while taboo ones are avoided, certain actors favoured over others based on their identities, and the increasing use of computer-generated imagery (CGI) rather than physical sets. Hollywood has long been a prominent cog in the capitalist machine, but the possibility of AI taking over writers’ rooms not only poses an alarming threat to the livelihood of writers and the quality of entertainment content, but to the future of human storytelling and art-making as a whole.

Storytelling has been an intrinsic part of the human condition throughout history. This very practice has had a hand in building the pillars of society along with our varying perceptions of the world today. It is the foundation for religion, communication and self-expression; we base our lived experiences on the stories we tell others and the tales we have been told. Thousands of years ago, the Indigenous community painted theirs on the walls of their cave shelters, carved them into trees, and told stories of Dreaming beings that are still passed on from one generation to the next today. Just last week, I was trying to hold back tears on the train while reading a phenomenal play about angels, politics during the AIDs epidemic and the kindness of strangers. Storytelling is our way of marking our place in the world, and the skillful way writers build narratives and fill our imaginations has a way to the heart like no other. Storytelling, a tradition almost as old as time itself, is a fundamental part of being human that cannot be disputed, and it would be absurd to replace storytellers with statistic-based AI programs, completely removing the humanity it comes from in the first place.

So what would the world look like if the efforts of the strike had failed and industry executives began integrating AI use into script writing or even acting performances?

The dangers of AI lies not in the technology itself, but how it can be exploited by the wrong hands. With the hypocritical presence of AI in Hollywood, mundane forms of storytelling would still carry on in our everyday lives regardless of these changes to the film industry. However, less and less human stories would be told on the big screen. AI would be used to generate scripts that could sell the most tickets and gain the most subscriptions, and raw, genuine stories made by real people with real lived experiences would be buried by algorithm-generated fodder, packaged into mere commodities and created for the sole purpose of raking in as much cash as possible. We cannot completely write off the possibility that AI could have the capacity to create similarly entertaining or even exceptional films, but its ability to do so is not the point. Who would benefit from the reduced labour costs and increase revenue of such movies aside from CEOs and shareholders? These top-percentiles are forgetting why we even started making movies in the first place: to have stories express intrinsic human creativity, emotion and experience for human beings, by human beings.

With that in mind, it is time for us to ask ourselves: why exactly do we consume media? Do we only seek entertainment satisfaction – one that AI could easily gauge and deliver, or do we prefer human stories that come from the heart? Would we genuinely enjoy films that check all the superficial boxes for making a “good” film and make us laugh and cry at all the right times?

Or would we choose innovative and nuanced stories made by people who are both talented at and truly love their craft and the tales they weave?

I believe that the potential of the human mind is vast and our imagination is infinite—AI can never replicate that. It would be incredible to see writers be able to continue pushing against their creative limits and tell stories that reflect their own experiences in a myriad of ways. The best movies are always the ones made with the blood, sweat and tears by the creators, with their love for storytelling – an intrinsically human practice with a rich history – shining through. We as consumers of media have the power to control the path the film industry would follow, and to do so we must change our perceptions on media consumption so that it cannot be manipulated to reduce human creativity in the film industry. The use of AI in the film industry for profit would put movies formulated for higher ticket sales and view counts in the spotlight, and the number of unique voices featured on the big screen would be diminished. We are in an age of technological advancement and celebration of intersectional stories, it would be a shame if we are to let one overshadow the other and to forget that we are, at our core, storytelling animals.

Illustration by Arielle Vlahiotis

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The Unauthorised, Unorthodox, Unofficial Guide to Writing a Novel Under the Age of Twenty

Procrastinators’ Anonymous Written by Claire Le Blond Hi everyone, I’m Claire.

Hi Claire.

This edition of the column is a bit less descriptive than the last four.

Understood Claire.

I’m a procrastinator.

No you’re not Claire, you’re chronically burnt out, there’s a difference.

No there isn’t.

Yes there is.

Okay, fine then. Hi everyone, I’m Claire, and I procrastinate from time to time but not for the reason one might expect. I have a confession to make: I use uni work to procrastinate.

WHAT? You say, iced long black tumbling out of your hands and onto the cobblestones. Perhaps it fell on the cobbled brick-stone along the Professors’ Walk, frostbitten tree trunks watching in stunned silent awe. Perhaps it fell, tumbled, a solid six dollars’ worth of espresso and ice tumbling past strike posters and graffiti, all the way towards any of the crowded libraries on campus. Perhaps it fell on a carpet, the prickle of felt, dirt and string, liquid sinking all the way down. Perhaps it fell into a misshapen trash can, traffic-light colours blaring well-meaning disposal advice that some people should really follow more often. You say, you say you study, but really, are you not, as I am now while trying to write this in 168, merely thinking about the act of it while sipping your drink?

Regardless, the drink fell, it fell, it falls, it will fall, like Lucifer from the grace of his father, like hope for my weighted-average mark, my dearly departed WAM (or as I refer to it, my “wake-me-up before you don’t go” indicator), like an author’s word count after editing, your iced long black (or other assorted overpriced beverage – as a barista I really desperately need to convince you all to start getting in on those keep cup discounts), it will fall as will your opinion of me.

I do indeed procrastinate.

I procrastinate getting out of bed, even though the early morning tempts me with its scattered collage of cloudy horizon lines. I procrastinate standing up, preferring to lie down on the carpet of my apartment. I procrastinate taking the tram, preferring to walk my way down to the free tram zone so I don’t have to contest the maddening anxiety swirling in my head as the result of my chronic terror about being chased by a myki inspector (again). And funnily enough, I procrastinate my creative pursuits by participating in my university degree (as well as vice versa).

Indeed, I find my university assignments a refreshing distraction from my creative mediocrity.

On the one hand, being creative in our capitalist hellscape feels more so about being creatively productive. It feels like putting myself at the risk of tetanus, grasping my hands around a rusted pole as I pull down on an anchor attached to a ship that sunk far too long ago, wanting to sink my teeth into a new novel idea only to see the hundreds of people on social media who’ve already achieved the same. Notably, they’ve achieved the same in a shorter time frame. Sometimes it feels better to sink, to drown in my daydreams of the written wonder that could emerge from the watery depths that is the endless chasm of strangled drafts, ideas, and loves from another literary world.

On the other hand, productivity is overrated! Quality over quantity as the English teachers in high school would say, immediately after complaining about not including enough content. In high school, I used to connect my self-worth entirely to my productivity. When I wasn’t at school or swimming, I was studying. Writing fiction was the only time I could get an escape from the notion that I had to produce to be valued by others, and in a lot of ways, to be valued by myself. Even then, especially post Year 12 final exams, writing became increasingly difficult, as the consequences of long-term burnout snuck up on me.

Writing continued to become difficult, because the experiences I lived through writing as a teenager became experiences I actually lived through. Writing is now less about me as a person and more about me as a writer: what do I care about? What do I want people to feel, see, touch, hear?

I no longer need to escape productivity through writing; I need writing to escape with me.

Being productive is essential in a lot of ways, but there’s more to it. Especially with writing. Some of the best authors were known for their extended drafting periods, others for the opposite. Fundamentally, creativity comes from emotion and what greater emotion is there than the inner turmoil at the things you love being turned into product and profit?

This column is a bit different than the last one. I hope it resonates with whoever’s reading.

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Illustration by Alexi O'Keefe

Written by Jesse Allen This is no private correspondence. The letters were written with a public in mind, yet they have largely fallen into obscurity. Perhaps they were simply eclipsed by what followed soon after–years which cast long shadows in both directions. It is impossible to read them now without a poignant sense of dramatic irony, and without losing sight of the fragile, yet very real, hope which struggles against the currents of peril and anxiety.

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The Pacifist Papers

I am glad to have…a unique opportunity to discuss with you what seems to be, in the current state of affairs, the most important question for our civilisation: is there a way to free humanity from the terrible fate of war?

It is all too clear that the national ideals which currently hold sway in many places are pushing in a contrary direction [to peace] …so it seems that the attempt to substitute brute force with the power of ideals is condemned to failure in our times…

It is June 1932 when the first letter is penned in Caputh, near Potsdam. The reply will arrive from Vienna in September. Under the aegis of the League of Nations Committee on Intellectual Cooperation, two great minds have been invited to offer their thoughts on this Existenzfrage (existential question). Beneath the strained optimism, the hope against hope, is a genuine warmth and mutual regard. Neither correspondent is a stranger to the abyss. Between them, they have gazed into the furthest reaches of the cosmos and the innermost chasms of the human psyche. Now, neither can ignore the warning signs, the nauseating reality of a world once again sleepwalking towards the precipice.

A glance at the earnest failures of the past decades…points towards the powerful psychological factors at play…there must exist in each person the need to hate and to destroy. This capacity generally lies dormant, emerging only in exceptional circumstances; it is, however, easily awakened and stirred up into mass-psychosis… …And so, when people are summoned to war, it may well be a broad range of motives which lead them to do so: those which one speaks aloud, and those which one keeps silent…the drives towards aggression and destruction are certainly among these, and the countless horrors of history and everyday life attest to their existence and potency…

The march of history would soon make exiles of the pair. Hatred, cruelty, and ignorance would displace them like so many others, forcing them to flee abroad. The Machtbedürfnis (need for power) of the ruling classes always gives rise to conflict and hostility and in the Europe of the following decades, this would be unleashed in its most cataclysmic form. Few others were ready to see the world as their homeland; to imagine a common human destiny transcending national boundaries and prejudices; to hope–in spite of all evidence to the contrary–that a better reality might be possible. Yet they knew all too well that this age of true peace could lie centuries hence, or perhaps only exist in the realm of fantasy.

It would be a great service if you could provide your thoughts on this problem–the establishment of peace on earth – in light of your most recent insights, as such a presentation can form the basis for fruitful future endeavours…

The main reason we stand against war is simply: we can do no different. We are pacifists, because it is in our nature…How long must we wait for others to become pacifists? It is impossible to say, but perhaps it is not merely a utopian hope to [imagine]…an end to warfare in the foreseeable future…

Nearly a century later, these letters have sadly lost none of their relevance. In uncertain times, perhaps there is some perverse comfort in the knowledge that not even two of the twentieth century’s intellectual titans could solve the problem of war and peace for good. Many questions remain unanswered, while as colleagues, fellow travellers, and Menschenfreunde (friends of humanity), they sign off: Yours faithfully, Albert Einstein.

I send you my warmest regards… Your Sigmund Freud.

Sources: Einstein, A. and Freud, S. (1933). Warum Krieg? Ein Briefwechsel. Internet Archive. Available at: https://archive.org/details/ freud_1933_warum/Freud_Einstein_1933_Warum_Krieg_b/page/n31/mode/2up History Unfolded: US Newspapers and the Holocaust. (2020). Albert Einstein Quits Germany, Renounces Citizenship. Available at: https://newspapers.ushmm.org/events/albert-einstein-quits-germany-renounces-citizenship.

The Einstein-Freud Correspondence (1931-1932). Available at: https://www.public.asu.edu/~jmlynch/273/documents/ FreudEinstein.pdf.

Illustration by Jocelyn

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Vox Pop: How do you speak?

Written by Michelle Yu and Louisa Zhang Let this be a testament to the diverse intricacies of identity.

In this Vox Pop, we intended to collect the opinions of everyday people on their accents. Everyone has had experiences with a general discourse about accents in their lives, whether that be having lived in another country, or just reflecting upon how you speak during a class presentation, in a job interview, when having a yammer with your mates or gossiping with your grandparents.

The way we speak is influenced by a myriad of factors: our country of residence, changes that occur if we move away from home, and the media we grew up consuming. Some view accents as a more casual affair whilst others identify strongly with their native accents. Perhaps, after reading this piece, you will come away with some pride, pleasure or protest about the way you speak.

We had eleven participants from differing cultural and linguistic backgrounds. Some participants had families who have been in Australia for centuries. Some had parents who were first-generation immigrants. Some were born overseas but moved to Australia during childhood: “a twenty-something-year-old Australian Bangladeshian” and “Kiwi Australian”. One interviewee identified as an Australian-Chinese-New Zealander who “pretty much split [their] life between 3 countries”. Another was as a British expat who still considers England her home. Other Australians who had spent significant amounts of time overseas included an interviewee who spent two decades in America, then another decade in both Japan and Australia. Another interviewee spent a third of their life in Britain. And so on!

Are you comfortable with your accent? Do you ever feel like you need to change it?

No. I feel fine with it. I like how it has changed and reflects the experience [of having lived in different countries]. —American-Australian-Japanese It's actually gotten more British since I came over [to Australia]! Yes, I'm very comfortable with my accent and who I am in my own skin. —British expatriate I’m not sure, my accent seems to switch in accordance with who I’m speaking to. Like classical conditioning. —New Zealand-Australian with Chinese immigrant parents (Louisa)

Do you think your accent would change more if you stay in Australia for another decade or two?

My mum reckons I sound really Australian [compared to when I was living in Britain], but I don't think my accent has changed. I think over time my tone would change a bit, like getting the upwards inflection on the end of sentences. —British expatriate Yes. When I moved back from England to Australia I had an English accent, and I sound more Australian now. It happened gradually but I think came alongside feeling like I was fitting in more here. I still sometimes get asked where I’m from though. —Australian-British

What about if you went to another country which spoke English with a different English accent, like South Africa or America? Would your accent change to suit, or do you think you would keep yours?

Personally, I’m really bad at it…I don’t think my accent will change much from now on because I’ve spent my whole adult life around other Aussies.

—Multi-generational Australian

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Illustration by Raven Zhang

Yeah, I think it would change too. —American-Australian-Japanese

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Changing one’s accent is definitely possible, but perhaps quite difficult. You’d need long exposure to other accents, and the change is likely quite gradual. I haven’t really experienced an accent change— maybe more of an accent strengthening? —Chinese-Australian Hanging around people with a certain accent makes you pick up the accent. —Australian-New Zealander-Chinese I try to lose my native accent when in Australia, and that's a purposeful choice. I find it so hard though. —Australian-Singaporean (Michelle) If I spend enough time around someone I start talking like them so I would 10000% pick up a local accent. —Multi-generational Australian I wouldn’t arrive with the intention of changing my accent. What I would adopt faster is local slang, as I think that’s more important in communication. —Chinese-Australian Would you change your accent consciously to accelerate the process?

I would try to imitate pronunciation. I'm not sure if there is a meaningful difference between pronunciation and accent though. —Multi-generational Australian It just sounds too weird when you sound so different to everyone else. —Australian-Singaporean (Michelle) I don’t think I’ve ever tried to have an accent. Once you get enough people speaking a language [in a certain accent] around you, you typically don’t care… Most people want to blend in into a group right? So if you’re in a group where everyone is speaking your accent you probably won’t care. —Australian-New Zealander-Chinese I teach a lot of international students, so I try to make it more friendly for non-native English speakers, pronouncing things … the way I view my job…requires me to speak in an accessible way. —American-Australian-Japanese Do you try to change your accent?

I don't try. I don't have any confidence in my ability to mimic accents. What I try to do is talk clearly. I have suppressed my local accent; I have tried to speak standard American English, rather than use the accent from the local region of my upbringing.

—American-Australian-Japanese

In England, there is a rich tapestry of linguistic diversity, influenced by historical, geographical and cultural factors. The variations of accent are tied to specific regions or cities. For example, a 'Cockney' accent is tied to the East End of London and is distinctive by the use of vowel sounds and rhyming slang. —British expatriate Is what you're saying that there isn't really a 'correct' or 'standard' English accent?

Yes, that's right. —British expatriate

Do you think people should ever have to change their accent?

I don't believe people should ever have to change their accent as I see it as a form of identity, but this is a personal decision. Some people may choose to modify their accent for communication purposes. —British expatriate If it’s a situation where there’s enough immigrant population you might not [even] need to speak English that much. I think it might be more common for Asians [to change their accents], since it’s harder to fit in a predominantly white society. —Australian-New Zealander-Chinese I wouldn’t try to. Because my accent is a native English speakers’, I don’t see any reason to change it to fit with the British or Americans. I don’t see myself having issues fitting in because of my accent… My accents have been very strongly shaped by my upbringing and I’d say they well reflect both my cultures. I haven’t felt the need to change them. —Chinese-Australian I think it has a lot to do with their social context. People naturally want to fit in, so may try to change their accent to match the locals (this is probably most true for immigrants who are a minority). I don’t think it’s a must, but everyone’s own choice. And how different accents are perceived by society plays a large part in it. For example, Asian accents can get mocked. Probably less so now but was definitely a thing in the early 2000s.

—Chinese-Australian, continued

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Do you think some varieties of English accents are more accepted than others?

I’m not sure honestly. Australians definitely make fun of British accents because it’s very “proper” and posh, but there is a shared understanding that we’re speaking the same language. It’s really when they don’t understand slang that misunderstandings can happen. I try to make people feel comfortable but we do live in a culture that depends on slang and mateship to connect and communicate. —Multi-generational Australian Not really I guess? Maybe Asians think their accent is “wrong” in a way? Depends on the person I guess?

What about you, do you think that way?

No, but I know other people who probably did. Maybe it has something to do with the age people arrived in the foreign country? ...

[I arrived in NZ] when I was 3 years old… If [I was] 11 or 12, [I would] probably be a lot more impressionable at that age.

—Australian-New Zealander-Chinese I think Australians are exposed to “TV” style American and English accents through media so much more than the accents of other countries and regions. Even within the UK, there is a pressure to speak in Received Pronunciation due to reasons like people having problems understanding different accents, class-based stereotypes and so much exposure to [it] in the media. When I moved back to Australia, I found all I needed to do was speak a little bit slower and swap out some words to be understood. But when I moved from Scotland to London I got teased about my accent and felt a lot of pressure to adapt quickly. I think some Australians use how well they understand someone’s accent as a judge of how fluent that person is in English language (often unfairly!) and seem to not give enough effort in trying to understand what non-native English speakers are saying, when the English is fine but the accent is different to what they’re used to. —Australian-British I guess from what I have seen, people with migrant accents might speak faster or their language comes off as a bit blunt. I think people are also more forgiving and accepting of British and American accents —Australian-Bangladeshian I do think it’s a really interesting point because our perception of accents is so peculiar—like everyone has an accent. It's just when there’s enough people speaking with that accent and we hear it enough, people just cease to notice. When a second language speaker pronounces a word differently to how most people pronounce it, people will say that is the wrong pronunciation and they need to correct it. Whereas if enough people pronounce that word in the same way it becomes an ‘established’ accent. —First-generation Australian Sometimes it’s not even just the way of pronouncing, but it also affects the rhythm of your sentences. For example, Americans tend to drag their sentences hence the American twang that is characteristic of musical theatre. Since musical theatre is a very American art form, when Australians learn a song they have to either follow an American way of speaking or alter the music to make it rhythmically make sense. —First-generation-Australian, continued.

Reflections by Michelle (author), Australian-Singaporean I first got started on this topic when I was thinking about immigration and what you need to do when acclimating to a new country. Listening to these interviews have shown me different perspectives on various comfort levels with your accent, but then again, it’s still a little different when you grow up speaking with an accent that’s “non-native-passing”. There are 195 countries in the world, 67^ of which have English as an official language. But how many times do we really see someone who speaks true—true to the diversity of the world? How many times, in film and television, do we see someone who speaks true to all the upwards of 67 different ways to say English words?

Reflections by Louisa (author), Chinese-Australian with a childhood in New Zealand As with most phenomena, accents can bring about unconscious bias, but it can be challenging to discern whether this stems from language barriers or discriminatory attitudes. On the other extreme, especially in media representation, accents are exoticized by others and carry a sort of mystique.

Growing up, I remember the inconsistencies in my pronunciations, as a Kiwi who spent most of their childhood in New Zealand but moved to Australia at the age of twelve. I have also heard that it is more likely for neurodivergent people, such as those diagnosed with ADHD or autism, to intermingle different accents in their own speech*. I think we tend to forget that even “native” speakers will have their own vocalities in terms of different inflections and quirks etc.

These interviews are a preliminary insight, uncovering sentiments that are often behind the scenes. This is predominantly unfiltered, unedited, and spoken from the heart. Political or grand-scale changes can only happen when one realises that the personal is political. The smallest gesture can make or break a world. The smallest conversation with another can open or close a gateway towards a better world of understanding. We are always, one way or another, in dialogue with ourselves and the discursive space around us.

References: ^ English Speaking Countries List | Lingoda Online English Language School. (n.d.). Lingoda. https://www.lingoda.com/en/content/english-speaking-countries/#:~:text=Learn%20About%20All%20The%20English%20Speaking%20Countries&text=In%20fact%2C%20English%20is%20recognized *Odland, A.P., Mittenberg, W. (2011). Echopraxia. In: Goldstein, S., Naglieri, J.A. (eds) Encyclopedia of Child Behavior and Development. Springer, Boston, MA. https:// doi.org/10.1007/978-0-387-79061-9_938

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Illustration by Ruisi Wang

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Crocodile Bird Written by Katrina Bell

I grew up cradled in the shallow maw of a valley, in a string of houses set back against a palate of fields. There was always a particular distance to it. Buses were uncertain. Cars disappeared down the b-road at speed. Things from the outside moved quickly, and they were always just waiting to leave. But the valley stayed, and I felt like it did so for me. For years I weaved in and out of its walling hills, following them through green then gold then fresh-tilled nothing. Never quite realising their shape, their mammalian hinge. Unaware of the jaw’s promise to one day snap shut.

True predators move quietly, metabolise slowly—kindly—so that their movement is almost imperceptible. So that one might watch its jaws narrowing and be fooled into thinking the sky had always been darkening red and pointed white. But for those of us born here, such ignorance is finite. The venom haze doesn’t quite settle in. This countryside breeds a unique kind of hunger and we feel it. We feel the teeth pressing.

I felt them one summer, fresh back from uni and tracing the sloping profile of a window-framed ridge. Every feature ached with nostalgia; the fields and forests, under my knowing gaze bloomed upwards, curled in, indecisive and shy at my knowledge of all the secret parts of them. Along the ground, fine-leafed hedgerows cut the sun into the same mercurial shapes I had painted my skin with as a child, and the splitting triplet of power lines—adorned with its usual pigeons—still led the eye to nowhere. But then, at the edge of my vision, there was that tree. And I found myself wondering: had it always been that tall? Did it always hang so heavily? It had never been anything before; a politely flat feature in the back of countless memories. But now here it was, sinewed and sullen and pressing my eyes down into its sheep shit holding. A writhing, breathing, spiteful living thing.

Moments before, everything had appeared unchanged. So many things still were. And yet, I was staring into an open wound of memory. I was hit with an awful nausea, stomach rolling along the curve of the hills until they arched down towards that tree and then violently recoiling back the way it came. I could feel the dirty, sanguine thrum. Beneath my feet I could feel something living. It was all I could do to stay standing as the facets of the land edged into the uncanny. But some weighted chill urged me to look, like the hoary instinct that warns us to keep our eyes on that thing that looks human when we know it can’t be. Its organs wheat-yellow and rolling bitterly against the evening. Through the shudders of wind and leaves I could make out the wheeze of its lungs. The way the distant greenery on either side blurred and knitted together so softly, like the tender skin on the inside of a cheek. But mostly I felt its wanting. The way the streams lulled in anticipation as a walker weaved past. The bunching of grasslipped muscles as a car moaned through—as something escaped. God, it was hungry. And I was trapped behind its teeth.

That August it swallowed everything; the words I read from my father’s books, the stolen hours with childhood friends, the soft inside of my slippers and the spilled rainwater from my broken guttering. The hills I walked seemed to steepen and the gaunt arms of bramble and nettle reached into the air above every trail, looking for my bare skin. Maybe it was malicious, the price for seeing, staring—not at the sun but at the thing that swallowed it. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed before, how the gap I fit into here was shrinking. A buried instinct telling me this place had served its purpose, that I should leave. After all, what was my life to this monstrous thing? A fly shuddered off the skin of a great cat? It was nothing. It needed more than I could give it. And so did I. We were both just subsisting.

So I picked through what was left, collected up the strands of viscera I had stitched my life out of and looked outwards. Past the gorge pit and the enamel and the stillness that we were both starving in. Bone then blue then bone then blue again. And I realised, I was hungry. So when I finally squeezed into the sky between those teeth, how could I not go looking for more?

How could I not starve for everything?

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Tomato Sauce Written by D.H. Allain

“Are you seriously gonna eat that pasta with just tomato sauce?”

The crinkled nose says it all. Your roommate may have appropriated the plaid shirt and seedy moustache from the working class, but his palate is pure private school.

“I had a bad day,” you say, shielding the contents of your chipped bowl from his gaze.

As a kid, it didn’t matter to you that the lino bench hadn’t been wiped. You liked to scratch at the hardened glob of sauce until it came away, like flecks of red polish against bitten nails.

Legs swinging from the bar stool, you’d watch your dad stumble around the kitchen, fumbling through recipes on the sides of packets and tins. But tomato sauce went with everything.

Squirted onto sandwiches and sausages. Mixed into pasta and rice. Drenched over the fish and chips he’d occasionally bring back, packaged in white paper like a present. That’s how you’d know he’d had a win.

Your cheeks had flushed tomato red sitting cross-legged at primary school. Your hand shot up faster than your brain caught up, as you confidently answered ‘tomato sauce’ as an example of a veggie. The immediate chorus of laughter alerted you to your mistake. Billy, the kid who liked to push you off the playground, held his sides as if he would burst. Your teacher tried to salvage it with a strained smile. Perhaps not as a sauce, she said, but let’s write tomato on the board.

That afternoon, Dad caught you rummaging through the fridge in search of sections missing from the food pyramid. You held out the loaf of white bread like an accusation.

“That teacher’s a bloody idiot,” Dad said, “they wouldn’t call it tomato sauce if it wasn’t made of tomatoes.”

Getting into a prestigious uni had been an education in smashed avo and sourdough. While the other first years complained about the price of plane tickets, you stuck your arm under the table, furtively googling. The café was warehouse chic, but its menu had to be decoded like a foreign language by anyone whose parents actually worked in a factory. Despite your study, you stuffed it when you tried to order the quinoa salad. You only picked it to impress, but the pronunciation was a minefield. The waiter repeated your tangled vowels back to you incredulously, before correcting you as if you were stupid. Your new friends reassured you it was a common mistake, their voices dripping with saccharine sympathy. Your dad was convinced that going to uni turned people into preten-

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tious pricks. Staring down at a $25 dollar bowl of green leaves, thinking about the state of your precarious bank balance, you worried he was right.

Sitting in your Gender Studies lecture, your fingers struggled to keep pace with the flow of words and their definitions: hegemonic masculinity, domestic labour, weaponised incompetence.

The professor liked to walk as she talked, delivering points as polished as the sleek bob that must’ve cost a fortune. Men are conditioned to believe they can defer most chores to their wives and mothers, she said, never bothering to learn how to iron a shirt until it directly impacts their ability to earn an income. In your notes, you added daughters, letting your cursor hover over the word.

You could feel it then, the anger rising in your chest like a hot air balloon. Your father insisted on the sniff test for so long that you started washing the clothes. He left dishes in the sink until it was impossible to scrub the crust from them. He never bothered to book you in for an appointment with the doctor or the dentist. Long after she died, when the excuse of grief had expired, he drew a chalk circle around himself and refused to change.

Hitting the keys forcefully for each new dot point, you decided he was a man who believed that looking after you, looking after the house, looking after himself, was simply beyond the scope of his responsibilities. So long as he went to work and paid the bills on time, he figured, she’ll be right.

But then sometimes, on a Sunday morning, you’d watch him unwrap a cheese single from its plastic and place it on stale white bread. Whenever he performed this ritual, you’d sit in front of the grill to watch the cheese bubble and burst under the hot fluorescent wire. When it was ready, he would present it to you on a plastic plate with a theatrical flourish. The magic touch was always the tomato sauce. Not one to waste words on love, he’d angle the home brand bottle like a piping bag, carefully drawing a face to smile back at you.

As your roommate stares on in horror, you defiantly swirl the spaghetti around in the sauce and shovel the mixture into your mouth.

“Is it any good?” he asked, hovering at a safe distance.

“It’s comfort food,” you shrug, swallowing the slimy strands.

Nothing ever tastes as good as it did in childhood.

Illustration by Nina Hughes

Content warnings: discussions of grief and death

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I have memories, so I subsist Written by Guanhua Huang

Crowds were fussing and clamouring in a café. I, instead, ordered a cup of coffee and sat alone, as if it was a deserted place. This scene was familiar to me, but I found myself involuntarily wanting to cry.

Four years ago, in July, in a similar coffee shop, someone suddenly walked into my life, accompanying me through the following four years. On that day, I casually munched on a piece of bread in the coffee shop. An elderly man stared at me for a while, then walked over, ordered a cup of coffee for me, and sat across the table, engaging in conversation with me. He was in his seventies, but dressed stylishly like a youngster—later he often told me that no matter one's age, they should maintain a youthful mindset.

I accepted the coffee he ordered for me and thanked him. He fell silent for a moment, then looked at me and said, "You're different. I haven't seen people like you for years." I asked him curiously, "What kind of person am I?" He said, "Lonely, cold, and proud."

That was the first time I met him. We talked about many things, though I can't recall the specifics. I remember he asked me if I believed in fate being arranged by a higher power, and I told him I was an atheist. When we said goodbye, he recorded my phone number and invited me to have breakfast by the shores of Taihu Lake. At the time, due to caution toward strangers, I didn't accept the invitation.

Afterwards, we stayed in touch, gradually building trust and becoming true friends. Over the years, we met almost every holiday.

He shared my joys and helped carry my sorrows, accompanying me through my growth like a family member. In the beginning years, I didn't tell my family about his existence because there was a sixty-year age gap between us, which was considered unconventional in the eyes of society. I am inherently rebellious, tired of people around me compromising themselves to conform to mainstream standards. As a result, I saw our unique friendship as an honour and a form of resistance against societal norms.

For four years, he was the first reader of every article I wrote. However, in this very article, he won't be able to read it anymore.

When I first arrived in Melbourne, I heard about a major misfortune that had befallen him. Little did I know that our farewell before I left would become a final goodbye. On the day I received the news, I couldn't sleep the whole night. I sat motionlessly in my room, tears flowing like a river, while I am unable to control them. Now, my friend has finally returned to the eternal place, free from farewells, illnesses, and suffering. There, I believe he will remain an optimistic and resilient spirit.

One day, I took a tram heading west, realising that a person's life is like an endlessly moving train heading straight toward its final destination. Along the way, people continuously board and disembark, just like the countless passers-by in our lives. We don't have time to linger, and eventually, we reluctantly understand that everyone can only accompany us for a certain stretch of the journey. When fate ends, distances gradually widen...

I saw the sky outside the window darkening gradually, and heard the church bells echoing in the darkness. On my way, I encountered a familiar figure approaching me. He wore a stylish leather jacket and a warm smile, recounting stories of the eternal world and promising that we would meet again in the next life.

For the first time in twenty years, I confronted life and death, and was first struck with fear of the so-called eternity, which in reality, never existed. Time silently passes by, and we can only perceive the monumental changes after they happen. The seemingly stable relationships we believe in might crumble before us, perhaps in the next second. This is the essence of life. It’s harsh, yet I'm grateful for it. Amidst its ups and downs, my life's flower blossoms.

On the journey of life, we constantly gain and lose, experience joy and endure pain from countless reunions and farewells. However, when all these experiences are deeply etched into our memories, the emotions themselves become unimportant. We grow amidst tears and contemplation, gradually learning the wordless wisdom of life.

In the operating room, the doctor cut the bloody umbilical cord. From that point on, the baby could no longer absorb nutrients from the mother's body and emerged into this world as an independent life. After ten months of pregnancy, they finally belong to themselves. Nietzsche said, "God is dead," and everyone is like dust freely floating in the air, everything yet unknown. From the moment the umbilical cord is cut, a person starts facing the world alone, carrying their parents' blessings, writing a story never before told, gradually perfecting their life's memories, until the final farewell. Amidst joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, we walk together on a path our forefathers never took. All of us are irreplaceable entities with our own stories to tell, and after each bout of pain, we can embrace the boundless possibilities of the future without hesitation.

July 2023, Melbourne.

Illustration by Tina Tao

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‘WORDS THAT MAKETH MURDER’: ARTISTIC EXPRESSION IN TIMES OF TURMOIL Written by Veronica Kwong

Released in February 2011, PJ Harvey’s ‘Let England Shake’ was a politically powerful and complex album. Harvey is able to lyrically honour the destruction and upheaval caused by war, while simultaneously providing historical context on England’s political history.

Although she states that the album is not all about war (rather it is about our current world, part of which is war) the album’s exploration of patriotism, loss and nationalism are incredibly relevant in today’s society.

At the time of its release ‘Let England Shake’ was highly regarded and received incredibly positive reviews from musical publications such as Pitchfork, where it was rated 8.8/10 and labelled under ‘Best New Music’. The Guardian’s head rock and pop critic, Alexis Petridis rated it a 5/5 stars and claimed that this was Harvey ‘at something of a creative peak’. While mainstream popularity and acclaim does not instantly make an album worthy of praise, I agree with all the positive reviews of ‘Let England Shake’. My first listen took me by surprise; I had only previously listened to ‘Stories from the City, Stories from the Country’ and ‘Is This Desire?’ so thematically and vocally, this album was new for me. In my opinion, it showcases Harvey’s vocal range and her ability to masterfully craft an art/folk rock concept album that can receive widespread mainstream success and traction. Harvey provides a melodically and lyrically phenomenal album that is simultaneously creative and political. The mixture of art rock and chamber pop highlighted through the use of her thinner, more melancholic upper range and atmospheric vocals combined with drone-like autoharp proves how beautifully eerie music can be politically powerful.

The opening line of the entire album perfectly encapsulates its ongoing concept. ‘The West’s asleep. Let England shake, weighted down with silent dead. I fear our blood won’t rise again … England’s dancing days are done.’ These sombre lyrics speaking of war and violence are contrasted by the upbeat and lively melodies that it is played over, as Harvey drew inspiration from traditional English folk tunes for the melodic base of the album. This is most clearly heard in the third track ‘The Glorious Land’ which samples the British Army’s assembly bugle call. While the entire album is full of poignant lyrics, I personally think the fourth track, ‘The Words That Maketh Murder’, provides the most personal and emotional introspection into war and patriotism, as Harvey sings from the perspective of a soldier. She repeats the lyrics ‘I’ve seen and done things I want to forget’ at the beginning of both verses. Dark, visual imagery such as ‘I’ve seen soldiers fall like lumps of meat. Blown and shot beyond belief’ and ‘I’ve seen flies swarming everyone’ provide a brutally honest and devastating perspective.

I believe that Harvey’s emphasis on emotionally charged imagery and lyrics is often underappreciated in political music and art. It does not seem to be as highly regarded as protest songs or music which is ‘less emotional’ and more ‘critical’. While critical analysis and means to protest are obviously important and should absolutely be expressed and appreciated, I don’t think a more psychological and almost narrative style should be diminished or seen as ‘less political’.

Harvey’s writing was motivated by the global, political conflicts of 2007 - the time of the album’s production. In a 2010 interview with New Musical Express, Harvey states that she’s always followed world politics, but it was only the beginning process of writing ‘Let England Shake’ which made her comfortable to express her political views through music. ‘I never felt that I had reached the place with my writing that I could talk about these things well, in a language that would work. I think if you're going to talk about giant subject matter, you've got to do it well and I didn't think I had the skill as a writer to do that, up until this point.’ Harvey’s apprehension to begin writing is a testament to her maturity and creative capabilities. She’s aware of the weight of this topic and has proceeded with caution, leading to a lyrically heartbreaking and compelling album. She does not shy away from singing about the serious reality and atrocity of war. Her honest and direct response and lyricism should be more appreciated and encouraged in mainstream music. For a generation in which politics and social justice are becoming increasingly relevant, emotionally-charged political music should be celebrated and encouraged. Young artists should not have to worry about being ‘qualified’ enough to write or create art about serious issues. While, of course, themes such as war and loss should be handled with care and respect, this does not mean that they cannot be expressed through conventional means such as pop music. If anything, artists should be encouraged to create more politically inspired art. The way we listen to music has changed drastically following this album’s release, and songs are able to be advertised on more readily accessible platforms for smaller artists and niche audiences. Social media is the perfect tool to take advantage of to begin creating art and sharing it with others.

‘Let England Shake’ serves as proof that political music does not need to be written for the sake of a protest or written by historians and experts. PJ Harvey’s ‘emotional approach’ and emphasis on the turmoil of the human experience should be encouraged and recognised for the power it holds. An incredible album musically, lyrically and politically.

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Graphic Design by Duy D

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Albarn described their enough to do a reunion and Blurperformances has released of a new the biggest performances of their career. Albarn described their mindset during these reunions as “be[ing] andreunions that album. mindset those duringkids these as “be[ing] those kids and that dream, happening now”, living outdream, the fantasies and bygone eras out the fantasies and bygone eras happening now”, living e Magic Whip, a reformation of their selves.record, We see a positive forWe theirsee a positive reminiscence for their Blurʼs also previous album Therecord, Magic Whip, alsoyounger a reformation of their reminiscence younger selves. ecade agowas in 2015.

Since then, the band past, especially in the albumʼs opening song, ʻThe Balladʼ.

The use released nearly a decade ago in 2015. Since then, the band past, especially in the albumʼs opening song, ʻThe Balladʼ. The use t, with each delving their a call-response vocal between Albarn and Coxon makes it seem Albarn and Coxon makes it seem hasmember remained prettyinto quiet, with eachof member delving into their of a call-response vocal between n Albarnʼsown Gorillaz releasedDamon CrackerAlbarnʼs Gorillaz as if theyreleased are in active dialogue with another, a with one another, establishing a side projects: Cracker as one if they are in establishing active dialogue Graham Coxon The year, Waeve, Dave Coxon sense of intimacy: “Iʼll fallDave along with youof(we travelled Islanddebuted earlier this Graham debuted The Waeve, sense intimacy: “Iʼllʼround fall along with you (we travelled ʼround st solo single, and Alex Jameshis made evensingle, theand world together)”.

By marrying melancholic instrumentals with Rowntree dropped first solo Alex James made even the world together)”.

By marrying melancholic instrumentals with heartwarming vocals, this appreciation for the brotherhood the more cheese. heartwarming vocals, thisat appreciation for the brotherhood at the heart of Blur is so refreshing for fans to hear. heart of Blur is so refreshing for fans to hear. er was fundamental thewas fundamental in establishing the The heightinofestablishing Blurʼs career that dominated British music charts in dominated Truthfully, among other had hoped this album would Britpop music movement that British I,music charts in Blur fans,Truthfully, I, among other Blur fans, had hoped this album would Parklife and Escape have signature ʻ90s a lot more. song ʻ90s sound a lot more. The song the The ʻ90s.Great Albums such pushed as Parklife and The incorporated Great Escapetheir pushed havesound incorporated theirThe signature g presenceback of American grunge music by that most closely resembles their signature from thetheir erasignature soundscape from the era at the overwhelming presence of American grunge music by that mostsoundscape closely resembles ntially British.

Blurʼs towards British. on Blurʼs The Ballad of Darren would be on ʻSt.The Charles Squareʼ.

Albarnʼs delving intocommitment the quintessentially commitment towards Ballad of Darren would be ʻSt. Charles Squareʼ. Albarnʼs eriences, character-driven songwriting screaming vocals and the energeticscreaming baseline from James seems representing English experiences, character-driven songwriting vocals and the energetic baseline from James seems ation allowed to carve out a distinctallowed to them act astoancarve homage Blurʼs beginnings. more and them infectious instrumentation out atodistinct to act asIncluding an homage tosongs Blurʼs beginnings. Including more songs musicality. generation of a specific musicality. that lean towards the alternative rock they have thatspace lean towards thealready alternative rock space they have already established themselves as pioneersestablished of could have added the themselves as pioneers of could have added the mature departure from the youthful, angstydeparture variation thatthe thisyouthful, album needed. end the album, The Ballad of Darren is a mature from angsty Towards variationthe that thisofalbum needed. Towards the end of the album, ʻ90s. This sound album established incorporatesinthe songsincorporates began to getthe lost, becoming songs quite forgettable especially thegenres ʻ90s. This album genres began to get lost, becoming quite forgettable especially ongside their signature alternative rock when placedalternative after the few featured at the of art and lounge pop alongside their signature rockstrong entries when placed after thestart. few strong entries featured at the start. lur matured through the music industry and sound.

Itʼs clear that as Blur matured through the music industry and ach member is ableside to bring a new level safe to that no one really expects reunion album to really expects a reunion album to explored projects, each memberItʼs is able to say bring a new level Itʼs safeato say that no one . For example, Coxonto had how become career-best work. However, each member of Blur wasHowever, still of expertise thismentioned album. For example, Coxon had mentioned how become career-best work. each member of Blur was still ar sound on album rather guitar sound onable display their timeless talentsable andtoknack for their songwriting he this wanted a cleaner this to album rather display timelessto talents and knack for songwriting to he opted for in the the rougher past, new chapter of their lives, highlighting growth fromlives, the highlighting their growth from the than effects he opted formark in thea past, mark a new their chapter of their e ʻSong 2ʼ or ʻCountry Sad Britpop heyday.

With Albarnʼs contemporary fame from demonstrated in songs like ʻSong 2ʼ or ʻCountry Sad Britpop heyday. With Albarnʼs contemporary fame from 997 self-titled album, Gorillaz, The Ballad of Darren is likely to draw Ballad ManʼBlur. from their 1997 self-titled album, Blur.

Gorillaz, Themore Ballad of Darren is likely to draw more attention from a younger generation of music fansa than attention from younger generation of music fans than flected in the Blurʼs previous releases. While there is noprevious certainty when it While there is no certainty when it Thisconcepts maturity is further reflected in the concepts Blurʼs releases. akes a realistic comes to the future of Blur, their legacy impact onof British of thelook album as Albarn takes a realistic look comesand to the future Blur, their legacy and impact on British sses the sadness back at his life and discusses the sadness d nostalgia. an with aging and nostalgia. In an thatIncomes sic, Albarninterview said with Apple Music, Albarn said have no sadness in impossible to have no sadness in “itʼs almost 5”. While your the band life by the age of 55”. While the band ker themeshas in always the explored darker themes in the was largelypast, personal: the darkness then was largely personal: air at the future sad experiences or despair at the future are tinges and of regret society. Now, there are tinges of regret ich come throughout with the the album which come with the ective the band is now male perspective the band is now middle-aged d in the album through writing from, as illustrated in the album through lades (Forsongs Leonard)ʼ andʻThe Everglades (For Leonard)ʼ and such as ʻAvalonʼ.

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FODDER

“We always keep true to ourselves”: Melbourne surf rock trio The Grogans on their latest singles and their journey so far Written by Kate Davey

The Grogans on new singles ‘Nowhere to Be’ and ‘I’m Not Sure’, and their journey from humble beginnings to sold-out shows.

Melbourne is renowned for its grassroots music scene, thanks to the vast number of pubs across the city that have kick-started the careers of bands of all genres. Recent community-driven campaigns to save iconic venues such as The John Curtin Hotel and The Tote prove that live music is the beating heart of our city. As the latest champions rising out of this particular scene, The Grogans spoke to Radio Fodder via a Zoom call following their milestone set at the recent Splendour in the Grass festival.

Kate Davey: How have you found the journey from small venues to larger scale audiences?

Jordan Lewis: We always love playing the smaller venues as well [the larger ones]. When we were really young, playing Ding Dong Lounge and friends’ houses and stuff like that, it was really cool. And I think we obviously want to play to as many people as we can, so we wanna keep trying to build that to bigger stages. But yeah, going back and playing small ones is also pretty fun.

Quin Grunden: I feel like we’re not ones to push something small out of the way because we wanna get bigger. We’re always community-driven, and always keen to try things differently. We just announced a tour today where we’re playing back at God’s Kitchen, which is super small for us now, but also super intimate. It’s cool to be able to do that, and not feel like we have to keep building bigger. Even though we want to, it’s also cool to rein it back and always keep true to ourselves, in that respect.

Along with their variety of venues, The Grogans play a number of underage shows. I was interested in hearing about what their motivations for this are, given how they began playing together in high school.

QG: Fifteen to eighteen is such a crazy point in teenage years. Music can be something that can really heal kids, and really help that generation through a lot. Especially going through school. Most kids put their headphones on to go to school and listen to something that makes them feel good, or makes them feel sad, or whatever it is—it’s a huge thing at that point. It’s giving them the opportunity to see that live and inspire them. We’ve come from being underage, wanting to see shows, playing music and not wanting to perform at a school—we actually wanted to play shows.

Angus Vasic: If there’s people in that age group that are really keen and wanna come watch, then may as well play them. Plus it helps for the future—when a lot of those people turn 18 they’re coming to the 18-plus shows. We’ve gotten plenty of people saying “oh yeah, I saw you at Wrangler [Studios] back when we were 17” or whatever it is. It’s cool seeing them stick around and coming to the 18-plus shows. And they’re often heaps looser than the 18-plus shows—those kids go off sometimes.

The Grogans’ sound speaks to a young fanbase comprehending new and overwhelming experiences. Two of their newest singles are examples of this; whereas ‘Nowhere to Be’ features punk-inspired fast beats, ‘I’m Not Sure’ has a dreamier, more lyric-focussed surf-rock vibe. The contrast in emotional energies is sure to resonate with those in their teenage and early-twenties years because of the shared feelings of frustration, dissatisfaction, and heartache.

QG: The Grogans have always been one of those things where we can’t put our finger on where our sound is and what it’s supposed to be. ‘I’m Not Sure’ is about growing up in your 20s, and those feelings of losing that childhood and teenage sort of thing. But stylistically, as long as we’re getting those ideas and those lyrics across, we feel pretty free to do whatever we want with the sound.

AV: ‘I’m Not Sure’ is a track where the music came before the lyrics, too, and it all just fit together that way.

KD: What about the emotional toll of jumping between the different energies in the writing process? Do you feel like it really just comes naturally and then the lyrics, as you say, come after?

AV: We’re always pretty lucky to go away and spend like a week or two writing the next album, or whatever it is. And it does often happen that in the mornings or at night-time you sit down and do more of an unplugged-type thing, and those mellow tracks kinda do come out from that time. But then two or three o’clock in the arvo, you come in from the surf, and after a couple of beers you get those more punchy-type songs out.

The strong sense of community for the Grogans extends to their music videos. Released in May, the ‘Nowhere to Be’ video was created with the help of animator and friend of the band, Willem Kingma. In it, a suited-up man with a papier-mache head, under threat of technicolour monsters, freaks out on a beach.

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KD: Did you have much involvement in the collaboration process for the video?

We ended our chat on the band’s recent Europe tour and their astonishment for each gig’s success. Angus noted how chuffed he was that “this many people would come watch us”. It’s clear their success hasn’t caused the guys to forget the intimate crowds from where they started.

In support of their newest single ‘I Cannot Read Your Mind’, The Grogans are currently on tour through Australia and New Zealand throughout spring of 2023 with upcoming Melbourne shows at Pockets Moorabbin on 7 October. The band will also be opening for Ocean Alley’s show at The Forum on October 11.

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QG: We are always time-poor because we’ve been touring a lot, and sometimes struggle to get the visual side of things happening. Like, we’re always pretty on top of the music but when it comes to the visual elements, we’re sometimes a bit ‘behind the 8 ball.’ For the last two with Willem [‘Le Fangz’ and ‘Nowhere to Be’], we’ve been coming up with ideas, giving him complete control with that side of things. We want to make sure the other creators that we work with feel in control. We fully trusted him to come up with something cool, and we gave him an outline, but then we also wanted to see what he would create from what we’ve made.

we shouldn’t take life so seriously.

Though ‘Nowhere to Be’ espouses themes of agitation in the music and lyrics, the eccentric video emphasises the idea that

Graphic Design by Gunjan Ahluwalia

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Declassified Gigs

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Graphic Design by Chelsea Pentland

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Written by Harrision George

Graphic Design by Lihini Gamage

SOUTHBANK FEATURED ARTIST: Yixuan Zhao FEATURE

'Budget Pompadour' by Yixuan Zhao

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FEATURE

SOUTHBANK FEATURED ARTIST: Yixuan Zhao

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'Mortal Venus' by Yixuan Zhao

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FEATURE

SOUTHBANK FEATURED ARTIST: Yixuan Zhao

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'Stardust' by Yixuan Zhao

ART

'Ha Giang' by Nalini Jacob-Roussety

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ART

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'The home darkroom' by Y.B.

'brown rice & kerosene' by Michelle Yu

ART

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ART

'brown rice & kerosene'

by Michelle Yu

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ART

'brown rice & kerosene' Statement of explanation

by Michelle Yu

p.43 • lungs image because all protest starts from the voice, which originates from your breath which is expelled through your lungs • 'CREATE' in the middle (also repeated on the back cover) is to highlight the connection between creating art and politics/ protest; also 'creating' change, 'creating' new ideas and artworks • the rich, red, ribbed background emulates the texture of the lung organ • the images in the collage are symbols of what can be protested about, eg industry farming (the eggs), economy/capitalism/value (the diamond on the left and the goldish shimmer on the right lung), media information/misinformation (the newspaper clipping on the bottom left lung, technology (the lighted RGB keyboard on the bottom left lung, Aboriginal Australian rights (the dotted painted Aboriginal Australian artwork, which is also repeated on the back cover because it is a significant issue in our current context) • The Egyptian hieroglyph on the right lung, top right is because protest is a theme that occurs throughout all societies and civilisations, from ancient history to today. We are a species of voice and protest • the bottom right lung of people raising their hands and then the rainbow emerging from the hand is a symbol of hope: the power of individuals and groups in having a say in the world and creating remarkable things (as symbolised by the rainbow) • the white lines at the bottom is meant to be the diaphragm, which is what expels air from our lungs so we can breathe out our voices. the words read: 'pound, yell, heave, exhale', which reflects the highly-charged issue of politics, but also in the 'exhale', the potential for calmness, meditation and reason. p.44 • the mouth image connects to the front, because that's where the voice issues from • top left: old man holding young child hand: connection to theme of intergenerational issues/ trauma, Gen Z/ Millenial/ Boomer tensions or miscommunications, and the potential to connect • top right is aboriginal art • middle right is Bitcoin, reflecting the intersection between technology and economics in current day concerns; • bottom right: 'Create' is repeated, to emphasise the theme between art and politics • the lights in the bottom right are repeated from the front cover, but now upside down, to symbolise the potential for change • middle left: is a circuit board: emerging technology and AI • bottom left: a crowd of people, either spectating a spectacle, or standing in the group: represents the power of the collective, also curiousity and inquisitiveness; some of them are recording on phones and cameras also, reflecting our contemporary ability to capture and stream vast amounts of information and everyday life. This is a cutout which merges with the beautiful orange trees for visual dynamicism and visual interest, and the vivid juxtaposition also reflects how humans exist amongst nature.

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FEATURE

SOUTHBANK FEATURED ARTIST: Zac Beven Content warning: Themes of mental health and references to blood, sex, drugs and alcohol

beating, bleeding

Written by Zac Beven

1.

Summer. We’re aching on the grass, from cheap wine and personal woes. I suggest that I’m falling behind, that ever since graduating, I’ve become indistinguishable. Laughter, or was it a groan? You reach over and, with the juice of a blackberry, glide along my forearm in crimson. I expect to find consolation; something devotional. Instead, I find three words: you wanted this.

2.

I wanted what, exactly? To watch from the sidelines? To lay in bed with a holy fuck, whilst my peers sell out or settle down or move away?

3.

But was it a conscious choice? Kandinsky called it an “inner calling” or “inner necessity.” I woke up in soft violet, as if someone had stained my eyes with the pigment of a dozen sea snails. Is it telling that purple is often associated with religion? Is this feeling (this urge, this delusion) somehow divine?

4.

Perhaps I am not touching the divine, but playing God (albeit unsuccessfully). Each day, I try to give shape to something I cannot. Perhaps the images in my head are not meant to be realised. Perhaps to give form and substance to an idea is partly to betray it.

5.

A job interview. I was in the midst of a quasi-performance piece about company values when I was interrupted.

“And what do you do in your spare time?” my interviewer asked, his jowls sagging like a bloodhound. I felt headless, and with a wave of hysteria I told him that I paint. “Like walls?” the bloodhound asked. “No, like pictures… I want to be an artist.” He was taken aback. They always are. “Then what are you doing here?”

6.

I was looking for something to burst my violet bubble, my blue funk. I stumbled across Richard Florida’s The Rise of the Creative Class. Intrigued, I read the preface. “This book describes the emergence of a new social class. If you are a scientist… a writer, a painter, or musician… you are a member.” But, of course, “the defining basis of this new class is economic.” Is there anything more depressing than the monetisation of expression?

7.

I have the Moleskine you bought me on my bedside table. I’ve titled the first page how to disappear. Sadly, it isn’t a manual, but a list of places that could hide me from these satanic mills: the Barbizon school, the Chelsea Hotel, the seashell on your windowsill. Mostly, I consider the woods, “to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life” (Thoreau). I am deluded, of course. I will always want attention, admiration even. Would I create if the opposite were true?

8.

The idea of ‘utopia’ has, understandably, been an obsession for many artists. A friend once told me that utopian art must be political, that it exists from an awareness of inadequate social and political conditions, and points towards a possible solution. Clearly, I thought, my friend missed the whole Impressionist movement, because how could Monet’s Water Lilies or Manet’s Pont Neuf have been made with any political agenda? Admirably, the Impressionists (and most artists of the 20th century, for that matter) believed that art had real consequences and could, in effect, change the world. Was each painting then, not only a reflection, but a wish? And isn’t every wish political?

9.

I’ve been craving a simpler existence. My feet are bare on the eucalyptus, I swim and glitter in the creek. At night, we hop from bar to bar, accepting drinks from strangers, dancing around what’s left of our existential dread. And when I die, you promise they’ll release 3500 butterflies, even though I was never perceived. You’ll fight back tears, maybe read a poem, about phantoms and eternities.

10. I often think about the surrealists at Lambe Creek. In the summer of 1937, a party of artists made a holiday out of Max Ernst’s British Police evasion. For three weeks, the likes of Leonora Carrington, Roland Penrose and Paul Eluard sunbathed and assembled theories on modern art and free love. Eileen Agar later described her stay as “a

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11. Your housewarming; I decide to make my own utopia. I was acting out, annoyed at my own lack of progression, and at you (for moving without me, for remaining friends with those dickheads from school). I was whispering into ears and falling over furniture until I stumbled into a room on the cusp of the divine. A frieze of cherubs looked down from the ceiling, as if anointing the pulsing bodies. A holy room, I thought, an equaliser. We melted into each other’s loose limbs and curved spines and heavy eyelids. A wave of relief washed over me, because in the dark, I wasn’t labelled or defined. Just another body.

FEATURE

delightful surrealist house party with Roland taking the lead, ready to turn the slightest encounter into an orgy.”

Surely there, in the open countryside, they had found The Garden of Earthly Delights. Sun, earth, body.

12. Impatient youths of the sun/ Burning with many colours/ Flick combs through hair in bathroom mirrors/ Fucking with fusion and fashion/ Dance in the beams of emerald lasers/ Mating on suburban duvets/ Cum-splattered nuclear breeders/ What a time that was (Derek Jarman).

13. It happens a lot, these drunken escapades. I tell myself that drinking is proof of artistic integrity (I plead, I lie, I intellectualise). I quote Rimbaud: “a poet makes himself a seer by a … derangement of all the senses.” I quote Bukowski: “Drinking is a chemistry that rearranges our horizons… it gives us two ways to live instead of one.” The morning after, I quote Duras: “Alcohol doesn’t console… all it replaces is the lack of God.” 14. In The Gilded Gutter Life of Francis Bacon, Daniel Farson recalls that alcohol (and its after-effects) forced Bacon to concentrate on his paintings and, at times, gave him “a sort of freedom.”

15. A hallucination. My prospects continued to fizzle into nothing (another job rejection, another reckless weekend) so I booked a flight to Paris. I spent most nights by the Seine, sitting among tendrils of green marijuana smoke like a modern-day oracle. One evening, my vision began to blur, as if someone was fingering the rods of my retina: orange, pink, black. A skeleton stepped out of the darkness. He wore a Viking helmet, a fur coat and he clutched the Nepalese flag in one hand. There seemed to be an understanding, a promise. I took a step forward and tumbled into the Seine.

16. Ca va? Awake. Stairs. Orange, pink, black. Il boit, Il boit. I woke up on a footpath, blood gushing down the side of my face. A group of wait staff and American tourists stood over me, handing out sugar cubes and water. Tous ce passe bien? How much have you had to drink? (I still had a bottle of champagne tightly clasped in one hand). Are you on something? It’s okay, you won’t get in trouble. I couldn’t answer, I could only take out my phone and write what I saw. This need to document, it disturbs me; as if an experience is worthless unless it’s archived for some future use. How could this be freedom?

17. Architecture is the home of the utopian impulse. Since the 15th century, utopian propositions have been designed, disputed and sometimes even built (see Brasília). Interestingly, the 20th century produced a newfound optimism in architecture as the harbinger of paradise. In fact, many architects believed in a sort of ‘didactic’ architecture, a divine reciprocity between building and man. Philip Johnson recalls the ethos of the time: “architecture would improve people and people would improve architecture until perfectibility would descend on us like the Holy Ghost and we’d be happy forever after.” What went wrong? (“Le fucking Corbusier” screams my friend’s boyfriend).

18. Lambe Creek didn’t last; some artists decided to reconvene in France whilst others returned home to their wives.

Perhaps my idea of utopia should be as described in Betrand Russell’s In Praise of Idleness. Russell proposes a world where no one is compelled to work more than four hours a day. Then, “every person possessed of scientific curiosity will be able to indulge it, and every painter will be able to paint without starving, however excellent his pictures may be.”

19. I think about this proposition at my casual job. I work four hour shifts, from 7am. to 11am., directing people to events at a convention centre. As I stand there, floating between thoughts and niceties, one question recurs: Am I wasting my life?

20. Utopia derives from the Greek word ‘outopos’, meaning ‘no place’.

21. I’m rotting at the base of a fig tree. Do I pursue this urge or do I surrender to the warm embrace of convention?

Either way, I feel like I’m committing to a life of regret and self-loathing (the cost of living?).

Illustration generated by Midjourney

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CREATIVE

Content warning: Metaphors of violence and pain and mention of a knife

Whet your fires Written by Eleanore Arnold-Moore

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Illustration generated by Midjourney

CREATIVE

Unsheltered Written by Eleanore Arnold-Moore

Enduring stoplight stopgap stepped around stipples surround strips of no man’s land: spittled with stereotypes and sound.

Withstand water withheld with warmth, with whims, with mercy withdrawn from safe withdrawal from clemency.

Wither within the margin drawn by indifferent feet, sweeps of dry pavement dripping guilt-ridden wreathes drought of compassion and payment drown in cramped abandonment, ignored but exposed.

Illustration by Harriet Chard

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Content warning: Themes of capitalist oppression & death in no explicit detail

CREATIVE

The misunderstood Hoi Polloi Written by Michelle Yu Running down highways in my Toyota Don't feel right using words like 'iota'

But it's fine,

My parents never spoke like that,

I work a 9 to 5

Cooped in our little Footscray flat

Drink water straight from the tap, unfiltered

80 to 100 IQ,

Precut french fries from the Aldi freezer

Heard that's average

Watch Netflix and Tiktok,

Do you feel me too?

Feels like no one really gets me

Went to a public school

Watching Maya Rudolph in Loot

Spent more money on uniform

And Kim in the Kardashians

Than food,

We're not really in the same sphere, are we?

Like a fool

Don't suppose they'd watch a TV show about me.

Went to tutoring centres 15 of us to one mentor

I'm a decent citizen

One-to-one tutorials are for people with decanters

Reading No Excuses: The Power of Self-Discipline

Would they see me,

By Brian Tracy;

Lead me out

Reading The Science of Self Control

Save me from hospitality,

By Howard Rachlin

And scraping in the grout?

Reading The Marshmallow Test: Mastering Self-Control – Kids with self-control will not

I followed the rules

Eat the marshmallow,

Studied hard in school

But I would.

But sometimes I skipped too

I would eat the marshmallow.

'Isn't making the best use of her opportunities'

My parents never bought them as a kid

Is it fine to be human?

I want a marshmallow.

Learnt my rules

Fluffy, light.

Algebra and molecules

Come melt in my mouth,

0.24 calories in a joule.

you sweet marshmallow

I've never been to surgeon school Too much of a 'recalcitrant' fool

Don't rack up road fines that I can't pay

Work hard, 'be passionate'

Do my own taxes, because there's nothing to claim

Surgeons aren't fools

I don't run my own business

There was a small overdose

My taxes aren't crooked that way

My grandma died From an anticoagulant

Boss said I've been 'let go' so that I could move on to a ‘better

Didn't get leave to attend her funeral,

place’

My boss is an intransigent.

I couldn't face my parents, If started a business

It's all about the work ethic,

And lost their investment

You don't need exceptional intelligence

A little taste of risk

Or a family history with eminence

Makes life a little brisk

Work harder

But there's nothing to catch me if I

Be a work martyr

Fall

You are all that's stopping you from becoming a Bill Gates A Murdoch

But maybe I'm just not trying hard enough

A Perrottet

And that's all.

Straighten yourself out Join a church, Root for your school's rowing team,

that’s all.

Root for your company

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Illustration generated by Midjourney

Content warning: References to blood

CREATIVE

Pieces of our hearts Written by Nalini Jacob-Roussety

What if we paid for things with pieces of our hearts?

Spilled blood at the season’s change of fashion, chambers ripped in half for that new thing that’s prettier, shinier, won’t they be impressed?

Skin of our chests ripped open for every new thing we barely want and won’t need—

until what’s left of all of us are grotesque, quivering, red piles of flesh missing their seams missing their arteries

because I spent my last piece on a new dress.

Illustration generated by Midjourney

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CREATIVE

Content warning: Themes of intergenerational trauma

Written by Janani Ramanan

My mother's sacrifices are not art neither are her mother's, no demotion.

My mother’s country still holds her whole heart; the lost symmetry keeps her in motion.

Cruel space nor cruel time could try force apart the morning prayer and night devotion, the belief, the hope she'll finally chart her path to mother across wide ocean.

Two thirds of an acre. Another start another house away from home. Chosen for her children to grow taller, depart without a proper goodbye, tongues frozen.

Nostalgia, gold ears, brown earth and bright eyes, mother's wails collect in a thousand sighs.

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Illustration by Ashlea Banon

Circular Peregrination

By Janani Ramanan

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Circular Peregrination Written by Janani Ramanan

Illustration by Jacques CA

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CREATIVE

Alice in the Wonderland Written by Athena Chui

A day of frivolities The sun shining bright Children laughing and shrieking Gifts piling up everywhere.

One person is late!

Alice is missing She arrives in muddy shoes A trail on the marble tiles.

Sitting down at the party She looks across the table Round pointy sacks in round wooden bowls She points at them and she scowls…

She observes the unknown morsel With wrinkled yet golden skin Squeamish of the foreign dish But curiosity lures her in.

Reluctant and hesitant She reaches out to touch them Peels them with her bare fingers And shoves one down her throat.

It gets caught and she chokes Coughing, shouting and yelling Spitting it out she curses The others are dumbfounded.

Silence fills the room The air grows colder Darkness fills the skies She takes out the potion; “Drink me” the label says So she follows it and inflates Back arched against the ceiling She is throwing a tantrum?

Wailing and flailing The room fills with tears The red queen is enraged Hearts broken beyond repair.

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Illustration by Emma Bui

Content warnings: Metaphorical reference to death in no explicit detail

CREATIVE

n i a g a k a e p s y when we finall Written by Stephen Zavitsanos

I send you every song that made me think of you and you soon find that they’re all so sad and try to imagine what me

without you was like

and even your most tragic thoughts don’t compare to what you hear so you strain your brain more and

more

until piano and guitar disappear and you start to hear my voice as lyrics to some terribly downbeat tune that you can’t help but dance to

Illustration by Manyu Wang

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CREATIVE

Content Warning: Mentions of death

I like you the same way I like the sun and I get over the fact that I can’t stare too much because it hurts to see you so far away.

Instead I let you hit me from above and maybe that means I die sooner in a red-hot fashion but at least you’ll be the only one to ever hurt me.

Written by Stephen Zavitsanos

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Illustration by Manyu Wang

Content warnings: Themes of sexism and misogyny

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Woman's Defence Written by Jessica Rijs

Illustration by Emma Bui

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Content Warning: Misogyny and mentions of death and violence.

Greta Gerwig: Girl, Woman, Barbie Written by Ledya Khamou

When I left the cinema after Barbie—past the swaths of pink leather, threadbare cotton, glittery eye makeup, into the harsh winter wind of reality—I remembered, distantly, the refrain of a Bleachers song: “All my heroes got tired”. In 2017 I sobbed to Lady Bird, bought ticket after ticket like attending communion. I watched Frances Ha through a dusty laptop screen and yearned for something inexplicable. With Little Women Greta Gerwig cemented herself as a clever, sensitive, Woman Director. Gerwig’s representation of girlhood in cinema, Gerwig Girl, arrives wrapped in the Trojan horse bubble of auteurship for which Mattel could launch its toy cinematic universe in the midst of a writers’ strike in the US. Barbie has Mermaid Dua Lipa in a plastic, fluffed blue wig, popping out of the water for two seconds. Probably a six-figure cameo. Barbieland has a Supreme Court. Is there crime in Barbieland? Where does crime come from in Barbieland? Barbie is obsessed with genitalia—Barbie’s character arc is completed by a visit to the gynecologist. There is nothing “down there”. In the Greta Gerwig cinematic universe, does genitalia define gender? Barbieland is boy/girl. Barbie is girl movie and Oppenheimer is boy movie. On Letterboxd, there are reviews by women telling “film bros,” or men in general, to refrain from criticising the film because “it’s not for you”. Under a TikTok of a woman criticising the lame feminism of Barbie women comment “pick me”, “we get it, you’re not like the other girls”, “god forbid women have fun”, “I thought it was fun lol”, “have you considered having fun???”. Girls writer and producer Lena Dunham chooses to direct a Polly Pocket movie in collaboration with Mattel. The AMPTP says that “the end game is to allow things to drag on until union members start losing their apartments and start losing their homes.” Grill’d sell pink burgers. Your favourite Hollywood feminists have Ozempic parties and sell their healthy diets in gossip mags—heroin chic is back! You can’t afford your weekly groceries, but nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, anyway. Why do we want to be Barbie? Is Barbie woman, is Barbie women? If I get a makeover, does that mean I become Barbie, I become woman? Is woman pink leather and glittery makeup and threadbare cotton? Whose hands stitched your Barbie-pink Shein crop top? I never even played with Barbies as a child, only cheap rip-offs of Barbie, does that make me less of a girl? What is “girl”? Who defines “girl”? Everything is girl now. Girl maths is when you frivolously overspend, when you don’t know how to handle your finances. Girl dinner is a sparse plate of string cheese and two cookies; a single iced coffee at five pm; a glass of water and a nap. Don’t you want to be girl? We’ve reclaimed it now! Girl is bimbo (reclaimed) and slut (reclaimed) and dumb whore bitch cunt (reclaimed). Who manufactured girl?

In Barbie the CEO of Mattel, the manufacturer of girldom, is a dumb, hapless Will Ferrell. At the end of the movie his position is not challenged. When I buy my girl products with my girl money which I earned from my lazy girl job, whose pockets am I lining? When the Barbies use flirtation to tear down the Kens, what is Gerwig saying about women’s capabilities to motivate change? “Let’s dismantle patriarchal structures with our girl superpowers, such as fluttering eyelashes and texting.” Isn’t it just so fun?! So glossy pink, so shiny plastic, so nudge-nudge secret code—of course there’s a universal girl, we all share one girlhood, one womanhood.

Girl is not that deep! The Kens stumble into incel-dom, oopsie-daisy! In America, a teenage girl is shot dead after rejecting a homecoming proposal. Ken loves Barbie so much that he hates her—but Ken is pitiful, beautiful Ryan Gosling, and isn’t he so funny? Look, there’s that one actress you remember from that one show! She’s fat and she’s Black and she’s Asian and she’s a five-second cameo prop. Everything is moving fast. There’s a popcorn bucket the size of your head and a fizzy drink to fill you with bubbles and everywhere a sea of pink girls. Relax. Girl is just shut off your brain and enjoy the pretty faces on the big, big screen!

I want to watch something true about women, and not think about the fact that it’s about women. I want my heroes to stop disappointing me, for them to stop getting tired.

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Illustration by Jocelyn

Content Warning: Mentions of death

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Bleeding Marble: Hera & Hephaestus Written by Rhylee L. Sooted child born imperfect

casted from his mother’s embrace.

– Edge1 – The woman is perfected.

Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little Pitcher of milk, now empty.

She has folded Them back into her body as petals Of a rose close when the garden Stiffens and odors bleed From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.

Her blacks crackle and drag.

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Note from author: This is a blackout piece derived from Sylvia Plath’s poem titled ‘Edge’. In her poem, Plath discusses the suffering of women at the time; the oppression and judgement they were subjected to. We perceive a sense of helplessness and depression depicted through the woman in the poem who kills her children and ultimately commits suicide. I wanted to construct an opposing version that tells the story of Hera and Hephaestus. Contrary to the portrayal of women in Plath’s poem, Hera is the most powerful Greek goddess. Revolted by her newborn son, Hephaestus, who had congenital malformations, she casted him off Mount Olympus. The words highlighted in red aim to address this contrasting theme. In reference to the original retelling of the historical myth, I intend for this piece to act as a mode of reflection which facilitates a cultural understanding of this social issue in a modern-day context.

Sylvia Plath, “Edge,” in Ariel, published 1965, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49009/edge-56d22ab50bbc1.

Illustration by Harriet Chard

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Content Warning: Passing reference to sex in no specific detail

C r e at i v e C o l u m n : M e t r o D i sj u n c t i o n

Top 10 Absolute Must-Dos in Melbourne CBD! Written by Ledya Khamou

1.

Visit Federation Square. In the midst of a blistering summer, the Koorie Heritage Trust building will blind you in a kaleidoscope of glass shapes, like a modern-day monastery. You’ll be so lost in the nauseating swell, you’ll almost forget the square’s colonial history! What is Australian Federation, anyway? What does it mean? Who does it include? There are people lounging on beach chairs at midday on a Tuesday. You think: “don’t people have jobs anymore?” You wish you were the sort of person who could lounge on a beach chair in Federation Square without checking your phone. It is a beautiful place to check your phone. Your friend says, “Well, this is it, I guess.”

2.

Fail to appreciate art in the National Gallery of Victoria. What beautiful chairs and dressers. So crazy that somebody ages ago made this fabric. So many naked women by the sea. Wow. This painting definitely meant something. Let’s play smash or pass with the Victorian portraits. No? Okay, yeah, let’s just gaze thoughtfully, crossing our arms, one hip to the side. This artwork is just so… like, powerful. Shouldn’t I feel something? Usually, people feel things.

3.

Burn money at the Queen Victoria Market. Graphic tees with outdated pop culture references. Off-market Oodies. Two-dollar grapes that taste something close to heaven. Do you need a leather-bound notebook with handmade paper? Not really.

Will you buy it? Yes, and with a complimentary premium fountain pen, as well. As you rush to grab an extra fifty dollars from the ATM, you think, “We’re all going to die someday, anyway.” You might as well buy that faux oil painting of a cat smoking a cigarette!

4.

Block the sound of Bourke Street Mall buskers with your expensive noise-canceling headphones. This activity is more of a whim, a natural happenstance that you’ll find yourself stumbling into. After a nullifying, headache-inducing trip around Bourke Street Mall, flushing your paycheck on overpriced flimsy cotton from H&M and Myer, you’ll be thirsty, hungry, and frankly not in the mood to appreciate local live music. It’s not your fault! You swear to yourself, you know deep down that you generally enjoy local art, or at least strongly believe in enjoying local art, try your best to resist cultural cringe. It’s fine—give yourself the luxury to hate it a little! As an additional fun activity, duck past the phone cameras filming a specific busker, and think to yourself, “Is that really worth filming?”

5.

Go to a cafe. Just any cafe. It probably has specialty coffee (whatever that means), dry sourdough, thirty-dollar eggs benedict and baristas that you think you’ve seen at a uni lecture, but you’re not really sure, and you don’t want to be awkward about it, so you don’t mention it. You’ve never been that good at small talk. Melbourne and its coffee culture, am I right?! Look, now you’re part of the inside joke. Congratulations.

6.

Get bubble tea. Have the ChaTime vs Gong Cha debate with a friend for the hundredth time, until somebody mentions that an obscure bubble tea place outside the CBD is actually better and “more authentic”, which means nothing, and ruins the conversation.

7.

Walk around the Royal Botanic Gardens. It’s free, so why not?

8.

Walk around some more. Maybe sit on a bench. Get back up, and walk.

9.

Oh, there’s somebody you know. And somebody else. And somebody—okay, you didn’t mean to run into this many people today. Walk around somewhere else.

10. Go home. You’re tired and the city is sick of you.

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Illustration by Amber Liang

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Content Warning: sex, mental illness and suicide

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both sides now

Silver Island Written by Hannah Hartnett

I thought I heard Moby but it was just the wind. He’s a tomcat, and he was really her cat, and I don’t need him waking me anyway.

Without a cat, I can sleep through the night. I sigh. My train is late. The businessman next to me is irate, smoking cigarettes furiously. I scuff my feet. Only Jacob will notice my tardiness.

‘When the train’s late like that it's because someone’s jumped on the tracks’, he says. ‘There are alot of reasons why a train can be late.’

‘Why? No traffic.’

‘Okay’, I agree, serene. There is never quite enough oxygen in the office. I take my lunch outside. It’s late in the Summer, it’s warm.

I sleep on a bench, my face open to the street.

(Saw your car out the front it wasn’t you of course, just the car you left behind.

I have the Mishima you gave me, which I clutched in the hospital and laughed, because I knew the end.)

Light breaks in and I wake up early to drive my father to the airport. He won’t admit it, but he hates flying.

‘I hate Canberra’, I say. He laughs. ‘You haven't been to Canberra since you were a little girl.’ ‘I still hate it.’

He kisses me on the cheek. I leave him in the taxi bay and return home. The house seems to have congealed in my absence. I live alone. No one watches, as I answer emails, take out the bins. I take my pills, which are liver coloured, and take myself to bed.

(All my orchids grown out of blue I’m a country beyond the place I was supposed to be.

In the ward I pick up a bone and take it with me into the shower take it with me

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into the streets.

Illustration by Michelle Yu It’s definitely from a chicken but maybe for promises I will let the blood pass through my body

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and probably not for wishing

without interference.

I’ve lost my fucking cat again and spend my nights at her old haunts calling her name whilst the strays follow me home.)

I shop under downlights. They are stark; my groceries look sad. I’m cooking for my friends. The mushrooms squeal as I throw them in the pan. The pate sweats.

‘That snake really looks like a dick.’ A friend, Lucy, gestures to my new tattoo. I flush. I knew the tattoo was a mistake the moment I got it.

‘New beginnings’, I say, rubbing my arm awkwardly.

‘I’ll drink to that’, she says, raising her wine glass. I nod, holding my own tightly. Terry displays her hand, which looks jaundiced.

‘Is that the ring?’, asks Lucy. ‘Yes!’ ‘I’ve lost Moby’, I say, pouring myself more wine.

‘Oh.’ ‘Was that the cat?’

‘Yes.’ ‘I thought you didn't really like that cat.’

I sweat, indignant. ‘I loved Moby.’

‘Okay, well. Sometimes cats go missing for weeks, even months and come back.’ Lucy smiles reassuringly.

‘I want to move’, I say.

Lucy smiles again, reassuringly. Terry pulls out google calendar, and proposes a date for her wedding.

(I practice my vowels, take off my rings and my mother’s coat.

Ana took me out I found I kept slurring my words, she said blood clots run in the family somehow, I’d been excused to a silver island. Like Karenin without the tracks. I practice my vowels, silver waves beat the shore.)

I wake. My mouth tastes metallic, as though I’ve chewed open an ulcer. I suck in my cheeks. Outside I can hear the train, its weight shifting over tracks in the night.

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Content Warning: References to family violence & sexual harrassment in no explicit detail

ANTHONY DAVIS Written by Keeley Zentgraf My father is the kind of man who will smile knowingly, his head bobbing to the beat of your words, as you discuss a book he has never read. This could be interpreted as geniality - or self-consciousness even. But really it’s a product of a desperate and crucial ambition. At some point, you see, Anthony Davis made a pivotal realisation; that he would never really be one of the lads from the mills. And so instead, he must become something respectable to the middle classes; an educated man.

From then on, every conversation was a challenge of his intellect, every acquaintance an opportunity to bring into reality his own vision for himself.

My Opa was violent, I know that much, so I suppose Dad turned out okay in comparison - and I think he’s very aware of that. He’s photocopied his business degree; one for the lounge room and one for the office. He scowls at his inferiors when they speak over a woman in his corporate meetings, casting an awkward sheen over the table, before turning back to her and cocking his head, listening intently. He told my mum once how he had refused a social dinner with one of his clients and told her ‘plain and clear’ how he was married. His eyes sought acknowledgment, of his admirability of course, but he got nothing save a flicker at the side of her mouth. It wasn’t a smile, either.

So, don’t you blame me for veering away from those with a patronising nature, a poorly concealed self-esteem issue, or a quickly turned temper. From avoiding, at all costs, the highly educated.

I thought, I was so certain, that Rachel understood this.

And yet, here I am, the blind date of Harvey-the-science-major.

‘He’s nice alright. Geez, when did you get so picky? He’s probably going to be a doctor or something.’ She had spat at me as she straightened her hair mercilessly, a trail of smoke radiating from the end of the wand. ‘It’s not even a proper date, we’re going as a four!’

‘I just wish you’d told me earlier; I could have cancelled.’

I complain, the crown of my head hitting the doorframe as I lean back in defeat.

‘Now you be nice to him, Angel. He’s a good bloke.’ Rachel warns. I say nothing.

My mother was definitely besotted when she met Dad. I can just imagine how she saw him in her periphery, going on about Marxism and Hawke and the stock market with some fellow unsuspecting 20-somethings, and thought, ‘that’s a man I could work with, I sure could’. Over time of course, the visaed dwindled, and she must have seen how other university graduates didn’t talk like he did - how intent he was to prove something - but you learn to love over time too. In his patronisation my mother saw something cute I suppose; naïve, good intention; a vulnerableness that can be found in any man who does not cook or use a washing machine. ‘He will do, he will do’ she must have concluded, turning her back on the annoyances and itches of frustration - she wanted four children after all.

The evening is muggy, which is suitable because it’s the worst kind of weather. Rachel looks stunning, donned in her denim dress and burgundy Mary Jane’s, which click neatly on the pavement. I lag behind her in some corduroy jeans and my college jersey, feeling sorry for myself. The guys are waiting out the front of Pino’s, a pizzeria down Lygon Street with a wrought iron petition. Josh, Rachels’ boyfriend, looks decent; not too overdressed. Harvey’s wearing a suit jacket. ‘Kill me now, Lord Jesus’, I pray silently.

‘Evening Angel,’ Harvey says. My mouth is too dry to talk

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so I just kick my head up like a twat.

We order drinks from an Italian teenager with acne problems. I just get a lemon, lime and bitters.

‘You don’t drink?’ Harvey asks genuinely.

‘Not with men I don’t know I don’t.’ I reply, giving him a hard eye. He sucks in some air and nods softly. Rachel’s hands twitch like she wants to throttle me, but I don’t know what she expected. I don’t pander, I just can’t do that to myself.

I think daughters are supposed to respect their fathers, but I can’t lie to myself. When I look at him, at Dad, all I see is ‘Slimy James’, the floating reject of Year 12, who clung onto some of us, those in the year below, and would prattle on about how much Monster he had drank last night as he finished his Physics assignment.

He’d brag, but Claudia was ahead in Physics and sat next to him in the lab, and we all knew he was failing. It was a strange power dynamic, as Slimy would sit down and lecture us about how kicking a boy in the balls is more painful than childbirth, and how we would swap glances and maybe egg him on a bit.

“But it would depend on what kind of kick, wouldn’t it Jim? If you knew taekwondo it would hurt more-“he butts in.

‘If a boy got kicked in the balls by someone who knew taekwondo- properly knew it- they’d be heading in for surgery for sure’.

Claudia’s left eyebrow flapped upward and I grunted solemnly in agreement. We knew it was wrong to mess.

At first, we all talk together about Catholics and Phillip Island and whether AFL is better than Soccer. Harvey goes for Soccer, which I think is very telling of his character and increases my prejudice against him significantly. After a while Josh and Rachel sink into a private conversation and I’m left to fend for myself.

‘So, you’re going for an internship or something are you Angel?’ Harvey asks, reaching for conversation like some elderly relative. We’ve been here an hour, and I’m waiting on my main.

‘Yeah,’ I succumb half-heartedly, ‘I’m waiting to hear back from a consulting firm.’ My hands are in my pockets and I’m sucking on my teeth.

‘Oh right,’ He engages with a smile, pleased I’ve said something. ‘That sounds challenging,’ he gets his fork and takes up a ravioli. I readjust myself on my chair. I almost burst out laughing, the comparison is astounding. I envisage sending Rachel on an equally terrible date as payback, but the only candidate I can think of is Scott Morrison, which seems reasonably unlikely.

‘Yeah that’s what my Dad said.’

The street is humming, a fresh batch of cinema releasees seeking dinner. Harvey grapples with this statement. I envisage sending Rachel on an equally terrible date as payback, but the only candidate I can think of is Scott Morrison, which seems reasonably unlikely.

‘What’s your Dad like?’

Yeah, Jim was just great to bait, but if Slimey’s girlfriend ever walked in, the fun was sucked right from the room. Everyone in the year knew McKensie; a volleyballer, nice, smart - not that any of that matters. We would watch as he would stop mid-jabber, turn and motion her to his lap. They would stay like that for the rest of lunch and he would continue his conversa-

Illustration by Arielle Vlahiotis

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tion, this time a little more restrained, and tickle her a bit when other people chipped in.

Slimey having McKensie on his lap and Dad saying ‘the Wife’ were somehow the same. Two men, fighting against the current of reality, to build their own image of themselves.

My worst fear is becoming such a wife or girlfriend; to be the side character of some inspired man.

‘He’s just a Dad I guess.’ I reply with a sigh, scratching at the lino top of the table.

‘Look have I done something?’ Harvey probes under his breath, not to draw Rachel or Josh’s attention. For the first time that evening I look properly at him, his eyebrows are knitted together, and the edges of his mouth hang sadly. For a second I start to feel guilty, but I catch myself out of it. I know who I am looking at. I know this man.

‘So, what are your thoughts on Animal Farm?’ I ask, finally giving him the opportunity to exhibit. But instead, without a beat, he admits to it.

‘Dunno’, never read it.’ He frowns, exasperated, pissedoff and innocent.

It’s eleven when we all say goodnight to one another.

Josh and Rachel leave Harvey and I alone so they can have a goodnight snog in the alleyway. I wish they would hurry up. I feel hot and big. Harvey says goodbye dully when we part ways.

We both know this won’t be happening again.

As I hobble back down the street, propping up a drunk Rachel, I finally place the emotion of embarrassment. Perhaps, just perhaps, I have ruined the night of a perfectly nice bloke. It takes me almost the whole trip back to bury the evening from my consciousness.

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'Hubert's Travelog' by Yicheng Xu

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'CHRONIC' by Helena Pantsis

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' 重复 Existence in Repetition' by Zhuzhu Xie

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ART

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Artwork by Ghazal Ronagh

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Artwork by Ghazal Ronagh

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UMSU and the Media Office are located in the city of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay our respects to their elders­—past, present and emerging­—and acknowledge that the land we are on was stolen and sovereignty was never ceded.