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about colour me in no words by cameron, c. drawings by jennifer, p. cloud chamber by noelle, k. poems stamps


about idahot Homosexuality from

the

was

removed

World

Health

Organisation’s list of mental illnesses on 17 May 1990; IDAHOT celebrates this decision annually, with schools, businesses and community organisations holding events to demonstrate support for their lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, and questioning colleagues and members.


no words by Cameron C.

I don’t want to go. You’re here still, in the bed, and a part of me suspects that if I close my eyes and keep my head nestled in your chest with my eyes closed we can stay here like this forever. With heartbeats, synchronised, according to you. For the first time I fully understand the sentiment of all those teen romance films we watched in here: Stay with me. Please. You said once, “I wonder what it’d be like, watching something like this and being able to relate.” I open my eyes and dodge the clock. On your bedside table there’s my wine glass, and your beer bottle. The window above your bed lets in the morning sun. Once when the glass had frosted over, you wrote on it, with your finger tip. “We just fucked.” Nobody could see it unless they snuck over the fence but it felt like rebellion. Was it then? When you decided to go to another city. Or was it when you were sixteen and your mother told you, Melbourne’s a good place for people with alternative personalities. I know about that; I was there. I disentangle myself from you, in the physical sense. The door’s ajar, I can glimpse the space where the carpet turns to hard timber. There’s not many milestones I can’t relate to this room. If I stare at the ceiling I stare at the only part of the room that never changed: You never even took the plastic glow-in-thedark stars off. I can use it as a fixed point, imagine the last five years as a wheel: We can be thirteen again, you can teach me how to dance. I can watch you practise guitar in the mirror, I’ll be your biggest fan. We can be sixteen after our first proper party, you can kiss me despite our girlfriends. We can be seventeen, I can nurse you through your first panic attack. A stage play, I’ll play stasis and you’ll play antistasis, order and entropy, you’ll lead and I’ll follow. I see now my will to stay with you is weaker than my fear of change: I will remain here, in my parent’s house across the road.


Later I’ll look over the tarmac, and hear the songs you wrote. I remember printed sheets full of lyrics of the songs you played at school, but here you crossed out all the ‘girl’s’ ‘she’s,’ and ‘her’s.’ So that they could be about us. I remember the story of what you think is your earliest memory, told in the dark while we were still getting used to one another’s bodies: “There was this book, at our pre-school. A man and a woman across two pages, both naked and labelled. Our teacher told us, “This is a man, this is a woman. A man and a woman love one another, and one day, marry.” A girl asked if men ever marry other men, or women other women, and the teacher said, “No.” You said, “I think that really fucked me up. I think that’s why it’s taken so long.” I push the door wide open, and tell myself if I step over that line, that’s it, that’s the point of no return. You grunt. I see your eyes on me. Don’t speak. Communicate like this, like the night of your eighteenth birthday when we went to the city and danced in nightclubs for the first time. We were both open to other boys but I only remember you, I only remember being stoned and looking into your eyes and thinking maybe if I hold it like this I’ll be able to see into your soul, I’ll know the reason why you hurt so much, why you feel you must leave soon. I don’t want these feelings to be reduced through articulation; let the last remembered words between us be the lyrics you sang for me last night. Wasn’t it you who said that most of our problems are caused by reductive language, the kind that put us into moulds we couldn’t fit into no matter how much we struggled? No words could be good enough now, not here, with you and I and our hangover-brains. I cross the edge between two spaces. I look back at you, and see my adolescence entire.


Jennifer, P.


cloud chamber By Noelle Kit

Panels of glass, An ancient art, Crystallised and affixed Around a point, Are inlaid deeply Into tight foundations, Embedded most surely, Within concrete grip. A silent display, It’s lights unlit. I know not What awaits inside When I turn it on for the first time. The panels are coloured, The label tells me, “Gun metal, or black” Other choices have not Been made available today. Out comes the book, With its little boxes, “Please select a colour”; I select the black It fits my style, But still I’m blind To what awaits within, Until I turn it on for the first time. A delivery arrives days later, My package held snug within,

The installation men erect it, Affixing it to its place In the living room’s centre; Black island in carpeted seas. The cardboard box stands empty, It’s label half-obscured by sunlight, “Cloud Chamber” it announces proudly, “Coloured storms in a box!” There is no artist’s rendering, Just a blank, inanimate image, Until I turn it on for the first time. I run power from the wall, Flicking the switch on the socket, See the little lights twinkle on. I wonder, what’s going on inside Does it choose to calibrate itself? Is it watching, learning from me What I might desire to see? I desired the beautiful black box, That sleekly matches the colour scheme Of the rest of the room; And that is what I see, Inert before me, it sits demurely, Until it turns on for the first time. It hums. It warms up.


A burst of colour from within, brightly! A splash of red light dances merrily From out of shining, glittering bulbs Set into its base. A gust of internal steam, wind! The thickening smoke, dense and white, Begins to spin and spiral, forming Swirling maelstroms of colour. A scintillation from its core, sparkling! Rainbow colours flitting effortlessly Across its swirling and pulsating clouds, Filling every inch of the room with light. Midnight case bathed in prismatic luminescence, Turning matte black into a shimmering array Of rainbow shadows, Flickering, morphing, changing, I worry that it’s shifting hues Will mismatch with my living room With its controlled shades of cream and black,

Neat, monotone and ordered; It casts it’s fluorescent spell Upon my ceiling, Turning flat whites into mosaics Turning light bulbs into prisms Splattering bright life across the dead room, Awash with reality, a living tapestry of light, Turning the monochrome graveyard Into a living forest of light. What was once dark and fixed, An empty shell, predictable and dull, Is bathed in living colour, brightness shining, Painting itself in its own inner fires. No matter what the outside declares, The inner fire cannot be hidden, Our maelstroms of thought and light Is chaotic Is diverse Is a shining spectrum of living art; And through our drab exterior, Our light will fill our lives, Daub us with true colour And bring ourselves into scintillating life.


Your love is like a hurricane, and it took me by surprise like a storm But although your love is such sheer intensity, I could compare your kisses to the summer air The way I feel instantly relieved when your lips touch mine Gentle and sweet Different to the way you love me But still just as wonderful I always loved the rain, but you’re my new favourite weather pattern

By Adrian


By Adrian They tell me she’ll ruin me But I’d look God in the eye And walk backwards into hell If He told me my love was a lie If my affection is but a transgression then gladly I would take the punishment of having loved someone so effortlessly that it came as natural as breathing Who have I harmed in this love for her, if only myself? If God is all-seeing than how can He not see that her existence, is the very reason his creation came back to Him The very reason that I can finally breathe after years of feeling guilty for existing I beg forgiveness For a sin I have not committed I will not apologise for ever having loved her


go around today and make sure you collect three stamps to get some free food


QUILTBAG | VOL. ONE  

Macquarie University's IDAHOT zine for 2016.

QUILTBAG | VOL. ONE  

Macquarie University's IDAHOT zine for 2016.

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