Issue 20: Celebration

UNSA would like to acknowledge the traditional custodians upon which this magazine was written, the Pambalong Clan of the Awabakal Nation. We would also like to extend this acknowledgement to the Birpai, Darkinjung and Gadigal peoples, as the traditional custodians of the lands upon which the University of Newcastle resides and UNSA operates. UNSA would like to pay respects to all Elders past, present and emerging, and acknowledge them as the true knowledge holders.

We acknowledge the historical inequalities faced by Aboriginal people and the continuing struggle for justice and equality. Black Lives Matter.

Always was, always will be Aboriginal land.

Editor's letters

Hip hip, hooray!

We are fast approaching the end of 2022, and what better way to go out than with a bang! It’s time to celebrate all the wins and hard work of the year. Talk about a year like no other - I don’t know about you but I’m in need of a looooong nap.

Aaaand, SCENE!

The end of the 2020-trifecta is finally coming to a close. These three years have been a three-act structure that I’m sure a lot of us are glad to see the credits roll on. Talk about a hero’s journey…

But, like all journeys, this year had its ups as well as its downs! Opus grew more than we could have expected. So many of us were back on campus. And, as always, people across the globe continued to band together, despite all odds. These little wins are definitely worth celebrating.

So, get your party hats on! 2022 may be wrapping up but the theme music is already queued for 2023; get ready.

Celebrations are always such a monumental and core experience of life - it reflects on the best parts of the year. As well as anyone, I understand how much of a blur the year can be when you’re feeling stressed out and you’re always on the go. Too often (and I’m very guilty of this), we continue to push back time with friends, or our own wellbeing, until we’ve got through the hard or busy part, and finally have free time. The reality is, we’re continuing to de-prioritise our happiness and without stopping, realising, and rectifying this, we continue to blur our lives away.

This is why, to me, celebration is such an important theme for our end of year magazine; to relish in our achievements and memories of the year together - no matter what you’re celebrating - I’m here for it. I also want to make a very purposeful step towards putting more effort into the aspects of my life that fill my cup regularly, and create small reasons to celebrate throughout the year.

Steph's biggest take away from 2022?

The importance of slowing down. I do my silly little tasks, I go for my silly little walks, and I’m taking up the time and space that I need to foster contentment.

Reflecting, I am incredibly proud of the growth of Opus with so many new student contributors each month. I’d like to say thank you to each writer, artist, and poet, who has moudled UoN’s student media for 2022. Looking forward, our team has been hard at work getting a new Opus website ready to launch for 2023 with even more opportunities for online content, more student columnist roles, and more contributor recognition. We can’t wait for you to use it!

Catch ya on the flip side,

Editor Melanie Jenkins

Junior Editor

Stephanie Jenkins

Mel's biggest take away from 2022?

Everything happens for a reason.

What's your biggest take away from 2022?

Tiana Williams

Graphic Designer

Life is a rollercoaster of emotions, you'll overcome the bad days.

Billie Mosman

I'm grateful for how much I engaged with the university this year! Now, on to celebrating.…

Chibrina

Never be afraid to experiment with your art!

Daisy Peachman

If times are hard, cook soup.

Emily Coles

When they say time flies, they weren't lying.

Jen Lowe

Sometimes you need to rest and take a moment to just breathe. You can be strong but it's not something that is always required.

Harman Burgess

Honestly, I'm just glad I managed to graduate.

Hannah Coles

Honestly YOLO - life's too short to be stressed or fixated on the little things! And that I actually like beer.

Hannah Quilty

To continue doing what I do, regardless of the opinions of others. I need to adapt, work hard, and accept myself for exactly what I am.

Ivy-Rose Laidler

To know that you can’t control the water, so sometimes you have to just go with the flow

Bhisma With Determination, You Can Overcome

Everything

Lucy Egan

I'm not sure yet... I guess have faith?

Life goes by pretty fast. The present moment is all that we have.

Expect the unexpected.

Tyler Bridges

Life’s short, follow what makes you happy no matter what.

Contributors

Kadek

Tegan Stettaford

Rachel Barr

President’s Letter

We did it! It seems very fitting that the final magazine of the year would be Celebration, and celebrate we should. This year has undoubtedly been a wild ride. For most of us, Semester two marked the first full time face-to-face semester in two years and, I’m not sure about you, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so draining!? Wearing clothing other than pyjamas in class also took some getting used to. Nevertheless, we did it and, like so many of you, it was not without a few cheeky breakdowns. So, since we’re already chatting, let’s recap the year that was at UNSA and UoN.

Semester one saw a huge O-Week for UNSA and UoN with over 20,000 students attending our events. I’d like to say this was due to our phenomenal event planning and engaged clubs (it totally was) but, if we’re being truly honest, I think it was because our resident UNSA dog Duke was a charming little gentleman and brought the vibes. This was the case for the Semester two O-Week as well–thanks team, and Dukey <3

Food security was a big one for us this year, which saw us run free lunches across all campuses, multiple times a week; held our Free Food Fridays like clockwork; and even hosted several extra food initiatives to feed the masses (think, NTEU surplus cake and strike days!).

We advocated for students on a local, national and international level, participating and facilitating student feedback sessions, including forums on SASH, academic pathways, and international student wellbeing. We collaborated with key stakeholders to deliver an effective and comprehensive SASH response and developed tangibly useful resources for students on mental health, wellbeing, alcohol and drug usage.

UNSA held the massively successful Glow Party which was our first big party since our creation and Covid, and we made over 1,500 toasties for Auto Day! We partnered with Red Bull to deliver absolutely sick club events, like the Red Bull Wings Challenge and the Study Club, both of which had massive uptake! Thanks to our wonderful Clubs team and the UoN, UNSA were also able to put on our Pop-Up Sustainability Markets, which was immensely popular among students and the community, and allowed us to live up to our sustainability values.

Pretty solid effort huh? Well, if you think that’s grand, we still have more to come! Therapy dogs on campus during Stress Less, UNSA’s Annual Ball and Awards Night, and major planning for next year… Make sure to keep your eyes peeled!

Finally, I want to give a big shout out to the 2022 SRC and UNSA staff teams for being the biggest legends

on campus. If you’ve ever met one of them, you’ll know that they are some of the most dedicated and driven humans to exist. Without them, none of this is possible. We won the right to more student spaces on campus, longer opening hours for NUspace, clubs storage and bookable spaces, and more transparent SSAF expenditure reports, all because of the hard work that goes into keeping the student voice front and centre. So next time you see an UNSA rep or staff member, come and say hi! We’re working hard for you!

On a personal note, it has been an honour to serve the student body as UNSA’s first female President. It hasn’t always been easy but it has been immensely rewarding, so I thank you for trusting me. This is my final President’s Letter and it is with a bittersweet goodbye that I hand over the reins and officially sign off. So, with that being said…

Good luck, stay safe and I’ll see you around.

In solidarity,

Jess Philbrook

Who Am I? Who Do I Want To Be?

Celebrating all that is life

Words: Ivy-Rose Laidler

2022 was a year of many turns, and changes, for each and everyone one of us. At the start of this year, we reflected upon two years since Covid-19 first hit Australia, with the effects of the infectious disease still being a present issue in all of our lives. However, Covid-19 was not the only thing that had an impact this year. For university students, we returned to campus life and started in-person exams! (Was anyone else completely shocked by this?) When I first started uni, it was the year 2020, when Covid-19 first hit. So, I started my studies online and continued that way until now, when things have gone back to “normal”. But, my normal? My normal was actually being online – so things are very not normal for me now!

And that got me thinking… Since Covid-19, the world has been topsy-turvy. Everyone has had struggles with their mental health, with change, and so, so much more. It has been very tough for everyone. So, I thought I’d highlight some of the changes that we saw through 2022:

January

•

Russia

•

•

May

•

•

Septe

•

June

• Queensland wins the state of Origin… again.

•

•

OctOber

Right now. I’m actually writing this in October, and I don’t know what the next few months will hold.

Novak Djokovic is deported from Australia due to his COVID-19 status.

Wordle becomes a major hit.

February

invades Ukraine. Koalas are listed as endangered for the first time in Australia, in QLD, NSW and the ACT.

The infamous ‘Convoy to Canberra’ takes place.

Anthony Albanese becomes Prime Minister of Australia.

Johnny Depp and Amber Heard Defamation trial continues.

Roe v. Wade is overturned by the US Supreme Court.

Queen Elizabeth II dies.

A third La Niña hits Australia.

March

• Microplastics are found in human blood for the first time.

• Will Smith slapped Chris Rock at the 94th Academy Awards.

• Prince Philip dies.

• Twitter announces a deal for Elon Musk to buy the platform.

Above, I have only outlined some things that happened in the world, and it certainly isn’t everything. But, this reflection also got me thinking about what has changed in my own life.

July

• Flooding continues across NSW.

• Scotland becomes the first country to make period products free for all.

For me, I started my first year of Occupational Therapy, struggled with my mental health, failed a course, started growing my social media business, decided to go part-time at uni, worked, put my boyfriend’s family dog down, and surpassed the one year anniversary since my grandma passed away. I really reflected on what this year has had in store for me personally–alongside the world-wide events that we have all heard of, no matter what social media platform we might be on–and decided to ask myself a couple of questions…

Who am I? Well, that I’m still figuring out. I want to be me.

What do I want to be? I honestly want to be an Occupational Therapist and Social Media Manager, having my own cute little office and helping all kinds of people.

Now, who are you? And what do you want to be? Coming into 2023, I think we should all reflect on the big–and the little–events that have happened over the year that is 2022, and answer these big questions, ready to start 2023.

april

auguSt

Who Are You Outside The Trauma?

Antidepressants, pain, and an exploration of identity

Words: Jennifer Lowe

The pills sit on my counter. They are antidepressants, or mood stabilisers, not even strong ones. One pill a day, every day, and with no end for when to stop. My doctor just assumes I will be on them forever. So far, that has been five years. I know no world but the ones these pills create for me. By accident, I haven’t taken one for a week. Never a good idea, people tell me, but it wasn’t by choice.

It’s weird existing without them. It’s a familiar state – my childhood state of mind. When I started, I just wanted to be happier. It was a single focus and I needed that to protect myself. But is that really living?

To some people, the idea of being true to oneself is just a matter of overcoming fears, or having courage to fight societal expectations. It is associated with ideas of freedom and happiness. But how can you even understand this concept of ‘being true oneself’ if you don’t know who you are? What if, during the vulnerable development days of your psychological identity, you were hopelessly lost without an anchor? And the people who were meant to lead you were lost

themselves? Generational trauma normally means the youngest never gets a map.

You change names like you change your clothes; never really understand which face is really yours. How can you be true to yourself when, in many ways, there are multiples of you? Do you like something because your friends do, or because you do? Your true self will always be trapped, in a way, because it can never be quantified. It changes whenever you look at it. Yes, others talk of how the journey of life influences them, because they grow and change… but how can something that you can’t understand to even have a physical form ever grow? Is it just changing more rapidly? You must be influenced by the world around you, right? Worry then sets in. What if you are alone, pushed on by this feeling of disconnect; between what you feel and how everyone else around you is describing their experiences? Are you even human?

How do you move forward when you don’t know which way forward is? And still, I stare back at my pill.

I have no alters, I have no splits, but that doesn’t mean I know who I am. Just because my conflict doesn’t have a name doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I am a freak within my own body. With or without the pill, it doesn’t stop the chaos. It just changes what form it takes.

Unpredictable waves that move in ways that make you feel like you’re being swallowed… Or the dead waves that won’t even move for the wind. They’re both terrifying. Oh, how life likes its ironies. How something might hurt you is what makes you barely able to function. Who is the real you when you're numbed and dulled by the world around you? It’s a scary realisation. Are you being true to your true self, even if you can’t feel yourself?

The feeling that comes from being free from the pill is familiar. But being familiar alone doesn’t mean it’s the true you. I know the anxiety that is my baseline. It’s a pain I’m used to – to the point that I could say,

“that is me,” because this is what mould my brain is wired to fit in. But that doesn’t allow me to change, be flexible, or dare to chase for something better. And, is not part of me that change? That growth I bring back, that never seems to matter when I am “free”? Pain just blinds my senses.

But you can’t help but feel a bit more real. It’s so much more natural, like the weight of a mask coming off your face. It’s maybe unpredictable, but it’s a real emotion. So I do take the plunge… But am I really free? Does it really make me happier? Is this me? A mix of drugs and fake smiles, but everyone’s happy for me? It helps me get ‘better’. Is this freedom? Or is it just keeping the trauma at bay, and unknowingly making my own prison?

I now stare back at the pill. There are no answers to be found in my introspection but each time I wonder; still I hope that I can be human, and myself.

‘Made in Heaven’ is a remake of a piece I originally drew in 2019. It depicts the heroine of one of my favourite series, specifically the moment she realised that despite all her efforts, she lost.

I redrew this piece almost three years later in October of this year, and I was surprised by how far I’ve come with my art. Despite its morbid nature, this piece represents pride to me because I am reminded that I am always improving at what I love.

- Chibrina

Goodbye Newy

Words: Tyler Bridges

Bon Voyage Newy, you’ve been… Something…

In 2016, a 17-year-old girl moved 397km from her country town to the beachy Newcastle, with a dream of completing her Bachelor of Communication at good old UON. Since then, she finished that degree, and her Bachelor of Arts, and started her Bachelor of Law. She helped found the UON Writers’ Club, was a committee member with UON Cheerleading for many years, took on the new UNLSA role of Director of Publications, was SRC for NUSA, was Women’s Collective Convenor for UNSA, and even brought back from the brink of collapse our very own Opus.

But then, tragedy struck… She fell in love.

Love with a person in the defence force, who has been posted in another city.

So here it is, my goodbye to Newy and UON: Having not finished the law degree (yet! Hello CSU), nor all of

later in Emergency Picnic in the Park

the UNSA projects pending (thank you UNSA team for taking on my weird and big plans). But, it is what it is.

In Newcastle, I have done all the things: Caught the tram and the train, accessed the NuSpace building to pee after a night out, fallen down the King Street stairs, fallen down the Honeysuckle stairs, seen dolphins at Redhead Beach, lived with friends, lived in a share house, done a scavenger hunt, been to the break wall, been to the ‘Penis Tower’ (RIP), read a book in Civic Park, played Pokémon Go at Callaghan, done the ANZAC walk (a LOT), seen dolphins at the dog beach, been to some Knights games, and probably more I cannot remember.

Newcastle has made me cry (a lot), but it has also made me happy, and helped me meet some of the most important people in my life – which I am forever grateful for.

But, it is time for a new chapter. Time for a change.

hoursUoNCheerleading

CheerleadingClubin John Hunter Emergencyroom

GraduatingCommunication

ProposalatKing EdwardPark

Through all the ups and downs, Newcastle has been my home. I never felt like the country town I grew up in was home. When I came to Newcastle it was big, but not too big, it was fun, and it helped me to grow more as a person, and to recover from the damages of my youth. Most people who live in Newcastle always say they hold a soft spot for this place. Maybe it’s the beaches, maybe it’s the people, maybe it’s the coffee. Something about this place screams home, screams safe. You get comfortable, you get complacent, adventure slows, no matter where you live. It is time for me to get out of my comfort zone and perhaps find a new home.

I will forever be a Knights girl, forever be a Newy girl.

Music – It's Unforgettable

No matter who you are, I can almost guarantee that as soon as you hear the ‘dun-na na na na’ on the strings, you’re ready to stand and belt out your national anthem: Untouched by the Veronicas. Even though you haven’t properly listened to the song in years, you can still somehow recite every ‘ooo aaa aaa, ah la la la’ within this glorious 4:15 minute masterpiece–it just seems to come back to you. Why does this happen? And further, why can I do that but not remember the PSYC3001 Advanced Psychological Measurement lecture I just watched?

‘Magical music never leaves the memory’ – Sir Thomas Beecham, 1962

The notion of remembering involves our long term explicit and implicit memory, which helps to recall times, places, and even our trivia-winning facts. Within that, there’s another type of memory called ‘episodic’, which is just more specific. The episodic memory, when prompted by music, can tap into the where, when, what, personal, and emotional contexts. As well as this, music memory can also tap into our ‘semantic’ memory, the knowledge part of memory–all of which play a part in our recall. Even in patients with Alzheimer’s Disease (deterioration of the brain), music has been an antidote for preserving parts of memories. Specifically, the ability

to play an instrument appears to be unforgettable within musicians with AD. Therefore, there are clear neural connections that music has for our memory, although differing per musician to non-musician, music is still seen to connect our little neuropathway maze in our head in ways researchers find hard to define.

Some say this is all down to muscle memory. You know how you can still remember to clap the cup song even if you haven’t practiced it since Year Six? This is because the brain remembers the muscle mechanisms it takes to create a skill–even if it was a decade ago. The best way to remember core items is through eliciting an emotional response, which is why we tend to remember our best days and our worst days and not the mediocre ones. Music, through the melodies, the pitch, as well as the lyrics, elicits this emotional feeling, making the content easier to remember. This is where the powerhouse Temporal Lobe activates: a big glob of the brain in the bottom middle part, using both left and right hemispheres associated with memories, emotion, recognition, language comprehension and the Primary Auditory Cortex. It is interesting to note the layout of this section of the brain. The auditory cortex is within the same

‘Magical never leaves memory’

Words: Emily Coles

lobe as memories and emotions which highlight this connection between music and these components. Interestingly, songs that are unfamiliar even have impacts and activate different areas of the brain including the hippocampus which is involved with long term memory.

music leaves the

So, I guess music is a memory superpower, but can we use it to remember our content? To an extent, yes. You’ve heard of the Mozart Effect, of how ‘listening to Mozart will make you smarter’, but it really just depends on one’s personal background.

Back to my initial question: of not being able to remember my lecture. Although the content is *really* interesting, it just doesn’t tap into any of the important factors that are associated with memory, thus making it more difficult to remember. Music, on the other hand, taps into our emotional, personal, and multiple other components in aiding memory, which is why it’s so much easier to recall a song than it is to recall the last 30 seconds of lecture content. So, the next time you’re sitting in your lecture theatre, try to think of some ways to elicit some type of emotional response (besides sadness because, trust me, I’ve tried, and it just makes you forget and then you’re also sad) to try and get that content cemented into the depths of your memories!

UON Writers’ Club Celebrates Student Talent in Award Ceremony

Words: Lucy Egan

On Sunday 16 October, from 7-10pm, the University of Newcastle Writers’ Club hosted their first awards ceremony for finalists and winners of their first Short Story Competition at the beautiful Press Bookhouse, Newcastle.

Judged by local and experienced writers Karen Whitelaw and Dr Michael Sala, entries had to be less than 2000 words and were open to students across the University. Karen Whitelaw said of the stories entered in the competition, “I was impressed by the freshness of the voices and the many rich and honest and wonderfully varied stories about how we live our lives.”

Congratulations to our winner Saffron Sabine with ‘Roads’, and our shortlisted finalists as follows:

• Bonnie Rudd with ‘Schoolies at Broughton Island’ (Runner-Up)

• Mark Wilson with ‘The Key’ (Highly Commended)

• Cody Vanvugt-Jackson with ‘Abomination’ (Highly Commended)

• Lovisa Persson with ‘The Man with the Metal Detector’ (Secret Book Stuff Book Prize)

We were very excited to see the calibre of writing and to have so many quality entries.

The Awards Ceremony looked to celebrate the winner and finalists and acknowledge the hard work of the judges. It also gave student writers the opportunity to experience a writing competition from submission to close, as well as network with their peers and the local writing community. As Writers’ Club events manager, I felt it was especially important after two years of Covid isolation (and writers being a solitary bunch). We as an executive knew it was important to create a strong sense of community and bring writers of all ages and abilities together.

The Short Story Competition ran for the first time this year with a grand total of thirty-one entries. A brainchild of president Nikitas Koussis, this competition was “to showcase the world-class talent at our university.”

• Shea Evans with ‘A Tale of Chairs and Milk’ (Press Book House Highly Commended)

The Award Ceremony included the announcement of finalists and a reading from the winning entry, as well as a presentation of prizes from a prize pool of $500. Generously donated Highly Commended prizes were also awarded from local booksellers such as Secret Book Stuff and the Press Bookhouse. There was light entertainment and canapes provided, with drinks available for purchase. Tickets were limited for the general public, and a gold coin donation for members, with all proceeds going towards Literacy for Life: an Aboriginal-run charity, training Aboriginal people to bring literacy to their communities. The event ended up raising over $150 for the charity!

Established in 2017, the Writers’ Club continues to be committed to providing students with opportunities to develop their writing skills and to join a passionate community of writers in the Newcastle and Central Coast area. Supported by the University of Newcastle Student’s Association (UNSA), the club runs regular events such as workshops, dedicated writing time and social gatherings for prospective writers. Next on the agenda for us is the annual anthology, which will include stories from contributors as well as

short story competition finalists. We also have some beautiful artwork from Belle Leonard to include in it.

The Writers’ Club is now on the lookout for committee members for next year, so don’t hesitate to reach out if you’re interested in carrying on the good name and work of the UON Writers’ Club!

To find out more about the UON Writers’ Club, you can follow them on Instagram, @uonwritersclub, check them out on Facebook at facebook.com/ uonwritersclub, or join by heading to the UNSA Clubs Directory.

Strawberry Afternoon Daisy Peachman

Find-A-Horoscope

Words: Stephanie Jenkins

The stars have a lot to say–but sometimes you have to learn how to hear them. All twelve zodiacs are hidden in plain sight below. Find your sign, and the words that intersect it, and you might catch a glimpse of what 2023 will hold…

F S P Y P J S E L D R H I S L D A W U E R L H K F J G A E R A Q J V A R I E S P P J U S L A T L U K R C P W A S A G I T T A R I U S L D E R F D S U I G T C P E L T S S S G I E F C S R O R A G B P E A C E J S I V N E G A P P L A U S E O E R E S I S T H T H R J L F E A R G L A L R G E M I N I U P F Y D P J O D I G I V E M J C B O R S R I K P B B O I L E E K O D L E O E O U M Y R A M O T I M R E A S O N U I F I A S K H G U N N W R C T F E R N W K P L A Y L R S Q I A H H S F U P U I A Q U A R I U S N E G D T A H B S H U B M I L R E C T K C H L O A C R E D J G U I D E O J X V E B S E A S O N I K E P R I D E D R I L S O T S B D H V E M T L N F T A U R U S A C F C Z N K H J B S

There are twelve signs in all: Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces.

A Love Letter To Me

Words: Rachel Barr

I made it. After seven years of primary study, six years of secondary school, and three years of tertiary education, the anxiety of exams, assessments, and mosquito bites from campus are no longer. Some say high school is the best years of your life; some respond that university is where things all fall into place. For me, I didn’t feel that it was either. I found my education to be the main catalyst for my grappling anxiety and stress-fuelled acne, where my lack of motivation was caused by the never-ending feeling of failure being near. I am my harshest critic and, at times, wasn’t sure why I was pursuing the life I was living; but to see how enthusiastic I was about graduation and the end being near, I remembered.

My younger years were different to many of my peers. My separation anxiety from my mum led to lack of sleepovers with friends and constant meltdowns at primary school, where I only truly had one close friend. She grew up similarly to how I did and, without even speaking on it, we knew we had each other’s back. In high school, we split apart, both attending different schools, where my separation anxiety began to fade, but the constant feeling of never being good enough continued. Those six years were rough, with mean girls and shallow-headed boys who threw insults at peers just because they could. Year Twelve was my roughest year, experiencing my first ‘heartbreak’ and spending days upon days sick from glandular fever, I was definite on the idea of dropping out. My relationship with my mum got rocky; with her trying to help me find the light at the end of the tunnel, I took it as controlling. I begged to drop out of

high school as she continued to remind me how close the end was. I was sure I wasn’t going to make it to graduation. My mental health depleted as countless days were spent in bed, tonsils inflamed, and a heart that felt too hard to mend.

“This book helped me out of some really tough times and I thought you should have it,” my mum said as she handed me a paperback.

Codependent No More, the title read. I looked at her in disbelief, my immaturity and constant need to defend myself rather than allow constructive criticism took over. She explained her perspective and how she believed my high-school relationship was controlling my mental health. I stayed silent and shook my head before she turned away and closed my bedroom door. It took me a few months to open the book and allow myself to gain control of my emotions. But she was right... like usual. I concluded that I depended too heavily on those around me. I needed my friends and family to pick up the pieces I’d dropped. Once this feeling settled, I accepted that finishing school was the best thing for me to do. And I did just that.

After my HSC, I felt a sense of relief, but realised I’d miss the idea of having a routine laid out for me. So, I applied to study at UoN. I started off straight out of school with the ideology of graduating with a Bachelor of Psychology. This later turned into deferring for six months and understanding that my love for listening, reading, and writing had to fit in somewhere.

Bachelor of Communications. Perfect! Although, it wasn’t all hunky-dory. I suffered immense anxiety due to that returning feeling of failure. My emotions were all over the place. If my assessment was due on a Sunday, I’d do it that Sunday; my brain wouldn’t allow otherwise. I had to remind myself that my emotions are valid, but my controlling urge of allowing anxiety and failure to overrule my life wasn’t. Deep down, I wanted this. Deep down, I knew that I was cut out for more than my toxic mental health issues told me. Deep down, I knew I was going to graduate and succeed. And I did.

I don’t think I’ve ever thought the best of myself, but seeing the email of ‘you’re invited to graduation’, or the marks I needed to get out of tertiary education, made me realise that I did this. I was the one that forced myself out of my comfort zone and found friends in primary school; I was the person who got my high-school certificate and the marks to receive an offer for tertiary education; I was the one that overruled my fears and anxiety and finished this damn degree. It was me. And for that, I applaud

myself, and remind my inner child that I’m healing every day; that anything is possible if you put your mind to it. I had people around me who believed in me (despite not seeing it at the time) and I was the only one who didn’t.

I’ve realised that everything happens for a reason, and who I am today has been moulded by every experience life has thrown at me. Your kind heart led friends your way who don’t walk all over you, but listen, forgive, and treat you with respect. Your overwhelming brain brought you a boyfriend who showed you how to love being independent and how to calm your brain’s storm. Your empathetic soul made you mend your relationship with your mum–made you realise she only wanted the best for you. All of which wouldn’t have happened if life hadn’t dealt me the cards I thought were too hard to continue playing with.

So... this is a love letter to me. You grew up rough and you pushed through. You made it. And you should be so f-ing proud.

True Hallucinations

By Harman Burgess

I loved my family. Despite the unreliability of my memory—owing both to age and circumstance—I want it to be known, before beginning, that I did, at least, love my family. Which is why I shall squander the last vestiges of my consciousness upon this document in the hope that it may absolve them of the things they stand accused of. Deep down, I know it’s a meaningless gesture; the last hollow cry of a wasted life; but I owe it to them to try. For love.

We were a sprawling, free-wheeling bunch of perhaps two dozen; we sang, we danced, we were happy; each day was like summer. I lived with them on a farm people used to make movies on—Spahn Ranch, if I recall correctly. It was far from the city’s pollution, out among the great plains and wild flowers. And everything was free, everything was open to us—it was a world apart: away from the false idols and corrupt policemen; away from the pain, the unbearable agony of the everyday. With my family, with him, reality itself was soft. It bent and warped at the edges, allowing me to glimpse the strange secrets that lay beyond. Memories of my time there are, at once, my last consolation and the cruellest twist of the knife.

I met my Father somewhere around my fourteenth birthday, near the end of the 60s. I had run away from my birth parents; they caught me with a pack of stolen cigarettes and wanted to send me to some dumb all-girls teenage Christian class; so rather than sit through that, I left. God, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if I hadn’t met my real Dad. Probably would’ve ended up begging for food—or worse. But he took me in, gave me a place to sleep, made me part of his family. He, who was so very high above me: a famous musician who had released an album and even written songs for The Beach Boys.

Although, to be fair, he had his oddities, too. He was nebulous: at once full of storms and smiles. I learnt a lot from him.

I worked during the day, side by side with my brothers and sisters. They were runaways, like me, which made them all the more precious. We fed animals, watered vegetables, cooked food, gathered supplies, washed clothes, and so on. All the necessities of modern life. Father had his music business to attend to in the city—how he braved that miserable cesspit is beyond me—but we were happy to look after him. It was hard at times, I won’t deny, but far better than the gilded chains offered by my birth parents. At night, though… that was when the real magic happened. After dinner, he’d gather us all around a campfire to tell us stories and sing us songs. He’d tell us of his visions of the future: about how the outside world was an evil place, bent on our destruction. It made me feel scared—not for him—but for his enemies. We would’ve done anything to protect him from them. And that bound us even closer together.

Like all families, we had our rituals. You know: brush your hair in the morning, some wine after a long day’s work, picnics on Sundays. But my favourite ones, the ones that meant the most to me, involved mushrooms. Whenever he found some—wherever he found some—he always shared them with me; which was extra special because not everyone was allowed them. Just his favourites. And when I partook, it all seemed to make sense: the crazy helter skelter of the world was explained by how the shadows ran across the moonlight. Each grain of desert sand was pinpricked with meaning, colours buzzed in and out of perception, alien patterns danced through my mind. And when the time was right, he’d tell us (his select few) secrets hidden from everyone else. He told us

of the end of days, of how the universe was going to break out into a cosmic war, of how they’d torture us if we were ever so stupid as to leave him.

Of course, we swore to stay with him forever. They were better days, then, such things were easy to say and beautiful to contemplate. wwBut as time passed, I needed to eat more and more mushrooms to attain that open, trancelike state. And, to match my appetites, he produced ever more potent substances; which submerged my consciousness deeper into the magic, deeper into the enchanted labyrinths of my mind. I began to suspect that there was some further secret hidden within myself, some riddle that, when solved, would grant me powers untold: where I could heal the sick, change the course of the stars to suit my will, chop mountains down with the side of my hand. Anything I wanted. When I told Father of my suspicions, he merely smiled and gave me more mushrooms to eat. Seeing how important it was to me, he allowed me to set aside my household responsibilities to better focus on my dreams. And to my everlasting regret—it worked. After weeks of dreaming—whole days where I’d do nothing but eat the mushrooms and sleep—there was a light pressure at the edge of my mind, a slight snap, as though I’d pushed through a barrier; through the membrane separating the world above from the world below.

The world seemed to contract, to fold back in on itself; perception warped, senses mingled. And I appeared to myself in a land of colour: shimmering mountaintops and stone oceans and burning clouds and mushroom trees and great dollops of creamy flowers and snaking rivers and purple grass… and all of it had been created especially for me. I knew, deep within myself, that this strange planet was my

own. That I could do with it as I pleased, shape it into anything I could imagine, that reality was a thing upon which I could write in the language of the Gods. That this place was the wellspring of all things: the foundation on which my life—my family, my Father, everything—was built. I felt like I was in Eden. Free to live and move as I liked; eternal and timeless; my long years of banishment were over. I was Eve reborn. I walked by the river, trailing my fingers through the cool water, as time slowly unwound and lost its meaning. I am not able to recall how long I was in the garden. It seems I was there, at once, for a lifetime and only a few seconds......

To read the rest, find it on our website at https://unsa. org.au/opus or scan the QR code below.

Newy Bucketlist

20 things to do before you can even consider being a Novocastrian

Words: Tyler Bridges

Go swimming in the Bogey Hole

Do the ANZAC walk

Check out Glenrock Nature Reserve

Pay your respects to the site of our fallen comrade, the “Penis Tower”

See dolphins at Redhead Beach

Shop at a local Newy brand (ideas include Fayt the Label, and Wildflower)

Catch the train or tram

Lose your student card

Try to give a seccy your bank card instead of ID at Finnegans… Totally not from the author’s experience…

Study at NUspace at a stupid time

Go to the Sunday farmers markets

Watch the Knights get their asses handed to them on home soil

Go to Groovin’ the Moo

See a local gig at the Lass (The Lass O’Gowrie Hotel)

Get Coco Whip at Blue Door cafe

Have a picnic at Bar Beach on the hill

Make friends with random strangers at parks, hills, bars, uni… anywhere people are drinking really

Party at BOTH

Get breakfast when hungover on Darby street

Grab yourself a copy of Opus and read every page!

Bar Beach. Taken by Tiana Williams

Sheepie’s Adventures

Words: Billie Mosman

Sheepie is a fuzzy, cheeky, and hilarious toy that vibrates when you pull his tail. Sometimes he thinks he is human! He always makes me laugh and feel safe. Sheepie loves adventures and we're always up to no good. Sheepie has lots of funny characteristics. He helps me feel empowered and more confident out in the community. Sheepie and I always like to make people laugh.

Sheepie is well known in the community now and wherever I go, people ask me where he is.

Sheepie always likes to get in photos and there's never a dull moment! Sheepie recently has been coming to uni with me and he loves watching people. He is excited for lots more adventures.

No day is ever the same with Sheepie. He goes everywhere with me whether it's uni, volunteering at soul cafe, or holidays to see my family and friends. Sheepie is always the life of the party and can't wait to share his adventures with ewe!

Hunter gave Sheepie a

a kiss proud being part of university

I am enjoying this adventure with ice-cream and pies

Everyone Can Sing - And They Should!

Words: Emily Coles

As cliché as it sounds – everyone can (or at least, can learn to) sing! As a vocal coach and singer, I witness firsthand the transformative nature singing and music can have on everyone: myself included. Singing has been so powerful in my life and has been influential on my mood, focus, and most of all, confidence! You honestly do NOT have to be Ariana Grande or Frank Sinatra to reap the rewards of singing. As long as you’re present, and giving it a red hot go, then your body, mind, and soul will thank you for it.

Mood and Affect

Singing is easily my favourite form of emotional release and it is so influential on your mood and affect. Whether it’s screaming out to The Veronicas or crying along with Phoebe Bridgers, it can have such a cathartic effect – allowing you to truly feel your emotions, help process what you’re feeling, or help get out of a funk. Singing increases the dopamine released in your brain and taps into the same parts of the brain that sex, drugs, and chocolate do –which not only makes us happier, but also makes us more addicted! That’s why you can be fixated on, or obsessed with, a song and just listen to or sing it over and over and over again – it’s because you’re fueling your pleasure centre, training yourself to be addicted to this feeling and craving it. Pretty cool! Singing is also super beneficial for broadening your expressive communication and is important for self-expression.

Focus and Memory

Singing is also so important for improving focus and mental alertness. It increases the nerve cell growth within the hippocampus – an area in your brain

responsible for all things to do with memory! That’s why dementia patients benefit from singing and music so much; it connects them back to the time and place where they first heard the song. It can also allow patients to connect with themselves better. Singing creates structural changes within the brain allowing you to learn quicker and think faster – so your car singing sessions are actually beneficial for getting better marks at uni or work: science said so!

Confidence

One of the major changes I see in myself and my students is a genuine confidence increase. For students of all ages: the more they sing and perform, the greater their confidence gets. And this is so beneficial not just for their music lives, but for all aspects. This genuine sense of confidence flows over to all facets of life, whether it be school, uni, or work. For me, singing was crucial for my confidence at the end of high school. I worked really hard at it, so when I started to see results and felt truly proud within myself, an overwhelming genuine sense of confidence came over me and I never looked back! Sometimes we do have to ‘fake it till we make it’ to attain a short-term sense of confidence, but the impact singing and vocal training can have on longterm confidence is probably one of my favourite reasons why I love what I do and want EVERYONE to sing!

Music, and singing in particular, has had such a therapeutic effect on my life and the lives of my students, both physically and emotionally. So, just do it! Whether it’s in the car, shower, at karaoke, or on stage – sing your heart out, because it’s good for you!

Anticipated Reads for 2023

Words: Stephanie Jenkins

If you’re anything like me, a new year means a new set of reading goals and a whole lot of blind ambition. While one hundred books a year might be a little out of your scope (Or maybe not! Go you, you speed-reading queen!), these six upcoming releases might still find a special place in next year’s wrap-up.

Hell Bent - Leigh Bardugo (January 10, 2023)

The much anticipated (and stunningly designed) sequel to Bardugo’s 2019 novel Ninth House, Hell Bent is the dark academia adventure that we’re always craving. When the most unlikely candidate is abruptly admitted to Yale, she can’t help but wonder “what’s the catch?” For Galaxy “Alex” Stern, the catch turned out to be waist deep in the secretive, occult activities of the university’s most sinister secret societies. Building on the mystery and grim-dark spooky setting of book one, this novel turns the stakes up to eleven. Is Alex ready to risk her life, or will she be forced to make a deal with those she’d do better to avoid?

How to Sell a Haunted House - Grady Hendrix (January 14, 2023)

From an author who’s been making a claim on contemporary horror–extremely marketable, beautifully designed, and increasingly poignant–comes another sure-to-be hit. Set in a post-covid world (which we’re sure to see more and more often reflected in fiction as time goes on and our wounds slowly heal), this novel explores what it means to be haunted, in more ways than one. Two estranged siblings, tasked with organising the sale of their childhood home after their parents tragically pass away, are forced to consider whether there might be something paranormal at play behind the walls; or whether the horror lies, actually, within themselves.

A Day of Fallen Night - Samantha Shannon (February 28, 2023)

For the fantasy lovers and the page-devourers; Samantha Shannon returns with a standalone prequel set in the fantastical world of her 2019 novel, The Priory of the Orange Tree. Projected to fall at 880 pages, A Day of Fallen Night is a mammoth of a book that I can’t wait to sink my teeth into. The dragons have been slumbering ever since the vanquishing of the Nameless One. When catastrophe hits, three women must show a strength they might never have expected. One, a wyrmslayer, put anxiously out of work; another, a princess, trying to find her way in the world; and the last, a monk, dedicated to awakening the old gods once again. A Day of Fallen Night sets into motion the world of Priory, reminding us all how far-reaching fantasy lore can be.

Fake Dates and Mooncakes - Sher Lee (May 16, 2023)

For fans of Heartstopper and pure, queer joy, this newbie out in January might just be your next favourite. Dylan is convinced that winning the mooncake-making competition at the Mid-Autumn Festival is just the kind of publicity that his family’s struggling Chinese restaurant needs. But when the handsome and wealthy Theo sucks Dylan into the fakedating plot of the century, Dylan finds himself struggling to keep his eyes on the prize… and away from Theo. This would be the perfect read as we move into Autumn in the early months of 2023: cute romance, yummy food, and orange leaves abound.

Sword Catcher - Cassandra Clare (September 1, 2023)

The elusive and highly mysterious start to a new series by the author of The Mortal Instruments, Sword Catcher is one that you’ll want to keep an eye on. Featuring a cast of motley characters, including a man tasked with the job of ‘body double’ to a pompous prince, this novel is as secretive as it is alluring. From an author as prolific and well-liked as Clare, I have high hopes that Sword Catcher will be the start of another groundbreaking series: one that will have me flipping the pages with fervour.

The Thorn of Emberlain - Scott Lynch (TBC)

The fourth instalment of the Gentlemen Bastard series, I’m sure The Thorn of Emberlain will pose just as many questions as those it answers. Locke Lamora, the Thorn of Camorr, an infamous thief and leader of a similarly weak-moralled band of misfits, is thrust into a rollercoaster of convoluted plans and long-winded ‘who dunnit’ explanations. In The Thorn of Emberlain, he returns. Political upheaval and the prospect of war simmer just below the surface of the city as Locke, and his man-atarms Jean, continue to run from their pasts. But Locke cannot ignore the revelations laid bare in the previous novel. Will he and Jean weasel out of capture once again, or will their demons finally catch up to them? I’ll be chewing my fingertips raw waiting for this one’s release date.

Celebrating my Identity

A Journey Towards Acceptance

Words: Kadek Bhisma

It’s that time of the year where we leave ‘things’ behind; anticipate the upcoming changes and progress as we leap forward to a new year, a time for celebration. I’ve decided at the conclusion of 2022 that I would like to discuss a very particular ‘celebration’. Many people have their own definition of celebration. One individual may think of parties, or of gatherings with their peers. Another individual might think of it as an anniversary, a reflection of their significant events.

I think that my progress and self-improvement, in the face of the struggles that I must grapple with and endure, is worth celebrating. For, as I liberate myself and allow myself to become a person that I’m proud to be, I can also take time to recognise that I would not be here without occasionally patting my own shoulder and telling myself that I’ve done well.

I was born and raised in a country that prioritized being obedient and pious above all else, along with a pride that should be possessed by children of the nation. Later, in adulthood, the expectation further expanded to include chastity and formality. It is so interwoven in the culture that it is all pervasive within your consciousness.

Throughout my teenage years I had difficulty coming to terms with my true self. I discovered my sexuality to be ‘different’ from my peers at the age of thirteen, as I noticed that my interests were with my own gender. I was afraid and ashamed, and I did my best to suppress my sexuality thinking that ‘I will grow out of it’ and that ‘it’s just a phase’. I was afraid of choosing my own decision, as I was afraid of what others might think about me.

At sixteen years old, I was somewhat more comfortable with my sexuality, to a degree, and I had my first relationship with a guy–despite the fact that I kept my relationship a secret. I did not show any public affection, preferred quiet spaces like movies, walking at the park during night-time, and I still refrained from openly talking about it except to my closest friends. The relationship did not last very long for a good reason, and I was left a bitter memory to this day.

After the years of suppression I experienced, I did come to a realisation that self-denial is as destructive as being denied. My journey of self-improvement began by being open with myself and seeking help. I started to see a psychologist and trying to improve my mindset, taking my medications, and making decisions based on what’s right for me and not what people expect from me.

I gathered more information about the LGBTQIA+ community, knowing very little about it despite being a silent part of it. I started to frequently visit gayfriendly cafés, restaurants, and more, taking the time to connect with others. Being surrounded by people who share a similar experience to mine and giving advice to each other helped me to feel more confident and to think more independently. I understand that there is always time to improve and it’s better to start somewhere.

Things are going well these days, although I still regularly check-in with myself, making sure that I’m still on the right track, and fortunately I now have my lovely boyfriend too. To think I’ve come this far towards finally accepting myself is liberating, and I have a lot to be proud about and celebrate.

The Trouble with Albie Lyle

By H.M Quilty

Although Albie Lyle wasn’t the smartest kid in his class, or even in the class below him, he didn’t care. His roughly ambiguous outlook on life seemed to deter any anxiety that would eventually face him. Through tough parent-teacher conferences, multiple groundings and restrictions for his foul-mouthed attitude, and even kisses from his fathers belt on his behind, he could never muster up the need to care.

Sure, he cared about what his hair looked like on most days, carrying around a fine-toothed comb in his front pocket, along with his semi-automatic cigarette lighter and a packet of gum – just in case his Mama caught him outside with Peter and Mikey smoking, standing against the tall chain-link fence that separated his house from the lonely, overgrown sports field with grass almost as tall as he was.

No, for a regular seventeen-year-old boy, Albie Lyle was completely normal. He would wake up late for school, conveniently forget to do his assigned homework, steal the lunches from the younger classes because the ham and cheese sandwich his Mama made him was too dry and the bottle of milk too warm. Then, he would ditch his final few classes, grab his boys, and they would sit in the old cool room behind their local grocery store downtown, smoking their cigarettes and passing around a single flask of whatever liquor one of the boys had stolen from their parents that morning.

Of course, when he’d get home he’d be in for a mouthful from his Mama, ranting and raving

about a phone call from the school about his absence in class. He’d roll his eyes, ignoring her jibberjabbing, and hide out in his bedroom. It was a small thing, just large enough to fit his bed and his desk. The walls were yellowed and fading, the ceiling full of cracks and water damage. He knew he shouldn’t complain; it was an old house, anyway. But Peter and Mikey’s parents worked in the city, in expansive offices that looked over the skyline, discussing things like marketing schemes and corporate law. Albie didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous of them. His Papa worked in real estate and, although it wasn’t terrible money, with his Mama having to stay at home to take care of Baby Jane, expenses like comic books or a new pair of fancy shoes that all the boys were wearing didn’t fall high on the list of important things.

When he was sixteen, Albie came up with the brilliant idea of becoming an architect. He couldn’t draw, wasn’t very good at maths, and didn’t give a rats about technicalities such as engineering and structural integrity. No, it just sounded cool at the time. So, after months of begging his parents to buy him proper paper, measuring tools, and special graphite pencils, Albie finally sat down at his tiny desk, in his shoebox of a room, and began sketching. None of them were very good and, after a while, he grew tired of it. Similarly with the piano lessons he was forced to take as a child, the sculpture classes he attended only twice, and even the acting lessons he did for six months. His Mama thought that acting would be good for him, as she always claimed his personality was ‘bright and unfiltered’. He hated it. He hated memorising lines and pretending to be somebody he wasn’t. Like most things, he only stuck around for the girls. Miss Mandy King was a

fine young actress, so sweet, with hair the colour of butter and freckles dotted along her nose like a constellation. Sure, she had buck teeth and a highpitched voice that tended to grow quite pitchy when she got too excited, but that was what Albie liked about her. When they were caught by the drama teacher making out in one of the prop rooms, Albie was asked to never come back again. He simply shrugged his shoulders, fixed his hair, and walked out of the theatre. It was true, he was over acting, and wanted to find a new hobby anyway. Plus, the kiss with Mandy King had been less than worth it. She slobbered a lot, and was a bit too grabby for his taste.

Nothing really stuck for him. He wasn’t good at anything except mouthing off and telling wildly absurd stories to his friends. He had this one story he loved to recount all the time. Peter said it was his favourite, but Mikey tended to think it was borderline ridiculous. It was about a man who shrunk to the size of a flower petal and managed to get eaten by a big fish. Of course, the man survived, but not before going through many trials and tribulations. Mikey claimed it was a rip-off from that one story from the Bible, but Albie insisted he made it up. For starters, Albie had never sat in a church a damn day in his life. His Mama was raised Catholic, but didn’t like the way his grandparents preached about ‘the reckoning’ and all that. When his Mama married his Papa, and Albie was born, they didn’t even get him baptised. A form of rebellion, his Mama always said. As expected, Albie had only met his grandparents a handful of times, and each time had not been pleasant. While most people had a classic look of disdain whenever they laid eyes upon Albie, his grandparents bore no emotion. Like they didn’t even recognise their own flesh and blood. When Baby Jane was born three years ago, his grandparents sent a postcard. He can remember seeing his Mama hunched over in the living room with her face in her hands, her back moving violently with sobs, the postcard ripped in half at her feet, and Baby Jane crying in her bassinet. Since then, he didn’t think his Mama had even spoken to them. She never replied to their postcard, never suggested they go visit them. Not even when his grandpa got sick a year ago. That was when Albie wanted to be an architect, and convinced his parents to pool together their Rainy Day Fund for a hobby that would only last three hours. His grandpa died not too long after that. They said it was lung cancer, but Albie had never known the man to smoke. Sure, he didn’t know much about cancer in any regard, but

that was what he assumed. The more you smoke, the more likely it is you’re going to end up with cancer. Although, once again, Albie didn’t care. He liked the taste, and if he was going to die of anything, it may as well be from something he liked to do.

Another story Albie would often tell his boys was about a girl. At seventeen years old, Albie was, obviously, infatuated with any woman that passed by him. Although they never gave him so much as a second glance, he kept on trying to find ‘the one’. For a long while, ‘the one’ had been Hailey Stringer. She took ballet classes in the city, and smelled of fresh lilies and clean clothes. She was mighty pretty, too. Hair so dark it was almost black, and cocoa skin that seemed to match every colour she ever wore. When Albie met her on the first day of school, he nearly dropped to his knees. Her amber eyes barely glazed over him, but a twitch in the upper corner of her lip left Albie feeling more full of hope than anything ever had before. He’d asked her out a few times, but was always shot down. She claimed to have dancing lessons every weekend. He knew it wasn’t true, as he’d see her at the movie theatre with her gaggle of screaming girlfriends nearly every Friday night, but he kept his distance regardless. In due time, he’d tell himself. He would admire from afar, not cause a bother. Maybe one day she’d look at him differently, too.

He knew he wasn’t ugly, no. He had dark hair and blue eyes, and was tall and unusually lean for a young man. His Papa gifted him a dimpled smile, and helping his mother garden during the summertime gave him a nice tan that lasted most of the year. Similarly to every boy in this town, Albie was praised for his good looks. All the old ladies at the farmers markets loved to get a good look at him. It made him slightly uncomfortable, of course, but the way some of his boys reacted to the advances made Albie ignore his hesitations. It wasn’t until Mrs Galley from across the street invited him in for lemonade one hot afternoon and ended up kissing him in her overly bright kitchen did he simply start avoiding those scenarios at all cost.

But when he met Sandra Oberton at the local pool during his summer holiday, Albie forgot about Mandy and Hailey and Mrs Galley. She was a lifeguard, sitting high up on her chair, a whistle hanging from her mouth and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She almost always had to save some dumb kid from

drowning, simply because every boy that stepped into the pool wanted to be close to her. Albie debated doing it many times, but he didn’t want to seem incompetent. So, instead, when she rescued a fifteen year old boy from the shallow end of the pool one day, her lit cigarette now extinguished in the chlorine, Albie swaggered up to her, a fresh smoke in one hand and his semi-automatic lighter in the other. She smiled at him, said thank you, and climbed back up to her seat. Although his boys saw it as a major fail, Albie didn’t. Because he knew her eyes lingered on him. She was a year older, maybe two, but that didn’t matter. She admired his confidence, his coolness, the personality he’d spent years perfecting. And when her shift ended that day, she approached Albie and his boys, and asked them if they wanted to go to a party.

So, the boys loaded themselves up in her hatchback and were chauffeured to the other side of town where an older boy was hosting a huge rager. They drank a lot of beer, smoked a bit of weed, and ended up passed out on the lawn, staring up at the stars. Albie knew, as his summer holiday was drawing to an end, that in the next couple of months, he’d have to find a hobby worthy of turning into his future. He didn’t want to be a real estate agent like his Papa, or work in the big city like Peter and Mikey’s parents. He didn’t want to act, or sing, or draw. In truth, he wanted to do what he’d always done; hang with his boys and drink. But he knew that would never make him any money.

Albie Lyle turned eighteen on the fourth of February. His boys got him a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of fine whiskey stolen from Mikey’s parents’ personal bar. His Papa got him a savings account, Baby Jane (although, only three, couldn’t buy him much) gave him a hand-made card with a few five dollar notes stowed away inside. And his sweet Mama gifted him a typewriter. She told him it was for his school assignments, and when he went off to university he could write them letters and such. After blowing out his candles and bidding everyone goodnight, Albie took all of his gifts up to his tiny shoebox of a room. He sat them all in a line across his bed, a tinge of sadness creeping over him. He probably wasn’t going to go to university, but Peter and Mikey were. This was the last birthday he’d get to celebrate with them for a long while, he thought. And it had been great, sure. He felt loved by those around him. But he couldn’t get past the thought of disappointing them.

His Papa would be ashamed at his lack of ambition; his Mama would feel guilty for not raising him right, and his boys would be embarrassed at what a bum their old high school friend had turned out to be.

He stared at the expensive typewriter, stared at it so hard he hoped it would burst into flames. No dice. He’d never actually used a typewriter before. Had no idea how to operate the damn thing. So, in an effort to feel at least a little bit productive, he hauled the machine over to his tiny desk and loaded it with his old architecture paper. First, he typed his name. It looked good, so he wrote his Mama and Papa’s names, Baby Jane’s, his boys’, and every girl he’s ever fallen head over heels for.

When he looked at the alarm clock on his desk and saw it was nearing midnight, Albie pulled out the page from his new typewriter. He hadn’t even realised what he was writing, but when he looked at the architecture paper and saw his words, his stories, smeared across it, his chest heaved. He finally knew what he was going to do with his life. Whether this plan would stick, he didn’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe he’d move on to the next idea. Maybe he’d become a poet, or a banker, or, hell, a dog walker. All he knew, as his eighteenth birthday drew closer and closer to an end, was that for the next however long, Albie Lyle wanted to be a writer. And maybe it’d stick this time.

D O Y O U W A N T T O W R I T E F O R U S

O p u s i s l o o k i n g f o r a w h o l e n e w t e w r i t e r e g u l a r c o n t e n t f o r o u r w e b s

I f y o u ’ r e i n t e r e s t e d i n j o u r n a l i s m , c o m m u n i c a t i o n s , c r e a t i v e w r i t i n g , o r w a n t t o d i p y o u r t o e s i n t h e w o r l d o f s t u d e n t m e d i a , h e a d t o o u r I n s t a g r a m t o f i n d o u t w h e n E O I ' s o p e n

A l t e r n a t i v e l y , y o u c a n s e n d a n e m a i l t o e d i t o r @ o p u s . o r g . a u t o p i t c h a n i d e a f o r a c o l u m n , a s k a q u e s t i o n , o r j o i n o u r m a i l i n g l i s t

The Big and the Small

Words: Tegan Stettaford

Celebrate /'sElibreit/ Verb

Acknowledge (a significant or happy day or event) with social gathering or enjoyable activity.

Take a moment to think about the things you have celebrated, or have yet to celebrate, this year…

Hopefully you had many joyous occasions come to the forefront of your mind. But what actually makes a moment worthy of celebration? Things that came to mind for you might have included: your birthday, doing really well in an assignment, relationship goals, like getting engaged, or receiving an award.

When I look back at my year, and the moments of celebration, the following easily manifest:

Graduation

After completing my degree in 2020, Covid held off the official celebrations for an extended period; but in February of this year, I finally got to celebrate this achievement.

Confirmation

Also in February, I passed my PhD Confirmation. This was the culmination of 3+ months of work, which resulted in the submission of a 68-page document, a 20-minute oral presentation, and a panel discussion. Teaching: I became an Associate Lecturer in the Joint Medical Program, and as a student with a psychology

background this is an incredible opportunity. I have also been offered a position to coordinate a course in Semester 1, 2023.

Scholarship

I was awarded a PhD scholarship and got to celebrate at Local Connections with fellow award recipients and academics.

Published

I became a co-author on my first published, peerreviewed article.

Poster

I won the School of Psychological Sciences Poster competition at the first ever HDR festival.

We tend to dwell on these extravagant milestones and achievements and, honestly, it makes a lot of sense considering the definition of ‘celebrate’. However, sometimes it can feel quite disappointing to not feel like you have a lot to celebrate. You may have noticed that my big reasons to celebrate often centre around academic or career success, and this too has been a barrier for me in my idea of ‘celebration’. This has been a common occurrence in my PhD studies thus

far. With no strict deadlines, no ‘assignments’ to work towards and no grades, the typical achievements I used to celebrate were no longer.

This was something I was struggling with quite a lot mentally. It was from this I came to realise that I can make my own rules around what I felt was something worthy of celebration. Thus, I started writing in a little notebook every day, reflecting on at least one thing that I felt was worthy of celebration – even if it was just getting through six hours of meetings.

Some of the small things I found to celebrate were:

• Seeing my first (second, third, and fourth) musical.

• Marking my first OSCEs.

• Going to numerous flashy events: HDR Scholarship celebrations, Winter Ball, Alumni excellence awards, Masquerade party, and the upcoming UNSA Ball.

• Starting writing two of my PhD papers (even though my progress is not as extensive as I had hoped…).

• Making time for friends and family.

• Becoming a qualified Mental Health First Aider and Lifeline text volunteer.

• Paying off my car.

• Travelling for the first time.

To be worthy of celebration, things need not be big; they most certainly can be small. So, take a close look back on your year and all the things you have to celebrate – big and small – and you might come to realise you have achieved much more than you anticipated.

Find-A-Horoscope Answers

F S P Y P J S E L D R H I S L D A W U E R L H K F J G A E R A Q J V A R I E S P P J U S L A T L U K R C P W A S A G I T T A R I U S L D E R F D S U I G T C P E L T S S S G I E F C S R O R A G B P E A C E J S I V N E G A P P L A U S E O E R E S I S T H T H R J L F E A R G L A L R G E M I N I U P F Y D P J O D I G I V E M J C B O R S R I K P B B O I L E E K O D L E O E O U M Y R A M O T I M R E A S O N U I F I A S K H G U N N W R C T F E R N W K P L A Y L R S Q I A H H S F U P U I A Q U A R I U S N E G D T A H B S H U B M I L R E C T K C H L O A C R E D J G U I D E O J X V E B S E A S O N I K E P R I D E D R I L S O T S B D H V E M T L N F T A U R U S A C F C Z N K H J B S

University of Newcastle Students Association Celebrations Issue November 2022