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HEREAFTER 81

Catalyst

Volume 81

Ambiguity

1

There is a strange stillness that arrives at the end of a year. It is not exactly silence, but a soft pause where you can finally hear yourself think. We have spent the past 12 months chasing deadlines, ideas, and each other around campus halls – filling these pages with adrenaline, ambiguity, and the tangled roots of who we are. And now, with our final issue, we arrive at the threshold of something harder to imagine. The hereafter.

Hereafter isn’t a promise or a prophecy, rather a question. It asks what we’re carrying with us from the chaos and colour of this year, and what we are brave enough to leave behind. Hereafter is about recognising that we are always in transition. It asks us to pay attention to the things we have learned, the things we are still learning, and the possibilities that might be waiting just beyond what we can see.

In this issue, you will find futures both imagined and inevitable, things we are still learning to understand, and truths that slipped quietly into our hands while we weren’t paying attention. We have gathered reflections, experiments, confessions, and tiny rebellions - all attempts to make sense of what lies beyond “now.”

And as for us - the Catalyst Baddies – this is our last letter to you for the year. We’ve grown into this magazine together. Every issue has been its own small universe, shaped by the people who trusted us with their words, their art, and their vulnerability. It has been a privilege to help share your stories and creativity.

As we step into the hereafter - whatever shape it takes, we hope you carry forward the same courage you have shown all year. The courage to ask questions. To imagine differently. To disrupt gently. To begin again.

As we wrap up this final issue, we feel grateful for the voices that filled these pages and hopeful for the ones that will come after.

From our messy, ecstatic, hopeful hearts to yours: thank for walking this journey with us.

- Megan, Manaal, & Dilushi signing off.

rmitcatalyst.com

Catalyst

Volume 81

Hereafter

Contents

7

Shared Paths

11

Slowdive

16

Can we Call?

19

Returning

23

Stale

31

Cultural Imposter Syndrome

39

What's next?

41

Geese release third album 'Getting Killed'

Photo by Huda Shehzad

3

Contributors

Catalyst Issue 81, 2025 Established in 1944

Contact catalyst@rmit.edu.au rmitcatalyst.com RMIT Building 12, Level 3, Room 9 402 Swanston St, Melbourne

Editors

Dilushi H Prasanna Megan Tran Manaal Soomro

Designers

Brenda Ayunda Alissa Ceballos Ananya Ojha Caitlyn Nguyen Grace Tanuwijaya Natalie Tjendera Yiben Wang

RUSU Publications & Communications

Cover Illustration Ananya Ojha

Writers

Olivia Jones Chay Newman Elizabeth Read Brenna Ross Janine Sequeira Tex Wise

Editorial Committee

Dilushi Himesha Prasanna Manaal Soomro Megan Tran Shana Schultz

Shana Schultz

Photographers Elizabeth Read Huda Shehzad

Printer

Printgraphics Pty Ltd 14 Hardner Road, Mount Waverley Victoria 3149 Australia P: 9562 9600

Typeface Brunswick Grotesque by Dennis Grauel

Catalyst acknowledges that our publication runs on the unceded lands of the Woiwurrung and Boonwurrung language groups of the Eastern Kulin Nations. We pay our respect to the Elders, past and present. We also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where creative endeavours are nurtured.

Catalyst is a student-run publication of the RMIT Student Union (RUSU). The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the Editors, the Printers, or the Student Union.

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Photograph by Huda Shehzad

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Janine Sequeira Shared Paths

He said he wants to see the forest with me.

Green leaves drape like velvet around our shoulders, light glinting between us, glimmering on the damp moss.

He marvels at the differences in our worlds, yet the soil beneath us, the weight of the leaves, the pulse of the dark — it all feels shared.

“I like your accent,” he says, and the warmth between us hums soft and steady, like roots touching under the soil.

“I like talking to you too.”

Fingers brush thorns, hearts brushing closer.

We move as one through the quiet, earthy hollow.

We step into the tunnel, shadows curling around our ankles, earthy scents rising, familiar and deep.

He says he won’t follow, but the torch warms us both, and the tension slips into something easy, breathing with the rhythm of the hollow.

And when we pause, where the tunnel opens to green again, light pools between us, glistening.

He calls me the foreign leaf everyone back home loves, and I realize — we are not so different after all.

Another shadow, another hollow, another path to wander together, trusting the warmth will follow us.

He smiles at the thought that sometimes you water the wrong garden, believing it could bloom if you just stayed long enough.

Poetic Composition by Janine Sequeria

Graphic by Ananya Ojha

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Collage by Brenda Ayunda

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Elizabeth Read

Slowdive

Fifteen minutes had passed since the end of

'Oh, hi.' His words come pathetically, and my

the opener. Sixty had passed since they were

return greeting containing only the word 'hi'

supposed to arrive. When they finally did, it

carries a tone much closer to

wasn’t him, but his friend to text and say they were looking for me.

whatthefuckifyourproblemborderlinestandin

I found them idle in the booze line.

The three boys seem almost to huddle. How 'Freddy.'

frightening to face the consequences of your own behaviour.

I tap the back-turned shoulder of my accidental affair. He broke up with his

After speaking short, awkward words, Freddy

girlfriend after four months of, in his words,

escapes ahead with the third boy, his silent

'best friendship' with me. It’s not like I’d

friend. The second, the Idiot Boy I’d been in

pursued it, but it was obvious how we both

text exchange with, stays and thoughtfully

felt and his girlfriend wasn’t an idiot. A month

cools the air with a joke about how drunk

ago, after she moved out, we’d agreed to take

they’d gotten at their pre-concert outing — an

things slow. Two weeks ago he took me on a

outing that Freddy had ghosted me on the

lovely date. This week our slowness turned to

details of earlier in the day. I flash my teeth

standstill — and tonight he ghosted me.

insincerely and for a moment he draws away, uncertain of how to travel his next words.

My time with him taught me that some feelings

He laughs uncomfortably, a sound at first

can’t go ignored.

quite satisfying, but quickly sobering with the

My fingers scrunch to a fist.

realization that my indulgence in these boys’

Writing by Elizabeth Read

Photo by Huda Shehzad

punishment is becoming self-destructive. I’d

The Idiot Boy positions himself at my side

prefer not to be scorn-consumed for the rest

throughout the concert. Freddy hides behind

of my night. I take a moment to breathe.

us, as if imagining that being out of eyesight

'It’s a shame you guys missed the opener, they

would make me forget him altogether. Like a fly

were so cool,' I force out in a girly, sing-song

buzzing at my head the Idiot Boy sporadically

tone, punctuated by a softer smile. The Idiot

speaks at me one-on-one, ingratiating himself

Boy smiles back, surely knowing it’s bullshit but

in the verbal diorama of my life which I’d

begging now any out from responsibility.

prepared for such a superficial occasion. In between, he finds time to consult with his

They buy me a drink, and as we find our way

boyfriends, huddling in their trio which, once

through the crowd we’re segmented. Freddy

again, quite astonishingly, excludes me. I let it

and I become alone in a sea of faceless things

go. His preoccupation is heaven. I exhale and

where my drink begins to taste of a rabid mob,

at last allow myself to sink into the sound. It

and civility a kingdom to be overthrown. I watch

comes over my body as warmth and carries me

from the back of the rabble the encroachment

away from the morons. I’m safe.

of honesty upon rook’s walls. His eyes For about sixty seconds. When he comes back

remained fixed ahead.

to my side I pretend not to know songs I’ve 'I heard your phone broke.'

listened to for five years to sate his brave

'Yeah.'

admission that he barely knows this band,

'I believe you.'

and that he only paid the one-hundred and thirty dollar admission fee for 'the vibes'. I

Crowds of mocking pitchforks and sardonic

avoid scoffing at his remark and internally

chants crash through the castle’s gates,

congratulate myself on my discipline.

demanding the prince poised upon his tower perch be tossed down and mauled.

We exit quick after the band’s departure and stumble outside. I can’t tell if my body is shaking from the cold or the six vodka Red

'Do you?'

Bulls I’d managed to inhale over the hour, Two torch-bearing women appear at the

although I have a pretty good guess.

prince’s back. They throw him down.

The Idiot Boy with his idiot smirk sidles up beside me and places his arm around my waist.

Freddy watches silently as he does, and we

'No.'

stare at each other as he speaks.

His expression barely shifts. Maybe he slouched over a little more, maybe it’s wishful

'So… Do you wanna hit a bar with us?'

thinking. The mob watches the body of the prince twitch for a moment as four months

The mob, now picking at the prince’s corpse,

of stupid, selfish, budding romance are left in

storms my throat in what manifests as

the riot’s flames. The children grieve, the men

cackle. A dumbstruck look paints all three of

look lost, and the women, though their mouths

their faces. Freddy’s wilts to fear.

agape, remain wholly unsatisfied. My legs speed off in a fit, making for the Idiot Boy and

'I’d love to.'

his silent accomplice.

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Writing by Elizabeth Read

Photo by Huda Shehzad

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Explore Photo by Huda Shehzad

Name

Elizabeth Read Can we Call?

I hate this boy. I hate this boy but he didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t hate this boy and he didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t like this boy.

I hate myself because I don’t like him. I’m doing something wrong by not liking the one boy who didn’t do anything wrong. Everybody says so.

My friend says I didn’t do anything wrong if I don’t like him and still everybody says so. Everybody says so because he touches me softly.

Everybody says so because he doesn’t mind that I don’t like him. Everybody says so because he waits. I hate him because he waits. I hate him because he’s weak. Man up. Get real.

My friend says something but I can’t hear her.

Take itand shut up. Take it and shut up. Take it and— I crash my fist against the basin. It all stops.

Drops slide down break-out skin, pooling over makeup stained ceramic. Only weeks ago my skin was clear. Only weeks ago this sink was new.

Blame the makeup, we both know where the dirt comes from. I look under my nails. The faucet turns. Water spits, then streams. A lukewarm lake spreads across the once-white. I cup my hands under its grace and meet its heat with my skin. I nestle for a moment, then repeat. The stains do not wash, my skin does not clear… But it’s something. And yet still, as stale air pulls across my skin on its arduous journey to the roof duct, the slew of guilt continues to ferment.

I rise from the sink and land melodramatically against the wall behind. Why are you so fucking incapable? He’s not right for you. That’s that.

I exhale heavy. My nails haven’t cleaned.

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I pass over bloodshot eyes as I leave the room.

My phone lies face down on the bed. I wish I’d thrown it from my window. I wish I’d the money to replace a broken window. My arm reaches limp across the mattress, then reels it in. The screen drones insufferably.

Jamesissocool 10:43 AM Hey. What are you up to today? pheobilicious<3 4:31 PM hey sorry i got really caught up with assessment. what’s up?

Jamesissocool 4:33 PM Wow. Honestly more and more I feel stressed out just hearing about your workload. All sounds very overwhelming. pheobilicious<3 4:37 PM it’s not that bad i guess, just the combo of everything is rancid rn Jamesissocool 4:37 PM Can I read once it’s finished? pheobilicious<3 4:49 PM yeah sure would u mind proof reading for me? be my unpaid editor?

Jamesissocool 4:49 PM Okay free of charge. BUT I get a kiss on the forehead.

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The sickly slew bubbles beneath my skin.

I read it over ten more times, each growing more disgusted. Who even says that? My fingers creak against the phone; the dirt under my nails spreading across the screen. You’re the one dating him.

pheobilicious<3 9:22 PM i didnt get the tickets im really sorry i completely forgot

pheobilicious<3 9:19 PM james i have so much more work to do i don’t think i can see you tomorrow

I stare wide-eyed, feeling the tendrils climb higher, wrap tighter to my waist. My mind scatters across the room. I swipe from the screen to call my friend and a darkness oozes from under the bathroom door. You can’t do anything yourself. I play at letting it all go. Telling him I misread and that I bought the tickets. That tomorrow I have all the time in the world. That he should stay the night. That he should fuck me as long as he wants. That he should do what they all do. The darkness pools around my bare feet and the tendrils mount my chest. I try to sink, but the vines hold me still and the ooze barely reaches my ankles. I sigh. I swipe back. I close my eyes. I imagine pore strips and stain removers stacked across shelves in a store. I breathe.

Yeah, nice. And that’s how many times you’ve been ‘too busy’ now? I click off my phone and sit it on the desk, praying its battery might detonate like those ones on the news. Instead, the grime now tainting its form mounts my desk, growing tendrils down its legs and crawling across the floor.

I barely even turn around.

Jamesissocool 9:19 PM :( Did you at least get tickets to that concert

Jamesissocool 9:22 PM Do you not want to go?

I type the words slow — methodical. A fire begins.

The tendrils reach around my legs. They wrap tight. I tear the rotten device from the desk.

Writing by Elizabeth Read

Artwork by Edvard Munch Norwegian, 1863-1944

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Janine Sequeira Returning

Coming back feels like walking into an old church, the pews still warm with a hundred hands before mine.

The wood is darker now, polished by years of leaning and waiting.

The school chairs still scrape the floor the same way, metal legs catching on the same grooves.

But I sit taller now, and my feet touch the ground.

The hymn books are frayed at the corners, pages soft from turning, but the words still rise the same.

I hum them differently now, but I still know every line.

This place has aged, and so have I, yet we keep meeting in the same light, the same dust curling in the air.

I see the faces in these rows and desks and want to tell them — you will wear down, and you will shine.

You will change, and you won’t.

Poetic Composition by Janine Sequeria

Photo by Elizabeth Read

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Explore

Name

Photo by Elizabeth Read

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Tex Wise Stale Tyler squints as the fridge light spills out

‘Right, well, don’t let me keep you from your

across the kitchen. His mouth dry with

morning. I can be out of your hair in five.’

nervousness, he reaches in and drinks from the mostly empty bottle of rose before looking

Tyler bites his lip as he looks down again at the

back at the barren shelves. Empty—except for

unmade bed, aware of the window closing in

the metallic bowl covered in plastic wrap. He

front of him.

slips a finger underneath the wrapping, pulling the bowl closer to him. It looks pathetic now.

‘I can make you a cup, if you’ve got time?’

As pathetic as the idea that Sam would think any differently of him. The thought is quickly

There’s a moment of silence before Sam

undone as the sound of the shower door

answers, steam rising from crevices around the

opening in the next room, shaking him back to

door only deepening the blush on Tyler’s face.

reality.

‘I could be persuaded.’

Tyler reenters the bedroom as the morning glow seeps beneath the curtains. It’s enough to

Excitedly, Tyler reaches down and folds Sams’

illuminate the scattered clothes on the floor.

clothes, gently placing them on the foot of the

He stands at the foot of the doorway, taking

bed before turning back the way he came.

in the evidence of their tryst the night before.

Hearing the shower come to life, he toys with

***

the idea of opening the door, just enough to secretly take in his former friend's perfect

The sugar drops into Tyler's coffee, clumping

form.

together to create a small island in his cup, he watches it drift around its circumference.

‘You awake yet, Ty?’ ‘Hey, before I forget, I appreciate offering up Tyler suddenly trips over himself as he

a place to crash. You know how close work is

struggles to respond.

from here.’

‘Uh, yeah. Yup. Just making a pot.’

Sam rounds the corner, pulling his trousers up with his shoes in the other hand. From here,

Sam’s chuckle echoes out of the bathroom.

Tyler’s drawn to two devilish cherubs tattooed on either side of his waist, appearing to hold

Writing by Tex Wise

Artwork by Alissa Ceballos

his pants in place as he approaches the

‘What are you thinking?

counter. The purple and amber coloured liquid of the pomegranate tea shakes in its confides

A thousand things pour through his mind like

as it makes contact in Sam's grasp.

sand through an hourglass, steadily building, filling up his mind with nothing but what-ifs.

‘Not a problem,’ Tyler replies as he hands the

He rubs his palms against the table to try and

other mug over.

hide the moister coating them. In doing so, he bumps into the upturned bowl before looking

The little angels adorned with little black

back at Sam.

horns and golden pitchforks look up at him with their sly demeanor as Sam picks it up.

‘Oh, just thinking about making something

If he was drunk enough, he would often be

to eat. I mean, what type of host would I be

found displaying the adorable devils to anyone

without offering you breakfast?’

interested in hearing his explanation.

Sam huffs as he puts down his foot and raises Growing up, I was always getting into trouble,

the other one, slipping it on and doing it up in a

a real scoundrel. I remember my mum telling

decidedly more hurried motion.

me my dick more often governed me than my brain. The more she harped about it, the more I

‘Tyler, that’s not necessary. I already told you

felt I had to honour that statement. Now, with

I could get out of your hair 10 minutes ago.

them on my shoulders, I can be slightly less

Besides, I need to go check up on my bike.

impulsive, aye?

Can’t exactly afford to lose that now, can I?’

This type of contradiction was the best

‘Oh, no, sure. That makes sense.’

embodiment of his character; Tyler thought to himself. But it wouldn’t be like him to say

Putting his foot down, Sam pats down his

something like that aloud, even if Sam knew it

pants before turning back around to the

was in jest.

bedroom to retrieve the rest of his clothes.

The sight of his toned back catches in Tyler’s

The two regard each other as if they both take

thoughts, averting his gaze as to not raise any

a sip from their cups. Sam puts his foot on

suspicion. Suddenly, Tyler looks across to

the counter and starts to tie up his shoes. The

the fridge, the image of the sealed container

table in front of them looks like a brawl broke

illuminating in his mind.

out, with an overturned bowl of fruit beside them Tyler. He can’t meet Sam’s gaze. He

Jumping to his feet, Tyler calls out;

doesn’t want to think about what’s about to come—what will be left after Sam walks out

‘I’ve got bread.’

the door. Was he pictured someone else last night? Was that passion really for him, if there

Sam stops, stunned by the absurdity of what

even was any.

was said. He cocks his head, mouthing what was just said to himself

‘Hey.’ ‘Uh, okay?’

In alarm, Tyler flinches at Sam’s remark.

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Explore by Tex Wise Writing

Name by Alissa Ceballos Artwork

Tyler pats the countertop, mustering up the

other cuts another slice from the loaf in the

courage to explain his sudden outburst.

bowl. Sam finally breaks the silence.

‘Bread, banana bread specifically. I made it a

‘It’s spongier than I remember.’

while ago.’

‘Sorry.’

Sam holts to a stop, his shoulders slouching at the thought. Leaning on the doorway, he turns

Sam waves it away, trying to indicate that it

his head back to Tyler.

wasn’t an attack.

‘You have banana bread?’

‘No, it’s fine. It’s just missing, you know? Not quite hitting the mark.’

‘Yeah, uh. Jams and marmalade in the pantry. I remember how much you loved it.’

Tyler nods in acknowledgment, chewing at what to say as he swallows.

Sam’s expression wanes, struggling to figure out how to communicate what he’s feeling.

‘Yeah, I made it one night after work, hoping

Tyler’s heart sinks at the sight of it.

to eat it the following morning. I mean, it’s probably not as good now that it's been left in

‘Did you plan on having me over?’

the fridge, but I’d hate to see it go to waste.’

Tyler gets up and opens the fridge, trying to

‘And you didn’t make this for me?’

avoid the question.

Tyler’s heart drops, but he disguises his hurt ‘No, it was just, uh, spur of the moment thing.’

by pushing the toast into his mouth.

Hoping the lie sticks, he places the bowl on the

‘What? No, nothing of the sort, it just that, well-

countertop.

Tyler can’t meet Sam’s gaze looking all around ‘Heh. Yeah, I think I can understand that.’

the room before replying. Sam looks out the window as he waits, watching the morning sun

***

rise and bathe the street outside.

Sam stabs the knife into the jar of tart smelling

‘...it’s just, when I heard you were back in town,

spread, turning it over meticulously to get as

I thought about all the stuff we got up to. You

much marmalade on the surface of the blade.

can’t fault me for a little reminiscing, right?’

His cheerful dispossession hasn’t returned, now replaced with a half-smile as he attentively

‘Yeah, I suppose. But that was then.’

covers the surface of the slice of toast.

‘So why can’t this be any different.’

Tyler tries to carefully study his microexpressions, looking for any signs that his

Sam stops mid bite, an expression of hurt

mood may have improved. The two of them

suddenly taking over his face. The sigh he lets

sit in silence, occasionally broken up by the

out seems to tell Tyler that he knew this was

sounds of the other one chewing while the

coming.

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Explore by Tex Wise Writing

Name by Huda Shehzad Photo

‘Look, this was just some fun. I thought you

against Tylers. Their lips are all but touching,

knew that.’

the tension of the moment palpable. Tyler can’t make that last step though; he needs Sam to initiate it, to commit to them. But Sam looks at

‘I do know that.’

him, with a shaky breath; he pulls away.

Sam stands up and pushes the plate away from him as he gets to his feet.

‘Tyler, no.’

‘Then why am I still here?’

Sam shrugs off Tylers' grasp before moving to the door.

The question seems to shock both. Tyler’s chest tightens; he gets to his feet and steps in

‘Look, I can see now that this was a mistake.

front of Sam.

I’d thought we’d patch things up. But it clear neither of us are doing the right thing here.’

‘Look, I wanted to find a chance to talk. After last night I, well, started feeling things again.

‘It wasn’t a mistake.’ Tylers' breath catches in

Remember the fun we had?’

his throat, his hands reaching out to Sam, but his feet are unable to carry him.

Sam’s face shifts from alarm to concern, picking up his coat beside him.

‘I hope you take care of yourself. Really.’

‘Whatever feelings you have, you’ve got to put

Tyler doesn’t respond, blinking away the tears

them away. For both of our sake. We aren’t

that are welling up as Sam pulls on his shirt

those people anymore. We both have lives now.’

and opens the door.

Tyler grabs Sam’s forearm and squeezes it,

‘Oh, and I figured out what was wrong.’

trying to muster some of the charm that got him through the door last night.

‘Hmm?’

‘You felt it last night, didn't you? I mean, why

Sam steps out the door, throwing his coat on

else would you come home with me? I know we

and patting down the pockets.

haven’t always seen eye to eye, but when we ‘You were right; it needed to be eaten sooner.

work together-’

It’s gone stale.’

Tyler takes a step closer, feeling Sam’s shallow breaths brush across his face.

‘Really? I thought it was good enough.’

‘We worked. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. But now,

‘I don’t know, maybe you should have done

you're back home. Back where we can give

something about it sooner.’

things another chance. A better chance.’

Tyler can only nod in response as Sam closes Appearing defeated, Sam puts his forehead

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Writing by Tex Wise

Photo by Huda Shehzad

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Chay Newman

Cultural Imposter Syndrome

Oh, mostly white, but a little bit South Asian.’

English swear word. In turn, my family name

That’s what I say when people ask me about

is made-up. It’s unconnected to my lineage,

my background. I have greyish-blue eyes, skin

overtly English, and chosen because it was

that was a lot darker when I was a child, and

‘easier’.

wild curly hair that doesn’t come from either of my parents.

And, well… Yes. Of course it is. I stopped wearing a longyi because the clothes weren’t

My family name comes from the Australian

‘normal’ next to everyone else, and I stopped

immigration documentation my grandfather

bringing kyauk kyauk to school because

declared in 1967, and the western naming

the other kids would fake-gag at the smell,

conventions that deemed his Burmese name

and I never once went to a Mosque with my

‘incorrect’ with white Australian culture. In

grandfather because the Catholic church was

Myanmar, names lack a serial structure. As

just closer to my house. I wouldn’t tell people

Aung Kaung Myat puts it simply, ‘Our names

the other half of where I was from because

belong one hundred percent to ourselves.’ My

I’d gotten sick of explaining a country people

grandfather’s name was one syllable, a single

hadn't heard of, or why, despite looking Middle

word, and it belonged entirely to him.

Eastern–Italian–Jewish–Indian–Lebanese– not-from-here exotic, my name was so

This however, wasn’t quite so acceptable in a

overbearingly not.

western society and its unchangeable ideas of how one should identify. His Burmese given

In short, I’m a contradiction of my heritages,

name required a legal second name, and so,

and sometimes, I don’t feel ‘enough’ for any of

his new given name was a title translating to

them.

that of a ‘page boy’, while his first name was turned into a surname. Later on, once an adult,

‘Decided you wanted privilege, huh?’ someone

my father changed his family name so as to

asked me once, joking.

not have it condemned with a similar-sounding

Writing by Chay Newman

Graphic by Natalie Tjendera

The only time I ever spoke to my Burmese

he came here – about his identity, his culture,

family was the night my grandfather died.

his name – and the hindsight over never

While they were still in Myanmar, we video-

knowing hurts like an ache that demands, ‘You

called them briefly. I was shy and they were

will always be missing something.’ I asked him

strangers, and when they wanted photos of my

once to teach me some Burmese words, but

grandfather’s face after he passed, I remember

awfully, I can only remember ‘kalayy’ – baby.

my cousin screaming about the desecration of it all. We were children that didn’t understand

A better writer would have something more

it, but that was their way of being close to him.

poetically profound to say about the imposter

We got to sit by his bedside, hold his hand,

syndrome of losing a culture you aren’t quite

and recite the faraj; and they received a text

sure you ‘deserve’ to reclaim, but all I can truly

message file of his face.

only describe it as is sad. I’m living with the remains of my own cultural imposter syndrome

There’s an almost ache I feel I need to atone

and the guilt that comes with trying to reclaim

for: not trying to be more than that White-

those roots after assimilation. While others

but-not-all-white little girl who didn’t have the

inherited their identities from their bloodline, I

desire to reach back when she had the chance.

developed a congenital sickness within my own

If I were to meet my grandfather again, or all

cultural atrophy.

his relatives left behind in Myanmar for the first time, I do not want the first thing I’d say to

Everything we are made of comes from the

them be: ‘I’m sorry.’

things, the people, that have existed before.

Nothing is untouched, and I am the result of

Am I to say this when someone asks me about

generations of different human existences –

where I’m from?

and yet I have this constant fear that I don’t know who I am. I feel more fraud than anything,

‘Oh. Oh. You mean my roots, right? Um, Mum

yet – bizarrely – not quite ‘white enough’ for

is White – German, English, Scottish, I think.

that one guy who wasn’t satisfied with my

But Dad is – is Burmese. Myanmar. It’s near

answer of ‘…here?’ when asked where I was

Bangladesh and Thailand. South Asia, yeah. I’m

from.

both.’

My grandmother, his wife, was a genealogist I have written, re-written, erased and begun

and archived records and records of our

this essay a million times over in the hopes

family’s history. Although, I’ve tried tracing

of reclaiming whatever it is I think I am, and

back the Myanmar side, only to find it ends so

here, after everything, I’ve learned a lot except

abruptly beyond reaching second generation

everything of which I came for. I look at the

ancestors. The record and documentation have

page’s title-less title with my name underneath

either been lost between the two continents,

and the ‘by [two words]’ doesn't feel as fitting

inaccessible, or doesn’t exist like my father's

as it should. My name will always be mine, but

birth certificate. It’s strange, looking at my own

it feels like it’s missing a part of me I can’t

family tree, and seeing one entire half so bare

reach. My grandfather died when I was too

-- not knowing the names of those who came

young to ask him about the life he had before

before me, but only that I’m the living remains

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of entire peoples I’ll only ever know from the

I am missing him the way you miss a dream you

memories of someone else.

can’t quite remember after waking, and there’s an agony within the amnesia that I can't make

I read an essay by J Miller that spoke of the

myself let go of. I could not tell him thank you

remains of their own lineage: ‘a hundred years

and what are all the other words and teach me

of assimilation [upon her] family, and how

the palwei, play it and play it and play it until I

[after all this time] there was almost nothing

remember the music I made when I was nine.

left.’ I felt conflicted. The taking back of one’s cultural identity after so long is something

Another important part of why Burmese culture

I admire, and I should feel comforted by the

was so lacking throughout my childhood – or

knowledge that, technically, I am only one

that of my dad’s – was because it wasn’t

generation away from my family’s culture and

correct here. In order to give his family asylum

language and identity. Reclaiming my Burmese

outside of the Burmese militant rule, he had

heritage should not be as difficult as someone

to leave his Burmese-ness where it lay in

who's existed from generations long lost to

Myanmar. He assimilated out of necessity.

cultural assimilation; and yet, the disconnect

Australian legislation of immigration declared

is something I can’t let go of. My dad, despite

he had a western name, and so he took it.

being a first-generation Australian immigrant

Similarly, I always found it fascinating that

who assimilated to Tasmania when he was

my father did not grow up Islamic despite my

seven, had no use of the Burmese language

grandfather’s religion, but over the years, I

after leaving. I wished he remembered the

know better. The assimilation into Australia

words he would have spoken as a child. I

was crucial to escape the injustices back

wished my grandfather was alive to teach me

home, while conforming to western-society

them himself.

standards the way a minority like my grandfather was ‘meant to’, was expected,

It wouldn’t be the same learning it now without

necessary. One of the first acts as a new

him, but – It would be something. God, it would

citizen was to declare himself a typical anglo-

be more than something. It would be the

Australian first and last name, and everything

closest I’d ever truly be to feeling close to him

after that was a rewrite.

the way I never cared to do before.

I can’t help but think of it all as a bitter order, I’m mourning my grandfather in a completely

‘Undo the pieces of yourself and whatever it

different way than I did when I was fourteen,

is that defines you, then pick yourself up in

and it’s… lonely. I am not a condemner of

the fragments upon the floor that we declare

what was done to find the life he needed to in

acceptable. Australian enough. Bury the rest

Australia, but I do grieve that I was too young

back home. Welcome, citizen–foreigner.’

to ask him about the life he lived before he came here. I am missing the things I didn’t

But now, after all the things he did to ensure

know how to miss before: wearing a longyi as

my family’s safety, I get to reclaim our culture

a child, eating his homemade kyauk kyauk,

back. The life I have in Australia is one I refuse

the palwei – a Burmese flute, I played for five

to take for granted. This country was my

minutes before deciding to do something else.

family’s asylum from the violence still being

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committed upon the Burmese people, and I am

but as a continuation. I used to think legacy

proud we ended up where we ended up; yet I

was something fixed, written before I arrived –

can be proud of my other roots too.

but maybe it’s also what I write now, with the borrowed words I’m learning and the recipes I

As people, our identities are not only

relearn, and the questions I ask my father that

constructed by the way we define ourselves,

he never thought to answer before.

but how others choose to define us. I do not want the world to know me as, ‘Oh, mostly

Maybe my grandfather’s story doesn’t end with

white with a little bit of South Asian.’ I

the things I never got to know.

want them to know me as my grandfather’s granddaughter, my father’s child, my lineage.

Maybe it begins again here, too. It keeps

I want them to know me as Australian, and I

going through an old recipe, a mispronounced

want them to know me as Burmese. In doing so,

word practiced again, a father and daughter

I have to stop condemning the things I cannot

relearning what was once left behind.

change as irrefutable lost remnants of the past, and find myself in the pieces to pick up

Shape

from the floor.

Edit: After rewriting this piece too many times Lineage is not only what we inherit; it’s what

to count, I searched through old boxes to find

we choose to carry forward. I did not grow up

my grandfather’s handwritten recipe of kyauk

speaking my grandfather’s language. I forgot

kyauk. And next week—

the sound of the palwei. I let his stories go untold. But now, I get to write a new part of

Next week, my father and I will start learning

our family’s history – not as a perfect return,

Burmese together.

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Olivia Jones What's next?

Ugh, what dreaded words to hear. You’ve just finished a marathon run of late nights and anxiety-inducing exams, and now, on top of all that, you need to produce an answer for “what’s next?”. Horrible! To be fair, you might have an answer, perhaps the path is clear: a job’s lined up, you're embarking on a Euro summer (stop, don’t tell me about it, I’m jealous), or maybe you're even committing to further study. How wonderful, congratulations – these are all acceptable answers that won’t be gawked at by your distant aunt at family Christmas. But what if there is no tangible next? What if “what’s next”, for the time being, is just waking up each morning and seeing what the day brings?

I think it’s high time “I don’t know” qualified as a legitimate response to this dreaded question.

The thing is, if you can push aside our innately human fear of the unknown, you’ll come to find that it can actually be one of your best friends.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I know it’s scary not to know; Not knowing whether your Hinge date will turn out to be a walking red flag: stressful; Not knowing if you’re going to get that passing grade: sickening; Not knowing if you’ll ever find true love: existentially terrifying! But what’s the alternative? Knowing? I think that could be even worse.

was. What I do remember was my dad’s knowing look as he made the observation, “You could never do it all again, knowing what was ahead”. …What? This wasn’t the response that dramatic 14-year-old me wanted to hear. I didn’t give his words a second thought back then, but over the years, they’ve wormed their way to the front of my mind: After bad days, friendship breakdowns, and one particularly uncomfortable night battling food poisoning at a Vegas chapel (a story for another time), I began to make sense of what he was saying. If you knew everything that was coming, every embarrassment, heartbreak, illness, and tragedy, how could you do it?

Obviously, this is a pessimistic outlook; there would likely be great things too: love, promotions, your sports team taking the championship, etc. But would that be enough to make up for the awareness of your impending misfortunes?

This question is far too complex for this article, and much better explored in Denis Villeneuve’s 2016 epic, Arrival. (Amazing film, get onto that if you haven’t.) But my point is, perhaps there is safety in the unknown because within it, there’s this little thing called possibility. Anything could happen – how terribly exciting.

When I was 14, I sat at our kitchen table, face red and puffy, and had a meltdown for the ages.

Something had happened at school, to be completely honest, I can’t even remember what it

So, you may not know what you’re doing next.

And your annoying aunt might give you a weird look when you tell her this, but at the risk of sounding excessively cringey, how freeing! I think it’s time we embrace the unknown and embrace the possibilities it holds. What’s next could be terrible, sure, but it could also be incredible.

Creative Writing by Olivia Jones

Design by Caitlyn Nguyen Yiben Wang

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Brenna Ross Geese release third album ‘Getting Killed”

New York rock outfit Geese have released their third studio album Getting Killed. A band that has floated around the indie rock periphery for the past few years. Though their sophomore album 3D Country is widely acclaimed, it wouldn’t be until lead singer Cameron Winter’s solo debut.

and inferno. Winter’s bellows between verses are somewhat harrowing. There is safety in a second listen; you know what to expect. You might even groove to its off-key trumpets. If you are a fan of their song 2122 this track will be for you.

Au Pays du Cocaine follows a completely different narrative lyrically and sonically.

Heavy Metal would see Geese’s proper breakthrough. Winter’s vocal mysticism is undeniable; translating with ease between projects, its obvious the people can’t get enough.

A voice likened to the clamour of Leonard Cohen and Jeff Buckley. Winter’s vocal jazz is mysterious, yet grounded in raw emotion that feels nostalgic.

A slower ballad about the change that comes with age and the heartbreak that trails. The lyrics are simplistic yet complex; “baby you can change and still choose me”. The harmony exists on a bed of soft acoustic guitar and the flare of tambourine. Bow Down is my current favourite. It’s quick on its feet, constantly accelerated through poetic bursts of energy. The band effortlessly comes together as one strong punkish entity.

Geese are a youthful quartet that prove rock isn’t dead; and never was. Syphoning off the grit of classic rock; the band creates a musical atmosphere that feels familiar. Similar to The Rolling Stones or even The Doors. Though their success lies in keeping modern. With absurdist lyrics like “There’s a bomb in my car!” accompanied with sonic typhoons of guitar and drum, you cant deny they’re a breath of fresh air.

Breaking through musics borders, Geese are a manifestation of how limitless rock can be.

Getting Killed is a diverse musical playground; and the perfect road trip album (depending on who you’re with). The opening track Trinidad is on first listen utterly jarring. Packed with biblical violence through the imagery of lineage death

It’s no shock Pitchfork gave the album an almost perfect score of nine. The closest Geese has ever come to the Down Under is supporting our own King Gizzard and The Lizard Wizard at some of their United States gigs. A perfect combination of bands, especially for those who love all things experimental. Announcement of the bands Australian dates may not come as a surprise as Cameron Winter released tickets to his solo shows months prior. The band will be playing Melbourne’s Laneway Festival on February thirteenth. A great opportunity to catch them live if you’re Geese-curious. They have also announced a side show here at the Croxton Bandroom on February twelfth.

Music Review by Brenna Ross

Album Cover for 'Getting Killed'

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Submissions by RMIT Creative Name x Catalyst Workshop 'Letters to Future Self'

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Submissions by RMIT Creative Name x Catalyst Workshop 'Letters to Future Self'

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Submissions by RMIT Creative x Catalyst Workshop 'Letters to Future Self'

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Submissions by RMIT Creative x Catalyst Workshop 'Letters to Future Self'

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Submissions by RMIT Creative Name x Catalyst Workshop 'Letters to Future Self'

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Artwork by Grace Tanuwijaya

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Artwork by Caitlyn Nguyen

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Photo by Huda Shehzad

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Artwork by Natalie Tjendera

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