Catalyst: Volume 82 Issue 2 "What If"

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explaination/intro

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Contributors Catalyst Volume 82, 2026 Established in 1944

Contact catalyst@rmit.edu.au rmitcatalyst.com RMIT Building 12, Level 3, Room 9 402 Swanston St, Melbourne Editors Huda Shehzad Lincoln Russell Adrien Marks Designers Nicole Klassmann Orion He Huda Shehzad Mahak Vyas Mariam Erradi Elodie Khan Tanisha Sinha Lincoln Russell Alia Daniels Alyssa Cunanan Adrien Marks Sarah Soni John RUSU Publications & Communications Shana Schultz

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

Photographers Abbey Gao Writers Ahnaf Ar Rahman Emily Ojansuu Shreya Ganguly Keerthi Vijaya Saravanan Casimir Yiontis Mackenzie Mitchell Elizabeth Read William Golding Breanna Ross Sanvi Khanna Sri Satya Spandhana Mallela Adrien Marks Front and Back Cover Nicole Klassmann Editorial Committee Huda Shehzad Lincoln Russel Adrien Marks Shana Schultz Typeface Brandon Grotesque by Hannes von Döhren

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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CONTENTS 6. An Introduction to “What If?” 8. What if the sun didn’t come out?

10. From Melbourne to London 12. What If You Stayed Where You Were Forever 16. What If I Never Let Them Go? 18. Lying For Fun 20. What If You Decentered Romantic Love?

22. What If I Got What I Wanted?

26. Before Building 56 30. What If They Hadn’t Stopped Me? 32. What If Free Will Didn’t Exist 34. Tabs I Never Read 36. WE FOUGHT OVER BIG CATS, BUT IT WASN’T ABOUT THEM! 38. What If I Followed The Word Of God

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What If? As hard as we try to live within ourselves, breaking out of barriers society sets for us. There has always been this sense of impending doom, a reaching for something that was never there, a whisper of a loved one, a gravity towards an alternative future.

This pull shaped itself as the ultimate question of What if? It’s a question we can’t help but ask ourselves. Our past, present and future have millions of different outcomes; it’s intimidating to think about what each and every one of our choices mean. It’s an existentialism question if you think about it, that dooms us from the start. Is there any point wondering what could’ve?

Or is there a responsibility created for us to wonder, to experience life through What Ifs? Can we drive ourselves to reaching our fullest potential? Or is asking the reason we don’t?

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What if the sun didn’t come out?

I’ll keep it simple, bit like an autobiography.

It’s mine but I won’t say whose. It was a run of the mill street, neon signs reflecting the moist concrete.

People with droopy eyes bustled the shops, picking out what was left of the fresh produce, wrestling arms to grab hold of the last of half price meat.

Busy hours for all who think are entitled for a good warm meal, leaving scraps to ones who have already been humbled.

Cherry blossom leaves had turned into mud from being rubbed under the feet of impatient dwellers.

How something beautiful can mean nothing when all you must do is survive. It’s a Japanese proverb that when your stomach growls your body is preparing to die unless you feed it.

I think they just stuck words to make posters look better along with the cherry blossoms. I guess it’s in one’s nature to relieve the stomach of its loneliness.

One double story shop had pulled me towards it, bright with every shade of yellow to exist. Thank God for the industrialisation of light bulbs to be perfectly produce a light so dim but just enough to make the outline of the tables.

Awkwardly aligned in a straight line only resembling of the great anaconda, with a few lookalikes of its cousin, the eel, in the bubbling aquarium. I made my way through the maze, whiffing through hot broth and the sizzle of shrimps going for their last swim in the hot oil, to find a seat by the far end of the square floor.

The velvet on the inside and backrest of the chair accepted me for the evening, as I rest my elbow on the tabletop. My green parka scratching against the specific wood chipped table only matching the back-and-forth motion of watches and cufflinks rubbing against the grain.

Apart from the polish being lost from the wood, the waitresses seemed to be following suit, as

eagerly I wave my body back and forth to notice the worn-out velvet cushioning on the sofa riding up my pants but keeping the cloth on the back completely intact.

The businessmen coming here to eat lunch, hunched over their back forward with exaggerated hand signs to impress clients took over my mind.

“May I take your order?” The waitress asked with such nimble movements that I forgot when she got here and waited for me to look.

“Stir fried beef noodles with a boiled egg extra spicy, by the way, what’s fresh?” I enquired, “The eel,” she wrote it down and went about the maze. Sitting across the window looking upon the street, it feels surreal.

The blurry, scratched up window let faint glow from the lights illuminate the insides of the shop, old vespas passing by with increasing sound pollution caused by a faulty muffler.

Sudden Water sploshing around in the aquarium to see the eel snatched for my meal to its death.

It is hard to make sense of the world on an empty stomach, with deadlines to reach and goals to complete.

In such a moment of despair my nose stung with the smell of ginger riddled with chilli which escaped through the wide crack of the open kitchen door.

Filling the room with more smoke than the vespa, the clicky heels of the server managed to hit my ears and in a moment my tongue clenched as she put down the bowls of food. The freezing air replaced with hot broth and lemongrass.

A meal that would articulate all my hands. Setting my jacket aside even in the cold, eel made its way into my mouth. It had been cold for a long time, almost too long. The cherry blossoms turned into brown lifeless flesh, breathing its last breath.

Written by Ahnaf Ar Rahman

Design by Orion He 8

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From Melbourne When you think of how you would get yourself from Melbourne to London, or any overseas travel for that matter, the mode of transport undoubtedly comes to mind. It does for me, anyway.

But, what if you travelled from Melbourne to London without flying?

“I always wanted to go to Central Asia, and across the Silk Route, and about 10 years ago a mate and I looked at doing this, but in those days to go to the Stans you needed to get visas for every country,” Michael said, “now Australians can go to all the Stans, not all of them, but most of them, without a visa.”

A question Michael, known as Melbourne2London on Instagram, is answering.

It just sort of grew out of “I want to go to Central Asia, but why don’t we do it without flying.”

What if, as cliche as it sounds, it is about the journey rather than the destination?

The journey is just as valuable as the destination?

I didn’t set out to get 30,000 followers; I set up the Instagram account because I wanted to keep my family friends in the loop and it’s grown from there.

What if it’s not always about convenience? But when we have the freedom and fortune to do so, slowing down and taking our time? To see the journey as fully and wholly as we can, and to look to things we wouldn’t consider otherwise? Giving experience to the parts we don’t usually see.

“I think the thing that stood out for me most of all on the trip is how helpful and kind people are,” Michael said.

I had the pleasure of speaking with Michael recently, to talk about his experience making his way to London with all forms of transport but flying.

When we spoke, he was currently in Uzbekistan.

Michael’s decision to travel from Melbourne to London without flying stemmed from wanting to travel Central Asia.

“Most people just want to get on and live their lives, and people along the way have been very generous and helped me in a few situations where I just needed to be pointed in the right direction, or helped to get into a taxi, just little things like that have just made life so much easier, and so much better. The good part of people comes through.”

“There are plenty of people who want to tell you how dangerous the world is, and I’m not saying it’s not, but most people just want to get on with their lives, and really just be kind and helpful.”

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The time Michael spends in each place is “depend[ant] on what there is to see and do.”

“In the early parts [of my travel], I’ve been lucky to do a lot of travel, I’d been to most of the places previously, so I didn’t stop for long in those,” Michael said, “but I allocate an average of one week for the four Stans I’m going to.

“I’m going to spend six nights in Samarkand because I want to have a break, and it’s probably the city on the Silk Road I wanted to see the most.”

He also says there’s a range of emotions that have come with the different travel dynamic, along with the challenges that come with travelling internationally without flying, such as his travel from China to Kazakhstan.

“When I crossed from China to Kazakhstan I needed to catch a bus, and you couldn’t book that online so I had to turn up and hope that I could get on the bus that day otherwise I would have had to have stayed overnight in a pretty lonely part of the world, but I was lucky that day,” Michael said.

“When you don’t fly it’s a completely different dynamic, you need to have time.

“The hardest thing I found about this trip was moving every so often. It does

become a grind to, every three days, must move and get on a train, and if the train is 24 hours, that’s a challenge. But that’s the nature of travelling without flying.”

However, Michael is “totally happy” and grateful for what the experience has afforded him, and the freedom of being able to see the world this way.

“When you travel by yourself there’s a whole spectrum of emotions.”

“There are days where I think to myself, “why am I doing this?” and then there are days where I think “this is so fantastic, I’m so lucky to be able to do this”. Every day is not the same. Some days are very difficult, and some days are very rewarding.”

When asked whether he would like to add anything after our chat, he urged people to travel.

“I would just encourage people to travel.”

“You don’t have to travel from Melbourne to London without flying,” Michael said, “but travel is just such a broadening experience, and you see how the other half live.”

“Just travel and step outside your comfort zone.”

Written by Emily Ojansuu

Design by Huda Shehzad

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What If You Stayed Where You Were Forever Whenever my mother said she wished life was less complicated. Times were much simpler when she was young. I often wonder whether I might grow into thinking like her as well. I feel as a woman, the only thing constant in our lives is change.

From a general perspective, if times never changed, women would never have had the right to have their own bank account, the right to own property, the right to divorce.

LGBTQIA+ people would have never been able to come so far, have so much representation, with rights being established for them in most countries without the help of queer women.

If everything remained where they were forever, would the entire concept of life and planets even exist in the first place? Maybe that’s thinking too deep and too far ahead.

Let us dial back a bit into our own lives.

What if you stayed where you were forever?

Physically speaking, what if you never travelled outside of your home? Missed out on seeing new places, meeting new people, learning about different lifestyles. What if you remained in your neighbourhood, only travelling to your local university, coming back home, being around the same five to ten people every, single, day? Would it be too bad? You get to see your mother and father and your siblings every day. You don’t have to miss out on important family events.

You get to the privilege of seeing the niece or nephew being born, you said you wouldn’t miss that. Was this because you didn’t stay where you were forever. Instead, you took that step into an unmanned road, losing the stop signs of the way. Not knowing whether you will return at all, blinking tears back.

The sacrifice of comfort was the opportunity to live as YOU. I thought I knew who I was back when I was thirteen years old. I was the boisterous kid, not too great at studies, but not too bad either, always hanging out with these two girls in my class, always hoping this was going to be forever.

When I was sixteen, I believed I will never really make any real friends, I will forever be alone.

I increasingly lost interest in everything around me, daydreaming about whether things will continue to remain the same, wondering if I am worthy of anything at all if I am just going to fail all my classes.

Then I turned twenty-two, I had enough of feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t want to stay where I was forever, it felt like ripping a band-aid off a fresh wound. My heart was beating against my chest, running a thousand miles per hour, and I burst into tears as I kept on screaming to my parents that I want therapy, that I want to feel better and I am tired of feeling aimless.

I turned twenty-four recently.

I didn’t stay where I was, forever. I moved, crossed two oceans and several seas, and now I am here in Naarm/Melbourne. I made new friends, lost a few, explored new places, learnt to cook for myself, gained weight, and lost sleep. I went back to my forever place, and things felt different now. My mother looked more tired, my father a bit more stressed.

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My heart ached for when times were simpler, and I was able to see my sister every day.

I wouldn’t give up what I have right now for anything in the world. I am able to live freely as a queer person. I am able to explore who I am, what my identity is. I am happy knowing that it will forever be a journey of exploration. It is the most exciting journey of all, getting to know what my aesthetic is, getting to shape my values over time, and learning to love bits and pieces

of myself. I know my sister is out there, grateful she took that hard step and is not stuck where she was forever, I know she definitely needed that change.

I know you are too. Or will be, over time. Life will keep on scaring you but loving you all the same.

Every change will feel like fighting against sleep but having to wake up at 5AM in the morning for going to class at Bundoora, but once you’ve processed that change, you will know it was for the best.

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Written by Shreya Ganguly

Design by Mahak Vyas

Photograph by Abbey Gao 15

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what if i never let them go? *Sighs* How afraid was I when I let them go?

Words can’t explain that feeling, the hidden guilt behind my heart, concaving inside my skin, suffocating a grunt.

Don’t let go, What if I hold on to you just this once, one last time…. WHAT IF? I did it anyways.

Pretending was nothing new, everyone held a mask to their face.

Customising these masks was always easy, like removing clothing. Inside, outside contradiction. Diverting the concentration on routine, as if my heart was not tearing inside, as if nothing inside me was breaking. It was not easy, at least not as easy as how I portrayed on the outside. I was always the listener, this made me realise how much I sucked at expressing myself, especially when the one, I’m used to, was not around anymore.

There were times when I just laid down in my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking what if you were there. Questions blurred my vision, but it was just tears trying to caress my cheeks in silent consolation.

I thought I was doing good until I came across the little things we did together.

The places we visited became trauma; our favourite song became lullaby of woe and the words we exchanged became silently forbidden to be said out loud.

I wondered if it was a sin to imagine our ‘What Ifs’.

Days passed, months rolled……then came a day I dared to do so. The ‘Once, True Future’, I was afraid to think of, came in front of my eyes.

The fun we would’ve had, the places we’d have visited, the silly conversations we’d had, the memories we’d have created…… what if I never let you go? It was an answer to no question, the key to no lock, it was a beautiful dream that was not meant to meet the reality.

Maybe I am a coward, a coward who couldn’t accept you are gone, a coward who is not even trying to let you go.

I carry you within me without even realising. You linger in the pause of conversations, in the silence of my room, in the back of my mind and in the emptiness of my heart.

Questions about ‘What were you doing?’, ‘How have you been?’, ‘Did you think of me just the way I think of you?’, found its permanent corner in my heart, lingering ghostly, although I don’t expect answers.

What if I never meant to let you go?

Slowly I backed on to my routine like it was my only lifeline.

There’s nothing good pretending.

Written by Keerthi Vijaya Saravanan

Letting you go meant I’m losing a part of myself, losing a part that once mattered the most. So, I chose to hold it tight.

So what if I never let you go?!

Design by Mariam Erradi 17

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Lying for Fun When I was a teenager, I made things up. I’m not sure why I did it, maybe it was out of boredom or just to see how people would react. It wasn’t anything nasty; I wasn’t spreading rumours or anything, and these lies were usually told to strangers I would meet on a night out, rather than people I knew.

I once told this guy that my cat was allergic to wallpaper - I didn’t even have a cat. I told someone else that I’d never eaten a plum, and I think they believed it. And once I somewhat successfully convinced somebody that the plural of horse was heese (one horse, many heese). If a friend overheard me telling somebody this, they might step in to corroborate my story and even add a little detail to make it more believable.

It was a bit of a laugh back then, but it made me think: why do people lie?

The truth is, people lie for a multitude of reasons, while sometimes they lie for no reason at all. It’s an intrinsically human trait, one that has been instrumental in getting us to where we are today.

Because, if you think about it, lying is basically just inventing something that isn’t true. Harry Potter is a lie, and so is Star Wars. Luke didn’t really blow up the Death Star because there was nothing to blow up to begin with (sorry for spoiling a 50-year-old movie but if you haven’t watched the original trilogy yet, get a move on or I’ll spoil something else).

And The Boy Who Lived? More like The Boy whose entire existence was a heavily franchised and rebooted lie.

Every great work of fiction stems from our ability to lie. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tolkien — these are the greatest liar’s history has ever produced! There are so many lies circulating today masquerading as fiction — and so much fiction masquerading as truth — it’s no wonder we struggle to tell the difference.

We are a species that flies by the seat of our pants and invents realities to suit our needs as we go. On a grander scale, we use our imaginations to build religions, legal systems, currencies and governments. None of those things exist in nature. They exist because enough people agree to act as though they do.

So, does lying can have its uses?

It can even be a fun and creative exercise! Within you there is a power to consciously shape reality to your insane agenda in small ways every day.

But with great power comes great responsibility: before you tell a lie, examine your intentions. Ask yourself why. Is it constructive? Unnecessary?

Self-serving? Or are you doing it for no reason at all? Whatever your motives, make sure to equip yourself with good humours and, if available, a good pair of flame-retardant pants.

Written by Casimir Yiontis

Design by Elodie Khan 19

What if you decentered romantic love?

When my first boyfriend broke up with me at the ripe age of 15 I genuinely, and I can’t stress this enough, GENUINELY thought that I would never fall in love again. I thought I was too old to find someone to love me again. At 15 years old…

Decentering romantic love was something for me that took many years and I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% there. Having someone to love and love you in return has constantly been portrayed as the most important thing in life. Every movie, every book, every TV show the end goal is love. Every sleepover with your friends was talking about crushes. Every truth or dare was about who you liked. You have planned your wedding since you were small. You dream of your first kiss.

“If the main character’s a girl, make sure she’s married by the end. Or dead. Either way” A sediment portrayed in 2019 Little Women and throughout many literary works from the 18th-19th century. There was no world in which a woman in a story would remain unmarried and alive. There was no place in society or the world for such women. While this is no longer true that you will be cast from society if you become a spinster, there is still this big emphasis on love and relationships. I’m sure everyone, women, or not, can relate to the pestering of a family member at a family gathering.

“Have you been seeing anyone?” “When will you be bringing them around” And while it’s nice to have someone take an interest in your life, you hardly ever get asked the same number of questions about your friends, or education or hobbies that you do about love.

I was 18, in a long-distance relationship on the other side of the world when I listened to Dolly Alderton’s Everything I know about love, an audiobook narrated by the author herself. I don’t exaggerate when I say that book changed my life in so many ways, it will change yours and everytime I listen to it or read it, I find something new, but the sediment stays the same. There’s a world outside of romantic love, a whole wide world

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Falling in love can be one of the most exciting and magical things to happen to a person, but so is meeting someone at work, or uni or your favourite local cafe and clicking with them on every level. So is coming home to your family during the holidays and relieving the joy of your childhood.

My current boyfriend asked me out when I was set on moving abroad during my gap year. I liked him a hell of a lot and in the months before I left, I let myself fall in love. Leaving to go was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. My best friend and my boyfriend dropped me off at the airport and as I literally hyperventilated on the plane wondering what the hell I was doing. Yet I couldn’t help but feel a little pride amongst my sorrow. There would have been a time when I would have chickened out and turned around to stay with him. And to me it didn’t mean I loved him any less or didn’t want him in my life. It was doing something for myself.

I know I come from a place of privilege to be preaching this because I am in love, but this isn’t about rejecting romantic love as a whole. It’s holding it in the same regard as your friends, family, professional career, and yourself. You can fall in love with anyone if you try. A deeper connection will be found if you aren’t searching obsessively.

I think the best romantic love comes when you aren’t looking for it and if it is the centre of your life, over your friends, family and yourself, you won’t be happy. I have seen friends who get a partner and then they suddenly don’t reply to your texts, like ever. They aren’t available to hang out anymore.

They don’t see their friends or family. They are happy. Most of the time they are really happy, and the relationship fulfils them as much as a romantic relationship can fulfil a person. I would argue, however, that it can’t fulfil you completely.

Love is in laughter from a cheap bottle of wine with your friends.

Written by Mackenzie Mitchell

The missing piece of you isn’t in one single romantic partner. You can have it all. You can balance love, friends, family, and yourself because the love you are seeking in one person can be found everywhere, in everyone, all the time.

Love is in your DMs on your birthday.

Love is around the table at Christmas.

Love is in you always.

Design by Nicole Klassmann

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Heart rot is the softening of a pine tree's resinous heartwood, caused by an in-dwelling fungus. Not all pines have it, but those that do make the excavation of a tree-hole nest cavity easier for the red-cockaded woodpecker.

The Existential Weight of "What Could've"

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The Truth Serum

What if I got what I wanted?

It’s a fun question with a glaring problem: I have everything I want. I survived my fuck-ass upbringing. I moved out and across the country. I got hot. I spend my weekends writing, drinking and having fun with friends. I’ve been able to develop my talent and pursue it under stable and fortunate financial circumstances. Okay, I don’t have a boyfriend, but who wants to date a man these days anyway? I have everything I need, and my unmet desires — the ‘what ifs?’ in my life — are all within my reach if only I fight for them. I can dream for whatever I like. I write to you from midMarch: My life is wonderful.

On February 28th, at around 10:45am, the United States of America bombed a girls’ primary school in Iran. Their first act in an unprovoked, illegal war, the ‘double-tap’ strike killed over 170 — most of them children. A ‘double-tap’ refers to the strategy of firing on a site once, in this case the primary school, in order to disable the site and neutralise its occupants, in this case classrooms full of girls aged 6-12; a second strike is then carried out in order to eliminate survivors, the children, and anyone who might be responding to the scene. Our Prime Minister, Anthony Albanese,

endorsed the war within hours of these strikes.

These girls will never overcome their upbringings. They will never grow and flourish from their fortunes and misfortunes. They will never look over their lives and ask ‘what if?’ — They will never fight. The only question that stands over their lives, the only hypothetical that holds any moral worth: What if we, the West, didn’t slaughter those children? What if their surviving family and friends got what they wanted, and their daughters and sisters were still alive?

On March 8th, American and Israeli missiles struck Iranian oil facilities in Tehran.

Tehran is a city more populous than New York by over one million. Its streets are not unlike those of Melbourne, except that many are hundreds of years older.

If you have a moment, use Google maps to drop into a random street in Tehran and look around. It’s beautiful.

The American-Israeli strikes resulted in flaming oil spilling through these streets, a toxic cloud consuming the skies above, and black, poison rain falling upon its 10 million residents.

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Akin almost to a dirty bomb, the exact harm of such an attack is incalculable; based on similar instances of American militants’ exposure to oil fires in the Gulf War, the 10 million people of Tehran can expect everything from skin irritations, to brain damage and cancer. As with America’s Agent Orange attacks in Vietnam, the extent of the violence inflicted upon civilians, people just like us, will not be known for decades.

It will be then that Iranians will look back and ask ‘what if?’ — What if we, the West, didn’t commit bioterroristic attacks on their civilian population? What if we, the West, allowed the people of Tehran the peace they had and wanted? What if we, the West, just left them the fuck alone?

There is a grave distinction between what I — a well-off, white, AngloAustralian woman — am allowed to dream of, and what one of those slaughtered girls is allowed.

It is a distinction made by our Australia, and states like it. Those

Written by Elizabeth Read

girls, in daylight murder, have been prohibited their right to dream. So here I will dream for them.

I want Australia and states like it to not be built upon the servitude of Indigenous, Palestinian, Iraqi, and Iranian people.

I want Australia and states like it to not be propped up by the violence of capital, drawn around by the rich in order to rape ever more wealth from the Middle East, Africa, South America, and Asia.

I want Australia and states like to bring the criminals who lord over us — pedophiles, rapists, war criminals, climate criminals, financial criminals, the complicit — to justice. I want them tried and punished for what they’ve gleefully wrought upon our world.

I want to live in a world that allows Palestinian and Iranian children to grow and dream as I do.

Am I allowed that?

Design by Tanisha Sinha

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THE HOLLOW VICTORY (vii).

You got it and realized the hole it was supposed to fill had a different shape entirely, that you had been measuring the wrong wound all along, and now you have everything you asked for and the original emptiness, unchanged, patient, waiting for you to finally ask the right question.

the space between living

and trying to live

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Before Building 56 As a civil engineering student, I’m always looking at buildings.

Components, assemblies, boundaries, footprints, etc, etc. All the things which make up the whole.

In a city like Melbourne, this often includes parts of prior buildings, integrated into a newer building as a cost saving measure. They provide valuable insight into the changing fabric of the city over time (Medical students may be aware of the concept of an organ less body, so too is there a completed building). As of late, I’ve been focusing my gaze on my own building, 56.

Building 56/57 is an imposing structure on the corner of Queensbury and Lygon St, designed in the then fashionable 80s brutalist brick veneer style. I’ve had it described to me in many ways by the people who are spending part of their lives in the square halls. The common thread between them all is a sneering remark something like ‘[building 56] was designed by engineers.

They’re right, it’s an 8-storey mass of reinforced concrete devoid of creature comforts. On my way to-and-fro classes, I’ve made a habit of taking detours and scanning the place for clues.

There are clues in the absence of them. Every floor, support and hall is new. After half a year of observing I can confirm the demolition works were complete and total. Moving on from the theatrics, we can infer from the lack of clues in the lower levels + surrounds that it’s time to break out Sands & Macdougal, and find an aerial survey.

Google Earth’s historical view is really helpful for conducting historic architecture research. Google has released reasonably detailed surveys up to ~2009. Unfortunately for us, building 56 is still here in the oldest view with acceptable detail, from 2000. Older surveys are available in part online, such as the 1945-47 air survey of Victoria on the state’s Map share website, but the newer more relevant survey conducted from 1975-1976 is not yet publicly available.

The relevant slide of the 1945 aerial survey, 848 B2D, shows on the site at the corner of Queensbury and Lygon streets something I didn’t expect: An enormous, connected building. Typically for Melbourne you have a collection of small landholders and their jumble of warehouses on the city block, but the enormous single sawtooth roof suggests a single owner and a factory.

Loading up Vicplan, the address given for the plot is 14-18 Earl St. Time to hit the books.

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Sands and Macdougal were a publishing house in Victoria, who kept a comprehensive reverse address directory of businesses throughout the state, until 1974. The state library of Victoria has scanned and uploaded volumes from the beginning every half-decade until 1974, when the publishing company wound up voluntarily. They aren’t always accurate as one would like, but considering the competition (none) they will have to do.

The plot as viewed in VicPlan gives the addresses 14-18 Earl St, and 33-89 Lygon St, Carlton. The plot is so large we can’t miss our factory from the street address provided.

According to the 1970 Sands and Macdougal directory the site held the descriptively named company ‘Melbourne Glass Bevelling & Silvering Company’, purveyors of mirrors and glassware. This site was contained well within the current boundaries of the property owned by RMIT, so it can’t be the enormous building we identified from the air. We need another photograph.

Davies and factory like the one next to Building 70, or the Rialto Building: a loading/unloading loop for horse cartage.

You can see on the side of the retained portion of the factory where one of the delivery bays had to be. This small segment fronting Cardigan street in the top left is today building 71, the furniture design building. A search of the name ‘Coop, Davies and Co’ returns an article from the Carlton Community Historical Group, confirming the government compulsorily acquired the site in 1977 and granted it to RMIT in 1980.

I tried to find more remnants within Building 71, but it has been altered heavily in the ~45 years since the university acquired the land. The only thing unusual was a very vintage power point and family of barn owls nesting in the roof. I happened to be there at feeding hour and they were very loud! Hopefully someone can make a proper coot for them in the future.

Enter Airspy Airspy was a photographer and later firm who specialised in large-format aerial exposures. The photographer and firm were prolific; thanks to them we have aerial shots of most of the city from the second world war until the late 60s.

Looking at Airspy’s fantastic 1960 photograph of Carlton looking south (Record ID 9916528523607636), you can clearly see the sawtooth roof of a factory on the RMIT Carlton campus clearly labelled ‘Coop, Davies and Co’.

What is now Levers Place was originally a laneway following the course of the Coops, Written by William Golding

Design by Lincoln Russell

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Art by Sarah Soni John

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WHAT IF

STOPPED

I sit in the back of the theatre pulling at the velveted seat.

My mother is supposed to meet me here but is running late.

I decide to grab a drink to calm my nerves.

“A red wine please” “Which one would you like?” The bar man asks “Oh, Merlot please” I tap my finger around the glasses neck. The red liquid sloshing back and forth.

My mother messages; I’m out the front.

I’ll come and meet you.

She stands tall with her arms outstretched to greet me. I collapse into her black cotton blazer where her winter cold nose touches my cheek. She breathes out white air, while I breathe in her heavy perfume.

I guide us back to where I sat before.

“Oh I’m jealous you have a drink. I’m going to go get one” “Okay” While she’s gone I soak it all in. The clacking of high heels against marble. Erudite voices conversing about music and art. The device-illuminated faces around me in the dark of the seated area.

I finish the rest of my drink at my mothers return.

“I’m so excited for tonight” she says, “Swan Lake has always been my favourite” “Yeah me too”.

The theatre hushes and the fabric seats brush at the arrival of the remaining audience. A warm violin enters the air and the final lights go out forcing a stillness. The curtain opens to a ballerina in an all white costume.

Taut and pointed like a ballerina should be. I unknowingly grip onto my thighs and grit my teeth. My mother reaches over to caress my stricken hand. She has noticed I am uncomfortable. I turn to her and she flashes a white smile in the dark. I purse my lips back in response.

THEYHADN’T ME?

“We don’t have to stay” she whispers “No, this will be good for me”.

Half way through the performance I am grabbed at the crux of the ballerinas leap. She is strong and limitless. Beautiful with the elegance of a flamingo; a weightless bird. My attention is brought to my knee. Broken at the fall of a failed Poisson during rehearsal.

I can walk just as before; but stopped dancing inevitably.

Though my attention has shifted the show goes on. Lights and music exist even in my despair.

I leave my seat breathless. Crashing into other audience members who are probably annoyed with me.

My mother follows along; I don’t even need to look to feel her presence.

In the royal foyer she grabs my hand.

Written by Breanna Ross

Design by Alia Daniels

“This was all too soon. We should have waited” she says, “I don’t know if I can ever come to a show again” “You will. I know it”.

We walk along the city pavement close enough that her blazer swathes against my leg.

Our reflections glow against the wet cement and neon lights.

“You know I stopped dancing when I had you” “Yeah mum I know” “And it was the best decision I ever made, even though it was bloody hard” “Yeah” “Look I’m not saying dancing stopped for you because you must have children. But maybe there’s something else. I think this is just redirection.”

We continue in silence. She gives me space for contemplation; a large boundless shape 31 in my mind.

It was hard to come up with anything m e a n i n g f u l when I’ve never known a life without free will. It was hard to conceive of a life without free will, separate from my own reality, which, fortunately, is not at all short of free will and choice. Something to just write about, to shut that idea down at the same time I shut my laptop down, putting distance between myself and that possibility. Returning to my life full of free will, only to return to re-consider the idea once again.

When for others, they can’t just put a distance between themselves and this idea of a reality without free will by shutting their laptop. It felt wrong conceiving of a life without free will, knowing that lives without free will exist, and are living alongside ours right now. Instead, by acknowledging the free will that does exist, with us, put it to good use.

Free will, I feel, also r u n s d e e p e r than that.

I have the free will to love whoever I want, free from gender, class or race. However, I struggle to act on that same free will to share that I love that person, almost feeling like an abuse of that privilege, given some people’s l o v e is reduced to shame. I have the free will to share different political beliefs to my family, and again, rather than shame, my opinions are still recognised, encouraged, and valued for the reason Free will takes many forms in my life. Free will takes form in my one and only tattoo, that sits on my upper that I am becoming my own person, and forming my own opinions as I navigate our very complex world, not right arm. I picked it off a flash sheet that popped up shut down and dismissed. as an Instagram ad in my story feed.

I have the free will to speak, to exist and to take up space. I do not fear for my safety when acting on my I love that it was my first tattoo. I loved it then and what I loved then makes up who I am now, and who I’m free will, a privilege some do not share. still becoming. And I love I had the free will to make It feels, like wealth, there’s a very clear disparity in that choice for myself, and that is enough for me to free will. Some having too much, whilst others not love something. enough, often s u f f e r i n g at the hands of those with too much

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I’m grateful that free will has fallen into the hands of a lot of the right people. I’m also disappointed it has fallen into the hands of others and has turned into a form of greed.

I ultimately think the best of humankind has come from free will. I think of David Attenborough, and the free will that is his life’s choice to care for the environment around us, pushing others to do the same.

I think of my mother, whose free will and choices seem to always consider the people she loves around her before herself.

With free will comes choice, and agency. It recognises that our choices and actions are not predetermined and set out for us. For this reason, we cannot justify our actions, showing no remorse, no desire to change, under the pretence that we did not have a choice. Freewill therefore comes I also think of the flipside. with a morality. A m o r a l i t y that recognises we have the choice to do the right thing, and to I think of the children, women and families act with empathy. Free will and choice, and all its who are collateral damage in wars shaped by powers, can therefore also come with g r e e d . political forces much bigger than themselves. I think of the protection of powerful So, I don’t like to imagine my life without free will. figures at the expense of i n n o c e n t , I want to understand the potential vulnerable young women, as hundreds of of my free will, and all the empathy that comes thousands of files were released earlier in with it. Where it can go and take me. Because the year, evidencing the wrongdoing and complete abuse of power of said powerful I know that my free will is going to go towards figures. These women, who deserve justice something good. I want my free will to bring free will to others, who, unlike myself, are without free for their stolen free will when they were will. young, and for the ramifications of those acts that still echo today.

Your choices are not predetermined. The systems in which we live are undoubtedly weighed against us, systems that persist because of the free will of actors keeping these systems in place to serve them, that could be using the same free will to enact meaningful change. But you have the autonomy some do not.

S p e a k u p . Ha v e c o n v e r s a t i o n s . B e a w a r e . L e a r n . Move through this world with empathy and kindness. Put your free will to the use it deserves. For yourself, and for others.

Written by Emily Ojansuu

Photograph by Sarah Soni John

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Tabs I never read Interruption : an event that causes a delay or a break in an ongoing process or activity.

Interruption is something that all of us do unintentionally or intentionally in our daily lives but If I were to ever ask someone ‘what if that one thing didn’t happen’, they probably wouldn’t know or maybe they would, if they are the kind to think about a hundred what if scenarios in their minds.

I sometimes think about how if that one thing didn’t happen, my life could have been so different. It’s a prison of hope; ironically one that is comfortable and the most beautiful.

Interruption sometimes feels like closing a tab on your computer that you weren’t supposed to close just yet. After that comes the brief hesitation followed by the quiet rationalisation “that tab didn’t matter anyway,” “I can just open it again.” but you never do and sometimes in your hectic life you’d think about the tab and wonder what would’ve happened if you had read that poem about an orange; would you like your life more in this stressful time? But it doesn’t matter now because you interrupted it at the time; it’s closed now.

Being the shy kid, I am, I’ve been interrupted several times while talking. It never bothers me that much because I grew up with the feeling that

maybe they have something more important to say. I justified the silence by calling it maturity.

As time went by, the interruption eventually stopped coming from others; it came from within. I started cutting myself off in conversations because I thought my opinion didn’t actually make sense.

My willingness to speak became quieter, smaller and sometimes even optional. I was the tab I closed before anyone else could, so I wondered about what could’ve been if I didn’t.

Fiona Apple once said, ‘I’m not shy, I just don’t speak if I don’t have anything to say.’ and also how she was reluctant to be misunderstood, she only talks if she feels like she is being heard. It’s paradoxical how even when we have a lot of things to say, we’d resist ourselves from talking if we feel like we aren’t being heard.

I resonate with her more than I’d like to admit.

It’s quite a rewiring. It unknowingly taught me when to stop, shrink, and choose silence above everything. Sometimes I think about the tabs that I couldn’t read before. accidentally closing them too early. They exist in the prison of hope; I like to visit her sometimes and she lets me take out some tabs every once in a while so that I can read and write 34 about them loudly.

Written by Sanvi Khanna

Design by Alyssa Cunanan

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WE FOUGHT OVER BIG CATS, Right when I thought I was in the perfect relationship with my boyfriend for the past eleven years (of course, with the usual breakups that somehow never lasted), I discovered there was still one untouched room in our relationship: a surprisingly serious disagreement over something very minor. And somehow, it came up while watching a wildlife documentary on big cats.

Naturally, I ignited the spark. “So, what big cat would you want to be?” “Obviously, a lion,” he said without a pause.

“What? Why?” He looked almost offended that I even had to ask.

“Because I’m a natural leader. I’m fierce, protective, brave, and, yeah, I think I would definitely be a lion. Also, he added confidently, “I’d be the king of the jungle.

An animal everyone on the planet sees as strong, dominant; even worth protecting, because it’s a top predator. And you,” he said, pointing at me, “would be my lioness.”

“No. I’m not a lioness,” I said immediately.

“If anything, I’m a snow leopard.” He laughed.

“A snow leopard? Why?” “Because lions are overrated,” I said, with the kind of certainty that usually starts unnecessary arguments. “Snow leopards have quiet power. They don’t reveal themselves easily. Even wildlife experts struggle to trace them. I think I’d rather be something people only partially understand.

Otherwise, the mystery is lost, and maybe the admiration too. Maybe even the power.”

He turned to me, suddenly more serious now.

“So you’re saying lions aren’t admired?

There’s literally an entire Lion King franchise.

If that’s not admiration, what is? And power isn’t supposed to be hidden away somewhere in the mountains having an identity crisis like your pretty snow leopard. Power is raw. It should be seen. People should understand it, fear it, respect it.”

Then he paused, narrowed his eyes, and added, “And what exactly do you mean by partially understood? Is that how you’ve been with me this whole time? Only halfdisclosed?”

And just like that, our harmless wildlife conversation turned into full-blown couple bickering! So the bickering went on. And on.

And on…..

Anyway, somewhere in the middle of it, I found myself thinking about the whatifs. So, what if there were a hypothetical being (let’s call him Mr.W) who understood me completely, a full 100% (not even 99.9999%)? I think I would be terrified.

Not relieved. Terrified… and maybe even a little violated. Because someone like that wouldn’t just understand me, he would reduce me to a single, defined version of myself.Take something simple, like a clock.It is completely understood. Predictable. The long hand marks minutes, the short hand marks hours, and the thin one ticks seconds.

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BUT IT WASN’T ABOUT THEM! And in exactly 60 minutes, it completes a full cycle. Every time. No surprises. And honestly… that’s boring. But I’m not a clock.

I’m a person. I’m evolving. I don’t react the same way twice. I don’t stay the same version of myself. I’m not even one fixed person on most days.

On my first day at work, I was a mess. I couldn’t even do the simplest tasks, like opening a Word document or printing a page. People quietly assumed I wasn’t cut out for it, that I wouldn’t last. And yet now, I’m the one multitasking, solving problems, and suddenly looking like the tech-savvy one.

Who would have guessed? That’s where the awe came from. Not because I was always capable, but because I became capable. And if someone had understood me completely from the beginning, if they had already known exactly what I would become….. what if Mr. W had been one of my colleagues?

He wouldn’t have felt that same sense of awe. Because nothing about me would have surprised him. Would that transformation still feel meaningful? Or would it just feel… expected? Maybe that’s the problem with being fully understood. Nothing about you can surprise anyone anymore. Not even yourself.

But there is something even more important that would be lost if Mr. W understood me completely: “THE EMOTIONAL PRIVACY.” He would have crossed into a space that is mine alone. I have every

right to that inner emotional world, a place for thoughts that do not always need to be spoken, only felt. The kind of private silence that lets me recharge, reflect, and begin again.That privacy is where some of my power lives.To have even that fully understood would feel like a quiet theft.

But then again, I’m not saying I should not be understood at all. I’m saying I should be understood only partially and the rest can remain an enigma, the very thing that keeps even a long-term relationship alive and exciting. And that was exactly when, in the middle of my own private conversation inside my head, my boyfriend understood me, which felt oddly paradoxical! He just hugged me and said, “You’re my constant.

I understand that the end goal is not to understand you completely, but to keep making the effort to understand you. Okay, Lions are stupid, snow leopards are the best.

I love you.”

And then it hit me. Yes, I do not actually want to be fully understood. However, what I truly crave is the effort to be understood. So I laughed, hugged him back and said, “I love you too What a stupid documentary!”

And, Maybe being loved is not the same as being fully understood.

Maybe it is being allowed to be little mysterious, and loved anyway

Written by Sri Satya Spandhana

Photograph by Abbey Gao

“Hahahahahaha”

W hat if I followed the word of God

My laugh is astounding. The way it resounds off the mirror, bouncing back towards me.

“I wish I knew how to quit him.”

I scream, I scream, I scream, and finally I scream.

No one else is home, the echo reaches the very back door and streams into the backyard. I knew the racist neighbours were lounging in their turquoise-stained pool. I really couldn’t have a care in the world if they heard.

I steamed outside as if chasing a possum. Run, run, little guy, get out. I ignored my agency to stop; I kept walking round and round the yard. I needed to do something with my hands, so I moved my feet. My hands were too fast. I looked up, the clouds had a hollowed-out look to them, yet I felt like they could fall right on me.

I looked like a madman.

Why was it always the men who were mad?

What did they have to be mad about?

Could a woman really make a man feel like this?

A man would have to feel things fully, in every capacity of what they are, to feel this way.

I haven’t had the privilege to witness that endeavour.

This man I met created me. He opened the doors, and I followed. Doors that led down, doors that led up, doors that led me all around. Twirling and twisting round a carousel without any ponies.

It was funny what I let happen to my personal beliefs, to my own boundaries, once a hot boy put his penis inside me. A whole two minutes later, I bent down to lick his toes. Holy Jesus, what I would do to have you want me, thread me through your needle, pluck open my cotton, string me along your road.

Crash. I hit my head too hard.

He said he couldn’t leave himself to be with me.

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k open m

ead m T hr

your needle, pluc h g u o e thr

y co

road. r u o y g tton, string me alon

He needed option.

I was mandatory.

He wanted optional.

So, I became optional for him.

I became oh so optional. I became so good at it.

I ran laps around the yard every time I saw him. Every time I came home at 7.30 am from a 30-minute Uber from his house. My eyes heavy from lack of sleep, lack of comfortable underwear, string up my ass, skirt pulled down for the 18th time. Three wines and cum sinking in my stomach.

“What a beautiful girl,” his lips curled up, almost aching for me. You touched my lips with your fingertips.

I let you tie laces around my waist.

Tighter and tighter till my breath is taken by you.

I gained a tally on my list. I put on a layer of limerence.

Oh God, I felt so dirty. I felt so powerful?

I could be a fun friend now. I could still kiss five boys who look like Chalamet and forgot which ones I’m kissing. Ket up my nose, brunette on my lips.

Powerful.

Powerful enough that my fingers trembled when I got home. Body quivering like passionfruit trees full of fruit. Closed my eyes and pictured my eyes as blue because he said they were. The scar that sits on my chin looks red, it irritates his beard, he said.

I laughed at that. Not because I thought it was funny. I just thought it was what I was meant to do.

He took my clothes off quickly; he must have wanted so desperately to see me. Every inch of me splayed out on his patient bed.

Taking me to the hospital.

Every ounce of him took the light out of my eyes.

Every ounce of me wanted his light in my eyes.

Is this what it feels like to be a man?

Or is this just boys being boys?

Men make things feel mandatory.

Don’t part open the seas just because a man wants to make you wet.

Written & Designed by Adrien Marks

Art by Jemima

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