CATALYST: 'THE IMPROV ISSUE', Issue 2, Volume 80

Catalyst Colophon

Catalyst

Issue 02 2024

Established in 1944

Contact

catalyst@rmit.edu.au

RMIT Media Collective

RMIT City Campus

Building 12 | Lvl 3 | Room 97

Printer

Printgraphics Pty Ltd

14 Hardner Road

Mount Waverley VIC 3149 Australia

Editors

Ishaan Ambavane

Louis Harrison

Soumil Sawmill

Cover Design

F: Ishaan Ambavane

B: Caitlyn Nguyen

Designers

Sisi Akarapichet

Elyssa Chen

Sophia Cuthbertson

Monique Pulivirenti

Megan Tran

Huiyu ‘Frankie’ Tian

Minh Ngoc Trinh

Ishaan Ambavane

Soumil Sawmill

Photographers

Arham Khan

Ishan Verma

News Officer

Bridget Clarke

Elior Malka

Creative Writing Officer

Mahal Cuya

Gaia Choo

Maisie Mateos

Nithya N

Lara Scuri

Farida Shams

Culture Officer

Tansy Bradshaw

Eloise Dalais

Hannah Elizabeth Robbins

Entertainment Officer

Luka D’Cruz

Olivia Hough

Yuvani Jayatillake

Elliot Mulder

Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union (RUSU) acknowledge the people of the Woi wurrung and Boon wurrung language groups of the eastern Kulin Nations on whose unceded lands we conduct the business of the University. We respectfully acknowledge their Ancestors and Elders, past and present.

Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union (RUSU) also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where it conducts its business.

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

Ctrl+ Contributors

04 OUT OF TOUCH by DARYL HALL & JOHN OATES

Dinny, Ori He, Catherine Lammens, Ally Raisa and Olivia Tong.

05 LOVE SONG by LANA DEL REY

Grace Luo and Ashley Nguyen.

09 UNTITLED

TBC

16 SEX ON FIRE by KINGS OF LEON Lewis Roche

17 LILAC WINE by JEFF BUCKLEY

Fai, Andrea Garcia, Elizabeth Ng, Khairunnisa Rahmadita and Lauren Valentino.

24 SUMMERTIME SADNESS by LANA DEL REY

Alissa Ceballos, Ming Hui Lee, Towako Hirabayashi, Sophia Kourdoulous and Katie Zhou.

25 VOGUE by MADONNA Ishaan Ambavane

28 BLUE SALIVA by PRYVT Thuy Chi Doan

29 BLOOD MONEY by POPPY Dinny, Ori He, Catherine Lammens, Ally Raisa and Olivia Tong.

37 TEENAGE DREAM by KATY PERRY

Alissa Ceballos, Ming Hui Lee

Towako Hirabayashi, Sophia Kourdoulous and Katie Zhou

43 QUÊN DAN QUÊN by CAPTAIN

Jerry Lee

THE C2 COLLABORATIVE COLLAGE SESSION

On the 28th of March, numerous creative RMIT students joined Ctrl+ and Catalyst to collaborate on a series of amazing collage pieces. From previous Catalyst issues, to found books, stickers and fashion magazines, students engaged in fun, chill and unserious play with papers, scissors and glue.

The collages you see throughout the magazine are birthed from the two hours of cutting and pasting, casual conversations, laughter and lots of book flipping, ideas scavenging, trial and error, and some spontaneous improvisation.

WHAT ON EARTH IS CTRL+?

Ctrl+ is a collective of creatives at RMIT. We specialise in Communication Design but are open to all students regardless of their majors and degrees. Every semester we host creative workshops, industry talks, social events, and more to help you broaden your creative horizon, befriend likeminded creatives, and receive valuable industry feedback for your portfolios!

TEACHERS ON STRIKE!

And then it happened. After two weeks of notification, four years of worsening conditions, and a whole lot of angry, abused teachers and staffers behind the cause, the strike began. To welcome it in, the NTEU started off with a march down Swanston Street that began from Building 94, up in the VE sector—which continues to experience some of the worst mismanagement RMIT had to offer.

The march then led into a rally outside of Building 1 where an academic board meeting was being held. The Vice-Chancellor and other heads of RMIT were attending. On the microphone, the frustrations and anger regarding the fact that it had been over 1000 days since the last Enterprise Bargaining Agreement, and that staff are being suffocated under ridiculous workloads and all for meagre pay, served as key points in why industrial action was being taken in the first place. “This is killing us. Our workloads are killing us” one teacher told me as I came into the rally. “We have 50 percent less staff and 50 percent more students” is what I was also told, just to put into perspective what the situation is currently like. As I made my way around the rally, I found myself speaking to RMIT staffers from all walks of employment, from teachers and professors to casuals and technicians. They stood together in solidarity over the common goal: to see improved conditions finally come to fruition.

“It’s 100 percent the most important thing we can do right now, because strength is in numbers”, “We need to send a clear message to management” and “all we have is each other against a management system that is designed to be destructive and divisive” were some responses from attendees in regard to the importance of solidarity. While the vexation within from the rally

was universal amongst all present, those who were there also shared their dissent in how causal and VE staff were treated in particular, with a speaker named Jasmine, a casual staffer herself, highlighting some of the abhorrent living conditions that this job has laid upon her.

In Jasmine’s speech, she brought up the fact that sessional staff like herself are the biggest backbone in RMIT’s economy yet have little to no job security at all. Her working hours add up to about 33 hours a week (including marking assessments) with zero paid leave or sick leave allocated despite the government putting through five days of such for casual workers. To really highlight the horrors of these working conditions, Jasmine admitted that she once had to work with COVID so that her pay was not at risk and that there were a few times she had to go dumpster diving while struggling to survive off her salary. Concluding her speech, Jasmine addressed the RMIT upper management telling them to “get [their] shit together and stop insulting us”.

When I asked Jasmine about the importance of striking, she responded that “We need to present a strong, united front” in order to stand up to the upper management, and even mentioned the interconnected state of student and staff conditions, saying that “it’s really important that we have those good teaching conditions so we can teach the students best”.

A strong, positive sentiment was felt towards the students who came out to show their support, with teachers saying how they were “blown away by your support” and bringing up how “students are the cornerstone of what we do”, while urging that “we are

doing this as much for as we are for us” so that staff are “in a position to be able to serve you the best, to be able to assess you the best, to get you the best”. Another teacher mentioned how happy they were “that there were students there that made me feel proud, but appreciated and supported”, while also saying that “I don’t feel like it’s us against them. It’s us and the students against them”. Many teachers concluded their response to this by encouraging students to come along, in helping to “annoy the people higher above us”, while also reiterating the classic NTEU phrase “teachers working conditions are student learning conditions”.

When asked if they can see teachers strikes becoming more frequent in the future, much of the sentiment came down to either “I really hope not” or “They definitely should be”. Many staffers I interviewed recognised how strikes impact student learning and that they “don’t want to take strike action, but we need decent wages, secure jobs, safe workplaces, and negotiations are going nowhere.” Further insisting on the need for strikes were comments such as “we’re going to get louder, we’re going to get bigger”, “unfortunately, it’s become necessary” and “we’re going to have to take more and more action that hurts the university so that we can get a fair hearing, fair wage, fair workloads.”

Going back to the more regretful tone of some attendees, they “really hope that this is the one that will make the executives sit up and take notice”, and that what should hopefully happen by the end of this is that “management comes up with a decent offer for us and going forward, there should be less strikes”.

In a gesture of solidarity, RMIT’s student union has done their part for the NTEU’s industrial action by closing their services down for the duration of the strike, as well as adjusting their regular Thursday ‘Chill N Grill’ to that of a ‘solidarity sizzle’.

Speaking to Finbar Bray, the Welfare Officer of RUSU, who also made a passionate speech on the rally microphone, we discussed the strike from a student’s perspective. “I think you would see a pretty immediate improvement to our education of our tutors can afford to eat… It’s best for everyone if they’re doing well” was his response when we discussed the insecure working conditions that have led some casual staffers to be working three jobs at once, on top of teaching. Talking more about the teachers, he said that “there are educators, they want to see us do the best. It’s only the fact that the uni has not really given them the space to be able to let them exceed” to once again bring attention to why exactly the strikes are happening; “that is not sustainable. It’s not ideal for that person to be teaching” helped to sum up the link between the quality of education for students and the quality of life of educators. “it’s not their choice, it’s the fact that they’ve been pushed to this point by the university, who isn’t negotiating with them, who isn’t even engaging with the union at all”

Speaking to Finbar further, we talked about student support for the strikes, which he said that “it’s really important that students, at least to some degree, show their solidarity.” While recognising the diverse living situations of students, he mentioned that “what you can do, you should do from home, you should study at home, you should try to watch your lectures online if you can”, while also saying that if he could encourage students to join the picket line, “I would if you could”. Further discussing RUSU’s involvement in the strike, Fin told me how “we’re joining in solidarity” and that “we’re still going to keep being a voice for students”. When I talked to him about the possibility of future strikes becoming more frequent, he said that “Of course no one want these strikes to go on…But the fact is, if RMIT is not going to budge, then what are we going to do? The status quo is just not tenable. It’s not right.” When wrapping up the interview, Fin closed the interview saying that “We need to send a message to the university management that we’re not going to accept the way that they treat their staff if they’re going to treat them in this particular way.”

Before I finished up for the day, I spoke to the NTEU RMIT branch leader, Trisha, whom I asked the same questions to that I asked to all those I interviewed. She again mentioned how this strike is “to make a statement to the Vice-Chancellor”, and how “when people are concerned with profit margins and corporatization of our universities”, this is the only way in which staff can bargain for improved conditions. As for what she had to say to the students, she said “We appreciate their support and we ask you to stand with us as we try to get a solution on this.”

So while the future remains uncertain in regards to whether improvements and negotiations will go through, one thing does remain certain: if conditions persist, then strikes will be happening more and more often. I think we can all recognise that when tensions reach a boiling point, a release will happen, and while it will be disruptive, and while many don’t want it to become the new norm, hopefully we will be able to see changes come through soon. How long until, is a question that is yet to be answered.

Imposter Syndrome and me: learning to " just not give a fuck"

“You just have to not give a fuck,” I was told while my shaky hands grasped a microphone as I prepared for a practice live television cross. I am studying journalism, and a big part of the job is confidence. Confidence to talk on camera, to strangers, on the street and on the phone. To challenge and ask questions of interviewees and colleagues. It is something I do every day in my hospitality job, and sometimes really enjoy! have always liked public speaking and performing, so why on this occasion—which was just practice—was I so nervous?

I didn’t really fit in at my strict all-girls school, but at no point did I take that a sign to alter my interests, or personality. I went about my business, quietly submerging myself in my favourite albums, TV shows and movies. As Jarvis Cocker said, “why live in the world when you can live in your head?” But I always maintained I had it in me – the sense of humour, the intelligence, and the confidence – to realise my ambitions of becoming a journalist, radio or even television presenter. My indifference to my outcast status was admirable. I just didn’t give a fuck.

I thought as I got older, the dream to reality pipeline would be linear, but, of course, it’s been anything but. At the pointy end of my degree and staring into a competitive and often precarious job market, my imposter syndrome has never been louder, and more paralysing. It convinces me everything I’ve ever achieved is a fluke, that I will never reach my goals, that my ambition is cringe-worthy, that everyone thinks I’m an idiot… some not so nice stuff.

My imposter syndrome also makes me jealous. I envy people’s ability to raise their hand in tutorials

and—in the context of journalism—get themselves jobs through internships or pure chutzpah. It always leaves me thinking, I could have done that! But only if I worked harder, looked better, was funnier, smarter, better-spoken… essentially, if I changed everything about myself.

Deep down, I know all this to be nonsense; none of those things are true of anyone. But our brains work in funny ways; humans are not rational beings. I was once told anxiety is an unhelpful friend trying to prevent you from the disappointment of failure. Imposter syndrome is rooted in anxiety and everyone, to a certain extent, experiences it. I suppose dealing with it is a matter of managing its volume. Compulsive negative self-talk is a habit. Like any habit, it can be broken, and new ones can take its place. But that requires work; work that only you can do.

Dolly Alderton said in her memoir Everything I Know About Love that you need to take your own life seriously, because if you don’t, then no one will. Taking yourself seriously is not inherently annoying, nor an arrogant display of intensity. When I was at school I didn’t care if I seemed obsessive, or passionate. But as I’ve gotten older, it seems it’s become cool not to care.

The fear of coming off too strong is a perplexing anxiety when you consider it reveals the selfinvolvement you’re trying to prevent people from seeing. Such is the paradox of people-pleasing: it’s never actually about the other person. It’s about you. Caring is cool. Pretending not too is a fruitless attempt at self-protection.

In the spirit of Catalyst’s ‘Improv’ issue, it now seems an appropriate time to emphasise, no one knows

what they are doing, at least at the start. We’re all just doing improv, and comedy geeks like me know the best improv is done by people with no fucks to give. And why would you? All the well-worn platitudes and clichés—that life is short, that we all start somewhere, that you shouldn’t say sorry all the time, that ambition and arrogance are not the same thing, nor is selfflagellation and self-deprecation—exist because they’re true. What’s the worst that can happen if you choose to believe them?

After my shoddy piece to camera, an experienced journalist did hers. It was flawless, confident, concise, clear. It seems the people who choose not to care are the ones that get stuff done. Indeed, not giving a fuck is not laziness. It’s about allowing yourself the freedom to be the person you wish to be, not the person your imposter syndrome convinces you you’re doomed to be.

Bridget Clarke

thoughts from the junkyard

the sun rises on a world that has long forgotten about me. for they dusted their hands off and packed away their tools after extracting and mining all the best parts of me. they did not think twice before discarding the rest in a junkyard of brittle bones. everyone here is a mere hollowed out shell who chants promises once whispered like mantras. desperation seething in cavernous eyes. it gets better.

it gets better. their synthetic praises remain etched in our brains. the chemicals inside morphing and mutating around them. i find myself crawling across polluted lands, ending up on their doorstep, a bird cinched between my teeth. but their eyes wander towards the horizon where new buds bloom. i wonder if they will be the lucky ones or if they are destined to meet our same fate.

not quite right

I know my mum loves me; I know because she tells me so. Though she sees that I’m a little different to the other kids her friends have. All my life her “I love you’s” were succeeded by “and how strange you are’s”. My face may be a replica of hers but the image of me in her mirror is distorted because something is just ‘not quite right’ with her baby. Her baby is something of a ‘savant’, with the ‘syndrome’ conveniently dropped around her friends. I know my family loves me; I know because they always show it. But I will not pretend that I do not hear their hushed whispers behind closed doors after they think I have gone to sleep where they ask my mother if she’s sent me to the doctor yet. I can no longer pretend that I don’t see the side looks they give one another when I have been naughty, as if their eyes say, “be patient, she’s different”. In a family of over-affectionate meat eaters, the kid who hates pork and hugs, and explodes in the presence of either, sticks out just a little.

I know my friends love me, but they know something is off about me. They know I’m hiding something and that it’s why I never want to go eat with them or travel further than 15 minutes to meet them. They don’t know that I’m hiding the very fabric of who I am because every one of their predecessors left a crumbling heap of ash in place of the meticulously crafted identity I developed after realising that the “me” me is not somebody that has friends. There are so many piles of rubble, I could build a cathedral from their ruins and finally have some place to go. There is just something not quite right about me.

There is something off with the way I walk, the way I speak is unsettling. Nothing comes across the way that I intended, all my words unamusingly fall to the floor as though they were chopped liver. People I love laugh at the way soft sounds are too loud and loud sounds too soft for me. People who love me change the subject when I start to speak. People I love don’t believe that I am mute. People who love me know that I’m just too different.

To perpetually remain in a place where nobody speaks the same language as you, and none of you can learn. Forced into a daily pantomime, most common ground gathered through keywords and slow speech, when often those keywords are taken and twisted into something beyond my recognition because they will never speak my language. It is better to remain silent and strange than run the risk of risking it all just to have a conversation. It is better for me to hide away from the world rather than continually collide an immovable object with an unstoppable force expecting new results each time.

I’d rather be in the heart of a river braiding lemongrass, crushing the leaves under my nails to rub under my nose. The sharp citric scent makes my hair stand on end and my nervous system shudder. Watching the sun at the edge of the world fall down, while I drift down the river, hoping that it too will fall off the side of the world, taking me with it.

Backspac |

I kill my sorrows with my own hands

I take a sip

I light a match

I touch a face

I touch my leg

I grab a pen

I cast a spell

I sit in silence

The man across from me moves his lips

I hear trams and birds

And the screams of city transit

But I never hear him

He never hears me

Maybe I like it this way

I sat on a chair

Near the corner of the table

6 figures sat around me

Some slouching

Some smiled at me

But their mouths hardly curled

They looked dull

They feel grey

I feel grey

I am wearing a grey jumper

No one gave it to me

I didn’t buy it

I didn’t steal it

It got left in my cupboard one day

I watched a man play with his fingers

It felt like I used to know him

And there was sad music

But when I looked up

I’d never known him

I feel happy only when prompted

Sometimes I type !!

As if that means I am excited

But it poorly hides the harsh reality

That I feel

I am

Nothing

Can I start again?

I mean?

Can I go back|

I found a small pocket On the inside of my pants

I’ve owned them for years I got them from a good shop They cost a couple of hours

I lost a couple of kilos

I’ve written a few good poems I kicked a few goals I got a good score on my tests I didn’t get fired So everything is happening

I wonder what I smell like And if anyone remembers And if I died tomorrow Would someone be able to list things about me? |

HIDING byMahal Cuya

I tell my friends that I just need to pee before I duck into a nearby bathroom. The stalls are painted navy blue. White shiny tiles. The lights are a little too bright. Outside I can hear the rush of traffic. Melbourne is alive at nine in the evening. I stand at a urinal and do my business. There are two other people. One in a navy suit. The other is in casual clothes. They’re both white. No one is making a sound. I can hear my heartbeat inside my ears. Should I leave? I feel like I should leave.

A beat is a public space for gay men to engage in sexual activity. They’re usually in areas you would not think to look twice in. Public bathrooms, parks, carparks. Within the outer suburbs, the closest beat to mine is only one kilometre away: a public oval. The other is five kilometres away: a park and a lake. The action occurs early in the morning before the sun rises or deep into the night. You could hear the soft moans if you dared to traverse close.

They’ve been around ever since we’ve had to have bits and pieces of ourselves. The recent surge of apps like Grindr has made it easier to cut out the need for beats. But cruising sites like Sniffies exist that show nearby beats. There are subreddits dedicated to this art, strangers echoing into the void to look for pleasure: Anyone looking? Looking for fun tn. It’s usually followed by a terrible photo of themselves. You can tell when a man is cruising: by glancing around, waiting, maybe tapping his foot twice as a signal. An ancient ritual, cemented decades prior. Some do it for the thrill. Others because it’s the only way. It’s a society bound by shaky foundations of secrets and trust in strangers.

Beats usually have DL (down low) men, older men, younger men or any curious men. In a Reddit thread that I found, there are even tradies and office guys waiting on the sidelines. Activity between men has transformed from a freak show to an oddish and slightly strange one, something that must not be talked about directly but is motioned to, like how you would never say the word hell but would say heck. The men are chameleons, shapeshifting to disguise themselves in a heteronormative world. When walking into a beat, men shave off their scales and let their lungs breathe. They will linger there for half an hour or fifteen minutes before they face the fear of the world again.

You can never tell who's walked out of one.

The urinal flushes and I linger at the sink. I take some soap and lather it between the divides of my fingers, my joints and within the lines of my palms. I steal a look over my shoulder. They are still standing there. Unmoved, afraid and terrified. Trauma runs rampant across the queer community. It’s there in our bones. As if at this very moment, someone will catch them and have their entire secret unfold to the world like so many people before them have. Isn’t it illegal to engage in sexual activity in public? I can hear you say. But there’s always a reason why men linger here: solitude, safety, confidentiality. If gay men were allowed to exist as themselves in the first place, this wouldn’t have transformed into a tunnel of secret connections.

I dry my hands at the dryer. Curiosity tugs at the corners of my mind. I think about my parents. Their sacrifices, expectations and dreams swirl around me. What will they think of me? Shame prickles throughout my entire body, sending chills down my spine.

In the 2016 film Spa Night, the audience follows a Korean-American named David working in a spa in Koreatown, Los Angeles. There’s a scene in which David stumbles into the secret cruising culture at his workplace in the baths. He makes eye contact with an older man in the baths. He tries to make a move. David slaps him away: “Don’t touch me, okay?”

I can feel his curiosity, his shame, his thoughts: his family drowning in debt, his future. What will they think of me? His breath shakes. He’s torn. He’s split. Arousal dies to the thought of dishonour. I walk out of the bathroom and rejoin my friends.

DUNE 2 In Context Part 1

One of the scary aspects of adapting a universally admired piece of work is the hoards of people who criticise the film’s inaccuracy. But when a director understands the vastness of the story, and its bones, you get a film that is fulfilling in almost every aspect; cinematically stunning, sound engineering and a soundtrack that makes every fine hair stand on edge, and performances that remind you why acting is an intricate art. The plot is thick with political insight into colonialism, capitalism, and based very much in the reality Frank Herbert lived prior to the book’s publication, as a White-house staffer.

It tells the story of an heir, Paul Atreides, and the path he is considered destined to follow to become a messianic being for the native people on the planet of Arrakis. The Kwisatz Haderach is the prophesied name of the freer of the people, and with the help of the hallucinogenic ‘spice’ that is plentiful on the planet, they can foresee the future of their people and their land. We see glimpses of him, striding dominantly over sand dunes; but it’s supposed to be a cautionary tale. Since the prophecy that their saviour originates from, was contrived completely by the Bene Gesserit: a whispering sisterhood that allusively influences the politics and lineage of the planetary system’s monarchy. Mirroring the very real strategies that British colonialists and American colonialists practised when occupying ‘new found’ lands. Many of the religions in South Asia, northern and western parts of Africa, and of course the Middle East, were very diplomatic prior to colonisation—giving women agency, liberation and giving value to life by understanding how to find inner peace. But since occupation by invasive forces, the western world left remnants of it’s outdated puritan values—domesticating women, romanticising the military and violence, to the point where we see the extremists now governing these regions. These inspirational cultures are carried through to the film—the costumes, the language, even the name of the planet: Arrakis. It’s disturbingly accurate, how Herbert was able to instil the words of warning within a fictitious world, but it still had gone over people’s heads—something Denis Villeneuve took upon himself to redeem.

There are many factors and plot points in the book that ground it in reality, but just as many that re-subvert it as science fiction. Lady Jessica, Paul’s mother, is a member of the Bene Gesserit and consumes the bile of a juvenile sandworm in a ceremony to appoint her the religious head of the Fremen community we are introduced to in the last half of the first film. It grants her the power to telepathically communicate with her unborn child, who now has communal access to her maternal ancestors’ memories. A perk of religion I can’t say is normal in reality. In addition to the gift of foresight, as a Bene Gesserit she’s been trained to alter matter at an atomic level, to the point that she can determine the sex of an unborn child within her own womb— which is why the significance of Paul’s birth is a point of focus for the Bene Gesserit—as it expedites the generation the Kwisatz Haderach a generation early.

Villeneuve exploits the vastness of their Saudi Arabian desert, with sweeping shots of Paul and Chani crossing empty plains. It’s difficult to sit through anything for 3 hours, but the context I provided should help you understand just how heavy and (aforementioned) fulfilling every second of the 166 minute run time. Every scene is intentional, and beautiful to look at. Villeneuve is one of the best when it comes to colour, colour theory and its application in film, along with cinematographer Greg Fraser. So like his previous works: Arrival, Blade Runner 2049 and Sicario, he uses colour or lack thereof in some scenes (the famous infrared battle on the Harkonnen’s homes planet). It’s an instant classic, where credit is due to every collaborator on this project. But criticism has a funny way of trickling into every river of praise.

It is with a heavy heart I must admit, the irony that for every major cinematic pop-cultural shift, i.e. James Cameron’s Avatar, feels ever so slightly hypocritical when it comes down to its final execution. When we analyse the themes and ideas of the story: colonialism, capitalism, exploitation of resources, monarchical inheritance of wealth and assets and so much more. So how is it that the frenchCanadian director fell flat when it came to casting? It isn’t that the performances are lack-lustre or disproportionately bad that it’s distracting from the film—that’s simply not the case. But there are countless actors across Hollywood, and outside of Hollywood that would have added that extra layer of grounding that is a biproduct of real-life experiences. How can a film take so much inspiration into its world-building and cultural manufacturing from a collection of places that have suffered from the very same conflicts that are explored in the film. But blissful ignorance is a beautiful thing, and escapism is exactly what this film is.

Fulfilling Destinies Part 2

However, the cautionary tale that Herbert intended to tell with both Dune and Dune: Messiah—which Villeneuve aimed to honour more promptly with these two parts—pins its escapist qualities to a critical examination regarding the mass perception of impossible saviours across countless cultures and fiction. They haven’t simply pinned the story to this—they lay it bare for all to see.

The so-called “chosen one” is a trope that can’t be mysterious to anyone nowadays. From the stories we create as 12-year-olds to ancient religious texts worshipped by billions, it often comes down to one prophesied person with incredible gifts naturally above their peers and destined to defeat monumental odds; others will follow where they crusade, even beyond their hero’s death. Some might even claim their strength to be that of their messiah working through them. In Dune’s case, the emergence of the Fremen chosen one, the Lisan al Gaib, comes with a very particular snag: it will incite a holy war and, with it, the deaths of billions. While Paul initially staves off this future fearfully, telling his sceptic partner Chani that he desires to live among the Fremen rather than rule them, consuming the water of life sees his temperament change radically.

If you spend your evenings doom-scrolling on TikTok lately, you’ve likely seen an epidemic of edits bouncing around of Paul Atreides. He stands before an army of thousands, roaring “Long live the fighters” in the Fremen language and using his voice to “silence” Charlotte Rampling’s Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother. It makes him look badass, an undeniable god naturally above the Fremen, the Harkonnens, Chani and even his mother; it is him as he is. Once he downs the water of life, he is the Lisan al Gaib, and he knows it. “Holy war, schmoly war!” He essentially exclaims as his predictions of the devastation born from his conquest readily dissolve in his fresh blue eyes. All that matters now is that he is home to his power—but so are the Fremen.

In Dune’s final act, the Fremen people tamed three colossal sandworms, launched an offensive against the Sardaukar troops, and conquered Arrakeen in one fell swoop simply in Paul’s name, with nothing but the promise that he would lead them to paradise. All Paul had to do was walk into the stronghold, kill an old fat guy and then have a single duel with Feyd-Rautha. Much like the sequence in which Paul rallies the Fremen for his vengeance against the Harkonnens, these moments serve no greater purpose than asserting his power. He was the cherry on top of an already glorious cake, with ingredients that would taste perfectly sweet regardless. The battle for Arrakis was over at the hands of his people’s true strength; Paul simply twisted the knife. The kicker is that “Lisan al Gaib!” is the only cheer heard during that sequence.

Such is the cyclical “chosen one” manifesto across many other narratives. The fight is unwinnable when the chosen one is dead (Harry Potter); only they can achieve the mindfulness and selflessness it takes to weather the darkness (Star Wars); it can only be their unique capabilities that can defeat the cruellest of adversaries (Avatar: The Last Airbender, The Matrix); from tragic beginnings, they will rise above all others (pretty much all of them); once in a generation, only one is destined for greatness, to lead us to paradise (Dune). I’ve never been one for cherries, and I cannot help but wonder why it must take someone ordained as truly special to achieve greatness or their will to strengthen others when it should be one’s own, whether alone or among allies. In experiencing Dune: Part Two, it seems natural to question the larger-than-life figures we’ve grown up reading and seeing across media in fictional and real-world forms.

Ultimately, Dune: Part Two invites audiences to bear witness to the idealisation of one single person with a little something up his sleeve, a way with words, a precarious pledge, a largely self-serving thirst for power, whose path will lay waste to endless anonymous lives while he imposes his idiosyncratic paradise. Both Herbert and Villeneuve implore you to wonder why deification is worth it, if at all. Why observe and glorify someone else’s greatness when you could be chasing your sliver of it instead?

a binding blinding bliss

by Sofiya Khan

You use pretty words

Bending them like morals

Crafting and stringing together letters

Panels and panels

Pleasurable presenters

Playing parts

Taking the moral high ground

Where is your humanity to be found?

Eloquence is concealing

It is failing

Beauty cannot hide extremity

Screams across the ocean fall lightly

You’re not barbaric

How can silence be tyrannic?

A sign of savagery?

A repetition of history

Can savagery occur in silence?

Will you pay penance?

We write books pitying people

Without sounds

Splatters of blood are dripping

Tears falling

On the playground

With blind voices

You refuse to make choices

You’re nothing but civilised

What a magnificent prize

How introspective!

You look down on depravity

Arming and adorning yourself

Drowning in false flattery

Abstaining is an act of degeneracy

Holding yourself to a higher ground

Is debauchery silent or loud?

Dissolute internally

Decadent externally

Lost entirely

Isn’t civilisation the faculty to hold multiple perspectives?

You rise

What a lie

Above people

Above action

Do nothing

Be nothing

Disillusionment is tempting

Enchanting

Addicting

It is desirable

Strange and unidentifiable

A drug

Clouding your receptors

It’s painful

To think

You have lost

My sympathy

No amount of words can conceal it

What a feat

Refusing to look is cowardice

You bind yourself

In a tight bliss

How beautiful

Feeling safe in rigidity

Submerged

Are you comfortable?

The noose lies elsewhere

The tightness does not touch you

Your fingers touch screens

Not corpses

Another swipe

Another like

You are safe

Safe

Do you feel hurt by this?

A binding blinding bliss

Observations on a series of Metro trains

A young woman in a dazzling red coat sits across from her partner. She is laughing hysterically, wiping away tears. Her laugh is infectious. He asks her why.

A person with a brown corduroy bag calls a loved one on their way home from work. They list all of the mundane things they did that day. They fill each other’s company in every spare minute.

A father dotes on his baby sitting on his lap. He points out the window, explaining every thing that he sees in detail as though the child will understand. The baby is utterly captivated, seemingly hanging onto every word.

Two teenagers sit across the aisle from each other. They are both holding heavily decorated cakes, one of them has been absolutely destroyed. They barely have to look at each other before they start laughing again, the cream slowly melting on their cakes as they giggle all over.

A woman on crutches slowly makes her way to an orange seat. Two women, complete strangers to each other, stand up and grab either of her arms and gently guide her onto the seat between them before the train starts moving again.

Sometimes I wish you saw the world the way that I do,

But then again, maybe you’d see too much of me.

H!s Quirks

& Me

The infatuation stage is far away now. Instead, I melt into his qu!rks, his maddening idiosyncrasies that make me want to spend more time in his company.

Moments like when his eyes tw!nkle as he retells an exciting anecdote I haven’t heard before, or when his eyebrows furrow slightly in seriousness, or when he keeps to himself, longing to express his view of the world’s beauty without judgment. When he says ‘thank you’ twice, expressing his gratitude, or when he confides in me, feeling understood and supported. He feels judged by the world, but I remind him to ‘own his sh!t,’ assuring him that ‘everything will be okay’

All I want is to feel his skin, his gaze, his touch, his warmth—everything he does. But more importantly, I hope he gives in to me as I have to h!m.

I tried to slow my descent into love, but as soon as I saw his smile, it felt like I had known him my whole life. The first time he recognized me across the room, his face relaxed, his eyebrows rose, and his crinkled eyes said, ‘You’ve made it! You’re here now!’

He was there all along, camouflaged under my nose. I wish I had known him sooner, seen those brown eyes and that smile before.

Before his smile, h!s actions spoke volumes—like the beautiful flowers passed on to me from his parents, a gesture revealing his kindness and chivalrous nature. It was then my brain whispered, ‘Maybe you should let him in...’

Now, fast forward to today, and he means more every passing day. I wish I could say I don’t think about him, but I do. He’s in my subconscious, even inhabiting my dreams. All I want is to be with him forever, forgetting how l!fe was before him.

We go out, have fun, laugh, tease, and annoy each other until one of us leaves the other speechless. We’ve settled into a routine now, his smile a part of my every day.

Sometimes I wonder if my feelings will remain unrequited, kept to myself. But I think I’m ready now, ready to confront !t all.

By Louis OrigamiHarrison

If I was an origami frog, she was a paper crane.

She was made of magic and mystery and I, made from rain, I was rough around the edges, while she was delicate and fine, I was tarnished where she was flowers and blossoms and wine. We were both still learning to trust in the universe and time, she used to tell me she was glad I found her... I was glad she was mine. I wonder about the timing of our love, whether right or wrong I think no matter what happened, we learned what it is to belong.

I think the tarot cards might have had it out for us one way or another, I thought the world of her, and the oracles held us close as lovers She told me we were of the same star while we lay on the dewy grass, I think I held onto that in my heart so tightly it couldn’t help but collapse. I awoke each morning lingering a little more on the thought of her with me, the feeling of her lips brushing against mine, her touch, her everything. Maybe this is the time I am meant to find a way to forget, the happiness, the memories, the day that we met.

Maybe I am holding on too hard to an idea that is false, that she might love me again and our differences we’ll solve.

I got a piercing today, and the last time I was remotely upset, she tended to reach for other things to deal with regret.

All I wanted to do was to text her, or have her message first, but I learned long ago that effort on their part is what I deserved. So, I’ll sit with her name on the tip of my finger and the edge of my tongue, I’ll swallow my pride and my ego and remember we are still so young. They say the first love hurts in ways you can’t ever have foreseen, but the second or third hurt because you’re not naive nor still seventeen. The world by then has started to form and shape and mold you, and love feels like this serendipitous well of serotonin that overgrew.

I think I fell in love with her because I wanted to be loved by her too, I wrote her into poetry because all of the ‘romantic’ in me felt like it was true. If she was a paper crane, I was an origami frog, I think I’ll always read our book from the very start to the end of the epilogue…

Lead Light and Tapestries

by Louis Harrison

You took up lead light to fix the broken glass, the pieces of my heart you would collect and amass. I stood next to you, candle lit and burnt halfway, you smiled at me and gave to me a delicate bouquet. The petals were fashioned from the reds of my arteries, the stem covered with brass thorns from your resilience armoury. The sap that ran through each rose was the plasma from my blood, you told me that you fixed my heart and gave it back so I could love. I found out later on when the vase I kept them in needed new water, the shades of orange and yellow came from your soul’s ochre. You stopped coming around and messaging my phone, and I kept wondering why you chose to be alone.

I learned how to mend and sew and create a quilt of art, and I found you in a worse state with a bruised and battered heart. I found for you some cloths, some threads and pins, I stitched up all the holes and embroidered lyrics from songs and hymns. I wound up the loose ends and tucked away the grief, I breathed life into your lungs until you could finally see relief. And so, my flowers sat atop a mantle made from the ivory of my bones, while your tapestry lay over you so you, always felt at home.

the Mirror of Saintly Yearnings

On a solemn night, nestled against a rugged cliffside of crashing waves, there stood a castle veiled in shadows. Once a beacon of grandeur, now lay abandoned under the brewing lilacs of thunderclouds, its turrets reaching for the sky like mournful sentinels.

Dark and vacant, wind howled through its walls, igniting whispers of the past like ghosts of a loved era. Deep within the castle’s chambers, perched a mirror. It’s dull frame an ornate silver, adorned with the patina of age. The glass, polished to a flawless sheen, captured the faint moonlight filtering through the cobwebbed archways of the castle.

The mirror had seen countless faces come and go through the halls. From the nobles of golden times, decorated with regal airs and concealed longings, to the humble servers and soldiers relegated to the shadows, they all sought one thing from the mirror: a glimpse of their own desires reflected back to them.

Despite the fleeting faces, the mirror found solace in each new reflection, as the mirror too, was intoxicated for the yearning of life beyond its frame.

But the mirror watched greed grow, as passers would gloat in triumph or wrath, wanting more. Every time, all departed without a word of farewell, leaving the mirror in darkness once more.

“What did I do wrong?” the mirror wondered. “Had I not shown them exactly what they wanted? Why did they leave?” Questions echoed through the empty corridors, unanswered and haunting.

Until one fateful night, a weary traveller sought refuge beneath the looming doors of the abandoned castle. The storm raged above the cliffside like a starved beast, hurling wind, and rain down upon the traveller. Racing inside, with each step through the labyrinthine corridors of stone, the traveller hoped for signs of life within.

Eventually, they stumbled upon a corridor bathed in a still darkness. There, the mirror rested, gleaming in the traveller’s presence. Stepping closer, their reflection wavered in its polished surface. With a soft caress, the traveller touched the frame, not fixated on what awaited if they glanced deeper, but on the structure of its poisoned bones.

The traveller murmured, ‘Who left such a treasure to ache in the darkness alone?”

As thunder growled outside the cobblestone walls, an eery voice, smooth and coaxing like freshly spun silk,

spoke to the traveller, “This darkness is far lighter than the burdens I carry.”

Stunned, the traveller breathed in the hauntingly serene voice. They replied, “And yet, you carry it with grace, bearing the weight of neglectful years.”

“Don’t flatter me, you’ll be gone soon. Shall I show your deepest desires?”, the mirror hastily questioned.

“There’s no need,” the traveller answered confidently. “I know who I am, where I’ll go; I do not need you to show me.”

The mirror felt humbled by the traveller’s words.

“Then, teach me how to be free, to live my own desires,” it spoke, its voice laced with vulnerability.

The traveller pondered this request, “If I could, then who do you want to be?” the traveller asked.

“If I were lost in these forsaken walls as you are,” the mirror began, “I would leave this castle, no longer bound by the reflections of others. I would dance under the storm clouds and allow my heart to fulfil my aching famine, to live freely; free like every drop of rain that kissed the earth below.”

The traveller grew a faint smile, “Then you shall be free.”

Plucking the mirror tenderly from its place, the traveller carried it towards the arched window. As the storm outside seethed, the traveller’s heart swelled with purpose. With one final breath, they hurled the mirror out into the open air, watching as it fell and shattered upon the jagged rocks below.

As the glass scattered, the mirror was liberated, centuries of faces and perceptions broken, releasing the mirror from its constraints.

As raindrops fell upon the severed glass, the storm gradually lightened and faded away. With hopeful eyes, the traveller witnessed the sky clearing. As they made their way through the corridors of the empty castle, they bid farewell to the rotting desires and plagued cruelty that haunted the walls. They were now mere whispers in the wind with no one to listen.

As the sun peaked above the horizon, casting a warm, gilded glow over the serene castle, the traveller stood in quiet reverence. With a sombre promise echoing, they vowed to walk their own path with courage and kindness. A mirror to no one, but rather a blank canvas to begin.

by Maisie Mateos

Words by Eloise Dalais

Learning To Love Yourself

There is something about learning to love yourself. You discover the many ways you’ve picked yourself apart, examining every wound with a magnifying glass, gazing across the constellation of bruises marring your soul, searching for the splinters that sit just beneath your skin, the fragments of embedded trauma in the soles of your feet— the visibility of stains not the entirety of the truth. There are new feelings, there is new terrain to explore... with the accompaniment of change and guilt and shame. There is no way to take back what’s already been done, and no way to reverse the things already said... Or the things left unsaid altogether.

The minefield that is a bullet-pocked heart is fickle. Learning the ropes of loving yourself isn’t for the faint of heart. Wiping away the oxidised blood that lines your toes with the sand and sea of thoughts you put to rest is an experience unlike any taken before.

In learning to love yourself, you lose parts of you, and in losing those, you find ways to care more. Gone is the prickling numb sensation that lives in your spine, it is replaced by growth, and love, and inevitable pain. The difference this time, is you are strong enough, you are capable enough to change.

Words by Louis Harrison