Q Zine ~ issue 3~ You are not alone by QZine

Q issue 03

you are not alone

FROM TH E ED ITOR

Hello again! I’m Momo the editor and one of your queer officers in 2015. I also consider myself an enemy of the patriarchy. My fellow queer officers and myself are very proud with the diversity that we currently have in our lovely collective.

welcome to

zine

“You are not alone”, a catchy tagline ey? It’s one of those things that we tell people to make them feel better when ships are down. Most of the time those phrases have an empty echo to them because when your heart is broken and your world is ending words tend to not account for much. Many queer individuals go through this at some point in their lives. In your different journeys you will feel afraid that you are on your own because it’s true. You are unique in everyway. I’ll let you in on a secret though, you don’t need that much in common with people or other queer individuals to have their companionship and support on your various journeys as a beautiful unique you. From my experience it’s quite terrifying to open up about who we are. You don’t have to because love and support never has pre-requisites when it comes to who you are (well non-toxic love and support). Flip through this zine and allow it to keep you company. You might see something familiar or something brand new. Either way you they are all so very important. I wish that this issue makes you feel less alone even just a little, made you think and that it puts a smile on your face. Mohammad Taha Editor

Q contents

abo u t qu eers

03 Editor’s Note Momo

06 About us Queer Dept

08 Queer Officers’ Welcome

Queer Lounge

Ai Vee / Romy

B e w ho y ou are and sa y w ha t y ou fe el, b e c ause those who mind don’t ma t ter and those w ho ma t ter don’t mind Dr. Seuss

“

14 There’s no place like home

Steph Westwood

Lauren E. Mitchell

Mama Alto Benny Dimas

26 When I Feel Alone

27 Your Thoughts

28 Euphoria

Ai Vee

Momo

Peter

fo r queers 4

16 Rise up Singing

10 An Ode to the Queer Gamer

abo ut us The Queer Department at RUSU was created to help establish a more visible and safe queer culture on campus. Whilst the Queer Officers facilitate its activities, the Department’s agenda is set by queer identifying students who form the Queer Collective. Anyone can share ideas, raise concerns and find out about services and social networks.

You can get in touch with the RUSU Queer Department by emailing the Queer Officers:

W h at d oe s the Qu e e r D e p artm e nt d o?

We challenge the discrimination still prevalent in our society - not just the violence or aggression of overt homophobia, but the more subtle yet equally damaging pervasiveness of heterosexism, whenever and wherever it occurs.

Hetero-normativity, or the assumption that everyone is straight, and that it is somehow more natural or normal to be so, is everywhere, from our mass media to our law system to all levels of our education system. The Queer Department’s very existence challenges this.

rusu.queer@rmit.edu.au

Provides support for people who are coming out, questioning or otherwise establishing their sexual / gender identity. It supports all students who identify as Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Transgender, Queer or Questioning, Intersex and Asexual (LGBTQIA). Gets involved in community campaigns targeting homophobia, discrimination and LGBTQIA concerns, as well as campaigns about broader social issues. Runs regular social events and activities, including a fortnightly meeting group, for students to meet each other, hang out and get involved in a queer collective. Helps RMIT queers to get involved in crosscampus networks and community groups. 6

We welcome your involvement in any or all of these aspects. You can be involved and express yourself in any way you choose. In short, the Queer Department allows Queer students to collectively address issues that affect us, both on campus and in the wider community.

Make sure you check out the Queer Lounge, RMIT’s dedicated queer space and resource centre. It’s a great place to eat lunch, study, access information, play games, use the queer library and generally hang out. The Queer lounges are located at:

the queer lou n g e

> >

Building 8, Level 3, Room 06 (City) Building 204, Level 1 (Bundoora)

At RUSU we realise that with only City and Bundoora Queer Lounges, these safe space are not accessible to all RMIT students. Therefore we urge you to help us call on RMIT University to provide a queer space at each campus. Although we always welcome allies and friends of queers I urge you to understand that not all people who are part of the collective feel safe or are out to society. THE SAFETY AND COMFORT OF THE COLLECTIVE COMES FIRST. If a queer individual from the collective displays discomfort (EVEN UNWARRANTED discomfort), the allies and friends of queers will be asked to leave the rooms.

Greetings and welcome to the Zine!

Q U EER O F F I C E R S ’ W ELC O M E

To those who do not know me I am Romy, one of your three Queer Officers for 2015. And it’s really an honour to welcome you to the Queer Department’s new look Zine. Since I walked through the doors of the Queer Lounge, those within have become a second family to me where for the first time in my life I could be who I was and not fear judgment. Since that moment I have almost completely dropped the façade I would parade to the rest of the world – and for the first time I like who I am completely and utterly. I was so afraid to be myself – always looking through glass windows and seeing the person I didn’t want to be. It was so freeing to see beyond the image to the person I was, the person I had been and the person I was to become and love myself.

RMIT can feel like a very lonely place. You are surrounded by people from all walks of life, some can feel out of place, isolated. Fret not, you are not alone. We are here for you. I’ve heard countless stories of how people first got involved in the Queer Department. Many felt intimidated and awkwardly shy when they first started out as newbies. This is totally understandable. Talk to us, we don’t bite. Soon you’ll find out that we’re a fairly bright and friendly bunch of queers. We all started from somewhere. Don’t be afraid. As that dreadful flow of assessments start building up, lets not forget about all the events that we have on each week, come mingle, let loose and possibly learn something new.

I don’t think it was coming out to my family that was so important for me – I was afraid to come out to myself. I’ll admit that it wasn’t until I walked through the looking glass I was ready to re-make myself over by letting go of insecurity and the whole masquerade and see what people would think of the real crazybubbly person underneath….and so far she’s been pretty well liked. My own family hardly recognise me now and those I used to know are taken aback. Acting like someone you are not is exhausting and eventually you can forget the person through the mirror….One day you will be ready to break the glass. And we’ll be waiting to meet you! Romy E Cecil

Come join us for our wellbeing workshops this month, it’s going to be amazing. Remember, the Queer Lounge is what you make of it, respect the safe space well. Everyone has a right to express themselves, however, please do bare in mind the presence of your fellow peers. Be pleasant to each other. Remember to be gentle to yourself and be kind to yourself.

Ai Vee Goh 8

My first crush on a girl was not my straight best friend at school, nor a heroine in a television show or movie. She was a nineteen-year-old schoolteacher who carried a whip, named Quistis Trepe. She was also a video game character.

gave me a chance to be somebody completely different – someone who trained Pokemon, someone who fought epic battles, someone who could create cities and theme parks with the click of a mouse. And then I had The Sims. And I realized very quickly that I could make my two female Sims kiss. I was suddenly terrified that someone would find out – I thought the game definitely wasn’t supposed to do that, and someone would know that

I was seven years old when Final Fantasy VII came out, and used to play it on PC with my brothers and my dad. And Quistis Trepe, with her long blonde hair and her nerdy-cool personality, was my first dream girl.

about myself and the world. I’m very passionate about independent developers, especially queer game developers. And there is content out there, for those who know where to look. But if you’re playing mainstream games? Your chances are slim. Identifying as a gamer can feel as fraught and exclusive as identifying as queer. There will always be those who believe that your identity is not valid because you don’t pass certain criteria. Have you played all three

barriers. How many girls had I slept with? Why did I dress so feminine? Had I only dated cis-het-men before? Well then I probably wasn’t really queer. These sort of limitations are ridiculous and exclusive, of course, and certainly don’t belong in queer spaces. Queers are already living on the fringes of society, consistently excluded by heterosexual norms in movies, television, and yes, video games. Queer spaces should be safe

A N ODE T O T HE Q UE E R G A ME R BY S T EP H W E S T WO OD

Identifying as a gamer and identifying as queer can, in a way, be very similar. For me growing up, I didn’t at first identify as a ‘gamer’ – I played games constantly, mostly PC but also Super Nintendo and Gameboy – but saw it as another pastime. My whole family played games. Gaming was an easy escape for a little queer girl who didn’t understand how to be feminine and was frankly terrified of the opposite sex. Like reading, but far more interactive, it

I was making gay Sims, and they would know I was a lesbian. (Fun fact – in the first Sims, no, you weren’t supposed to be able to make non-heterosexual relationships. That was a glitch. A glitch that EA eventually decided to leave in.) Nowadays, I identify as queer, and as a gamer, and actively search for games with queer content. Games aren’t an escape for me anymore – they are a method of expression, through which I can learn things

Mass Effect games and also clocked up three hundred and seventy four hours on World of Warcraft and can also name all of the original Smash Bros characters? You’re probably not a real gamer.

and all inclusive, an escape from the mainstream, and should recognize those from every spectrum of the LGBTIA rainbow. Too often our safe spaces – and our representation in the media – tends to focus on the cisgender, white, gay men.

I got a lot of that in high school. These days, I believe all you need is to play a few rounds of Candy Crush on your iPhone in order to be a gamer, and anyone who says otherwise is an elitist jerk. But entering the queer world, I found the same sort of

Nowadays, the video game industry is rapidly changing as our voices grow louder and as game development and design becomes more and more accessible for people from all demographics. Anyone can make a

game. Now you can play games like ‘Mainichi’ – an RPG where you play as a mixed-race transgender woman, and deal with all the struggles that follow. Based on the life of the developer herself, this game is one example of how queer geeks are pushing their experiences out into the world, not just so that cisgender heterosexual people can ‘see what it’s like!’ but so that queer gamers everywhere can play a game that, for once, represents who they are.

accessible, entertaining, interactive medium, and should be supported in an industry that tells them constantly that they don’t belong there. So if you, like me, are a queer geek, or a ‘gaymer’ as some like to say, know that there is content out there for us. And if we keep playing it, and keep demanding it, and keep making ourselves visible, the content will stay. In fact, there’s nothing stopping us from getting out there and making it ourselves – game-making

GREAT GAMES FOR QUEER GEEKS Another great game is Dys4ia, a short flash game that explores gender dysphoria and hormone therapy, and is also a very personal snapshot of the developer’s own life. For queer gamers who feel like we can be stranded in a world of masculine heterosexual men who only want to shoot things, finding games that mimic our experiences are so important – but what is more important is the people who are making these games, who are spreading their stories through an

technology is so easy and in some cases free! Baby steps at first – our representation is only minimal right now – but know there are spaces out there filled with LGBTIA geeks and gamers who love the TV shows you love, who play the games you love, who had crushes on the same pixelated blonde schoolteacher that you had when you were seven. We’re out there, clocking up our hours on Fallout or Dragon Age, and we’re getting louder and louder every year.

Gone Home Dragon Age: Inquisition Mainichi Dys4ia Howling Dogs With Those We Love Alive Portal Analogue: A Hate Story Digital: A Love Story

The city campus queer lounge can be difficult to find for newcomers to the university. Located through the left-hand door, at the far end of a nondescript hallway, through a door beside the RUSU front desk, without the colourful signs announcing its presence it could be overlooked entirely. But once you make your way down there, the lounge is packed with resources and entertainment for everyone from first-year queers to postgraduates.

T H E RE ’S N O P L AC E L I K E B U I LD IN G 8, LV L 3, R OOM 6 BY L AU REN E. M ITCH ELL

The queer lounge is home to a mismatched array of furniture, which seems fitting given the wide spectrum of people who might be in there at any given time. You can study at the big table with its multitude of seats, where a series of powerboards provides power for laptops, or use the PC just to the right of the lounge door. If you don’t feel like sitting up at the big table, there’s always the coffee table, often adorned with the results of the week’s Crafternoon activities. These amazing works of art can also be seen on the walls around the lounge, along with informative posters detailing upcoming queer events and offering some definitions of various queer terminology. If you just want to chill out instead of using the space to study, the lounge offers a choice of seating: the venerable green VB couch, the other two slightly younger couches, or the beanbags and cushions that, piled up, are often used as a place for a quick nap between classes. As well as places to sit, the lounge also offers other amenities: a microwave, sandwich toaster, coffee and other beverages, and of course a sink to wash up your dishes after your meal. Unwashed dishes have been known to mysteriously vanish, so be mindful and

clean up after yourself! Once you’ve finished studying or having a snack, you might need a break with some entertainment. The lounge has an array of books and DVDs that can be used onsite—there is a wide-screen TV for movie nights—or can, with queer officer permission, be borrowed. If on the other hand you’re looking for more informative material, the resources table directly across from the door has a variety of leaflets, condoms, flyers, lube, business cards, dental dams, and so on. The inhabitants of the queer lounge vary across the gender and sexuality spectrums. Some are distinguished by their carefully maintained beards (literal beards. Facial hair. Not the other sort of beard), while others display bright plumage in the form of dyed hair and tattooed arms. There are rumours of the occasional straight, cisgender visitor. Please try not to scare them. When you enter the queer lounge, whether as a newcomer or a long-time resident, it’s important to be respectful of its inhabitants if you intend to co-exist with them. Don’t make assumptions about anyone’s sexuality or gender. At the same time, you have the right to not have assumptions made about your sexuality or gender. The queer lounge is intended to be a welcoming space for everyone. If you ever feel unsafe or unwelcome there, the queer officers can be contacted at rusu.queer@rmit.edu.au. If reading this has made you determined to seek out the cosy haven that is the queer lounge, whether as someone new to RMIT or as someone sitting on one of the couches and perusing the latest edition of the Q zine, then come and enter and be home.

R I S E U P S I NGI NG BY MAMA ALTO / B E N N Y DI MAS

The edges of the foldaway bed hold a strange fascination: the soft foam of the mattress, lovingly swaddled in a soft, worn cotton bed sheet many times older than I, meets the cold, hard metal springs and rounded metal bar which comprise the bed’s frame. I am perhaps three or four years of age, maybe five, and the temporary, portable bed sits at the end of the queen size mattress and base where my grandmother and grandfather will sleep – in this stranger’s home which they rent went they visit us from interstate. My sister, also older than I, sleeps in the next room over, and we are visiting the night from our parent’s home a short walk away. We spent the day sweeping leaves in the small courtyard, pretending to be Snow White or Cinderella, with our grandfather laughing that in our fantasies to be princesses we are enacting servant tasks. He gives me a small, soft toy football. Soon you can learn to play footy, he says. He chuckles. Boys can’t be princesses. He smiles encouragingly, generously, and I feel brave, but still I look down grimly as he places the small bomb into my reluctantly outstretched palm, my sister nearby happily humming to herself as she sweeps. Backstage, I am peering into the mirror. The light bulbs are bright along its frame and I am taming my long wavy hair into shape for the show, pinning it into curls with white gardenias, softly singing to myself. I think about dreams and fantasies and how on earth I came to be sitting here, about to go on at a beautiful theatre, to be blessed with the honour of singing to people. I gently glide across the dressing room to the costume rack and remove my gown for the evening from the crinkly black plastic dry cleaning bag. It emerges like an exquisite insect from a cocoon, sparkling softly in the blinding mirror light and shimmering gently from the hum of the air conditioning. I step into the dress and I feel the cares of the day begin to slip away. Returning to the mirror, I make small finishing touches to my make up, and the weight of my daily battles recedes as the power that is glamour empowers my heart, one dab of eye shadow at a time. I think about the train trip earlier that day, the older men who stared as I boarded and coughed under their breath. Faggot. The small child at the station who asked his mother: Is that a man or a lady? The mother stiffened and tightened her grip on the child’s schoolbag. Don’t talk to her. The walk to the theatre, where a man my age spat on the ground in front of my feet. He met my eye with the horrific gaze of a person who knows that they control the world. The entitlement and power and privilege to do what he pleases, to whom he pleases, and to get away with it. I thought about saying something. I didn’t. I stopped the tears from welling up and I kept walking. He trailed me almost all the way to the theatre, making sure I knew

that he belonged in this world and I did not. I ignore the heavy newspaper in my bag and the typed print within it which condemns and ridicules me. Gross gender confusion. Freakish. Unnatural. As I gently paint one last layer of lipstick on, I feel the bitterness transform. I look into the mirror at the goddess I can be – not something I paint on, but something that is always inside of me. I hear the excited and apprehensive murmur of the audience as they take their seats. I stand, breathe deep, and think of all the divas who came before me. Power and love surrounds me as I prepare to step onto the stage. I remember one last thing, and turn back to the mirror. I fix my hair, spraying the curls and flower pins into place. Lying there in the bed, I think about earlier that morning. My grandmother was fixing her hair in the bathroom mirror, using her enormous hairspray can which was a pink reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy’s dress and which had similarly vintage style typography. The spray had a distinctive smell, noxious but comforting. Like the hairspray can, my grandmother held a certain fascination to me – sophisticated but mysterious, elegant, but every day. Thusly fascinated, I would follow her around the house watching her elaborate morning rituals. Watching her neatly and deftly styling waves into her thick silver hair, I absentmindedly sit atop the waste bin’s lid. Catching sight of me in the mirror, fearing for my life and the stability of the bin, she pivots around on one sensibly heeled shoe and swoops me up off the lid and onto the tiles. Now, now, you won’t be able to sit there for much longer – you’re getting to be a big boy now! I cross my arms and my face feels hot and flushed. I burst into tears, and perplexed, she strokes my hair. Later I hear her talking to my grandfather while I pretend to be asleep in the foldaway bed: I just don’t know quite what upset him, but I think he must have heard his dad tell his sister that she is a big girl, and that there are jobs and responsibilities that come with that. I think he got upset when I used the word big. I can’t think what else it could have been. I open my mouth and the first notes fly from my throat. The stage lights blind my vision slightly, blurring the audience, but I am comfortable here. It is familiar and warm. I am in control. I am a songstress and a princess and a diva. The notes resonate into the theatre. High, clear and soprano, they mellow into my huskier and weaker alto tones before mellifluously soaring back once more into the highest realms. I hear audible gasps in the audience. It is that first electric moment of my show where I always feel the audience shift. They cannot place the gender. Some are curious. Some horrified. Some intrigued. The gentle make up, the hair in tight curls and pinned with flowers, the luscious gown, these all suggest the feminine; in the shapes of the body, the jawline, the speaking voice perhaps, some

people can see the masculine. But the singing? The singing occupies some other place. Somewhere between or beyond genders. High and feminine, but it is not quite a female voice. Yet it cannot reach the depths of the male baritone or tenor. Countertenor, the classical music historians and pedagogues from my past whisper, in scandalised sotto voce, as though it is a dirty word, but I am lifted by the music into another place and time, and dismiss any thought of science or of theory, of gendered constructions to neatly categorise the voice types. I am what I am. One of these mornings, you will rise up singing. The applause rings through the theatre at the end of the first song, and I pause to take in what I can through my spotlight blurry vision. Spread your wings. I see friends and family but mostly strangers. Take to the sky. I gently smooth out the flowing folds and gathered fabrics of the gown and I smile, holding out my arms to welcome the audience. A distinguished but very elderly and very frail lady in the front row cheers. I blow her a kiss and she catches it, delighted, as the pianist begins the second song. In the morning, my grandfather is the first one to wake up. He moves quietly around the house, first turning on the heaters, next opening the blinds. Fixing the breakfasts, boiling the kettle, running the water in the bathroom until it runs hot so that my grandmother’s bath will be warm enough. I try to sneakily roll from the little bed onto the floor, and gently pad on socked feet across the hallway on my secretive mission. My grandmother watches with silent amusement from her neatly structured array of pillows. I tug my grandfather’s arm as he strolls back towards the bedroom, holding two bowls of cereal, and he looks down with love. Today, I ask, can you pretend I am a little granddaughter? His face furrows; confusion and concern. Benny boy, he says very quietly, that’s a bit silly. He walks into the bedroom and hands a bowl to my grandmother, kissing her on the forehead. Your hair looks nice today! As he says it, she beams. My sister sleepily enters the room and sits on the edge of the mattress. I silently decide to never again speak out loud the idea that I might be a girl. The foyer is abuzz with noise and life as I enter from the theatre, and the distinguished elderly lady from the front row is propped up on her walking frame. The wheels of the frame gently rock back and forth like the tide. She is sobbing openly, and I cautiously approach. As she sights me, her face lights up through her tears, and she lets go of the walking frame. It happily rolls away of its own accord, and the woman’s daughter dashes after it. The elderly lady grabs a hold of my arm – at first I think, for balance. I have changed from the gown into a beaded jacket, and my hair has begun to unravel from the tight curls and flower pins. She sighs, looking at her hand

as it presses into the sequins of my sleeve. I can’t help but wonder what she is thinking, as I help her into a chair. She begins to speak. That day, after my grandmother has fixed her hair and walks from the bathroom to the kitchen, I linger by the vanity. I carefully pick up the hairspray can and try to quietly spray a small amount into the air. I close my eyes and breathe in that strange breeze, imagining that I might be someone else. I open my eyes and catch a glimpse of myself in the hand mirror, a strangely magical contraption which magnifies the face across a concave surface. Eyeing my distorted reflection suspiciously, I wonder if anyone would understand the strange way I feel about the short-haired boy glaring back at me. I push the hand mirror face down on the table and scamper to follow my grandmother. She settles into the chair, and begins to tell me her life story, starting with her humble upbringing in a small village. Her religious parents. The invasion of their village. The march. The camp. The death and destruction. Her miraculous survival. Her long lost uncle, a musician, who came to her rescue after the war. When I hear music, she says, I remember him. She begins to sob once more, but retains a beautifully articulate manner of speaking through her emotion: After the war, I was so traumatised I could not speak. But he was a clever man, my uncle, and instead of trying to talk with me, he played me music. He took me to concerts. He took me to see singers. And it healed me until I could speak. I was just a little girl. And these people filled with so much hatred for someone, just because they are different… The depth of her emotions and the weight of history overwhelms her, and her voice begins to crackle and croak. Her tears amplify and she struggles for breath as she looks into my eyes. Her daughter, waiting nearby with the renegade walking frame, begins to rush forward but the lady holds up a firm palm to dismiss her. She looks into my eyes again: People can hold so, so much hatred for someone just because they are different. And you. You are there, singing – the music that reminds me of my uncle. And you are beautiful. Whether you are a beautiful woman, or a beautiful man, or neither – I really don’t know, but… I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that no one can decide that for you. No one! Never let anyone choose for you. Only you can choose. Never, never let anyone else tell you who you are. She takes a heavy breath and her hand reaches once more to the sequins of my jacket. As my last few curls fall from their flower pins, I can smell a faint trace of hairspray. It is noxious, but comforting. She closes her eyes and quietly hums a half forgotten song. One of these mornings, you will rise up singing.

YOUR THOUGHTS... THEY’RE LIKE A SHADOW, FOLLOWING YOU WHEREVER YOU GO

W H E N

F E E L B Y

A L O N E

P E T E R

BY AI VEE

That moment when you are alone

The innocence of sound gets

with nothing but your thoughts.

injected with your thoughts.

Isolated.

You want her.

Scary isn’t it?

You think of her, always.

You know, that peace and quiet

She’s constantly on your mind.

you’ve always wanted?

That event, that situation, the things

Well, now it’s all yours.

you did, or said plays over

You are surrounded by all the things you

and over again on repeat.

want out of your head but your mind is

A never-ending cycle for a short

rather stubborn you see.

while or more than a few months.

Your mind keeps thinking on.

Why?

Disobeying your every command

Your regrets, your fears, your hopes.

to not think about it.

You fantasise about it.

How you overcome this is by using

It’s not like you want to.

your strength, your power, your will.

It just comes out.

You think it through.

You can’t hide it.

Continuously.

So, just let it be.

Everyday.

Think it all through.

A trigger sets it off.

For future reference so you

Your mind keeps the silence occupied.

don’t regret it again…

When I feel alone, In the cold and dark night of my mind, Walking across vast moors without stars to guide me, I look for the lights of strangers’ homes, I imagine the burning fires and warm beds. I walk on through the darkness. When I wander away and I am lost, Rushing headlong, Running fast towards a sunset, and I do not turn to see another, Then they come to me, A herd of wild elephants, They surround me and I am safe again. When I am surrounded by others but I feel unseen, Ignored or unloveable, I am a pause in conversation or a stolen look. When I do not see myself anymore, He sees me. And he tells me that I am so beautiful.

On a lonely night I walked amongst the trees. The dark park resembled a feeling of the heart that one doesn’t always acknowledge. That darkness beauty engulfs everything. The trees don’t stop standing tool and wise. Watching over everything with their grace. The flowers don’t stop filling the air with aroma. They never stop breathing their charm on this world. It was dark though so they are not as appreciated.

euphoria Momo

I often wondered if trees and flowers could hear us. I walked through the park and it was late. It was a lonely walk so I slipped into a habit of mine. I slowed down and let my surroundings truly surround me. I breathed in the reality around me and before I realised I was not moving. I was near a pond right next to an old tree. The smell wet wood filled the air and the starry sky was truly bright. The moon wasn’t there and a part of me was glad. Whenever I look to the moon my eyes become flooded with tears. I tried to understand why over the years with no success. The closer I got was that the moon somehow represented my journey so far. Looking upon so many lives and so far away. The moon was floating in the infinity of the universe; floating in the darkness So here I was standing in next to the tree looking at the pond wondering if I could be elsewhere. I wanted to talk to someone. Alas the whole world was busy. The world was moving too fast for someone to stop and look at me. Little did they know though. The universe is moving too fast for them to catch up.

People spend their lives trying to move faster than the rest of the universe they forget who and where they are. I stood there with no one to talk to. I even resorted to one of them phone apps that let you talk to strangers. Again my efforts were fruitless. Someone sent me a photo of their genitalia and another told me that I’m too hideous for them to talk to me. So I put my phone away. I breathed slowly wishing my heart to oblivion. I breathed in the universe wanting it to hear me and waiting for my prayers to be heard. The more I breathed the brighter the stars got and the more I felt all things. I felt the land beneath my feet; I felt the air touching my skin and the air leaving my lungs. The world was harsh and severe because my heart did not stop. Quite the opposite really my senses were stronger and the weight I carried in my heart only got heavier. Somehow I could see beyond the dark and it did not cloud my sight. I saw everything the way it really was; so harsh and raw. It then happened I closed my eyes in order to escape the silence. I closed my eyes and suddenly it wasn’t dark. I was somewhere else and leaned against the tree. The air was full of smells I have never smelled. Smells that made me happy and sad at the same time. I was happy because I was able to smell them and sad because they will leave me like everything I’ve ever known. The light was so warm it made all things shine. Not a blinding shine; it was just like looking at a nicely cut diamond. The light knew which corners

to hit to get that perfect reflection and make everything glow with warmth that I have never known. The tree behind me leaned towards me and embraced me with its branched. Its leaves felt like velvet and it uttered words so I thought I was losing my mind out of grief. The kind tree answered my thought saying that I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t losing my marbles. The tree said that it was as real as I wanted to be. I smiled, embraced the tree and cried. When I grew weary of crying the tree started speaking again. The tree started telling me stories of with no end. It told me that being alone is not the worst fate that one could have. Not being able to see the universe and feel its every breath is far worse. Being born and losing the last breath with knowing the universe was the ultimate loss. I asked the kind tree if I could stay. Alas I knew the response. Before it was dark again and the smell of wet wood takes over I just hoped I could go there again and talk to the tree. The world is busy and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m just here breathing in the universe and losing my mind in EUPHORIA.

Q We want you!

If you have any submissions in the form of writing sketches and artwork we would love to see your contribution for future issues of our beloved Q-Zine.

There is absolutely no censorship just spellcheck and send it over. We will publish your original work that reflects who you are. Whoever you are. If you would like to submit under an alias we also welcome you since aliases are cool. We love you and you are very important to us. All entries should be emailed to: mohammad.taha@rmit.edu.au

Acknowledgment

RUSU Queer collective acknowledges all the the people who made this publication possible via their submissions, editing and support. Your work is valued and appreciated.