swine 2022 issue 02 – spirit

swine

issue 02 • 2022

spirit

the team

advertise in swine

print editor Zoe Sorenson print@ssu.org.au

communications & partnerships officer Eric Lee media@ssu.org.au

news editor Jessica Norris news@ssu.org.au

•••

designer Adele Easton designer@ssu.org.au communications officer Nikitha Neelakantan comms@ssu.org.au •••

media credit Rachel Claire, Adele Easton, Mikel Ibarluzea, Robert Koorenny, Alex Kyaw, Maria Orlova, Martino Pietropoli, Eli Rooke, Becca Schultz, Anastasia Shuraeva, Uriel Soberanes, Khoa Võ, Birmingham Museum Trust, cottonbro •••

with thanks to stay tuned

our extended team Daniela Abriola, Madison Bryce, Deanne Jeffers, Jessica Murdoch, Sophie Robertson, Eli Rooke

instagram @swinemag facebook @swinemag

our talented contributors our lovely readers

website www.swinemagazine.org

how to submit If you’d like to contribute to future print editions or get your work published on our website, please reach out and get in touch! www.swinemagazine.org/contribute editor@ssu.org.au

contents

Zoe Sorenson

Editor’s letter

10

Ask again later

12

Kayla Willson

Solitary man

14

Zoe Sorenson

Breathe

16

Sophie Robertson

journey

18

There’s a strawberry in my spirit

20

Aisha Noorani

Wonder

22

Anthony Vezzu

Last night, I lay in my bed reading Walt Whitman

24

Amira Akhtar

I see you

29

Adrian Dixon

Chosen

30

Aphrodite

In search of spirit

38

Arun WSK Than

the doorway pale

40

An interview with an Environmental Rep

42

We sow seeds in the cracks of the pavement

44

Jessica Murdoch

Adele Easton

Zoe Sorenson Eli Rooke

acknowledgement of country

The team at swine magazine would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri People of the Kulin Nation, who are the Traditional Owners of the land on which the Swinburne Student Union’s offices are situated. We pay our respects to their Elders, past, present, and emerging.

We also respectfully acknowledge Swinburne’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students, staff, alumni, partners, and visitors.

We extend this respect to the Traditional Owners of lands across so-called Australia.

We recognise that sovereignty was never ceded. This land always was and always will be Aboriginal land.

••• As we share our stories today, we pay our respects to Australia’s original storytellers, who have been telling stories on this land since time immemorial. We recognise their ongoing connection to culture, community, and Country.

Some Indigenous-owned publications that we love reading include the Koori Mail, the National Indigenous Times, IndigenousX, and Common Ground. We encourage you to check them out!

meet the team

Adele Easton (she/her), Designer I feel most spirited when I get to share food experiences with my dad. For context, he’s a chef, so naturally we’re both big foodies. It’s a big part of how we spend time together: we like to watch cooking documentaries, try new cuisines, and pop by the market for fresh ingredients. He’s taught me so much about flavours, ingredients, and his secret cooking techniques. I always enjoy it when I get the chance to surprise him with a home-cooked meal.

Jessica Norris (she/her), News Editor When I think about what makes me feel spirited, I think about joy. I think about moments like flopping on the couch after a big day out or seeing my best friend’s face light up with laughter. Humans are spiritual beings – we get to experience joy, love, and kindness, and use these states of being to connect with one another. The writing in this issue has inspired me to connect to those around me, and I hope, fellow human, it can inspire you too.

Zoe Sorenson (she/her), Print Editor Poetry by Richard Siken. The achievements of my friends. That trope where characters are reluctantly thrust into leadership positions due to circumstance.

All the beautiful types of love, beyond the traditional romantic love, that people sometimes seem to forget. Silly little stories that make me smile. I think of spirited conversations where each voice gets louder and higher, a celebration of sound and excitement and connection, and I treasure them.

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editor’s letter Zoe Sorenson

Hello!

Welcome to another edition of swine magazine!

We’re right in the thick of another semester, and I hope you’re able to take a breather from the flurry of assessments to enjoy this latest issue. I’ve really enjoyed being back at uni, partly because I’ve been able to meet a lot of you! On campus, I’ve bumped into contributors and readers alike. Plus, I’ve always got something in my inbox from people interested in publishing their work or getting involved behind the scenes – so many firsttime contributors have debuted their work in this issue and on our website! It’s been 10

wonderful watching the swine community grow just since the start of the year, and I can’t wait to meet more of you and hear all about the stories you have to tell.

I think the idea of spirit invites a lot of introspection.

Well, truthfully, my main thought when coming up with this theme was that I really wanted to read about some funky ghosts, maybe some Scooby-Doo-esque hijinks.

It’s been fascinating to see the questions that pop up as people interrogate the concept of the spirit, exploring interpretations of the supernatural, liquor, souls, courage, belief, life,

and what it is to be. Asking questions about ourselves, about people, about the world around us.

The theme of this issue is spirit, but I reckon it would also be appropriate to call it hope.

There is a determination in choosing to keep going, whether facing down literal monsters or getting out of bed in the morning. There is a bravery in vulnerability, in showing compassion to ourselves and to others.

There is a hope in surviving the bad times, in believing it won’t last forever and that the sun will come out again.

it mean to be me? What does it mean to be human? I don’t really have any answers, but I like to believe it starts with kindness. As Eli writes in their beautiful poem, ‘We are all just ghosts in the making – growing, tending and giving love – and realising this is all we have to be.’

Please enjoy this journey into the human spirit, and I hope you find something of yourself along the way.

Happy reading, Zoe :)

Reading this magazine has inspired me and encouraged my own reflection. What does 11

ask again later Jessica Murdoch

I’m not a believer.

Star signs, tarot cards, fortune tellers. These things are not real. Although, sometimes, I want them to be. I guess I like the feeling of something bigger being true. Of a connection to the wider universe, and the idea that we can have some form of control. Some sense of knowing what is to come.

The cover of the Typo notebook I selected spoke to me. The huge expanse of space reminding me that there is so much we don’t understand about the universe. The caption I NEED SOME SPACE tapping into that part of me that likes to cut myself off from the world, to have room to reflect and think.

That goal of self-reflection is what made me order the Our Tarot pack online. I had no intention of using it to read people’s fortunes or try to predict my future. I wanted to use it as a framework for examining my own intuition and feelings about my place in the world.

I borrowed a book from the library to try and make a little more sense of how I feel. Its prescriptive explanations of the cards and what they stand for confirmed for me that this was not what I was looking for. I don’t believe that the world is set or that it’s possible to know exactly what is coming next.

Still, I found myself sitting down with the pack I’d bought, carefully shuffling through the deck. Forgetting about the specific spreads and rules and procedures, just picking out a 12

card. Using it as a prompt, to reflect on myself and my choices and how I was going to act next.

Like the time I drew the Seven of Swords. As I read the accompanying explanation, I felt a definite lurch in my belly. When reversed, this card means facing challenges, honesty, and escape. I started thinking about the way my family was learning to more honestly address the difficult conversations we’d been avoiding for so long. Facing the fact that, if we wanted to heal, it was time to stop avoiding confrontation and awkwardness and deal with what was going on. I thought about how I was going to do that.

Is that so different? Using what I know about myself and the world to help me reflect on my actions? To use that to guide future choices?

It’s like the way I use my umbrella. It’s important, especially in a place like Melbourne, to feel like you have some strategy to manage the weather. I call it my magic umbrella. Whenever I bring it along, it won’t rain. Yet, if I forget it, you can be sure it will.

Being prepared to address all the possibilities, to feel in control.

Maybe it comes down to convincing myself that there are things I can control. That I can tune into my intuition. Myself. A wider world.

That I can exert some influence. Maybe, it’s actually about knowing myself, and the feeling that I have power and autonomy.

I guess it depends on how you define ‘believer’. Maybe I’m not a believer. But, sometimes, I feel like I could be.

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solitary man Kayla Willson

Content warning: This piece contains themes of unhealthy alcohol use.

A man walks home in the early hours of the new day Dawn Why? Why not?

He is a hard-working man Judgment does not play a role When you do not govern his choice Who are you To scorn?

Howling hypocrites Sins of your own A menacing punishment of self-creation One must learn to live With one’s own burden And if you cannot How can you project your foolish mind outward?

To mould a world that is not yours alone He stumbles home To a cottage Solitary man, Drinks to live

breathe Zoe Sorenson

Content warning: This piece contains themes of death and gore.

Your breath seems to rattle inside you. You note it with a sort of detachment. Breathing is good because breathing means living, at least for a while longer.

You want to laugh, a little bit. If only laughing wouldn’t give away your position. How did you even get here? Crouched in the darkness of this abandoned building, the rough wall scraping your back. With dirt and blood and something unnameable hiding beneath your fingernails. Chasing the end of the fucking world.

A small gasp spills out and you press your face to the crook of your arm before another can escape. Breathing means living, but breathing too loudly means being found and being found means being dead. You’re almost 16

hugging yourself, either trying to uselessly stifle the noise or uselessly calm yourself down, and you stay hunched over for a couple moments longer.

Soon, the anxiety of being cornered where you are beats out the need to keep silent.

You slowly creep sideways to the nearby door. Along the way, you spot a knife lying abandoned amid the muck by your feet. You crouch down, intending to snatch it quickly and quietly. As you do, though, you come face to face with the muck, which apparently used to be the previous owner of the knife.

You can’t stop staring, even as your gut seizes and the air stays trapped in your throat. That explains the smell, you suppose, only a little hysterically. You’d thought you’d kind of gotten used to it at this point, following the stench of rot and malice around town. You’re looking your own death in the face, and that

is the thought that finally unlocks your body enough to jerkily grab the knife and shove yourself back against the wall.

Why are you here? You’re not the sort of person to save the world. This poor fucker at least brought a stupid knife to arm themself with and look at what happened to them!

You wonder how this week might have turned out if you hadn’t decided to question the vague answers surrounding your friend’s disappearance. If you hadn’t discovered that monsters were real, and really angry, and hellbent on taking everyone and everything out.

You wonder what might happen if you turn back now, go home and have a drink or four and sleep for a few days. You glance back the way you’d come – you can just make out the silvery light of the outside world filtering in through the front door hanging partially off

its hinges. No one would be any the wiser if you did. No one had believed you when you’d tried to get help, and now no one knows that you’re hiding in a monster’s lair halfway out of town.

You dismiss the idea pretty quickly. The end of the world really does mean the end of the world, and dying in your bed isn’t too different from dying at the hands of some terrifying creature (or so you tell yourself).

You’re not meant to be here, and you’re not the right kind of person for this, but you are here and that means something. Yes, you’re probably heading into some nightmarish horror that will almost certainly result in your death, but maybe you can make a difference.

Maybe no one else has to die today.

You breathe deeply, and take a step towards the darkness.

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journey

cli cli ck ck cla cla ck ck t ta

Sophie Robertson

Up and down.

In and out.

Click clack, click clack.

Ta-tap ta-tap.

I am witnessing change that I am now accepting.

It runs through my veins like children down grassy hills.

Their little, bubbly giggles floating on the wind.

The tips of the stairs are sparkling.

They say;

“one more.”

“keep going.”

“well done.”

There’s a light in my chest And a light on my face.

It’s finally piercing through the cracks of the dark surrounding wall.

I am freeing myself of my own chains.

Ta-tap ta-tap.

I’ve discovered that a necessary part in one’s awakening is the acceptance of self.

Click clack, click clack.

I have never felt so strong inside.

Up and down.

There’s movement all around me, yet I am motionless.

In and out.

taa-t tap ap ta ta- -tap tap I am my own calm through my own storm.

My train of thought, the vessel in my journey, echoes out to me; Up and down.

In and out.

Click clack, click clack.

Ta-tap ta-tap.

there’s a strawberry in my spirit Adele Easton

In the spirit of this issue’s theme, I think it’s only fitting that I share a fruity cocktail with you. On the menu today we have a refreshing strawberry mojito. I invite you to follow along with this recipe and, once you’ve got your beverage in hand, come back to enjoy the rest of the magazine.

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Serving: 1 glass Time: 5 minutes Ingredients • ½ a lime • 8 mint leaves + 1 sprig for a garnish • 3 fresh strawberries + 1 for a garnish • 30 mL of simple syrup (1:1 sugar and water) • 60 mL of white rum (exclude this for a non-alcoholic version) • ice cubes • sparkling water Step 1 Add your lime, mint, strawberries, and simple syrup to a tall glass and muddle (i.e., gently squish) the ingredients with a muddler.

Step 2 Add your white rum of choice to the glass. You can leave this step out if you’re after a nonalcoholic drink.

Step 3 Add your ice cubes to fill the glass.

Step 4 Top the glass with sparkling water. With a spoon, stir the drink to make sure all the flavours are mixed well.

Step 5 Slice a slit in your leftover strawberry and slide it onto the rim of the glass. Garnish the drink with a sprig of mint.

Step 6 Drink your spirit while you read through the rest of spirit. Enjoy!

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wonder Aisha Noorani

Content warning: This piece contains themes of depression.

I wonder what you do…

When everything within you feels void, When the emptiness you cleverly concealed is now a visible hollow, When the weather no longer surprises or soothes, When you’re too tired to go out on a Friday night, When the incessant chatter irritates you, When drinking no longer numbs you, When smoking no longer comforts you, When the vibrant avenues echo throughout the emptiness within you, When people don’t seem to understand you, When catching up with a friend starts to feel like a chore, 22

When the realisation of another lonely night creeps up on you, When the solace within your solitude seems to fade, When random places serve as relentless reminders, When restless memories and moments keep you up at night, When you covet those joyous days, When the nights become more of a comfort and an ache than ever before, When every day seems to stretch longer than the one before, When numerous cups of coffee fail to awaken or restore, When numbness seeps into every niche of your being, When no one and nothing catches your eye, When the fire that once roared within you seems to die, When life becomes an endless struggle to feel alive.

23

last night, i lay in my bed reading walt whitman Anthony Vezzu

Content warning: This piece contains themes of depression and mention of death.

Last night, I lay in my bed reading Walt Whitman. I was reading ‘In Cabin’d Ships at Sea’, one of the inscriptive poems that prefaces his titanic Leaves of Grass. In this poem, he writes: ‘Then falter not O book, fulfil your destiny, You not a reminiscence of the land alone, You too as a lone bark cleaving the ether, purpos’d I know not whither, yet ever full of faith, Consort to every ship that sails, sail you!

Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold it here in every leaf;) Speed on my book! spread your white sails my little bark athwart the imperious waves, Chant on, sail on, bear o’er the boundless blue from me to every sea, This song for mariners and all their ships.’

Consort to every ship that sails, sail you! Bear forth to them folded my love…

Whitman imbued his book – his life’s work – with such sure and cosmic purpose. He charged it with his love, and sent that love out to all peoples of the world, hopeful and certain that he would inspire them.

In the day before I read that poem – and for stretches of days and nights before it – any spare, unstimulated moment of mine was a moment in which a thought repeated itself to me, in a harsh but languid whisper.

‘You are not alive,’ it said to me. ‘Your body is living but your mind is dead. And it is you who killed it. Watching the death 24

25

and decay of something under your care is not tragic circumstance. It is the sin of murder on your soul.’

Life is arduous, painstaking, and agonising.

But life is the one and only chance the cosmos gives us to appreciate the beauty inside the horror; to love, to be loved, and to adore love’s disarming vulnerability in the face of so many possible exploitations; to fail, and to shudder at failure’s acidic effect on our bones so that our eventual triumph tastes of even sweeter ambrosia. Reading Whitman’s poem, I sensed that he was intimately aware of all this; that he comprehended how stifling our souls’ growing pains can be, and how necessary courage is to ‘athwart the imperious waves’ of self-doubt so that we may share our song wholly with the world. Whitman’s faith in this mission is so sure: he writes as though his bravery never falters. But, I wondered, was my spirit so unshakeable?

I feared that I had begun to experience that macabre malaise that seems to permeate

26

adulthood. For deeper and deeper expanses of time, I had noticed my heart growing empty and dim, like a campfire dying before dawn.

No friend’s embrace seemed to reignite it; no butterfly-stomached, fleeting interlocking of eyes seemed to rekindle me; and no words that I could ever read or write seemed big enough to matter.

What if, I often think, I wind up like so many of those people out there? Crushed into ineffectual conformity by adulthood’s sociopolitical imperatives – crushed to the point where the iridescent pearls swaddled in our souls from birth are pulverised into motes that can only twinkle like tears on the wind as they are swept away into oblivion. All those people – all of us, for I am not separate from, nor superior to, the world’s people – who buy lottery tickets every week because it is something to do rather than something to hope for; who tell their friends that they love them, but only let themselves truly mean it when the music is loud enough and sufficient alcohol has been drunk; who long for peace

‘If you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose.’ from the world’s wars, for rest from humanity’s garbled, gurgling screams and yells; who yearn for purpose, but don’t consider that they might choose to learn that all of us carry the same blood and spirit in us, and nobody need desecrate either one in someone else for the sake of their own.

It is because I have pondered this that I know I have come face to face with that cynicism, that numb bitterness at the world. Based on what I have observed in others, and introspected in myself, this bitterness seems to come when you begin to realise that – despite the power you have to manifest your dreams, a power we often conceal from ourselves to suppress guilt and regret – your life becomes more meaningless to you every day that you maintain your resignation and inaction. But there is hope in this, I think. Acknowledging that something is wrong is the first and most fundamental step in resolving that wrong.

topic of quotes we’d read in the year prior that had stuck with us, that seemed profound to us. When he asked me what quote came to my mind, I paraphrased this one of Charles Bukowski’s: ‘If you’re losing your soul and you know it, then you’ve still got a soul left to lose.’

And so I remember this quote when I doubt myself – when I feel that I have compromised my integrity, lost sight of my values, forgotten what it means to be alive and awake. I remember it, and it helps me to take heart in my weakness, because it is by very virtue of the fact that I feel I have failed myself that I know I still carry goodness, belief, and hope in my spirit.

Recently, I was speaking with a new friend.

It was New Year’s Day, and we got onto the 27

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Places are available in Terms 3 and 4 and are strictly on a first-come, first-served basis.

To enrol, contact your Course Coordinator and reference AVF10001.

For additional information, please contact Siobhan at ssleater@swin.edu.au

i see you Amira Akhtar

chosen Adrian Dixon

Carla leaned against the rough tree bark, sliding down the trunk with ragged breaths.

She winced as she bumped into the ground, a shot of pain jolting from the grave gash on her side. Clamping her hand over it, she closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing, keeping her free hand curled around the shaft of her polearm glaive, its curved blade glinting in patches of moonlight.

Hearing a rustle, Carla opened an eye to see a small, white calico cat sitting daintily across from her. It peered at her with golden eyes, its black tail wrapped around its paws, and its tongue flitting out to wet its pink nose.

Carla closed her eye again, leaning her head back against the bark. She thought of her best friend and what he would do in this situation.

Probably forget all about his wounds and pet the cat, she thought to herself with a light smile.

A trill penetrated her thoughts, prompting Carla’s eyes to snap open and her grip around her glaive to tighten. She was faced with the cat now standing up and peering at a gap in the trees. In its new position, she noticed how its hind legs were black, and it had two splotches on its white body. One orange, and one black.

Carla’s eyes shut once more, tiredness washing over her. It was only two seconds before the cat began to meow, forcing her to 30

open them again. The cat paced in a circle, running one direction and then back to her again, punctuated with meows and trills.

‘What do you want?’ Carla asked, confused.

She tightened her orange scarf. She was starting to feel cold.

The cat responded with a particularly long yowl, prancing towards another direction, but this time sitting down and waiting for Carla to follow. She stared at the cat as the chilly wind bit into her exposed skin, before it uttered a curt meow.

Figuring it was easier to acquiesce, Carla pulled herself up with her glaive, hissing as her wound stretched with her movement.

Fully standing, she rested her weight against her weapon, breathing deeply to prepare for whatever journey was ahead.

Carla pressed her stained hand back against her wound and began to follow the cat. She hoped it would lead her somewhere safe, where she could tend to her wound. If she had to die, it’d be in battle, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of her adversaries. Not cold and alone in some remote forest.

She trudged steadily on as the night fell darker, the dim lights of the stars blocked by an equally dark canopy. She slowed to pick her way carefully through the dense forest, yet Carla never lost sight of the cat, as its fur

shone brightly amidst the darkness. Maybe it was her tired body playing tricks on her, but Carla could swear it was even glowing.

threats and instructed Carla to flee into the nearby forest, throwing himself back into the fray before she could protest.

Every so often, Carla would have to stop and lean heavily against her glaive or a tree to catch her breath. The cat would pause and wait patiently for her, trilling happily whenever she began to follow once more.

Carla didn’t worry much for him. He had taken on far more dangerous commissions alone, and often came out none the worse for it. But Tommy was like a brother to Carla, and there was that sibling-like smidge of worry that they would always carry for one another.

Carla trailed behind the peculiar feline that always remained just out of reach. A pang from her wound reminded her of the reason she was lost here. She had been on a commission with her closest friend, Tommy, tasked with culling a population of aggressive beasts threatening a nearby village. While the job was normally a trivial matter for people of their calibre, things became different when enemy numbers tripled in haste.

Their objective changing unexpectedly was no challenge for her more experienced mentor.

Carla’s inability to wield magic, as Tommy did, placed her in a more perilous position – during the fight, an enraged beast managed to get a swipe in while she was occupied with another.

Tommy vanquished the rest of the nearby 32

Carla shook her head to get rid of the concerning thoughts that plagued her, which turned out to be a bad idea as a strong dizzy spell took over her and she collapsed onto the leafy floor.

Carla cried out in pain, acute jolts of agony sprouting from her wound and shooting through her abdomen. She sucked in deep breaths, waiting for the pain to ease and fighting the urge to flail in distress. As the aches faded to a manageable level, Carla started to push herself up, freezing suddenly at howling nearby. She slowly lowered herself back to the ground, hoping the creature wouldn’t follow the smell of blood to her.

Where had the cat gone?

Burying her face in the crook of her arm, Carla forced herself to control her panic.

The abrupt silence that followed chilled her to the bone more than the cold air did. She felt her heart thumping against her chest, feeling more awake now than she had since Tommy had told her to retreat. For the better, she supposed, now more aware of her surroundings. Carla started to shift her right leg, when something against it prevented further movement. Carla quietly groaned in chagrin, realising she had forgotten her hand crossbow folded and stowed on her thigh.

A sudden, rabid snarl caused her to jump in fright. A deep growl followed, cut short by another snarl. There’s at least two, she thought.

She began to formulate a plan. Even in her current condition, Carla was confident she could probably take them, whatever they were.

She was a decent shot with her crossbow, and her glaive had been forged around her agility, so it was light and sturdy. However, with her basic strength and movement practically robbed by her wound, she would most likely only get one good swing out. She steeled herself, a hand trembling against her

crossbow. That’s all she would need. She just had to time it right.

A loud rustle came from a tree nearby, followed by the crashing and thumping of branches breaking and falling. A series of yelps filled the air, and Carla let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as she heard the tell-tale scrabble of fleeing creatures.

Darting her eyes towards faint movement, she spotted the bright cat jumping down from a tree, trotting almost playfully to her side. It gave her wound a few tentative sniffs, before stopping in front of her face to groom itself.

‘Was that you?’ she asked softly. She was met with silence.

With the adrenaline out of her system, Carla felt exhausted. Her eyes drooped shut as the noises of the forest began to fade away.

The rest she desired was rudely interrupted by the cat’s yowls, Carla’s eyes snapping open in an annoyed glower. Couldn’t she nap in peace? Her icy glare failed to silence the furry fiend, so Carla begrudgingly tried to stand. She managed to push herself to 33

her hands and knees, but this simple action sapped the rest of her remaining energy. The cat offered verbal encouragement, trilling at her feet. Carla managed to heave herself up completely, replacing her hand against the wound she was barely registering.

The cat trotted ahead and Carla followed, leaning heavily against her glaive every step.

Her mind was blank, her gaze fixed solely upon the cat’s white outline. She kept telling herself everything would be alright as long as she could keep following it – she felt a growing kinship with the creature the longer she spent with it. She staggered onwards through the verdant forest despite the chills that began to wrack through her body. At one point she had to support her weight with both hands.

Her vision began to blur once more, and Carla lost sight of the cat. A shaky misstep sent her crashing back into the earth, but she was so fatigued that she had no strength to get back up. She laid there, staring vacantly at the tree line in front of her. Her heart pounded in her ears and her wound emitted a dull ache. Carla slowly closed her eyes, a single tear slipping out as her vision darkened and her heartbeat thumped louder.

She wondered if Tommy was safe yet.

••• Carla stirred when a commotion of chirps permeated her dark mind. A groan of annoyance slipped through her lips. It was too early to be awake.

As her mind cleared out of its hazy stupor, memories of her ordeal came flooding back to her. Had it all been a dream?

She cracked her eyes open, finding the stony roof above her unfamiliar and cold. A window 34

to her right filtered yellow rays of sunlight. She tried to sit up, but a piercing flash from her side sent her back down with a choked cry.

‘That answers that,’ Carla muttered to herself.

The noises from the kitchen stopped, and a series of tuts drifted closer to the bedroom.

Carla instinctively pulled the cover up to her nose in trepidation.

A middle-aged woman that reminded Carla of her mother came through the door. Her black hair was tied up in a bun, exposing friendly blue eyes. She wore a well-worn pastel-red cotton dress, the hems adorned with yellow embroidery and a messy apron over the top of it.

‘You young ones just don’t know when to stay put, don’t you?’ she chided lightheartedly, placing her hands on her hips. The corners of her eyes creased as she smiled warmly. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Uh…fine, I guess,’ Carla said, looking out the window, then facing back towards the woman.

‘Not to be rude, but where am I?’ ‘Mylem Forest, dear. I found you collapsed outside two nights ago. I might’ve missed you, had your weapon not landed in a patch of moonlight.’

The woman gestured to Carla’s glaive leaning against the wall. Noticing her crossbow next to it, Carla peeked under the covers, finding herself wearing clothes that didn’t belong to her. She dropped the sheet with a slight flush.

‘Y—you didn’t throw the clothes away, did you?

They mean a lot to me. Especially the scarf.’

The woman nodded in understanding, retreating momentarily and returning with

Carla’s tangerine scarf, devoid of any blood or grime. She plucked it greedily from the woman’s hands and buried her face into it for reasons even she was unsure of. She then wrapped it snugly around her neck, feeling much less vulnerable with the familiar warmth and weight.

midnight with that horrid wound on your side there.’

‘The rest are washed and out to dry.’

‘Oh, of course! Let me fetch you one.’ Estelle left Carla alone again, the distant noise of running water accompanying the now relaxing choir of chirps.

‘Thanks,’ Carla said. ‘Uh…What should I call you?’

‘How remiss of me to not introduce myself!

You can call me Estelle.’

‘I…’ Carla rested her head in her hand, trying to form the words to retell her experience. ‘I was…’ Her head still felt light. ‘Could I have a drink, please?’

‘Thank you, Estelle.’

She collected her thoughts of the events a few nights ago, her mind wandering over to the state of her friend. Was he safe? Was he worried for her?

‘It’s my pleasure, darling.’ Estelle smiled. ‘Now, I’d like to know what you were doing out past

Having spent years with Tommy, Carla knew the answer to both questions was ‘yes’, 35

but that wouldn’t stop her from needlessly worrying. The sooner she could make her way back to him, the better.

But she wasn’t stupid enough to go searching for her way back home after barely recovering from a serious injury, nor would she leave without a means of gratitude. So, Carla sat there, huddled comfortably under warm blankets and her lower face buried in her scarf, feeling safe and less alone.

When Estelle returned, Carla had found the words to tell her tale. They tumbled out of her mouth with no pause, Carla only stopping to soothe her parched throat.

At the end of her recollection, Estelle held a hand to her chin in thought.

‘A calico cat, you say?’

‘Yeah. It led me here. Was it one of yours?’

and taking moments to pause. Amongst the trees and the stones was a small, fresh tombstone, with no name inscribed upon it but rather an etching of butterflies.

‘I’ve never owned a cat,’ Estelle said quietly.

‘But I found this little one passed away, the night before you arrived, in the same spot where you collapsed. It looked exactly as you described. I do not know where it came from, or what it was seeking, but I couldn’t simply leave it there. So, I buried it here, where it may rest amongst the flowers. I only hope that in the next life it finds what it sought.’

‘So, it was a spirit…’

‘It would seem so. After all, I think I would have noticed a glowing cat roaming my garden. I do not have the gift you do, dear,’ Estelle said with a mysterious wink.

‘Come with me.’

Carla made to ask what the older woman meant but paused upon hearing a small, insistent squeal. She looked for the noise, tracking it to the window of Estelle’s cottage.

There she saw a tiny white kitten with calico splotches, pressing its paws up against the wall and squeaking its heart out.

Estelle led her through the quaint house and out into the back garden, Carla slowly shuffling behind her, using the walls to hold her weight

‘Ah. This little one appeared out of thin air the morning after. Quite the timing, don’t you think?’ Estelle chuckled to herself, plucking a

Estelle did not answer immediately. Instead, she tapped her chin, before standing up and beckoning to Carla.

36

light blue lily from her garden, handing it to Carla. ‘Go on, dear. Do what you must. I shall be waiting inside.’

Estelle then retreated indoors, cooing to the kitten as the door shut, leaving Carla alone in the garden.

Carla knelt at the grave and offered a prayer and thanks, placing the flower against the smooth stone. As she did so, a whisper of wind swirled around her hand, and the nearby flowers reached towards her. She felt no fear, but solace, like a breath of air shooting a cool sensation up her arm, the flowers rustling more violently before the air stilled and the moment was over.

Carla slowly withdrew her hand, the feeling in her arm fading away. With a deep breath, she stood up, straightening out the oversized top she wore. As she made her way back, she felt lighter and more fulfilled, as if her strength had been restored. She moved to head inside, glancing over her shoulder one last time.

The ghostly feline daintily sat at the gravesite with its tail wrapped around its feet. It stood up, trilled once at her, then walked away, dissipating into the air with a satisfied quiver of its tail.

Carla smiled.

37

in search of spirit Aphrodite

What if I have the realisation of my missing soul? How would that feel then?

Since the introverts gather all of their likes and dislikes from their sensing period, they are supposed to move on with all these personalised attitudes in later life. But when fortune doesn’t favour them, they discover themselves in a completely different world where they might seem to be the opposite.

The feelings of guilt, lack of confidence, and suppression tend to fluctuate to the top. This situation is not uncommon.

Life remains busy, mostly as studies, work, friends, cooking, and washing grab 98% of our time from the self, sometimes even more.

Issues happen when we are alone in bed or alone on the train when the phone’s battery is dead. It’s terrible to deal with yourself! The realisation of your lost soul gives scope to remind you where you are, what you’ve done, and how you are treating yourself. Yeah, it’s invisible and painful for a moment. If it were someone else, we could just slightly ignore it.

But, as our own resemblance, we can’t actually do that, can we?

The consistency of respecting and prioritising yourself is rare, always. We do things in order 38

to capture the attention of others, which seems to be the work of us apparently. Meanwhile, we expect all gratitude and returned etiquette from others, whereas we are unable to hold the least respect and rewards for ourselves.

However, those dull vibes often stay for some days and remind us how detached life has been, just because of so many attempts to attach to people unnecessarily. Obviously, insufficiency of life expectations will arise then.

With all the ongoing challenges of jobs and studies, life has to carry on! Night comes, and you get the feeling that you are nothing now.

Unfavourably, you have already been left with a physical existence which just follows up rules and adjusts for everyone but yourself. SEE! You have become an object.

Sorry to make you feel bad after informing you of this.

No worries. There’s a lot like you and there will be more.

the doorway pale Arun WSK Than

40

i have sat in myself, the heart of warm wax, the soft shell of a man, gentle darkness. i have hated, self-enclosed, fire under the eyelids, golden spiderwebs span the window, i feel the sunlight slanting through me, spreading like butter over empty fields. the distant hill is a pimple on the curve of a vast cheek, wrenched into a thousand-year sob. the white walls are blue, i float through the window, i walk on the wrinkles, tracing chipped porcelain with my toes. i cast no shadows, my empty arms are weightless and everything returns. green sprigs flash in the wind, i step on wild chives and track past dead rats but i only smell the cold. and there’s something in my eye, watching morning mist melt beneath the cloudless sky.

an interview with an environmental rep Zoe Sorenson

swine magazine is part of the Swinburne Student Union (SSU), which plays a pivotal role in representing the student voice. Overall, the SSU advocates for students’ welfare and academic needs, provides important services, and hosts a variety of events. Each issue, we like to take some time to chat with current office-bearers so you can get to know them and better understand the roles they play in representing you.

The theme of this issue is spirit. One of its (notso-spooky) manifestations is as a passion for causes. This, of course, applies to all the SSU’s reps. Our Print Editor Zoe Sorenson spoke to Environmental Representative Alex Kyaw about his role, the impact he hopes to create this year, and ways he keeps his own spirits up.

ZS: Hi Alex, thanks for chatting with us! How did you initially get involved with the union?

What was that journey like?

AK: I have been a member of the union since I came to Swinburne about two years ago. However, due to COVID, I wasn’t really involved with the union. If I remember correctly, it was last year when I came to the SSU’s trivia night with the Burmese Club and met Zam (the SSU President for 2022). After that, I would reach out to him when I had issues at uni. From there, we kept in touch a bit. In November, Zam told me that they were 42

looking for an Environmental Rep position at the union, and I told him that I was in, and here I am.

ZS: Your role is new to the SSU this year, which is super exciting! What does it mean to be the Environmental Rep, exactly? What does your role entail?

AK: It is a question that I have been trying to answer myself. I would say it would involve anything that concerns the environment, from being aware of waste to raising awareness of the global issues.

ZS: Do you have any particular goals you’re looking to achieve this year? Is there something you’re really looking forward to?

AK: For this year, I just want to get as much information to students as possible. That was my goal when I took on the role, that I wanted the students to have information which I wish I could have had when I first came to Australia.

ZS: Do you feel like Swinburne as an institution is making progress towards becoming more environmentally conscious and sustainable?

Are there areas you think the university needs to be focusing on more?

AK: I do believe they have their own goals for this matter; however, I do believe that

we need more bicycle storage space, which is a campaign that I am working on for this semester.

ZS: If students are feeling kind of defeated in the face of the climate crisis, do you have any advice for them?

AK: I would say, ‘Don’t beat yourself up for this climate crisis, just try to be more conscious of the environment and try to reduce waste which is harmful to the environment, such as using less plastic bags and cups. Even a small move now can make a huge difference in the future.’ With that in mind, I believe the students will be fine.

ZS: This issue is all about spirit. Do you have a go-to activity when you’re feeling a little down and wanting to raise your spirits?

when I am feeling down is going to the gym.

I love weightlifting. After going to the gym, I would feel refreshed and feel a lot better.

Another thing is to take a good long bath, it can also be refreshing.

ZS: Finally, what’s a piece of advice you’d give students wanting to involve themselves with the SSU? AK: Try to come to events and talk to the representatives and let them know that you are interested in being involved. Also, volunteering is another way for you to get involved with the union.

To find out more about the students representing you and the range of services the SSU provides, check out https://ssu.org.au

AK: I would say everyone is different from one person to another. The one thing I look for 43

we sow seeds in the cracks of the pavement Eli Rooke

He sat cross-legged in the garden and whispered to the flowers. On the days of gentle breezes, they whispered back. He found confidants in the snails and butterflies that carried the secrets of his crushes in their souls. They were the most trustworthy of creatures, he had decided. He was just a boy, some said, not understanding that boy was all he had to be. He never searched for four-leaf clovers when every three-leaved one he felt under his bare feet was lucky enough.

He grew, and the flowers bloomed because of him.

In autumn, I took my clothes off the line to avoid the evening rain. I traded a clothes peg with a magpie and she sang for me. Her tale of a moving home, and all the gardens that embraced her, welcomed the warm rain. With it, the grass dewed, my socks dampened, and the weeds stretched in thanks. As I hurried inside, I realised I had never paid them much mind before.

I began calling them wildflowers, and my lawnmower fell into disuse.

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After too long living in a dark room, you start buying yourself flowers. Call it a declaration of self-love. You’re not good at keeping them watered but you’re trying. You keep the blinds open for them and realise you’ve missed watching the sunset. You didn’t love the darkness as much as you thought you did. You learn, slowly, that your love does not need to have a burial date.

You will keep buying yourself more flowers.

You learn the names of your favourites.

We go to the cemetery and lay flowers for people we once knew. They were kind, we all agree, and we want them to know we remember. We miss them, and some of us wonder if they miss us too. Sometimes, we pull a gentle flower from our bundle and lay it on a lonely grave. We say the stranger’s name aloud and tell them they are loved, that we do not know them but we have not forgotten them.

We are all just ghosts in the making – growing, tending and giving love – and realising this is all we have to be.

45

Get energy with a bit of good.

Go Neutral.

Students can now take up EnergyAustralia’s exclusive offer thanks to our partnership* with the Swinburne Student Union.

•

Special guaranteed discount on your electricity and gas bills

•

Opt in for carbon neutral energy at home - for no extra cost to you.^

•

0% energy rate rise guarantee for 12 months

•

No lock-in contracts

Switch today All you need is this unique offer code: LightTheWay Go to energyaustralia.com.au/partner-program or call 1800 127 049.

The Partner Program offer is available to eligible customers who are currently a member of the Swinburne Student Union, an EnergyAustralia Partner Program participant. Not available in all areas or for all tariff types. Guaranteed discount is off our market energy charges and applies for the 12-month benefit period. Your energy charges won’t increase during the 12-month fixed rate period but other fees and charges (incl. solar feed-in tariffs & GreenPower) may vary. A Basic Plan Information Document/Energy Fact Sheet with the key details of this plan is available on request. ^Opt in and we will offset the carbon emissions from your electricity and/or gas usage from the 6-month anniversary of the date your EnergyAustralia account is established. We will let you know in advance if we withdraw Go Neutral. For more info and full terms visit energyaustralia.com.au/carbon-neutral.

*

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