SWINE Issue 4 2021 - Next

issue 4 • 2021

swine next

contents Editor’s Letter • Jessica Murdoch Tomorrow • Eli Rooke A Letter To My Future Self • Kayla Willson What To Write • Anthony Vezzu What Now: The Laws Of Inertia • Will Ferguson

I’ll Get Around To That...

Tomorrow • Ferris Knight The Craftsman • Nisakya Perera The Future Is Alien - And It Is Beautiful • Winta Kebreab Gold • Dilini Fredrick Mamihlapinatapai • Girish Gupta

Is Outside The Opporsite Of Inside?

• Bradlee Jennings

Nine Days - The Highest-Stakes Job Interview • Zoe Sorenson

Digital Detox Day • Aisha Noorani

Glorious Purpose • Ayesha Shaikh

Canute And The Tide • Sophie Robertson

A Better World: Only In Our Imagination? • Jessica Murdoch

It’s All About The Gear • Julia Ghent & Gloria Ghent

Interview With An Outgoing Team • Tina, Zoe & Jess

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 contact! www.swinemagazine.org/contribute editor@ssu.org.au

with thanks to our team: Adele Easton Zoe Sorenson Tina Tsironis Molly Davidson Madison Bryce Jessica Norris Deanne Jeffers-Barrett

a

ement of country g d e l w ckno 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 SSU’s offices are situated. We pay our respects to their Elders, past, present and future.

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

An Acknowledgement of Country is important, but it's not the end of course. We need to ensure we follow up with action.

If you’re looking for ways to act, check out the Path to Equality directory for a list of campaigns - such as #RaiseTheAge and #PayTheRent - that could use your support, as well as a list of resources, profiles and articles on how you can help to dismantle our current system:

editor’s letter

Folks! It is the final edition of 2021.

(We’re not going to address that I’m writing this from Lockdown 6.0) What is time? It’s hard to believe that I’m coming to the end of an amazing term as editor of SWINE magazine – on a personal note, it’s been a weird year of transition for me. I finished up my u-grad degree (still haven’t made it to my graduation yet, thanks COVID) and have started a Master of Research. I’ve been working and writing and reading and editing. I feel incredibly lucky to have had some awesome opportunities presented to me this past year, even though it’s certainly thrown some curve balls too. I probably wouldn’t have predicted this life for myself five years ago – I definitely couldn’t have predicted what our current ‘normal’ would be. Sometimes, it seems like a waste of time wondering too much about the future – it rarely turns out quite how we predict – and currently, it’s certainly understandable that many would be feeling anxiety or trepidation.

But sometimes, there’s also something freeing about not knowing. And hopeful, if you can stretch your imagination.

It’s difficult to pull out a simple through line, from the threads that make up this edition. It seems that I’m not the only one who finds themselves looking backwards, when thinking about what comes ‘next’.

But whatever direction you’re looking, there’s plenty to think about, reflect on and DO! Join us in this issue as some people look back, others look forward, and some imagine alternate worlds. There’s personal reflections, advice and suggestions. Some are hopeful, some challenging. Poetry, comics, reviews – we’ve got something for everybody!

I’d also like to take this opportunity to say thank you for such an amazing year.

I had such an awesome time selecting the themes (I wonder if anyone noticed our nerdy little secret message… Hint: put all four editions together and read the spine) and enjoying everyone’s interpretations of Social, Whimsical, Identity and Next.

I want to especially take the time to thank: • the SSU reps – especially those who spent time contributing to various editions – who have done incredible work this year, under continuing difficult circumstances.

• our amazing team of sub-editors – it’s been a delight to work alongside such enthusiastic, thoughtful, adaptable human beings.

• Zoe – who managed to put together such a stunning visual display every time, even when an edition was, in her own words, such a ‘thicc wordy boi’.

• Tina – who has time and time again in our writer/editor relationship, demonstrated to me just how amazing it can feel to have someone else invested with you on a piece of writing and, in doing so, helped to shape the way I like to approach my role as editor. Her advice, care and support has been invaluable.

• And of course, most importantly, our contributors – whether you’ve submitted once or every edition of 2021 (shout-out to Girish!); whether you came along to events, interacted with our posts online or participated in our sudden writing competition; whether this is the first edition you’ve picked up this year or you’ve read every one, cover to cover.

Creativity really is a collaborative effort, and I’ve loved working with all of you.

Can’t wait to see what comes NEXT. Jessica xo

tomorrI imagine a future, and it is not mine.

I could make it mine, perhaps, if I could simply force myself to like coffee.

It would be mine then, surely.

This future of early mornings and non-bitter sips.

Of sunrise and refreshment. Of purpose.

I imagine a future with purpose, and it is not mine.

It belongs to some abstract version of me, perfect in porcelain and burned with passion.

I have written them a letter asking how to become.

I paint my fingernails and hope it is the glaze that will finally inspire me.

I am waiting; I have left myself on read.

Tomorrow, people will celebrate my latest lap around the sun.

New expectations made pretty with paper and bows will be bestowed upon me.

I will take them, and fail them in the same breath.

I imagine a future, and it is full of tomorrows.

It is dawns I will sleep through. It is clay left unmoulded.

It is the search for home in a parallel I will never see myself cross.

I do not know if tomorrow belongs to me.

I do not know if I want it to.

Eli Rooke

Hey. It's kinda weird thinking about how far we’ve come.

Do you think so too?

On one hand, I'm so proud.

I have achieved so much, And worked so hard.

I was able to move on, And push through.

But on the other hand, I feel odd.

And tired.

And confused.

And, somewhat Alone.

Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.

Bordering on the edge of a delightful insanity, Filled with moments of warmth.

You know, the songs don’t sound the same.

Not anymore.

It's weird not waking up to you, Falling asleep with you.

You were my entire world.

My everything.

How do you move on without The gears that make you turn?

I do not miss you.

But I hope you are well.

I truly do.

And As for whether I am I'm not entirely sure.

Kayla Willson

a letter from my future self

hat to writ

Anthony Vezzu

T

hat to writ hat to writ hat to writ hat to writ

he computer screen scorched his eyes.

The darkness around him didn’t stir.

He still hadn’t typed a word.

The cursor on the digital page winked at him, daring him to write a line. To write it and leave it there. A vein throbbed in his temple. He leaned forward and typed: If you want originality, read Kafka. He paused, then finished with: They even published his letters.

Inevitably, he backspaced this. The white rectangle on his screen looked to him like a door with no handle.

He buried his face in his hands. The laptop waited on the desk before him, open and watchful like a child’s eye. He considered abandoning the writing and heading out for the night…

‘Eric!’ Molly sang. The old Irish barfly grinned with all her teeth as Eric entered the Lynchpin. Molly skulled her shot as he took the stool beside her. ‘How’s uni goin’ fer ya?’

‘Oh, Moll,’ Eric sighed. ‘Let’s talk about something else, hey? What’s happening with you? Sung any big songs at Kaio’s Karaoke lately?’

‘Oh, you shoulda seen me last night – my best work so far! Picture it: I’m beltin’ out “Unchained Melody”, the crowd’s singing right along with me, hangin’ onto every note…’

Eric smirked. ‘I guess your singing must be at its worst when it’s just in front me, then.’

‘Aw, you wouldn’t know talent if it slapped you.’ Molly scrunched her nose at him.

The bartender made his way over to them.

Everyone called him David, but that wasn’t his real name. Molly had told Eric the story. *** One of the Lynchpin’s regulars – an elderly Italian art collector, now dead – had once marvelled at the bartender’s features.

The art collector said they were so wellproportioned, so statuesque, Michelangelo himself could have carved them. It wasn’t long before the new name of David – ‘Like the statue,’ Molly had clarified with a pompous wink – became official.

‘So, what’s your real name?’ Eric had asked him once. The corners of David’s lips rose, but Eric wouldn’t have called the motion a smile.

‘I learned something a while ago,’ he said.

‘When I was in the army, the head officer gave everyone nicknames. One guy in my platoon hardly spoke, so he called him Lockjaw. Another fella, this guy who prayed every night, he named him Pope. He called me Elmer because I was “as bad at shooting targets as Elmer Fudd was at shooting wabbits”.’

David laughed to himself. ‘My point is, when I remember those guys, I remember them by their nicknames, not their real ones. People decide on their own ways of thinking of you, Eric. Even if I told you my real name, you’d still think of me as David.

Names live inside those who name, not those who are named.’

Eric had felt desperate. ‘Don’t you want people to know your real name?’ he asked.

‘I mean, doesn’t it bother you – people projecting an identity onto you?’

David shrugged and shook his head nonchalantly. Eric noticed that his face had gone stern as he turned away, though. ‘I’ll be back – gotta serve these other customers.’

Eric knew, then, that he’d never ask for the bartender’s real name again. Even if he still felt guilty whenever he called him David. *** ‘Hullo, Eric,’ said David, polishing a glass.

‘How’re things?’ ‘‘E’s down in the dumps, David, me boy,’ said Molly, patting Eric’s hair. ‘Even if he won’t say so.’ Eric rolled his eyes.

‘You know what it’s a good night for, David?’ he asked, awaiting the familiar response.

‘Vodka and cranberry?’ David raised an eyebrow.

‘Vodka and cranberry,’ Eric confirmed.

‘Now we’re talkin’.’ Molly slung an arm over Eric’s shoulders.

In the black, empty-road hours of Wednesday morning, the Lynchpin was as quiet as it got. The persistent bassline of Elvis’s ‘Suspicious Minds’ sidled across the bar and down to the empty wooden booths. The music came from David’s genuine 1960s Rock-Ola jukebox. Neon red and blue, its lights always soothed Eric.

People who were once as young as him had watched those same lights a generation ago.

They had danced beside the jukebox and sang to its music long before he had. The thought reassured Eric that there was still time.

‘Here we go.’ David set the vodkacranberries down. It was Molly who’d

introduced the drink to Eric. *** ‘Me granddaughter loves these,’ Molly had told him after ordering from David.

‘Ya remind me o’ her. Me Katey. Always questionin’. An answer’s never quite good enough fer either o’ ya, except fer comin’ up with new questions.’

‘I like to think it pays to be inquisitive,’ said Eric.

‘Ha, ya even sound like Katey,’ Molly said.

‘I’ll tell ya the same thing I tell her: if all ya do is question, and ya never accept things as they are, ya wind up lumpin’ all the world’s problems on yer shoulders like they’re yers ta solve. Take it from someone who knows, kiddo – stick to solvin’ yer own problems.’

‘Well,’ Eric said, ‘when you solve your problem of learning to sing, do let me know.’ Molly grinned and raised a hand, making like she was going to slap him.

Once the friendly red drinks arrived, Molly cheersed Eric, but her eyes didn’t do the same. It was the only time he could remember her looking sober.

‘Nuthin’ like a vodka-cranberry to quiet a busy mind and lift a low mood,’ Molly said.

Then she and Eric drank. Vodka-cranberries had been his favourite ever since.

Molly was making her way to the bathroom when Eric spotted David shaking his head at her. It was subdued, secretive, but it was there, nonetheless.

‘What’s the matter?’ Eric asked. David’s shoulders tensed, then slumped.

‘The first time I saw Molly here, years ago,’ he said, ‘she came in crying. Well, I say crying…I remember tears in her eyes, but there wasn’t any crying in her voice. She kept saying “I’m finished…Katey’s gone, and I’m finished…Can’t you see I’m finished?”

I didn’t know what she was on about.’

David covered his lips with his hands, as if trying to wipe something away. ‘It was the next morning when I heard about the car accident. A young woman named Katey McCormack had been killed. I never asked Molly about it, even as we became friends.

Maybe I should have.’

David looked into Eric’s eyes. Eric felt the room shrink around him. ‘I know that Molly really loved Katey,’ said David.

‘You’re very special to her, Eric.’

When Molly returned, Eric embraced her and pecked her cheek. He told her it was the vodka-cranberry lifting his mood. *** David propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand.

‘What troubles you, my friend?’ he asked Eric. Molly chuckled at David’s earnestness but soon mirrored his body language. An immense gratitude – a kind of love, perhaps – shone inside Eric’s chest. These are the kinds of people with stories to tell, Eric thought.

The misnamed, ex-military bartender and the Irish karaoke queen outrunning her twilight years.

Eric considered how to answer David’s question. ‘I feel like I’m off my path,’ he said, finally. ‘I feel like I set myself to a path when I was younger – like I clinched my wheels to one single railroad – and now I’m veering off it. I only ever thought to

map out that path, so now I’m lost.’ Eric’s eyes had wandered to the jukebox, so he returned them to Molly and David. ‘Do you get what I mean?’

Molly’s lips curled into one corner like she’d tasted something foul. ‘Yer off yer path?’ she asked. ‘You’ve wanted to be a psychiatrist –’ ‘Psychologist,’ David corrected. ‘ – fer years, now… What’s changed?’

David’s brows were creased together like well-worn shoes. ‘It’s hard figuring out where you want to go in life,’ he said. ‘Talk to us – what’s up?’

Eric took a drink before he told them about the creative writing assignment. *** ‘It won’t go toward your final grade, Eric,’ Ms Pilson had explained, ‘but I think you need to do this. You can write about anything you want, but it has to be yours – original.’

She peered at Eric over her glasses’ black frames. ‘You show promise, but the voice in your prose isn’t yours. Carver, Gaitskill, Salinger, too… I see their influence, but they’ve already said their piece. It’s your turn now, Eric, so write it how you feel it.’

Ms Pilson opened the classroom door before adding, ‘Just keep it to two-thousand words.’ Then she scooted him out. *** ‘She made me think,’ Eric told Molly and David. ‘She made me think of how, whenever I write, lately, this little fella –

with white hair, a grey suit, and a clipboard – he sort of floats up outta my imagination.

He’s like a critic. He tuts and scribbles notes and judges whatever creative output is passing him by. He grumbles things like, “These sentences are long enough to reach Finland; Bukowski’d be rolling in his grave,” or “Banal – take a note from Murakami and dream a little, for God’s sake”.’

‘Who’s Murakami?’ Molly asked.

‘Just listen for a minute,’ David said, shushing her.

‘It’s my own fault that the Critic’s running rampant like this,’ Eric went on. ‘I mean, I essentially trained him to revile originality because I’m afraid to be wrong or – God forbid – to get a bad grade. The only thoughts I’m allowed to write are ones that’ve already been published by some other psychologist.’ He was standing now, his fingers scuttling about his face like spiders. David and Molly leaned forward.

‘And now,’ Eric realised, ‘it’s like I don’t believe in what I have to say anymore! I used to – when I was younger, you know? – but I’ve lost it. Ms Pilson asks me to write one story – one piece where I can finally express anything I want to – and I’ve got nothing to say! This is what I mean about falling off my path,’ Eric said, his eyes flaring. ‘I wanted a career in psychology…studying people, learning how to help them…That was always supposed to be the path. But I’m losing myself. It’s happening so fast, already. And if the only thing I focus on is other people, I’ll never learn about me, who I am. I’m afraid I’ve already forgotten.’ He plonked himself onto his stool.

A resonant beat passed. Molly touched a hand to Eric’s shoulder. She laid it there.

David’s eyes trembled. They embraced Eric’s gaze. He felt held all over.

‘Eric,’ David said, ‘it doesn’t sound to me like you’re losing your path.’ He took hold of both of Eric’s hands. ‘It sounds like you’re finally finding it.’

Molly’s hand squeezed Eric’s shoulder warmly. When he looked at her, the stark sobriety in her eyes brought him back to the night he learned Katey died. They were glassy and longing, and the corners of her mouth turned down onto wrinkles the shape of waterfalls. A seedling of sadness sprang up in Eric’s heart. It threatened to blossom. He couldn’t speak for a moment.

He was shocked, suppressing the feeling.

‘We’re always tryin’ to find our voices, Eric,’ Molly said. ‘It’s lifelong. Don’t be so hard on yerself.’

The flower of sadness took root. It bloomed in his throat and flowered in his eyes. He began to cry. It was unabashed, torrential, how a child would cry. Molly took him in her arms. She traced small circles into the hair by his temple. She sang to him, and the sound curled up like a cushion in his ear.

‘Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snowwhite feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree…’

The sun windows three of embrace,

was peeking in through the when Molly rose to leave. The them had congregated in an wordless in the aura of their

shared memory. They’d all cried together, through the night. They’d all mourned something now lost.

‘I think I’ll visit Katey,’ Molly said. ‘It’s been too long. I’d like to introduce ye to ‘er.’

‘I’d love to meet her,’ Eric said.

‘Me too,’ said David. ‘But I should introduce myself to the both of you, first.’

Then he told them his name.

They walked together to the cemetery. …When Eric leaned back from the computer, the sun was peeking in through his windows. That’s what had given him the idea for the last scene of his story. Satisfied and sleepy, he scrolled through the pages on his screen, now teeming with words. They might never be published, but they were undeniably his.

He crawled into bed and drifted off, wondering loosely where the inspiration for Molly and David had come from. He supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they’d been there for him, waiting in his mind. What mattered was that he had always known what to write. He’d only needed to begin.

Author’s Note.

The song sang by Molly in the story is part of a poem

by William Butler Yeats titled ‘Down by the Salley Gardens’. It was first published in 1889. Numerous musicians and vocalists have crafted their own renditions of it. My personal favourite is the one sung

by Maura O’Connell and Karen Matheson.

Will Ferguson

W

what now: the laws of inertia

hen I was first learning to ride a bike my dad told me, ‘Momentum is your friend’. In my experience, success at university is no different. It is easier to get high grades if you have habits and routines that promote good learning and study.

However, developing these habits can be brutally difficult.

Those initial weeks of lectures, mostly consisting of introductions and learning about Canvas for the 18 billionth time, are sometimes tedious. It’s tempting to skip them, but it’s been my own personal experience that skipping tutorials in the first week can often lead to skipping all of them, for 12 weeks. There is a reason our professors and lecturers structure their units this way.

By showing up to the easy, seemingly pointless lectures, we build momentum.

Momentum is the essence of success.

Internet philosophers may have you believing otherwise. They regularly spew out motivational YouTube videos with orchestral background music based on the idea that ‘success is pain’ and that we should all just copy the lifestyle of Elon Musk. The comparison of his life to your own may be unrealistic, but it doesn’t mean that there is no useful take away that we can find.

What these passionate businesspeople fail to disclose is that Elon Musk developed his approach over time. He did not just decide to start working 16 hours a day on a dime.

The messages from these types of videos are

aiming to get us to make a judgement about ourselves – we are not good enough – rather than identifying why we engage in the behaviours that we do. Reflecting on what underpins our behaviour can help us change it, and by looking at ourselves and our behaviour through a more compassionate lens we can ask ourselves, as we would a child, why we feel sad, angry, and stuck.

Once we have a clear picture, we can more easily decide what to do next.

it in while, so give yourself time and space to build up your momentum again. Every time you do something, it gets a little bit easier. The thing is, success can be seen as 10,000 right choices, or 1 good routine.

Putting in the effort to create a good routine, simplifies the number of choices you need to make, and the power of having that good routine is the compounding interest. It will generate momentum, and one good choice will usually lead to another.

This brings us back to the issue that all Swinburne students will face coming into second semester off the back of another lockdown: fighting against inertia, and rebuilding momentum.

So, if you're feeling like you’re stuck, and you need to build your momentum again, you may be asking: What now?

Every time we go into another lockdown, we stop going to work, socialising, studying and a lot of other things that underpin normal life. And then we leave lockdown to return to ‘normal’, and find everything is more difficult. This experience leads to a reduction in our productivity and can impact our mental health more generally.

It is important to identify the pervasiveness of this experience and remember that those of us who felt lonely during lockdown have never had their feelings shared by so many. Our burdens always feel like they are specific to ourselves, so how do we start understanding this natural feeling collectively?

There is no immediate answer to that, but we can think of our mental health like riding a bike. When we stop, it's easier to fall over.

Overcoming inertia and building momentum from scratch is a skill in itself.

Starting again is exceptionally difficult if you haven't done it before, or haven't done

Pick something easy, something almost patronisingly small, and do it.

It could be brushing your teeth twice a day or riding your bike to work again. Wherever you are at, that is completely personal to you. But do it every day, and if you start finding that task becoming a part of your life to the point where there is no effort, pick something else, and do that every day.

In this way, you can learn to make inertia your enemy, and momentum your friend.

Good luck.

outside

inside

is outside the opposite of inside?

Bradlee Jennings

T

here are precious few delights I have stumbled upon in the streaming world during the pandemic. A standout movie here, a worthy series there… but for the most part, I see diminishing returns and I remain hungry for something more.

Film and TV aside, the other element that constantly finds its way onto my screen is the humble comedy special. I think we can all agree that, just like art and beauty, humour is in the eye of the beholder. Growing up a shameless comedy nerd, I developed a specific yet varied palate, watching every obscure set I could get my hands on, while bound by the limitations of pre-internet channel-surfing. Later in life, I’ve had the good fortune of seeing shows at both the Comedy Store and the Comedy Cellar, the bi-coastal meccas for standup in the US (in much safer times, of course).

Still, I often find myself bored and underwhelmed by the calibre of ‘content’ we’re getting in this so-called golden age of streaming. This all changed when I randomly clicked on Bo Burnham’s new special Inside, released on Netflix at the end of May. I had tried to watch previous specials and YouTube clips of his, often turning them off after a minute or two. I never developed an affinity for his earlier ‘pretentious child prodigy playing electric piano’ shtick.

The walls started slowly coming down as I watched him act in The Big Sick and write/ direct Eighth Grade – both amazing indie films in their own right. However, I was not ready for the brilliance that he crafted with Inside, all from a single room. Rambunctious highs, and heart-breaking lows, I’ve never changed my opinion of an entertainer so fast. Musical comedy isn’t usually my bag, and many people I have discussed it with concur. With the exception of artists like

Tenacious D or Flight of the Conchords, it’s a genre that can immediately evoke cringeworthy eye-rolls, because it’s such a delicate balance to get right. I firmly feel that Bo is bang on the money with Inside.

Written, produced, filmed and released during pandemic isolation – it’s a rollercoaster of satirical jibes at life in the twenty-first century. I have revisited this special several times, focusing on different elements with each watch. While the songwriting, lighting, blocking and acting are at the forefront, there are a few things that may slip between the cracks on a casual viewing. Being a musician, I analysed the audio and its relationship with the visuals over and over… and it’s flawless. I still believe it’s a carefully constructed recreation of (most of ) the songs, and it would be silly to think otherwise – though some shots of him accidentally blowing a take or dropping a camera look and feel genuinely unplanned.

The fact that this is a ‘set’ doesn’t take away from the trapped vibe and tone that Bo portrays. For example, it’s common knowledge that he’s been in a relationship with director and screenwriter Lorene Scafaria for many years now, and that they have a dog and a residence together in Los Angeles. This was all filmed in his guest house. Does that detract from the isolated brilliance of Inside and its oneroom claustrophobia? Absolutely not. Even though he can head into the main house or garden anytime he pleases, the tone is still a poignant blanket of quarantine blues. It’s a beautiful piece of performance art, and I buy it wholesale. He may go to the shops.

Maybe a walk here and there. Who knows?

America was a broken battlefield last year, so for all intents and purposes, they stayed home every day and ate Uber Eats every

outside night. That’s not what this is. What this is, above all else, is an honest and naked portrayal of life in a global pandemic, no matter where you are, no matter who you are. It’s not just inside Bo’s guest house, but inside his weathered and hurting mind.

There are some things that are undeniably universal. The dread of what this virus may do to you, or someone you know.

The sadness and confusion of living in the limited space you’ve been allocated. And most importantly, the wonder of what you can create in said space, pandemic be damned. It’s both understandable and acceptable to have given up on the whole ‘bake sourdough and learn an instrument’ stance on lockdown life. Last year, when this was all twice as frightening, yet twice as new, our optimistic outlook made a lot more sense. We had been dealt a massive blow, and we were going to stand defiant.

Fast forward to mid-2021, where only a fraction of Australia has been vaccinated, it’s hard to not feel powerless and alone. At the time of this writing, Victoria is in its fifth lockdown.

One doesn’t have to analyse Inside track by track to sum up its uniqueness and mass appeal. The vast subject matter speaks for itself. Sock puppets unpacking the fact that modern society is built on war and crime.

Reconciling with morally iffy songs written years ago. The oft-frustrating endeavour of video-calling your parents. And of course, couched between two more sombre

pieces, a funky song about feeling like shit.

The themes come thick and fast, with a heavy swing towards social media and the internet in general. Interspersed with the songs themselves are bits and monologues about Bo’s declining mental health – the pandemic coinciding with the end of a fiveyear hiatus from performing. This sounds like awful timing, but it was the impetus for this special, an unbelievable silver lining for the throngs of people for whom it has helped. I’d like to think it’s been priceless therapy for Bo as well.

My mental health has always been, well, healthy. I went to counselling exactly one time, in 1996. It was a small office, buried in a local shopping centre, and I talked to a lady for what seemed like thirty minutes.

I’m sure she was laughing hysterically on the inside, as I sauntered in, armed with a Rage Against the Machine shirt and tales of being bored at school (not the tortured bored genius kind of tales, just the asshole teenager kind). Since then, I’ve learnt to thank my lucky stars that the depression demon has never knocked on my door.

Temperamental and fragile as it may be, my spirit remains positive. That is not to say optimistic. I wholeheartedly concur with Bo’s misanthropic yet upbeat satire. I may not relate to the mental health portions of Inside, but I absolutely relate to the ‘let’s play fiddle while the world burns’ attitude.

Yes, I know society has gone to the dogs.

No, I don’t give a shit. And yes, I know that deep down, of course I give a shit. I

think Bo does too, but sometimes it’s more satisfying to scoff at your enemies than offer a peaceful handshake. These scathing critiques of modern life are so very relatable, yet I sit and revel in exactly what he’s talking about.

As somebody who was barely affected by the isolation last year, I still felt the mental pain. I spent most of the first lockdowns driving all over Victoria (and sometimes New South Wales) with my dog, carefully merchandising at supermarkets, and staying in hotels where it was often just me. Due to the geography of my routes, I’d get to have pit stops at a beach, a lake, or a forest.

I’d take my guitar and write songs. I’d take my laptop and do schoolwork and Zoom with family members. When restrictions permitted, I’d hit up restaurants and pubs with friends in country towns and crash in their spare rooms.

I’ve had a lot of small victories this year.

Articles, interviews and poetry published.

Songs written and recorded. A great first semester at Swinburne. But what next?

My acoustic gigs keep getting postponed due to the lockdowns, denying me lots of money… and lots of free craft beer.

I’d be remiss, however, if I didn’t reiterate how much other people have really, really been affected by this unforgiving calamity.

The money I just mentioned is a drop in the bucket compared to the tens of thousands of dollars that people have lost… and that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the mental toll inflicted. If depression and anxiety were

rife before – add a global pandemic, a year of isolation and a glacial-paced vaccine rollout to the mix. Individuals, families, and friendship circles alike have been hit for six. That’s not even taking into account the myriad of small businesses, big businesses, and industries across the globe. Getting this balance right has been near impossible, and the ongoing impact is immeasurable.

Inside is the ultimate open letter to the personification of COVID-19. The varying themes will remain a time capsule of these last few years in general, but the lens through which Burnham shows them to us is one of desperation and isolation… all localised within one room, by one man.

Parts may seem like he’s become untethered from reality, while other parts are the realest shit you’ve ever seen. It’s hard to know if you’re being truly empathic when you’re only guessing what path somebody’s on, but the results are tangible – crying and laughing in unison.

This all leads me to the question – what will he do next? The struggle has been real, and the future stays uncertain. With such a near (or absolutely) perfect score as Inside, it’s hard to imagine what may follow this.

After all, by the time there is another special brewing (if there even is one), we will be post-pandemic, or at the very least, the planet will be mostly vaccinated. And what will we be doing?

Things will be different when we get to go outside again. Or will they?

inside

Aisha Noorani

I

t can seem that from the moment we wake up to the moment we fall asleep, we are inundated with digital stimuli. This has been exacerbated during the pandemic, where it has become increasingly difficult to avoid screens when most of our work is now conducted online. When you eventually feel tired of scrolling on your phone, there’s no more online shopping that can be done or you’ve video-called everyone on your contact list, you might begin to wonder what you can do next that doesn’t involve a digital screen.

Mindful Colouring Whether you have a moment to spare or hours to kill, mindful colouring can be a relaxing and stress-relieving activity. Various bookstores, supermarkets and your local Kmart will stock mindful colouring books sold in various themes and designs. Some popular colouring books have mandala prints or flower stencils; some are intricate, and others feature more simple designs.

There is a colouring book sure to delight any personality. Alternatively, if you don’t want to purchase a zen colouring book, you can access free colouring templates online and simply print as you go. Once you have your selected design, all that is left is to gather a few Textas or pencils and start colouring away. Mindful colouring is a lovely way to wind down at the end of the day or to take a break from stressful work.

Zen colouring is all about the journey and experience of colouring, rather than reaching an end result.

Long Walks There is nothing more refreshing than a long walk with scenic views or a difficult hike that still leads to a destination with unparalleled sights. You may wish to simply make a habit of walking around your street block and exploring your area more deeply, or try exploring another part of your city.

Something for those who enjoy a bit of adventure, is to ride a train line that you don’t usually take and get off at a new station where you can explore somewhere new. Perhaps stop at a local café, op shop or any other store that strikes your fancy.

If you’re in Melbourne, there are numerous parks and trails to be explored. For example, there is Darebin Creek Trail (5.3km), Galatea Point and Dights Falls Loop (5.5km), Fitzroy Gardens (3.5km), Wilson Reserve (1.4km) or if you feel like getting out of the city, try Blackburn Lakeside Circuit (1.6km) located close to Blackburn train station.

Seasonal Décor For those that would like their abode to complement the changing seasons, updating your space with seasonal décor may be a plausible screen-free option. You could change the quilt and pillow colours to prints and colours of a particular season, upcycle ornaments to your new seasonal tastes, update throw blankets and wall décor, or consider changing up the layout of some rooms. A simple change of textures and colours in your space that complement a warm or cold season can create a sense

d

de of positive change and joy. Seasonal redecorating can also be assisted by sprucing up old possessions using paint or decorative items to introduce an artistic and authentic spirit in your space. There’s always room for some large pillows, a quilt blanket and more wall prints, right?

Reading Marathon We all love binge-watching movies and shows, but reading can be just as delightful.

When did you last venture into your local library? Whether you’re into science fiction or YA fiction, self-help books or even a bit of poetry, the shelves of your local library or bookshop are sure to stock the latest and greatest. No matter your taste, you are sure to find something to suit. Consider creating a cosy reading corner at home designed for your reading marathons, where you can immerse yourself undisturbed. Not only can reading be a way to relax, but it can also be a fantastic way to gain insight into somebody else’s world without leaving your own.

Run Wild For those that enjoy some aerobic exercise, running can be a great way to get those extra steps in and it is a great opportunity to explore untread trails. While being excellent for heart health, running is also a great way to reduce stress whilst also developing endurance and stamina. Start out by running short distances and experimenting with pace and journey. With regular practice you will start to tackle longer distances and running will feel more natural. Remember to always stretch first. Some great places for a run in Melbourne include the Tan Track (3.8km), Albert Park Lake (4.9km), St Kilda Foreshore Trail (11km), Princes Park (3.2km), and Yarra Trails.

Board Game Night A board game night or a puzzle night can be a great alternative to movie nights, where you can gather your friends for a competitive or relaxed night of activities.

Some board games you could try are Monopoly, Scrabble, Pictionary, Cluedo, Twister, or any other board game you may have at home. Oh, and don’t forget the snacks and drinks, you’ll need all the energy you can get!

Brunch or Dinner?

For those that enjoy getting together with friends and family over something to eat, hosting a brunch or dinner party can be a great idea. For a brunch, you can set up your own grazing table with a variety of fresh fruits, crackers, fresh breads, cold meats and cheese, dips and spreads. Garnish with olives and pickles, and don’t skimp on the sweet treats like chocolate, mini pastries and tarts. For a dinner party, you can impress with a selection of your culinary specialities or host a ‘One-Dish-Party’, where guests each bring a dish to create a versatile selection of meals for everybody to try. And of course, if you would like to be really creative, you can always add a theme to your party. Some of my favourites are breakfast for dinner, DIY pizza party, French picnic, or even Taco fiesta!

Some time away from the digital screen is a wonderful way to reconnect with the simplicity and authenticity of nature and life. The above ideas encourage us to slow down and appreciate both our time in solitude and in the company of others.

Such activities enrich the quality of our experiences and remind us of the simple joys hidden around us if we take the time to embrace them.

What does it mean, to be NEXT? What a strange word.

The execution of it in my mouth bites.

The pressure, boiling, to build the word.

Then the oh-so-small opening, Only to immediately close.

A snake slithers between the walls of my teeth.

The guillotine silences it and the word is done.

How strange.

The notion of implying that things are yet to come, that there is a future.

A possibility of something more.

What do we want?

What more is there?

Can I see this, ‘next’?

Can I hold it in the shallow palm of my hand?

Will it move around, like a droplet of water, changing direction with my command?

If I can control it, what about the body of water of which it came from?

Like Canute, will I too, sit on my rotting Throne to command the great ocean, Only to watch as it soaks through my shoes, my socks, my feet?

The people laughing at me.

My arrogance.

Perhaps it is time to let go.

Let the ocean wash over me, And prepare.

Embrace the water.

Embrace the NEXT.

Sophie Robertson

it’s all about the gear Julia Ghent & Gloria Ghent

Some of the things I am currently putting off include: Assignments Does anyone else put off starting assignments because they feel they haven’t learnt enough yet to be able to do the assignment successfully? Then, for me, imposter syndrome sets in, until the assignment is suddenly due tomorrow, and I still don’t feel clever enough for it.

Does this feeling ever go away? Student life is both everything and nothing like what I expected – too much panic, not enough disco.

I

’d say I’m the queen of procrastination, but organizing a coronation sounds like a lot of work. If something can be left till tomorrow, I’ll generally leave it for the day after tomorrow, because I’ll definitely put it off again. I leave a lot of tasks for my future self to do. Then my future self hates me for watching decade old episodes of Skins, instead of just doing the simple thing now.

The dishes are piled up, laundry is in the dryer, and all I have in the cupboard is soup, popcorn, and ramen. As a millennial, I still think of doing these things as ‘adulting’, but the fact is I’ve been legally allowed to drink for a long time now and should just be a qualified adult rather than an overgrown child playing house. I keep waiting for Monday to roll around – as though it restarts my life, rather than just the week.

Grocery shopping Spending $30 on groceries that would last me for half a week is more economical than $30 on UberEats, so why do I make this same mistake over and over again?

I can’t even procrasti-bake, because I’d need to go get groceries to do so.

Skin and haircare routine Jade rollers. Anti-ageing serum. Pimple patches. Invisalign. It seems even tweens have figured out what and how to contour – shouldn’t they be going through an awkward phase the way the rest of us had to before YouTube? I’m still in mine, trying to remind myself that I cannot buy a glow-up to rival Matthew Lewis’.

Watching Brad Mondo clips is a great way of putting off actually doing anything, but then I end up just wanting a new hair colour at the end of every video.

It’s all so overwhelming and confusing. I pretend that one day I’ll understand the foreign language that is beauty and self-

i’ll get around to it… tomorrow

care, maybe even before my hair goes grey.

Cleaning Once upon a time, in a world without COVID, I’d do laundry on Sundays and cleaning on Tuesdays before putting the bins out. But what is a Sunday or a Tuesday now? What is the point of getting out of pajamas when class is just over Zoom? I guess leaving the work to pile up means that at least I’m creating a larger task that will occupy some lockdown time later.

Tinder It’s a simple decision – either use the app or delete it.

I used to dream of having some meet-cute moment in a bookstore, where her hand and mine would reach for the same book at the same time. I’d laugh, offer it to her, and she’d agree only if I borrowed it from her after, leading to a very adorable date.

Realistically though I buy all my books online, so maybe I should actually just open the app and meet someone there? Book Depository should definitely create a dating app from their ‘Watch People Shop’ section though.

Sort through clothes Clothes are made to fit you, not you to the

clothes. That top I loved when I was in year ten is so old now that it’s fashionable again, so instead of pretending I’ll one day fit into it, I should donate it, and any other items I can no longer wear, and free up some wardrobe space.

And finally, Drink some damn water Coffee is not water. Vodka is not water. Diet Coke is not water. Monster is absolutely not water. Even if I stared at myself in the mirror, screaming out, ‘Your organs are crying out of mistreatment – be an adult and take care of yourself,’ I would probably be too dehydrated to put much energy into it. *takes a sip of Diet Coke* The dishes are still piled up, the laundry is still sitting in the dryer, and I've now eaten the ramen. Another Monday has rolled around and yet I still haven't become this ideal version of myself with an Instagramworthy life and Cricut-adorned matching Tupperware.

Maybe I’ll get around to it.

Tomorrow.

Ferris Knight

the craftsman

I

t was getting darker by the minute – the sky was full of blue and purple tints, here and there. I glanced at the rice field next to the dusty road I was walking on. The little premature weeds danced softly through the warm wind, and above, the magnificent blood-red sun slowly concealed itself behind the mountains, full of lush tea plants.

The warm wind roamed through the air.

I liked it. It drove the mosquitos away for a while. It was a quiet journey on my way home to my little clay hut, and even the stray dogs were finding a place to rest for the night, undisturbed.

Most of the shops in the street were closed by now, except for one. It had a little candle lit on a wooden table and behind it a person sat wearing a Sanni mask, crafting and painting similar Sanni masks out of wood to be sold. It always felt so eerie walking by it. It appeared as if the bright coloured devil masks that hung on the wall, kept watch on all the village people as they walked by.

I examined the craftsman behind the table. He appeared to be very skilled, as he confidently carved the mask using small metal tools. I wondered who bought them, since there were hardly any people in the village. The feeling that those devil eyes were watching me began to take over, and to calm myself I switched my attention to the path ahead, walking faster.

The evening wind crept up on me, sending a chill down my spine and almost tugging me backwards as it went by. I suddenly heard something whisper from the darkness behind. I looked back, but the street was too gloomy to make out anything, except

Nisakya Perera for the little Sanni mask shop.

The wind instantly wrapped my arms and body, like the grasp of a strong snake, as it pulled me towards the shop. I tried to run the other way, but it kept dragging me until I was stood right in front of the craftsman’s table. The Sanni masks on the wall appeared more vivid than ever, staring at me with their enormous eyes. There, I realised the craftsman was looking up at me, the colours on the polished wood of his mask dancing through the candlelight. He slowly tilted his head, and a slight chill stroked my face.

‘Can I make you a Sanni mask?’ he asked, his voice was clear even through the sharp teeth of his mask.

My curiosity gained the upper hand and strangely I didn’t feel all that afraid, ‘What kind of Sanni mask?’ I asked.

He appeared closer, as if he were examining my face, searching for that curiosity.

Quietly he turned his arms into the shape of a King Cobra and tilted his head again, saying, ‘One that will allow you to dance anywhere you want.’

As I watched him gather the tools and paint to make my Sanni mask, it began to feel warmer in the shop. There was a quiet, intangible atmosphere around us, except for the occasional whistle of the wind and the clang of tools from the craftsman at work.

The roof ’s interior was covered with dried banana leaf, and on the edges I could see corroded metal in blotches of orange and red. The rest of the shop’s structure was made from orange clay, and dusty grey

newspapers were pasted everywhere from the floor to the walls – a nice space for a demon ritual.

transforming the landscape into a jungle palace. The sudden energy I possessed was beyond my comprehension.

The sun was gone. It was a pitch-black street now. Not a single insect to be seen around the shop. I stared at the mask he was creating. It was perfectly round and the right size for my face. He painted the face dark blue, the colour of the ocean, and carved a simple mouth with a row of sharp white teeth. On the eyelids he added a soft stroke of red and, as a final touch, carved a King Cobra resting on the forehead. I was surprised by how quickly he had finished the mask, as he gave one final blow to remove excess dust and held it before my eyes. It was exquisite. I had never seen one like it before.

‘Watch me dance,’ I whispered to him.

The craftsman watched me patiently, as I placed the mask over my face. With the wood cool on my skin, I strapped it to the back of my head. The two openings over my eyes allowed me to see everything around us, and I realised it had started to rain.

‘It suits you,’ the craftsman said, amusement dancing in his face and posture, intertwined with a slight curiosity, as if waiting for something to happen.

A rush of energy ran through me. I felt strangely more alive, as if the mask bewitched my body. I could feel myself smiling through the sharp teeth, and the blue colour of my face reflected in the sky.

It was a spellbinding moment.

Unable to help it, I looked up at him.

‘Follow me,’ I said, and we ran into the rice field with the little weeds swaying here and there through the gentle wind.

The rain fell around us, creating a song and

I started dancing and dancing, moving my hands in the air and tapping my feet onto the wet soil, donning my beautiful blue Sanni mask. The craftsman, with his orange mask, joined me. I saw his sharp teeth gleaming white as he smiled widely.

This wild sensation was one I had never felt before. I was free, and I could dance anywhere I wanted to. We were a pair of divine cobras, dancing, and dancing – until we weren’t.

As I glanced around again the craftsman was no longer there. Suddenly it was gloomy once again, and there was just me, the rice field, and the rain.

Trying to regain some sense, I slowly walked back to the road, still wearing my mask, and saw pitch-black where the Sanni mask shop stood.

Though the rain continued, the song was no longer playing. I walked closer, and realised the shop was closed, unlit and replaced by impenetrable darkness. Another wind crept up on me, tugging me forward to where my little hut was.

I realised it was late, and I needed to go home.

next

1

the future is alien - and it is beautiful

2

3

this to me is what is next soft colours, accessible fashion and a focus on being you

4

Check out a digital copy of Winta’s collage, as well as links to the incredible artists that have inspired this piece:

the future is alien Winta Kebreab

Dilini Fredrick A hundred thousand pairs of feet marched towards Parliament House. Most of the orphaned children from Sydney hiked up through the parched grass of Capital Hill. Their parents, desperate to save their planet from the brink of a total climate apocalypse, had been murdered by police and ADF personnel deployed to control the violent protests. They’d pleaded with the government to save their children from climate doom. They were met with silence and bullets.

It was 2045, and scientists predicted a total collapse — incessant flood, fire, and quakes — by the year 2049. Australian agriculture had already failed, when the drought didn’t lift for twenty years. The Land of Plenty had been dragged into famine.

A boy, his dark arms slick with sweat, held a blond-haired baby strapped to his chest. The baby burbled as he spoke soothing words to her. He trudged up the mountain with the others. Ten teenagers approached the columned entrance to Parliament House.

A girl, her black hair in a side-plait, held up a megaphone. She waited until everyone had found their place on the hill before she put the megaphone to her lips with a steady hand. The dark-skinned boy, and others like him who were responsible for the care of the surviving babies, hushed their charges with cooing sounds while stroking their heads.

Smoke from the multiple fires burning along the eastern coast hung in the air. When the

wind blew, it drove in more smoke to swirl around the barren grasslands, suffocating life. The teenagers held wet cloths to the faces of the younger ones as their coughing worsened. They waited for her to speak.

‘We demand you hand over the PM,’ she said into the megaphone, enunciating each syllable.

A tall youth beside her, with sun-bleached hair and torso painted with ochre in the way of the Ngunnawal people, shifted a spear between his hands, before placing it on the ground. He nodded at the girl.

‘We are unarmed. We will judge him for the crimes committed against our parents — against us. That is our right.’ She paused.

There was no response from the faceless soldiers dotted along the entrance.

‘We beseech the ADF to stand down. They will turn you out when they no longer have need for you,’ she said. Anger flared in her eyes as she recollected the moment her mother had been shot in the back. ‘You can exterminate us as you did our parents — that is what they want. When there is no one, then your job will be done, and they will abandon you. Hand the PM over. That is all we ask.’ She lowered the megaphone and stifled a cough with her wet cloth.

Men and women, in full combat gear, guns strapped to their chests, side-glanced at each other. They didn’t receive any

communication from stationed inside.

their

colleagues

The soldier in the middle shifted his firearm uncomfortably; it was his decision. They were just children protecting younger children. He set his gun down. His brother had been one of those fathers killed, though his niece hadn't survived to be taken in by the mob before him. He beckoned his lieutenant closer. Suppressing his comms, he gave the order. The company slipped back into the almost empty halls of Parliament House.

The girl was right. He and his colleagues had been tasked to protect a man who had ordered them to shoot children. They could at least correct this imbalance. They emerged minutes later with the Prime Minister, his hands zip-tied. *** The mob didn’t harm him — the old man was fed from their precious stores and allowed the dignity of toilet breaks. They trekked all the way back to their camp in Batemans Bay. Here the old man would be judged for his crimes.

The old man stood in the centre. On one side, a line of ten teenagers who would make the judgement, and on the other, the rest of the mob who waited for justice.

The old man’s once impeccably tailored suit was in tatters. They had bound his hands with rope as the zip-ties had cut into his withered wrists. He stooped with exhaustion, but they would not let him sit. His crimes were undisputed; this was a sentencing.‘ For your ignorant pursuit of wealth at the

expense of the environment and our lives, we will cast you in the gold that you are so obsessed with,’ said the side-plait girl.

The old man’s brow wrinkled with confusion.

A fair-skinned youth leaned forward and clarified, ‘That means death, mate.’

The old man looked around at the silent mob. His face cracked with a grin, and his hysterical laughter barrelled around the clearing over all who witnessed. *** The mob had scavenged gold and platinum.

Some of the older kids’ parents had passed on their skills of blacksmithing and jewellery making. They were just hobbies, but were wreathed with fond memories of a more carefree childhood. They were able to draw on those memories as they worked.

'What do you hope to achieve by keeping me hostage?’ said the old man. He was getting tired of their games. Desperate.

‘None of you will last much longer. You know this. I could help get you all out.' The deflated old man pleaded.

No one listened. A toddler wriggled down from a girl’s lap and approached him. He gave the old man’s clasped hands a pat and blew a raspberry in his face before wobbling away.

Teams of novice smelters worked to melt all of the gold that they had scavenged from abandoned homes. It was worthless anyway.

They collected charcoal from the endless swathes of burnt-out bushland to power their roaring forges. Clay crucibles soon filled with molten gold.

A girl put her black-hot tongs down and removed one glove to wipe the sweat from her brow. She approached the girl with the side-plait.

‘Look, we won't be able to keep enough gold in a molten state.’ She squinted as more sweat dripped into her eyes. ‘We'll have to do one part at a time. Up to you guys, but I recommend starting with the feet.’

‘I think we should give him a choice: alive or dead,’ added the Ngunnawal teen.

The girl with the side-plait didn’t need long to deliberate. ‘Ok, melt enough gold to start with the feet. I'll offer to shoot him in the head first,’ she said. *** The old man stood, cast in gold with an inscribed platinum apple in his mouth. On the cliffs of New South Wales overlooking the Pacific, he was a monument to a failure of humanity. The apple read: Beware.

mamihlapinatapai: “A look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin.”

mamihlapinatapai

As I look at you from a distance none of us can travel, and you look back with a heavy hope.

We both long to build homes where we stand, as we remind ourselves we’re on a street unknown.

Flowers bloom off either rib and they branch out of our mouths, shaping themselves into a smile.

I remember when I’d felt spring inside my lungs, but to breathe butterflies in.

It’s been a while.

Tell me you’ll hold a paintbrush in your timid hands as you sit at a canvas envisioning the wind brushing my skin.

Tell me that, as I write poems of a love that saw autumn too soon, you hang art of the very same, in your room listening to songs you can’t bring yourself to sing.

Tell me that you were ready to drown in unknown oceans

if it meant that your skin would float to where I belong.

And let me tell you of the bruises on my knees as I pray for our love to every god ever known.

Our love, that lasted minutes, not more than five, feels stronger than people I’ve slept next to for years.

You heard the yearning for you in my breath.

I read the longing for me in your stares.

Helpless we stood, as the street elongated to light years within seconds.

Those minutes will be enough for an age, as we’ll produce art defining this very wrecking.

And if ever you find yourself in a battle against earth and water, as time shatters our jigsaw on the very floor of our rooms, remember we were pieces that could define midnight in the sky.

So let’s make sure that then, if perhaps ever, our love blooms.

Girish Gupta

nine days – the higheststakes job interview CN: The film discussed includes themes and depiction of suicide.

I think it’s fairly common to wonder about what comes next, what happens to you after your life ends, whether you meet this question with uncertainty or faith. It seems as though lots of media think about this too, like The Good Place and Upload.

I have never really thought about what comes before though.

This is the idea that Nine Days plays around with – what happens to us before we’re born?

Before I get into it, I want to give you the option of going into this unique film knowing nothing. This is a spoiler-free review, but if you’d like to watch this film

with zero context, go see it and come back when you’re ready.

The film follows Will (Winston Duke), a previously alive person now spending his time as an Interviewer in an expansive desert landscape…somewhere. When a vacancy appears on Earth, it’s his role to interview potential souls over the course of nine days to determine who of them is the best fit to be born. Once they’re selected, Will then watches over all his chosen souls on little TVs as they live out their new lives, seeing the world literally through their eyes.

It’s the most existential job-interviewmeets-reality-TV-show-competition ever, with the highest stakes of all time – anyone who doesn’t ‘fit the position they are applying for’ (i.e., life) disappears forever.

Pretty intense stuff to put on people who didn’t exist several hours earlier.

And they are people! We get to know a handful of Candidates as they undergo this nine-day process over the course of the film, and each have their own unique personalities and interests and dislikes – there are curious souls and defensive souls and souls that just want to have a good time. The cast do a great job of portraying fully realised people that haven’t actually experienced anything yet.

This posits a really interesting question about nature vs. nurture, particularly in the universe of this story. Will assures them that ‘you’ll still be you’ if selected – how much of ‘you’ is predetermined, and how much is shaped by your life and experiences?

One particularly unique Candidate, Emma (Zazie Beetz), challenges this.

Will’s approach to interviewing (which varies between Interviewers) involves a lot of extreme hypotheticals, asking ‘what

would you do?’ Where everyone else comes up with an answer, Emma often counters Will’s questions with questions of her own.

Written and directed by Edson Oda, Nine Days is a film made to get you asking questions. What would you do in each of Will’s hypotheticals? If you were Will, who would you pick? Who gets to decide who lives, and who decides who gets to decide?

Is life made up of mostly horrible things done to and by people, or mostly bright moments of kindness and joy? What makes life worth it?

I found it really refreshing to watch something like this. In a media landscape so chock-full of remakes and adaptations and expansions of existing universes, I loved discovering each new detail of this original setting.

Beyond the story itself, it’s also just a wellmade film.

I don’t normally pay much attention to soundtracks – they do their (important!) thing in the background, and I just let them.

But during Nine Days, I was struck by the soundscape created by Antonio Pinto. One of Will’s favoured, past selections, Amanda (Lisa Starrett), is a professional violinist in an orchestra. Strings permeate the film in recurring musical motifs, but they’re not overdone – emotional moments are as likely to be heightened with music as with silence, highlighting the performances of the actors.

I also liked the retro aesthetics of the film.

Will watches all of his successful Candidates on boxy TVs from the ’90s, records moments from their lives on VHS tapes, and files his paperclipped notes in those big metal filing cabinets that always seem ready to crush your fingers if you aren’t careful.

This unearthly, out-of-time vibe feels reminiscent of, say, the Commission’s ’50s

HQ from The Umbrella Academy and, more recently, the Time Variance Authority’s ’60s offices from Loki.

I do want to flag a content warning that the topic of suicide comes up a decent amount.

An early scene shows one of Will’s selected souls dying (which opens up the vacancy that sets the story in motion), and the question of whether it was an accident or intentional haunts Will, and the remainder of the film. The story is loosely inspired by Oda’s uncle and, rather than passing moral judgement on people with mental illnesses, offers empathy and understanding. The focus is also more on the impacts on loved ones left behind and how they can begin to move forward in the aftermath.

In an interview with IMDb, Oda says that his inspiration for the film came from an observation that everyone feels like they need to achieve something with their lives.

He took a step back and thought, ‘What if we’ve already won the award, which is to be born and experience the present?’

I think you’ll come away from Nine Days with a fresh perspective and a renewed appreciation for the little things in life, even facing difficult circumstances (with a little bit of existential angst thrown in there for good measure).

So, congratulations – you got the job and made it to the land of the living! It’s up to you, now, what you do next. In the short term, I suggest buying a ticket for Nine Days, which is currently out in cinemas.

Zoe Sorenson

glorious purpose

P

erhaps it’s a long stretch when it comes to comparing but, as Marvel rolls out its phase four, with all its cliffhanger, jawdropping and brain-itch moments, I think I might have a similar adaptation to reality up my sleeve. My new topsy-turvy journey – which has already had a few curve balls thrown in – can be summarised as this: being able to travel to Australia and study abroad.

As I’m looking forward to what’s next, something also takes me back to a simpler time – times when one looks back to enjoying the now – to better deal with the challenge of what we have been facing. Like, for instance, in one of those old English romances.

In Singing in the Rain, Gene Kelly bids farewell to his ‘sunshine’, the source of his comfort and happiness. He stands in the rain to breathe in the moment and,

although it had flown past as the door was closed, he contentedly dwells in it.

I don’t think one could argue, that the times we are living in are a little different. More difficult and eroding as luck would have it but, what if we consider how Gene Kelly chooses to put it, that it’s just ‘a little heavier (rain) than usual tonight’.

He cheerfully allows the taxi waiting for him to leave. A taxi which would have promptly and duly taken him to his destination. But who wants to have their head down in a travelling box when one can celebrate their luck striking gold with their face to the clouds? Instead, set free an ear-to-ear smile, which is about the dream manifesting in hopes of elongating the experience and the feeling. Let the realisation of witnessing what you’ve always wanted, absorb through and through. Dance to the beat of your life’s greatest treasures and triumphs. When the stars align, admire how their beauty surpasses that which you had imagined.

Humming in the pitter-patter. Childishly whistling a melody. Splish-splashing in those puddles and waterfalls whilst tapping to the intricate trumpet notes. A symphony orchestra joining in championing your singing – where Broadway enthusiasm and fantasy suddenly runs through your veins.

The times when life is carefree and it’s just you and your surroundings.

Although the moment itself, along with the achievement and aspiration levels linked to it never change, how it may roll out from there is still a game of fate. A game where losses are gracious and a part of the journey.

All it demands is a little patience and a little hope.

In the bittersweet blend of excitement

and anxiety or in the somber silence of feeling scared, deep down there may be an inclination to resort to the easier path, when faced with a decision or a turn of choice. An encounter with variables of chance acting unfavorably. And with delays to your plan, doubt and apprehensions fog your heart. It adds more weight to that narrowing focus; for better or for worse.

These are the times when we have to remind ourselves that accepting the circumstances and adapting is important, but not at the cost of compromising on our goals. It takes integrity and resilience to stand by our dreams, when they make their leap to cross the quaking valley to reality.

The famous transition from school-age to university-life entails a leap of faith, built on the advice and strategy used to gearup for this opportunity. For many of us recently, marred by the pandemic, we have been instead nurtured to look toward the alternatives and peripherals in search for meaning and value beyond the run-of-themill university experience, and in parallel, battling against it in our own way.

The excitement, the aim, or the vision we have for the feeling of having arrived, it never goes. It may diminish or sneak into a corner somewhere in those challenging days. But that’s when we have to find our intrinsic fire. Find our reason for why we venture out and derive versions of the dream in all its possibilities and glory. Some days, when you are surrounded by the realitychecks, obstacles and questions, you feast alone with that spark. Bask in the glory of the good days you originally set course to.

As you drive down those vibrant pastures and glide down those banking roads you sing in the rain about the now without the worries or haste of asking, ‘what next?’

Ayesha Shaikh

a better world: only in our imagination?

‘You have to act as if it were possible to radically transform the world. And you have to do it all the time.’ – Angela Davis This quote has become a type of mantra for me. (I even wrote a piece last year, up on our website, that used this quote as the title.) In a time when it’s easy to look around at what’s going on in the world and feel helpless and apathetic, it’s the glowing hope I hold onto.

I think, at times, it’s easy to feel like we can’t change anything, or make a difference.

It can be easy to disconnect from our past, and I feel like there are a lot of things we take for granted that we haven’t always had (the concept of protections at work and weekends, for example!) and forget that people had to fight for those things. They didn’t ‘just happen’ but they are things we can’t imagine being without today.

There was a time, not that long ago, when Australia completely overhauled our gun laws – most younger people today wouldn’t remember a world any different. Drink driving campaigns. Smoking laws. Many things that just ‘are’ now.

There have been huge cultural shifts throughout human history, and any time something new happens, there’s a bunch of us who can’t believe it’s a possibility and fight against it. (White) people love to quote Martin Luther King Jr as a ‘peaceful’ example of the ‘right way’ to protest against

racism, but it’s worth looking back into how opposed he actually was in his time.

It’s fascinating how short our memories can be.

People sometimes ask me why I care about what happened in the past and, the truth is, it’s all connected. We can learn from patterns. But also, I believe it can help us remember to ‘imagine big’ when we look toward the future.

Because sometimes, I feel like a lack of imagination is one of the biggest stumbling blocks when we think about the future we want to make.

Whenever I try to discuss my hopes for the future – the systemic changes I believe we need to make a more equal and just world – I’m constantly met with a brick wall of: This is how it’s done. This is tradition. This is inherent or normal.

Even people who want better just can’t seem to believe or grasp how it would be possible.

When fighting for marriage equality in Australia: ‘But the Marriage Act clearly says it is between a Man and Woman!’ – Yeah. Since John Howard amended the Act. In 2004. And this doesn’t even address how much marriage as a concept has changed over the past few centuries. The idea that marriage – and a nuclear family unit – is somehow inherently the way humans best exist, just doesn’t hold up.

When discussing alternatives for policing: ‘But I bet you would call the cops if someone broke into your house and stole your TV!’ – Uh, yeah, probably. To report it for insurance purposes. But what you’re saying is having police didn’t actually stop

that crime from happening. Maybe if we could put resources into creating support networks for our communities, less people may be in a position where they need to steal? (Go check out my online article if you want a more in-depth exploration of this.)

When using inclusive language around a range of different gender identities: ‘You’re born a Man or a Woman. That’s just science.’ – Hmm, maybe if you’re talking about a simplified school-level understanding. But that’s not actually what scientists know about sex and gender. The truth is, while the labels may have changed, many cultures throughout history have had much more open understandings about gender. Gender and sex-diverse people have always existed and we’re just building a better understanding of this.

It seems like we have an unwillingness to understand our past and a lack of imagination to plan our future.

But maybe the problem is that we can’t create a future we can’t imagine.

Whether or not you think of fictional media as a reflection of our times, a model of what we predict may happen or just a fictional escape, it’s hard to deny we’ve spent a lot of imagination creating dystopian futures.

As a fan of YA fiction in the early 2000s, I don’t think I read anything else! I can’t help but wonder about the connection between current political movements and the way fictional media has primed us for how we as humans are going to face our doom. I’d love to see media exploring a future where, instead of having to face some cataclysmic event or rise up against an authoritarian government, the world has made changes and is just living in a more balanced and

equal way.

Unfortunately, I’m not optimistic enough (or naïve enough) to believe that we can have nice things without fighting for them.

But it would be nice, even if only in a fictional space, if we could create a mindset for people that it is possible. Instead of media that assumes the worst must happen to humanity before any changes will be made, maybe we can start to create imaginary worlds that respect everyone’s humanity. That listen to the way First Nations peoples around the world care for the land. That allow us to live with balance, rather than exploitation. That let us believe in alternative ways of existing.

If you can see it, you can be it.

I believe we can stop allowing the past to restrict the bounds of our future possibilities – especially if we start reckoning more honestly with the past and realising that it’s not always what ‘common belief ’ suggests it is.

We’re not that far away from our past, and that means we don’t have to be that far away from the future we design. Radical transformations have happened. And they can happen again.

Maybe it does make me naïve. But I have to believe we can do it – otherwise, what is the point?

‘We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.’ – Ursula K. Le Guin Jessica Murdoch

interview with an outgoing team

I

n our final edition for 2021, we’re doing something a little different for our Interview with a Rep series. As this is the final edition for the whole team, we thought we’d have a sit down, run through how we got here, our highlights and where we’re going next…

Editor, Jessica Murdoch, sat down with Designer, Zoe Abletez, and Media Communications Officer, Tina Tsironis.

JM: This is the final time we will work together on a SWINE edition :( JM: Let’s start by how we all initially got involved with the SWINE. Tina?

TT: I was a contributor for about a year before I was elected as editor in late 2019.

Writing my own pieces and seeing them in gorgeous print was exhilarating, as I’m sure it is for every writer! But I realised I wanted to be doing more to support, grow, and promote Swinburne’s incredibly talented writing community – and in the process, support, grow and promote content that reflects what truly matters to students. And here we are now!

Zoe, you’ve been part of the SWINE team the longest. What was your pathway?

ZA: First year uni I was obsessed with the idea of working on the SWINE but didn't have much luck contacting the team. Fast forward a few months and nonstop talking about how much I wanted to be a part of it and a friend that volunteered with the

union put in a good word for me! 3 years later, it's the best thing I've ever done at uni.

JM: Being proactive is definitely key! I’d been submitting work for a while, and then when Tina was editor, I remember sending her an email saying I’d be interested in getting involved if there was any behind the scenes opportunities. I did some subediting that year (as well as submitting my own writing too) and at the end of the year, Tina suggested I might consider running for the position. It ended up being a big factor in deciding to take on my Masters :D, so that I would still be a student and be able to do it!

JM: What has been your highlight or favourite thing?

TT: Working with people – you both, contributors, the Swinburne writing department, subeditors, artists – who are truly passionate about creating good art, and helping others create good art. Not to mention, everyone is so lovely and supportive! I’ve made so many long-lasting friendships during my time with SWINE, and have had such a great time meeting so many caring creatives!

ZA: I have loved growing the SWINE community together. Breathing new life into the magazine has been such a pleasure and I have particularly loved the zine making and launch event we held and hope we can have one last hurrah before the end of the year.

JM: That live event was a highlight for me

too. As an eternal optimist, I have to believe we will get to do something in person again! I agree about community too – it’s a big part of what I wanted when I decided to come back to uni this time round. I was excited about building a network of writers and creative people. Working with first time contributors is always amazing too – workshopping a piece of writing with someone so that they can see their words in print for the first time is really special.

JM: So, what’s next?

TT: I would really love to progress to the Creative Writing PhD program here at Swinburne after finishing my Masters in Writing – so, racking up my publishing credits to help make that happen is a priority. Above all, I am super excited to have more time to devote to my own writing – particularly my novel, which could best be described as a horror take on The Devil Wears Prada. Sounds strange, and I can assure you, it is :) JM: I’m so excited to spend time workshopping our novels together! That’s my plans too, to really focus on my Masters, now that it’s starting to take shape. As well as keeping on contributing to the SWINE. Zoe? ZA: Well assuming I successfully graduate at the end of the semester, I'll be jumping into the big bad world (Not a joke. This world is proper fucked lol). What that means for me? God knows but I'm excited for the new creative endeavours that are awaiting. Hopefully what comes next is beautiful, bold, and exciting.

@swinemag