rubber on corrugated cobble.
Spokes up against the stars.
Smoky aphorisms, phantasms of friend and lamplight
and trees shot through with thin red fruit.
Conversations drift away like a cold shower.
Riding in
and out again.
Garema Place is
a thing sharp and lucid.
Sitting lizard-like upon the base of my spine
draped across my ribs
in acid nostalgia.
Aching.
Remembering
and washing away.
Garema Place is
an escape
at least for a while.
Three bikes on cobble.
I feel a centring of myself
like planets coming into orbit.
Winter crawls in
as past crawls into present
and things, once done, never to be undone
are merely framed
and remembered.
Fruits, accepted and eaten, not for tomorrow
but for the day after that
and after that again.
Things once simple
are now entangled beyond belief.
But I’ve seen enough to know that
the horizon
is just over the next hill.
One doubled, we go out to eat,
Turkish
For two. Then:
Home again.
Still hungry, he eats me out.
Still starving, wish I’d stayed in.
My hollow cave
Groans, apple core brain coated by
Thin skin.
Fat chance. I
Face the fact.
His seeds simply won’t accept
The arid soil in me; just
Tumble and dry.
My cherry syrup smears his mouth,
I have,
Bare parched lips,
Bloody thighs
A white sculptured waist in mind,
A landscape, cut off sharp by
The knife inside
My cavern, my fertile grotto.
Tip tap.
Empty room,
Full silence.
Who is that inside there now?
Who would like to sneak a peek?
Someone knocking?
But no, the moon drops right out of
The sky.
Swelling tides,
Flat voices.
It’s aching where the knife is
It’s given like a prize,
It’s job well done!
When my mother left there was fire –
The air ripe with the wrong things; tears, skin, fear
Feet bolting down dirt roads going nowhere
Liberty caged
Beyond the reach of black and brown hands
Too close and too far
Onto a boat and into the New World
Where the sky went on forever
Colour and space
Gumtrees
Birds that laughed and sang
Tires screeching down brand new highways
Shock
Adaption
Light
The old home sits there still
My mother’s first love
Beauty without warmth
Death with no birth
It beckons
Bleeds
But that story is over
Life is freer
And she is here
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
i’m in my childhood bedroom,
completely rearranged to accommodate my mum working from home
i’ve not been in my apartment for 3 weeks now
this room has the remnants of my teenage years
the books i’ve kept at home
the 2014 tumblr girl slogan
‘wanderlust’
hung on the wall
but the whiteboard in place of my pinboard,
two extra desks and
my bed pushed to the opposite side of the room
reinforces
that this room is no longer the safe haven of my teens
i’m in my childhood bedroom and
normalcy seems to be a fever-dream
at this point
i hold off anxiety attacks as i scroll through the New York Times
i try to get away from my social media feeds which are filled with articles
about the NSW/ACT border shutting,
ever rising Victorian COVID cases,
ads for handmade masks constantly popping up in places
the ‘new normal’ touted by think pieces is here
yet there’s still talk of when the year
goes ‘back to normal’
i’m craving a sense of normalcy
but my anxiety and depression
have reared their heads again
the news that they’ve resurfaced,
despite taking my anti-depressants every night
at 11.30pm
i still feel like I am
stuck in the headlights
knowing that the negative emotions I’m feeling are
more intense than i would feel if
I wasn’t depressed makes for a
weird relationship with my brain,
and i second guess
literally
every
emotion
i
have
i’m craving a sense of normalcy
i lie in bed and feel completely empty
i feel the need to cry, but
i don’t have the capacity to produce tears
my rational mind rages war against my depression
it tells me that I’m safe I have a roof over my head and I have parents who
love and accept me for who I am
but I can’t convince my brain to look at this bright side, at my side
with next years hopes and dreams all but dashed,
any bright side would be knowing what’s going to happen next week
let alone the future of our world with the virus
i’m in my childhood bedroom
i’m craving a sense of normalcy, but there is none
i don’t know what’s normal anymore.
my brain isn’t normal anymore
and there seems to be no way to find it as we are in the new normal
seemingly forevermore.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Society always seems to be on the brink of revolution. Historically, the forefront of these movements has often been centred in the enthusiastic and idealistic visions of university students, eager to feel they have ignited real change. So how can ANU students create the momentum of their own revolution? Or a least a student discounted version?
Methods such as protesting, petition drafting and giving unsolicited lectures on ANU confessions are all within the arsenal of the average student. However, I propose a far more radical, cost effective and campus-wide revolution. The solution is simple: the fitting of revolving doors. Once installed, we can create countless revolutions per day.
Consider if one was tired of chivalry and the daily posturing of the patriarchy? Problem solved. There is nothing that screams gender equality more than a revolving door. No-one stands aside to let others pass. Everyone is equally confused about when is the right time to enter. Without the etiquette of male-dominated entrances, institutionalised sexism will be swiftly shown the door.
Anxious that our world could soon be depleted of natural resources and our atmosphere polluted with greenhouse gases? One could lobby endlessly for decisive political action. Alternatively, revolving doors immediately reduce the drafts and heat lost to the surroundings, lowering heating and cooling costs in buildings. These savings leave the University’s pockets full and keep your green guilt at bay! Not to mention the benefits to recycling. An old idea would simply take another turn, before being welcomed in as new.
The possibilities are endless. Removing straight-sliding doors in favour of the fluid motions of revolving doors would surely confront homophobia. For minority groups discrimination would be ended. Glass ceilings could be recycled into glass doors, demolishing institutionalised barriers at every turn. Even on such issues as social distancing, revolving doors prevent unnecessary social interactions. Whatever revolution you would like to see, this multidimensional doorway can be spun to suit your cause!
I admit there may be doubts about the real change instigated by these mini-revolutions. You may ask whether this can really be described as progress rather than just spinning in meaningless circles. Has a self-congratulatory fervour left us too dizzy to see the core issue? Are we focusing on the finishings rather than reconstructing the foundations?
I see this as nonsense. Imagine how much more efficient the French Revolution would have been with revolving doors. Storming the Bastille would have been a breeze. As a bonus they could be used as a guillotine in a pinch. Think of the speed with which the Cultural Revolution could have taken place. Surely there’s nothing better to block the power and influence of older generations than a high velocity spinning door! Despite all this, there does lie an undeniable possibility that with these doors, like with any revolution, there’s every chance you might just end up right back where you started.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
How would you explain revolution to a child? The word has several meanings and nebulous connotations. A good way to begin would be visual imagery. Young children typically struggle with figurative explanations, and older children are notoriously superficial. School history textbooks often contain depictions such as the storming of the Winter Palace or the Reichstag Fire. This is presumably because the infamously capitalist educational publishing industry understands the preferences of schoolchildren. They want to see violence, blood, impassioned speeches, fire, dishevelled mobs, and – above all – drama.
Australia’s own history of revolution is comparatively sparse, and its legacy rather more symbolic than substantial. The blazing white Southern Cross flag of the Eureka Stockade is a vivid symbol recalling one such moment in our history. It’s no wonder that it is a favourite topic to be briefly mentioned and immediately forgotten in school classrooms: it birthed a cool flag. How is that event explained to children? From what I recall from my school history classes, it had something to do with angry Irishmen. That seems to be a recurring theme of British imperial history. But do our children actually understand it, and what the Stockade meant for our democracy? Few of us could identify that the Stockade was a pivotal moment in the fight for suffrage and workers’ rights, but I daresay many more would associate it with binge drinking No Voters on Australia Day. Incidentally, Americans have a similar proclivity to celebrate the flags of rebel movements, though their rebel flag of choice is probably a tad more morally dubious.
Important as the Eureka Stockade was for democracy and the labour movement in Australia, it overshadows the colourfully named Rum Rebellion in our school curricula. The only successful coup d’etat in Australian history, the Rum Rebellion saw the New South Wales Corp, military arm of the nascent colony, overthrow and banish the notorious Governor William Bligh. Assuming the alliterative name is insufficient to inspire a cursory Wikipedia search, the gist of the Rum Rebellion was that Bligh, already famous for having been thrown off a ship, was forced by a corrupt state institution to leave Sydney on a ship for disrupting the equally infamous John MacArthur’s illegal merchant monopoly in New South Wales. It is a testament to the failings of our education system that the two critical lessons of the Rum Rebellion are lost on our schoolchildren: firstly, that there is a long history of capitalist corruption in our country; secondly, that Australians do terrible things when deprived of cheap alcohol.
It is a shame that our children miss such important lessons from history. They are rather more inclined to focus on the flashy elements of history; as it happens, this inclination is not limited to children. One has to only read a cinema programme or briefly scroll through their streaming app of choice to observe how history has been commodified by Hollywood executives who command small armies of underpaid writers and filming crews from their golden palaces on the cliffs of Malibu. The greedy elites of Hollywood need only lift a finger, and every television screen in your vicinity will blaze with increasingly expensive reenactments of D-Day or episodic portrayals of the sex lives of British monarchs.
Is this what we want? One rarely sees productions of the struggles of coal miners, or hospital workers, or of oppressed women and minorities, or of the working classes. It’s all glitz and gore – we instead are bombarded with steady streams of works glamourising the lives of royals and aristocrats. We all know what Marie Antoinette supposedly remarked upon learning that her impoverished subjects had no bread to eat – but what did those starving French peasants cry in their dying breaths? We don’t know, and we certainly won’t learn from a star-studded Netflix show. The silencing of lower classes is sickening, and cannot be seen as anything else but plutocratic propaganda.
The threat to future generations is twofold. The media hides the iniquities of history from our children, and it is conspicuously clear that our education system is failing in its presentation of the brave actions of revolutionaries. The media’s deleterious effect on the education system is palpable: not only do our schools marginalise the voices of the struggling working classes, they cannot even conduct Year 12 examinations without poisoning the innocent minds of our children with blatant revisionism. Even while I was at school, the bourgeois institution which conducts Victoria’s VCE examinations shamelessly included an altered version of Nikolai Kochergin’s Storming of the Winter Palace in the 2012 History of Revolutions final exam. The alteration made to Kochergin’s illustration was the insertion of a 100-foot tall mechatronic battle robot.
A call to action has emerged. The quality of education in Australia is unacceptable. Our young students are not being taught about the oppression of the landowners. They are not being taught about the excesses of the clergy and aristocracy. They are not being taught about the potential for a utopia, free of the shackles of class and wealth. They are being taught about robots.
The truth is clear. We must re-educate our children.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
It’s a turn of events that will no doubt revolutionise speech-writing for years to come. Danny Roberts, aged nine, has taken out the top prize in the North Canberra Public Speaking Awards: Primary School Division, without turning to the Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary. When asked about this bold decision, Roberts stated that he simply didn’t feel as if the terms “journey” or “destination” needed explaining. His competitors clearly did not feel the same, with four out of six of them opting for the classic opener.
Danny’s parents were excited about him taking the gold, with one witness claiming that they actually stood up and clapped politely when he won.
“We’re just so proud of him,” commented Mum, Seher. “Danny’s always been a bit slow. It’s good to know he can string a sentence together.” Danny’s older sister, Maya, refused to attend the event or comment on his win on the grounds that, “it’s not that impressive anyway.” Maya’s lukewarm reception may be a result of lingering humiliation regarding her failed entry into the competition three years earlier, with the teenager only receiving a participation ribbon.
Other notable moments from the day included one attendee mixing up her palm cards and improvising the last half of her speech in tears. Another sang three lines of Katy Perry’s smash hit ‘Roar’ to close her oration. Audiences remain unsure if this musical interlude worked for or against the contestant, though all agree that it was definitely memorable.
The next round of competition will be Canberra-wide. The topic has yet to be announced, but thrilling rumours suggest that it may be ‘Peer Pressure…For Good?’ or ‘Cyberbullying: Why It’s Bad.’
Further updates will be posted soon, including confirmation of which church hall the exciting event will take place in and if the entry donation is gold-coin.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
It’s 3am, and I’ve decided to go for a stroll. It’s a really nice night. I got these cool new kickers that I’ve been wanting to wear all damn day, but I was too busy listening to this cool dude. His name is Yellow Days. He’s neat. As a matter of fact, I’m listening to him right now, as I walk; in my new kickers. Is there anything in the entire world better than new kickers? Maybe dancing in my new kickers.
I brought my dog Stanley here too. He’s old. I think he’d be a hundred if he was a human, so I treat him how I’d imagine treating a grandparent: I forgive him when he poops himself. Our walks are quite slow. He smells like a fossil, but I love him. He’s got plenty of things wrong with him – he’s a bit blind – and a bit deaf –but he still enjoys his treats – and when I dance with him. I once made a promise to Stanley that when he dies, I’ll die too. I’m not so sure I’ll do that now that I have these new kickers, but we’ll see. I hope he’s not scared of dying.
I rarely feel confident, but right now; at 3am in my brand new kickers, I feel like a king. Of course, nothing matters, not in my world. It shouldn’t in yours either, but that’s just my opinion, and that’s okay if you think you’re important. I don’t think I’m important, I’m average at most things, but damn, these new kickers are really sweet, so I guess I’m good at buying new kickers? Have you ever bought new kickers and just stared at them for hours? No? Just me?
It’s upsetting knowing people are asleep right now – they can’t see me looking and feeling cool and all. Worst of all…they can’t see Stanley! I suppose they’re lucky they can’t smell him. They’re dreaming about some envisioned reality, like maybe heaven – or hell. I’m Herbert Franklin, I think it’s a kinda neat name, like my kickers and Yellow Days; at 3am, super neat. I haven’t met another Herbert, or Franklin for that matter. I do know a Frank; he’s a janitor, but he’s nice. I once talked to him about fishing. I’m not too fond of fishing, but he told me he once caught a Loch Ness monster. I think he was joking, because he was laughing, but I think he might’ve been laughing at how cool it would have felt to catch a Loch Ness monster.
The air is cold, but in a pleasant way – it’s that pre-winter air that’s sharp but not so cold that I really notice it. I hate feeling like pants aren’t enough, that’s when it’s too cold for me. Luckily, I’m just wearing boxers and my legs are feeling fine. I’ve always wondered how girls don’t get cold without leg-hair, and then I think how hot Stanley must be. I also wonder how he puts up with the smell of fossil. Onions would be better. I do like the night-time though, the moon brings out a kind of feeling in me, one that the sun just can’t compete with.
I can smell frying onions. I don’t think Stanley can, I’m not so sure Stanley knows what’s going on. I don’t know who would be frying onions at 3am in the morning – while I’m wearing my new kickers – but hey, I think it’s neat that someone might fry onions at this hour. It’s tempting to go in and have some fried onions, but I’m okay with knowing that someone out there is enjoying some.
I might go in later, at 4am or so, and ask if I can have some.
“Herbert!” I hear. Oh wow, someone else is here at 3am. This is cool. I can show them my new kickers. I turn around. It’s Donald, he’s 2 feet tall and is holding fried onions.
“Hi Donald! So you’re the source of those delicious scented onions!” Donald smiles, and offers me some onions. I gladly accept. “Those are really good fried onions, Donald,” I say. “Hey, have you ever listened to “Yellow Days?”
Donald, with onions still in-and-out of his mouth replies, “Yeah, isn’t he the one that sounds like Ray Charles?”
“Yeah, Ray Charles is pretty neat, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I eat onions with Donald until 3:32. I even give Stanley some. The air feels warmer, but I think maybe that’s just the fried onions giving off a fiery aura around us.
“Do you like my new kickers, Donald?” Donald silently nods, then looks down at his bare feet. He looks upset. Maybe I should give him my kickers. Dang, I just got them, but he gave me his fried onions, and they were pretty neat, so I unlace my new kickers, and offer them.
“Try them on, I don’t know if they’ll fit though.”
“I can’t accept them…” Donald says, as he accepts them. Somehow, they seem to fit his little feet. “Thanks, Herbert, I won’t forget this,” Donald says, with a smile befitting of my new kickers. As we continue to eat onions, I decide to ask if he’d like to listen to Yellow Days with me. He politely declines.
At 4am, I walk home in my socks. The ground feels pretty solid under me and Stanley and I are OK. I might give him a wash when we get home.
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.