Sam And James for On Dit

„

Welcome!

How good it is you‟ve come! You, dear

reader, are one of the intrepid few who have bothered

to start reading our hypothetical edition of On Dit.

Perhaps the love of democracy spurred you on to

investigate who you should vote for this week. Perhaps

you‟re looking for something to read that will save you

from an oppressive melancholy. Perhaps you know us

personally and we‟ve forced you to read this.

Regardless, some really spiffing stuff awaits; if the

bliss you feel after reading it isn‟t enough to make you

soil yourselves then you‟ve simply not been paying

attention. We have interviews with some of the most

interesting and talented up and coming artists in

Adelaide, fiction and poetry from the highest-

functioning emotional wrecks we know, and essays to

inform, ennoble, and enrage.

As University Students, in all likelihood you will

never again live in such an open and stimulating

intellectual environment as you do now. Maybe we‟re

naïve, but we feel that good writing can change minds

and win hearts. If we are guilty of one thing, it‟s that

we care too much. A student newspaper should be

entertaining, stimulating, and provocative; not a

masturbatory grunt. We have all the skills and

experience to make next year a special one for On Dit.

If you agree – and as intelligent, informed,

attractive people we believe you will agree – then

please don‟t forget to vote for us and tell your friends

to do likewise.

With all our love,

Sam and James

2

Contents

History’s Most Appalling Failure Emma Glover

5

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Harry Smith

Where Have All the Penguins Gone?

Samuel McDonough

Things I Have Learnt Since I Moved Darci Hebberman

I’m Not Wearing Clean Underpants

Angus Hodge

Interviews

Tim Whitt of the Bottle Rockets

Henry Stentiford

Fiction

Honour Guard Max Kneebone

Tape

Chris Knight

The Crow Lucy Haas

Poetry

Letters

6 9 10 11 12 14 16 17 20 22

23

We‟d like to say a big thank you to all the people helping in our campaign, including the wonderful and talented

individuals who wrote the pieces included in this mock up. Thanks to the people at Microsoft Word for putting

together such a groovy word processor. Thanks to Henry Stentiford for letting us use his work as the cover.

Thanks to Tom Schinckel. He knows why. You‟re a special guy Tom. Thanks to Demi Lardner who supplied

the cartoons for this issue, and who didn‟t sign any of them because she is too modest. You can see more of her

comedic wonderfulness at www.locatedinyouruglyhairpiece.tumblr.com. We‟d also like to thank Lucinda‟s cat,

who really didn‟t get a say in the matter.

3

History’s Most Appalling

Failure."History is written by the victors". This quote, attributed

to Winston Churchill, has been passed down through the

years like the annals of some conquerous nation. But

what happens when the victors have no means of writing

their saga? What happens when some of the greatest

struggles our world has ever seen are allowed to slip

through the cracks of time like a child's melted time-

icecream? However, if music be the universal language,

perhaps at least some of these struggles have been

carried along on the notes of a sacred ocarina...

Archeologically, the lost nation of Hyrule is not

dissimilar to Troy. Its exact location cannot be

determined, but everyone's pretty sure that it existed.

Artifacts have been found which have led many to

believe that the ancient Hyrule Castle Town was situated

near current-day San Francisco, although conspiracy

theorists still allege that the city of Pompeii was

destroyed by the eruptions of what the Hyrulians termed

'Death Mountain'. Regardless of this geographical

mystery, the effects of the infamous Ocarina of Time

saga on the Hyrulian nation were inarguably devastating

and the exclusion of this incident from the curriculums

of Australian schools is nothing short of criminal.

Ganondorf‟s rebellion remains one of the most

heinous crimes against humanity ever perpetrated. The

kidnapping of Princess Zelda and the theft of the nations

sacred Ocarina of Time plunged the people of Hyrule

into seven years of hardship and tyranny, plagued both

by the cruel whims of the despot Ganondorf and by the

arrival of countless monsters which stalked the land.

Even in the most thorough and respected records of that

time, these seven years are glossed over as though the

pain and suffering of thousands of innocents are

unworthy of note. Even in the years following the arrival

of the hero Link, their troubles were not ended.

Countless homes were ransacked and stripped of rupees,

weapons, and ammunition to fund the crusade to restore

Princess Zelda to the throne, and it was not long before

the only citizens capable of eking out a living were those

involved in the manufacture of ceramic jars and wooden

crates.

Even the nearby realms of Death Mountain, Zora‟s

Domain, and the Gerudo Valley were not untouched by

the horrors of the Ocarina of Time events. The

desecration and destruction of these people‟s temples

lasted for years, and it is believed that they were never

fully restored even after the return of Princess Zelda to

the throne. As Link‟s campaign to rid Hyrule of

Ganondorf‟s oppression took him to new regions of the

map, countless women were known to give him aid in

return for the false promise of marriage upon the

completion of his quest. Because of this, the royal line of

the Zora was extinguished after its last member, Princess

Ruto, refused to marry after being seduced by Link‟s

charms.

The trials endured by the people of Hyrule

during this time are often overlooked when researching

the battles of Link against the monstrosities of

Ganondorf. Because of this, it is a common

misconception that the seven years between the

abduction of Princess Zelda and the return of Link were

no more than slightly uncomfortable for the Hyrulians,

and that his crusade was quick, well-planned, and

minimally disruptive to civilians. It was only in recent

years that the true plight of these people was brought to

light with the discovery of a farm girl‟s journal. Malon‟s

Diary, as it has come to be known, is currently the only

written account of the time and doubts of its authenticity

have circulated for as long as its existence has been

known.

The failure of historians to fully document the

Ocarina of Time saga has prevented most people from

learning about the true impact of Ganondorf‟s coup on

Hyrule as a nation. Even the most well-known events of

the time have been largely forgotten due to the limited

literacy of Hyrulians during this period and faulty

documenting by researchers. It can only be hoped that

with the accurate chronicling of the Ocarina of Time

proceedings will come a greater understanding of what it

means to be a fully-functioning member of society.

- By Emma Glover

5

My Little Pony:

Friendship is Magic. Before I begin, a disclaimer: I consider myself to be a

normal, well adjusted tertiary student. I get decent

grades, have a steady job, a girlfriend and a good

relationship with my parents. Despite all of that I really,

really enjoy watching a program called My Little Pony:

Friendship is Magic. Part of the My Little Pony toy and

television franchise, it is, as one would expect, aimed at

girls under the age of 12. And yet as far as I can tell the

main audience are my demographic – males between 18

and 24. I can‟t deny (though I wish I could) that a

significant proportion of this population come from that

terribly boring section of the internet known as 4chan‟s

/b/ board. However, the deep love of the show spreads

far beyond an ironic meme.

I was first introduced to (as it shall now be

referred to) Ponies in a group of people from an online

game who I played with regularly. They were mostly

men, studying in various tertiary education systems

across the world. Naturally upon first hearing about their

love of a children‟s cartoon, I was expecting some sort

of Happy Tree Friends-esque pony massacre; but no,

these people, effectively my peers, were completely

enthralled by these anthropomorphic flying, magical

ponies. Upon watching the pilot I wasn‟t completely

convinced but after a few episodes I was hooked. It

replaced facebook as my primary procrastination tool

during swotvac.

The show is set in the realm of Equestria, mostly

in a town called Ponyville. Nearby you‟ve got the cities

of Canterlot, Manehattan and towns based upon various

other equine puns. The main character is Twilight

Sparkle, a magic unicorn who studies under the majestic

Princess Celestica and to be frank, is a bit of a nerd. The

other 5 protagonists are Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy,

Rainbowdash, Rarity and Applejack. The plot is largely

a children‟s dilemma-drama, with a happy ending

touting traditional western values like honesty,

friendship and trustworthiness, all with some dragons

and other fantasy elements thrown in.

While the program does not inherently

encourage this, one of the most appealing factors about

watching it, particularly with friends, is to discuss which

pony is the best. Now in order to maintain journalistic

credibility I‟ll refrain from being biased, but Pinkie Pie

and Applejack are clearly superior. Then Fluttershy.

Then Rarity. Rainbowdash and Twilight Sparkle are

both boring. In writing this article I am likely to incur

the wrath of thousands of „bronies‟ (a portmanteau of

bro and ponies) who disagree with my preference order.

The obsession with Ponies has spawned

countless websites including forums, image boards and

an extremely comprehensive wiki based around the

series covering both the realm of Equestria and the real

world production of the show. It can actually get quite

bizarre when you see that there‟s a My Little Pony

showbag at the Royal Adelaide Show, and get a rush of

disappointment that it is not based on the Friendship is

Magic series, but an older, less cool one. I was also a bit

concerned when I saw a set of toys based on

anthropomorphic ponies in Woolworths called „Wonder

Pony Land‟ and I got quite angry about them

plagiarizing My Little Pony.

Ultimately My Little Pony Friendship is Magic

fits into that category of children‟s television shows

which are universally funny. Like Fairly Odd Parents or

SpongebobSquarepants, children enjoy the slapstick

nature of the show and the happy ending of each

episode; adults enjoy the more subtle wittiness behind a

lot of the characters and scripting. Whilst a psychologist

might say I am trying to replace some sort of repressed

sexual needs, I prefer to take the view that I am breaking

down the traditional western view of masculinity in

favor of a more open and accepting interpretation.

- By Harry Smith

6

Where have all the

Penguins Gone? You can stop worrying about global warming, the

penguins are already dead. What is that I here you say?

„They can‟t be! I‟ve seen them make appearances in

recent Hollywood blockbusters dancing, and on some

recent Attenborough documentaries that were both

entertaining and informative‟? Some of the more

perceptive may even cry „very few of the sixteen

individual species of penguin actually inhabit the arctic,

and would therefore not be immediately affected by the

consequences of climate change making your opening

statement incorrect on a number of levels‟. Well perhaps

I should be more specific; my penguins are angry.

The Angry Penguins were a group of writers and

artists established in the early 1940‟s committed to

bringing the progressive artistic philosophies of

modernism from Europe and America to the till-then

conservative art scene of Australia. At the centre of the

movement was the University of Adelaide‟s very own

Max Harris. Other writers included Geoffrey Dutton,

D.B. Kerr and P.G. Pfeiffer (the latter two both died

young in the Second World War). The movement also

included painters such as Albert Tucker, Sidney Nolan

and even Arthur Boyd of the illustrious Boyd family

dynasty. A dynamite posse.

The progressive Angry Penguins magazine

caused great despair for the conservatives attending the

University of Adelaide at the time. So callous were the

Penguins the editorial in the first edition reads:„The

production of this magazine will appear then an act of

defiance, and indeed it is, but defiance is a dish to be

eaten cold‟. The opposition was so fierce that at one

point, Max Harris was once thrown into the River

Torrens by his enemies. That‟s right; a man was thrown

into the River Torrens on account of his poetry.

Such was the Penguins‟ hostility towards the

conservative art-scene that it prompted a deviously

clever attack from Sydneysiders James McAuley and

Harold Stewart. In 1944, in an attempt to undermine the

artistic credentials of Harris and his colleagues, they

pulled random words and phrases out of books that just

happened to be in front of them. They concocted sixteen

poems this way under the pseudonym Ern Malley. The

Penguins fell for it, and loved it, with Nolan even

designing a special cover for the 1944 Angry Penguins

magazine. Thus the greatest hoax in Australian literature

was achieved.

The McAuley and Stewart led party expressed

unbridled delight at the fact Harris had bought into their

cunning plan. They felt they had the proof that the

Angry Penguin movement was an artless pursuit of

carnal urges bent on tearing up the very fabric of decent

society. Harris, on the other hand, suggested that in spite

of themselves McAuley and Stewart had created poetry

of greater merit than anything either of them had done

previously.

While the Penguins continued working after

1944, their movement had suffered an insurmountable

blow and modernism in Australia pretty well died on its

feet. Only with a significant passage of time was Max

Harris placed alongside the great Australian writers.

There is one key point to take from this. On the

Australian government‟s website covering this event

Adelaide is given the description „literary hotbed‟.

Adelaide is awesome, but I wonder why nobody

is being thrown into the Torrens lately. I swear I can feel

it bubbling under the thin meniscus of our beautiful city

and occasionally I am exposed to the brilliance Adelaide

has to offer, this most commonly occurs during the

month of March. I honestly believe Adelaide is on the

cusp of a Cultural Revolution, which is why I put to you:

where have all the Penguins gone? They should be

piercing the veil of social apathy right about…now.

- Sam McDonough

9

Things I Have Learnt

Since I Moved I used to live in the country, seven hours drive away. Like, I woke up to the sound of sheep “Baa”ing occasionally. Oh

and shut up Mount Gambier, you‟re not the country. You have two night clubs. It‟s been three years since I moved and I

thought it would be nice to share with the culture shocks over the years.

Not all the „P‟ Platers you see will know you.

Traditionally, driving in the country involves the time

honored finger wave. The tiny crook of the fingers on

the steering wheel to all, just so you don‟t annoy the

CWA ladies. This was especially important when

waving to „P‟ Platers because in my old town if there

was another „P‟ Plater on the road, you knew them. You

went to school with them. There wasn‟t a maybe about

it, you just did. Stopping doing it was hard, and boy did

that get me into trouble driving around the city.

First of all I‟m a terrible driver. Secondly I only got my

car in the second year of, uni so I was a bit older than the

average „P‟ Plater. Combine these two and you get a

creepy old lady driving erratically while she waves at

you. Nobody wants that.

Not everyone follows AFL

So note to self: knowing Port Power sucks at the

moment will no longer carry you through a sports

conversation. Darn it.

You can mack randoms without fear of inbreeding

Ok this one feels a bit derogatory to the country, but ever

since my friend made out her second cousin it‟s become

a growing concern.

YOU CAN HAVE FOOD BROUGHT TO YOUR

HOUSE!

There is nothing better than realising, after a night of

imbibing of the alcohols, that food can magically appear

at your house. Sure, for money, but on the other hand for

much less effort than normal food getting. I mean they

bring - they BRING FOOD TO YOUR HOUSE. You

don‟t have to wake up in a swag, roll over, vomit and

figure out how long it will be before you can safely drive

home. You don‟t have to walk shamefully into your

house, nor awkwardly talk to your parents hoping that

death will take you. You don‟t have to do the complex

mental arithmetic to figure out how long it will take you

to get your head together and drive to the nearest local

fast food (45 minutes), then back again. You don‟t even

have to phone anyone. You can do it on the internet.

Best. News. Ever.

You know how you thought you were weird? Well

you kind of are, but so are other people.

Two words. Black Books.

If you haven‟t seen it, get on it. Dylan Moran,

Bill Bailey. Guaranteed to make you laugh till you pee.

Or whatever. Till I came to the city I could name on my

fingers the people who knew it. To date since moving I

have at least 20 conversations that were entirely made

through Black Book quotes. Once we just did an entire

episode.

“But that‟s so boring! Why don‟t you say

something original!” I hear you say, disgusted. I would

try, but I can‟t improve on perfection. Until I came to the

city I thought watching an alcoholic misanthrope abuse a

bearded weirdo whilst a stork necked chimney smoking

crazy woman looked on was crazy. Thank goodness I

moved.

- Darci Hebberman

10

I’m Not Wearing

Clean Underpants

I have an excuse, honest. It‟s mainly because for the last

2 weeks I‟ve been couch hopping. Sleeping where I can,

showering when I can, and doing laundry less than I‟d

like.

There‟s a lot more that goes into a Fringe stand-

up comedy show than people know. You need to register

to be a part of the festival; find a venue; get posters and

flyers made; entice a crowd… Then you find yourself

having to write it. And if you don‟t live nearby, you find

yourself trying to live locally for an entire month. With

dirty underpants on. This is a process which starts

months before the Fringe does. In fact, it usually begins

straight after the fringe from the year before. Tired of the

same material, most comics go from a performing binge

to a writing binge (usually without stopping their

drinking binge) to create jokes they‟re not totally sick of.

Most commonly, this is followed by deciding on what to

do for next year, making a plan and trying hard to stick

to it. This usually culminates in not seeing anyone for

the 3 weeks before Fringe when you realise you haven‟t

written your show yet.

A venue is needed next – why bother going to

all that effort to write a show when you don‟t have

anywhere to perform it? How many shows do you want

to perform? Which end of Adelaide‟s CBD do you want

to be on? Where can give me a good deal? Registration

time arrives, and you sign up to be a part of the Fringe.

There‟s no backing out now… But why would you? The

Fringe is still 4-5 months away, surely you can write a

show by then… right? Christmas comes and goes

quicker than you realize and all of a sudden it‟s almost

here. In a panic, you realize you need flyers and posters

to promote your show. In excitement, you give a flyer to

everyone you know and then have none left.

Fringe is a week away. You double check

everything is fine (in between locking yourself in a room

to write that damn show… Oooh, Facebook!) and get

ready for what is sure to be a long month – one that

seems to go way too quickly.

Fringe arrives! You promise all your other

performing friends you‟ll go to their show and you mean

it. By the end of the first week, you‟re weighing those

friendships up against each other because you know

there‟s no way you can fit everyone‟s show. Not by a

long shot.

Opening night! You get ready by locking

yourself backstage, reading and re-reading your material

and hoping by some sweet miracle there‟s someone out

there to watch it. You step out onto the stage, start

telling your jokes and get a wave of relief as the

audience laughs. Ha, you wonder. What was I worried

about? But they‟re not all like that. Sometimes the crowd

doesn‟t like you and trust me, it can send the most

confident person in the world into a spiral of self

loathing.

After the Fringe is over and you‟ve finished

your gigs (some good, some bad) you can‟t wait to go

home and put some clean underpants on. Then you start

writing for Fringe 2012.

I‟m wearing dirty underpants and as much as I

hate to say it, I love it

- Angus Hodge

Angus wrote this piece during the 2011 Adelaide Fringe

Festival. The photo in this article was taken some time

after that, at a point where he was almost certainly

wearing clean underpants. We apologize for any

confusion this may have caused – Ed.

11

The Bottle Rockets

Tim Whitt is a local Comedian, DJ, Sound Wizard, and one half of the up

and coming band The Bottle Rockets, pictured above playing at the Big

Day Out – he‟s the one with the microphone on the left. On Dit was

fortunate enough to ask Tim some questions about his latest venture.

How did the band start?

The BottleRockets came about

because the last band that Scott (the

other guy in the hat) and I were in was

a band called The Waterslides. We've

been in about 5 different bands

together over the last 10 years with

other people and when The

Waterslides fell out, we decided to

make a band with just us. We didn't

know anyone else, and also it makes

organising practices and gigs easier

cause there's only 2 of us. We also get

shitloads more drink cards each from

promoters as well.

The name comes from The Go! Team

song "Bottle Rocket" and it was what

I wanted The Waterslides to be called.

But I got overruled and so decided to

finally use the name.

The songs mostly sound very

different to one another. The only

unifying thing I can really pick up

on is that they‟re all danceable, and

funny in some way. That isn‟t a

question, but could you talk about

it?

Most of the tunes are really varied

because we were trying to find our

style for the band. We're still not

nailing it though so expect a lot more

changes. I wanted to make tunes that

are completely different to what I've

made in the past because I kind of feel

that I've mastered making them. I've

usually written either big emo rock

tracks or down tempo hip hop, either

way they've always been pretty slow

and sad so I thought I'd try making

fast and happy music for a change. So

I've been learning a lot of skills in

how to make tunes in different genres.

At the start, I was really trying to be

Major Lazer so that's where Too

Much Crunk! comes from and then

there's a few where we're trying to

sound like Soulwax or Goldfrapp.

And the dubstep?

12

That's more the direction I think I'd

like the band to head. For one thing,

dubstep is hotter than pressed pants at

the moment, but also when we've

dropped dubstep tunes while DJ'ing,

the crowd just goes mental. It really is

like the electronic version of heavy

metal.

Bigger Toys? was made for a laugh

and is one of our first actual attempt at

making a dubstep tune so the mixing

isn't right on it, but there's a video on

Youtube of Ross Kemp interviewing a

member of the Bloods Gang and he's

talking about his guns and just sounds

so unintelligent it really makes us

laugh. And pretty much every dubstep

tune has a sampled vocal from

somewhere and then a huge drop, we

just had to make one out of it.

What is the sample on “Too Much

Crunk”?

That's me actually. No pitch shifting

effects. I get that voice sometimes

when I wake up. I'm kind of trying to

emulate the voice in Machine Gun

Fellatio's "Mojo Pumping" which

always made me laugh.

Interesting side note, Rob Hunter's in

there too but we pitch shifted him

down. Also Kirsty Griggs is in the

background for one of them but very

quietly.

The set up on stage is interesting -

kind of like a DJ / Rock Band

Hybrid - Why did you decide to do

that?

It's just basically Scott and myself

trying to do the jobs of about three

other band mates who we don't have.

We're trying to be guitarists, bassists,

DJ's, rappers and hype men all at the

same time. Though all of that

switching around keeps us interested.

We both really like a rock n roll style

stage show with lots of jumping

around and energy which is something

that you don't normally get with DJ's

and dance groups, or even a lot of

rock bands these days. So we play

with guitars to kind of liven the show

up a bit and give it a rock feel.

Nothing pisses us off more than

people standing like mannequins on

stage. Like when you go and see a DJ

and he puts on a record and then kind

of just stands there looking pleased

with himself before cueing up the next

track. And Kraftwerk. I know they're

pioneers and all but I saw them at the

Big Day Out, just standing behind

their laptops twiddling knobs. It

sucked balls to watch. So we run our

tunes off of a laptop because I can't be

arsed programming and transporting

hardware synths and samplers any

more but I try and spend as little time

behind it as I can, just to try get out

from behind it and keep things

interesting to watch. We've been

experimenting with a drummer of late

which has really given the live show

more energy, otherwise

we're acutely aware that it looks like

two guys playing guitars to a backing

tape for 45 minutes. I would like to

have a DJ in the band just so I don't

have to keep running back to the

laptop to trigger things but working

with more than two people makes it so

much harder to organise practices and

gigs. So pretty much, the live show's

the way it is just out of pure necessity

Aside from achieving technical

mastery of the form, did anything

else inspire you to make the change

from sad emo music to up tempo

dance music?

Well, whatever I'm doing, I'm always

trying to give people the best time if

they're watching it. Scott's the same as

well, we're just big showmen and we

really try whatever we can to get

people to have a really good time.

We've both been in plenty of rock

bands before and I've even done solo

acoustic folk music for a bit but

they're not all that fun to go and see.

Especially solo acoustic folk. So

making up tempo, dancey, happy kind

of tunes just seems like a natural

decision to make when trying to figure

out what's going to give people a

really good time. You always see

footage of people at dance music

festivals who are on massive amounts

of drugs just going like the clappers to

some electro dance band like The

Chemical Brothers or something and it

looks like a lot of fun. We've never

done it ourselves, but it sure looks like

fun. So that's kind of what we're

hoping to give people, something fun

to come and do.

What shows of yours can I plug?

We're supporting Regurgitator

Wednesday, August 31. And we're

playing at The Levitator's CD launch

on September 23.

Thanks so much Tim.

No problems. Thanks for thinking of

me.

Thanks for having an up and

coming band, then.

Thanks for noticing.

Tim Whitt, Composer.

13

The Dapper World of

Henry Stentiford

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Henry is a local artist who has only been featuring

his work commercially since late last year, and he

was kind enough to let us use some of it on the

cover of this magazine. After accosting him on

Facebook Chat recently, Henry was gracious

enough to discuss some of his work with me.

A recurring motif in your work is extremely well

dressed men, the likes of which haven't been seen

en mass for decades. What interests you about

that kind of character?

I am interested by the idea of high fashion and

dressing well being a common day occurrence,

being partaken in by all as a sort of understood

social mannerism that is very nonexistent these

days. The work is a reflection of a fantasy world in

which the characters live in, I guess.

As well as handsomely attired, most of the

characters you draw are very strangely

proportioned…

I guess the strangeness and unsettled look seen in

the characters reflects ideas of how different people

within society, strange or unstrange, may try and fit

in to a mould which they think is some sort of

perfection or mould to be fitted too, i.e. these

dapper gentleman characters. I think it plays on the

idea of how strange people could find comfort in

being one of these gentlemen - sort of which they

portrayed in some try to reflect a look of perfection

which is desirable by all – the strange included.

It's the idea of how the gentleman stands confident

and proud within society. He does not worry about

what is common or the norm, which thus makes him

desirable by those which he does not conform to.

Indie, I know.

Henry Stentiford‟s work is currently being

showcased at the Robin Hood Hotel, and you can

view some more of it at

www.HenryStentiford.com

15

Fiction

Honour Guard A Max Kneebone Story

We stood on the lawn out the front of

the hall in two lines, shoulder to

shoulder. There were maybe two

hundred of us, some in uniform, some

in suits and me, dressed like my

grandad in trousers, a shirt, my old

col‟s tie and a wool jumper, the odd

one out. The boys who weren‟t

already in position moved around

behind us, sidling into line or else

forming a ragged second rank where

there was no space for them. We tried

to fit everyone though. Every last

fucking one.

There were points of light

everywhere, cameras too. Knots of

middle aged men in distinguished

suits and their wives clustered in a

great mob on the grass and pretty

young blondes in dresses moved

fluidly through the crowd, parted by

us.

The path we define leads from

the great wooden doors all the way

down to the silver hearse, waiting

between the old trees. A full moon‟s

shining, same as the one that‟s looked

down on this lawn at fire dancers,

smiling couples, red carpets, proud

parents and the deputy headmaster

wearing tights, dressed as Robin

Hood. Last year I walked through

those doors with Helen on my arm,

her hair cut short and wearing a little

black dress. This could almost be

every school ball I‟ve ever been to.

There are at least a thousand people

here and I have to wonder how many

knew him.

Joseph was sobbing next to me.

It‟s a funny thing, to see the boys and

the men who you‟ve sat alongside and

seen every day for years now, never

showing anything to the world but

nonchalant humour or confident

competence, finally cracking. Joseph

is the nephew of a tobacconist and the

darling of all our mothers, always

talking, laughing, drinking, dancing

or telling dirty jokes to make you

cringe.

The younger boys in line,

wearing their blazers and all grown

freakishly tall now, were holding each

other up. I put my hand on Joseph‟s

shoulder and told him to stay in line

with us and that it wouldn‟t be long

now. I don‟t know if he really

listened. He just slumped into my

shoulder, but at least he still stood

there. The boys drew in around him

and there wasn‟t much to do but

square my shoulders back and stand

straight.

The hall had mostly filled up

before I got there, so I stood upstairs

in one of the wings up back with Ben,

all the seats were taken. The lights

were dimmed and it took me a

moment to see the coffin, the wood

the same colour as the stage, the

stairs, the floor. It stood raised, to the

right of the room. The box seemed so

huge now, draped in wreaths and his

relics. Guernsey‟s, signed team

photos, a favourite t-shirt, his trusty

cricket bat leaning at his side. The

same four songs were playing over

and over and we waited. Ben nudged

me. “Do you think he‟s really in

there?” he asked, quietly so the older

people around us wouldn‟t hear. “I

don‟t know”, I said, “Probably.

Otherwise, why bother with the

coffin?” Death these days is a

disappearing act. One way or another,

someone goes to a hospital and is

never seen again. People will hear

about it and know, we see a coffin but

the only concrete fact in all of this is

an absence. The last time I had seen

him was months ago.

It started and the school

chaplain spoke. His sisters and

cousins spoke, following each other in

a quick succession. His uncle spoke.

His father spoke about a conversation

in the car and cried. The photos rolled

by on the projector screen, so many of

them of him bowl-cut, blonde and so

young it was hard to recognise him.

We stand on the lawn out the

front of the hall in two lines, shoulder

to shoulder and men in suits file

through our ranks, handing out blue

and white balloons. They carry the

box down our path, across the lawn.

It‟s been stripped bare of all his

guernsey‟s and pictures and only one

wreath lies on top of it now. The

crowd is frozen still around us. The

box passes by me and disappears. The

hearse drives and we let our balloons

go. Everyone turns to watch them. At

the end of the school ball last year, the

younger boys had stood upstairs and

thrown balloons down over the

balcony onto the dance floor below.

The blue balloons quickly

disappeared into the dark. We

watched the white ones glow and float

impossibly high, growing shadowy

rings that got bigger as they climbed

further, until the whole balloon was

consumed.

16

Tape

A Chris Knight Story

'I think it all began with the tape. The

cassette tape, yeah. I know, right?

Who even uses those any more? I

made a mixtape a couple years ago for

my car, but now everyone's got iPods

and phones that store like a ton of

music on them. I gave in too. My new

car hasn't even got a cassette input

thingy. Whatever.'

She's bubbling over with all kinds

of energy, which might be her youth

or maybe it's the amount of sangria

she has already ladled into previous

plastic cups, like the one she has

almost tipped on me at the end of

every clause. I'm not sure why she is

talking to the frumpy girl, me, instead

of some cute trendy guy with blonde

tips or a faux-hawk. Maybe she

thought my op-shop-chic summer

dress or my oversized black-frame

glasses were the sign of a lonely soul,

a chance to score dharma points by

talking to the wallflower.

'So, this tape, right, made me feel

all nostalgic and stuff for the 90s

when I was a kid. You probably

remember it a bit better though, yeah?

Not that you're old or anything.'

I'm listening instead to the stereo's

muffled bass-sounds overlaid with

tinny drum-beats bouncing around

pillars and between feet on the trendy

concrete floors. This warehouse

gallery is hitting all my least favourite

cliché buttons. The sounds of some

pretentious ambient electronica

project. People staring at things on

walls and cheese platters and

mumbling knowing murmurs. 'Hmph'

with a soft nod equals, Mmyes, I think

I get it, but a 'Sniff' with the hint of a

sneer means Frankly derivative, in my

opinion. I know these sorts of people,

most of them. I don't know this girl,

though. I don't even get why she's

here. I think that's why I haven't made

an excuse and left.

'And but this tape was all

scratched and Kyle was like, let's play

it, so we took ages trying to find a

player because my car doesn't even

have one, like I said so we ended up

at my sister's school's music building.

It felt all weird 'cause I haven't been

there in ages but Kyle had to work so

it was just me and it was lunch but

no-one noticed me and I could hear all

the kids shouting outside like in the

distance but they were right there, you

know?'

I'm never really sure why I

keep going to these places alone.

There's always some old person who

buttonholes me or thinks I'm one of

the artists because I'm dressed all

bohemian, like a student, which is

what I am. The free booze and snacks

are okay, but it's that nagging deep-

down jealous feeling. I want it to be

my pieces on the walls one day. I

wish I wasn't studying law, but I'm

not about to indulge myself for some

uncertain, unspoken wish. I make

stencils for graffiti, but I've never put

anything on a wall, or even given a

stencil (of, say, Virginia Woolf with a

spray-paint can, writing 'A wall of

one's own') to a braver, more

vandalistic proxy. I think about what I

could do in this minimalist gallery; I'd

kill all the monochrome with bright

colours and dark words, cheerful-

looking quotes from Nietzsche, a

noose made from old Archie comics.

All I seem able to do is nod, smile,

and curtsey like the perfect party

guest.

'There I was, okay, in this room

and so then I find an old stereo in the

corner and switch it on and in goes

the tape and I press play and it started

to sound like, maybe, an old modem

starting up but I don't really know

what happened next because I think I

might've blacked out a bit. In the

music room, 'cause I remember

waking up but not going to sleep or

falling or whatever.'

Wow, she can talk.

And talk.

It's like she doesn't even know

how much of it seems like white

noise, like this music with its

electronic polyrhythm and scattershot

bass notes. I think I need to derail her

story before she hyperventilates.

'So, I wake up--'.

'Pardon me, but I don't know if I

was properly introduced. I'm Audrey.'

She blinks a couple of times. 'Um,

hi. Audrey. I'm Cass.'

She passes her glass to her left

hand to offer an awkward handshake

as I try not to appear too gleeful that

she has broken the flow of her oh-so-

important story.

I notice the subtle change in the

background music from ambient

loops to something beat-intensive

with samples of a speech or a book-

on-tape. A South American accent

stutters B-b-buenos Aires, Gujara-ra-

rat, Cordo-o-o-oba, t-t-t-twelve

hundred pillars. What once was a

linear tale turned into vowel sounds

and scratched out-of-joint on a digital

turntable, like the snippets of

conversation I was overhearing until

she, Cass, started speaking. Actually I

don't know if I remember how she

17

started. I think she even began

somewhere in the middle.

'Anyway, it's Audrey, right? Yeah.

Sorry. So this tape was gone when I

woke up. I don't think I remember

anything after that first hiss of static,

you know when if you're taping the

radio or a mix, that's the time you

press play and record at the same

time. Just that waiting time and then

waking up with my nose bleeding a

little bit and the music teacher all

cross because she knew I wasn't

supposed to be there. Then I'm like,

where's the cassette, and it's just me

and her and she doesn't know what I

mean but that little dispenser door on

the stereo is open and the tape is gone.

Disappeared.'

'Uh-huh.' She passed out in a

school, not much of a tricky feat for

someone that skinny. Low blood-

sugar and then, timber, down she

would go. That's not the kind of story

I would tell a stranger. Embarrassing,

even. Plus, I think my nods have been

coldly polite enough for almost

anyone with any social skill to

interpret as disinterest, but she is as

animated as ever.

The voice on the sound system is

talking about tigers, now. An infinite

tiger, a tiger composed of many

tigers, crisscrossed with tigers,

striped with tigers, the Zahir was a

tiger, the Zahir was a tiger, the Zahi-

hi-hi-hir as the drums take the

cadence of the words and match them

to their beat. It's like pendulums on a

wire, undulating in the rippling

resonance. I would like to hang pieces

of my artwork from wires and cables

in a room like this. Things shaped like

birds, but not birds. I could make

some from old computer parts and

some from string and twigs. I could

paint them all solid colours, too,

bright reds and blues and yellows.

'That was three weeks ago. Three

or so, I think. I found myself trying to

do other things. Anything, in fact. It

got harder and harder. I was looking

for it again this whole time. Trying to

figure it out. The place I got it from

closed down almost straight after.

Like a hip second-hand music place in

town, but it was gone. I don't know

quite how I'd gotten it in the first

place and there was no-one I could

ask. I broke up with Kyle. I mean, he

dumped me, said I got weird but

whatever, he wasn't smart enough to

answer half the questions I was

thinking. About the tape. And with

why it came and went and what was

on it. I kept feeling like something

was hiding in my head, in the back of

my mind. I started seeing things that

weren't there altogether. And sleeping

less.'

'Do you want to sit down?'

The beat is too complex to tap out

a toe-rhythm, but there's something

catchy in the music. Why am I still

letting her talk? None of the people I

am on speaking terms with seem like

they are coming, the ones who would

deign to be seen at an exhibition like

this at least. This Cass seemed lucid

for a while, but she's getting more and

more animated now, flailing her pale

wrists as she emphasizes her points.

Maybe I should humour her more and

act as though I'm listening, but that

might feed her excitability. My eyes

flick around the room, scanning the

doors. All these people, enthralled by

these squares on the walls. Colourless

pencil etchings, a few hundred years

too late after Dürer to make any kind

of statement, but they'll sell for

hundred, maybe thousands for the

triptychs.

'What, sit? No, I'm starting to feel

energetic. It's that part of the evening

now right, when you wake up a bit

more, fully. Besides, this is the really

cool bit. Well, not really cool, but,

like I wanted the tape. It had done

something in my head, and I wanted

to know and it was mine, in a way,

'cause someone had written my name

on it, my full name, Cassandra, which

no-one calls me anyway. But I really

wanted to find it because of the way I

got it, like I told you, so I did this

whole Private Eye thing.'

Had she told me? I hadn't really

been paying attention. Her relentless

energy is making me feel more

despondent than anything else. I know

now, from an earlier glance at my

watch, that the probability of any of

the people I could actually stand to

spend time with in a gallery situation

walking in through these doors in the

next hour, that probability is not one

to bet on.

'I went back to the school, this is

two days ago. And I was a bit

paranoid and on edge on account of

18

not just the sneaking, I was kind of

sneaking in. But the weird after-

effects of the tape, right, these shapes

and things when I blink too quickly,

those were freaking me out too. So I

find the kids that have lunch nearby

and school's going on still but I was

dressed like I went there. Then I

mention a tape and this one boy, like,

year eight, goes like pale, so I know

it's him and he starts running. It was

great. He had his big backpack on the

whole time though, like one of those

hermit crabs at the beach, but he was

still fast, but then I got him after not

too much running.'

Somehow, Cass has got me

thinking about tapes, and I'm looking

at the stereo player in the corner. The

music is definitely coming from the

mp3 player, but there is a tape deck,

the negative image to the tape itself.

Cassettes have a good shape,

rectangular and serious, but somehow

with the right kind of spatial weight to

convey fun. From a visual point of

view, they defined a time, and now

they're able to conjure up a specific

era just by their outline. Maybe I

should make an excuse and leave.

'This is the great thing, which is,

he had it in the backpack. The whole

time. With all of this other stuff he

had just gone and taken as well. I

could spot a few cheap percussion

instruments from the music building,

like that one that goes screearp-

scrick-a-screearp-scrick over and

over again. Anyway, he hasn't

listened to the tape. Not at all. Just, he

keeps all the stuff in his bag and looks

at it once every few nights. Just

staring at his stuff that he took from

someplace. So I got it back. Two days

ago, so guess what I've done? I heard

the tape again. A bunch of times. I

dared myself.'

She's silent now. Do I have to

say something? I hate these awkward

human interactions where things are

expected of me, to do something I

wouldn't normally want to do, like

give a high five. I think there's a

question I should ask.

'So, you wanna know what was on

it? I didn't pass out again, but I could

feel myself getting used to it. Still get

nose-bleeds, but less so now. I've got,

like, a tolerance for it now. The tape,

not the nose-bleeding. It's amazing. I

still don't know how it got to me, but

it is amazing.'

I'm not really sure what is going

on here. I think she's about to say

something that won't be able to be

taken back, like cracking open a

rotten egg.

'So, here.'

She hands me a cassette tape and

starts rummaging through her own

pastel-blue messenger bag. Sure

enough, it says 'Cassandra' in black

marker pen on one side. It is white

and bland everywhere else. I just look

at it, hoping she won't ask what she's

going to ask, what I know she's

wanted all along. She finds her big tin

can headphones and gets me to follow

her to the stereo system.

'I came here because I was

looking for stereo players in shops

and places in town. I thought I'd

spread it to a lot of people, then I

thought, like, maybe it's just better

just to keep it to just one or two

people to start with. Then I looked in

through the glass into here, yesterday,

and I thought it would be perfect with

all the whiteness and the lack of

colours and I saw the sign about

tonight. And Audrey, I knew you'd be

the right one, to hear and see this,

because you look kinda like an artist.

Not a hippy, but I almost thought you

were, then realised that, no, you're not

into that. So here goes.'

Cassandra plugs in the

headphones she's already slid over my

head. The tape slides into the chute

and closes with a snick, then play, and

then a bit of silence. In that silence I

start to worry about psychological

warfare and brainwashing through

soundwaves and all kinds of things

and then it hits. A wave, but not

water, or even sound, although the

sound is like she said, something like

a modem noise, but almost like I don't

hear it at all. I feel, rather than see,

what is happening. Colours, all kinds

of colours, are washing across the

room, filling every cubic metre from

the floor and rising with vivid

brightness in all three dimensions.

And I can smell them, the colours,

and feel them on my skin and washing

up and down my arms and spine as

the room fills up higher and higher. I

open my mouth and I can taste this as

well and it is unlike any experience I

have ever had. Tears are rolling down

my cheeks and, yes, my nose is

bleeding too. I hold on for ten more

seconds, then I have to take the

headphones off. The colours

disappear and all the other sensations

stop as the tape slowly spins, the

signal echoing between the left and

right earpieces of the headphones.

'Did you see it?'

I stare at a spot on the floor. 'Cass,

Cassandra? I'm sorry.'

'What do you mean? You saw the

colour-thing, right? It was as amazing

as I said, right?'

I can't speak. But yes, I try to say, yes,

yes, yes.

19

The Crow

A Lucy Haas Story

Gary was thirty, and probably an

accountant. He lived alone, in an

apartment. His hobbies included

reading about diseases on Wikipedia,

editing articles about diseases on

Wikipedia, and the maintenance of a

kind of savage discontent with the

world and everyone in it. A crow was

following him.

He was fairly sure it was a

crow. It had beady little black eyes

and a smug demeanour and the

jaunty way it walked made him want

to boot it hard in the ribs. Plus, it had

shat on his car six times. He‟d

decided it was the harbinger of death,

because that was more grimly

satisfying than any reasonable

explanation he could think of.

It amused his antagonist / friend (?),

Anna. She was the new receptionist

in his office, and a worse receptionist

was hard to imagine, but it wasn‟t her

smile that stopped traffic and their

boss Frank was a dirty old man down

to his bones so she stayed. Gary was

never quite sure what he was

supposed to do there, and he‟d long

since stopped even pretending to

care. The sheer incompetence of the

bureaucracy above and below him

meant his savage apathy was yet to

meet any objections, and his

paycheck was ample to live on,

alone.

Well, alone until the damn crow

had shown up. It perched on his

window ledge every morning and

beadily watched him shambling

around getting ready for the day.

Then it followed him to work. The

first few days he‟d been sure he was

imagining it. There were plenty of

crows, right? But then he noticed its

distinctively lopsided (horrible) little

eyes. It was the same crow. He was

sure it would come into his apartment

if he let it, and he was equally sure

that letting it in would be his last act.

Whether it was a supernatural herald

of his impending doom, or just a

rabies-infested pest that had taken a

liking to him, it was damn well

staying outside.

He fed it bits of bread every

morning, for reasons he wasn‟t sure

of.

“Good morning,” Anna sang

whenever he got to work. “How‟s the

long, slow road to the grave treating

you?”

“Horribly, thanks,” he would

retort.

“What are you dying of today?”

“Bone cancer.” She would nod.

“Possibly fibromyalgia. One of the

two.” Anna didn‟t care about the

office, she didn‟t care about

answering the phone, she didn‟t care

about filing or faxing or memos, and

there was something refreshing about

the sunny, savage way she‟d

succumbed to this twenty-first

century nightmare that had made

Gary seek out her company. Well,

she sought out his company, and he

grudgingly allowed her to. It was the

best he could do.

Anna had named the crow Quoth,

because she thought she was funny.

She had taken to composing short

verses to the meter and rhyme

scheme of Poe‟s famous poem to

shout at him across the office. She

had a degree in English literature, but

she hated children too much to teach,

so she worked in offices. He

supposed she wrote in her spare time.

It was hard to get to know a person

when your interpersonal dynamic

was based on an attitude of scorn and

disinterest.

“It‟s a symbol,” Anna informed

him one heinously long afternoon.

“Of what?” He was seeing how

quickly he could fill a page on

Microsoft Word with profanity and

pretending that her sitting on his

desk, meditatively eating grapes, was

a source of personal suffering to him.

“Your humanity.” Her eyes

flashed at him through her glasses.

“Shouldn‟t it be a kitten or

something?” He‟d seen some movies.

Disliked most of them.“A puppy,

maybe.”

“You‟d kick a puppy.”

“I try to kick the crow. It flutters

away.”

“I kicked a pigeon once,” Anna

confided.

“It didn‟t flutter away?”

“It didn‟t anticipate my

commitment to pigeon-kicking.”

The goddamn crow, though. It

was just following him like

something out of some tawdry old

gothic novel, and he was sick to

death of it. It wasn‟t like he needed

an excuse for morbidity. He was

overweight, prematurely balding,

boring, intelligent in the least useful

20

ways, and entirely incapable of being

around other humans for more than a

few hours at a stretch without

wanting to massacre everyone in the

name of peace. His father, once so

interested in his son‟s love life, had

stopped even trying to talk to him

about women, and his mother had

quietly but firmly set all her hopes on

his younger sister for grandchildren.

Socially, economically, genetically,

he was a cul-de-sac, and he knew it.

The last thing he needed was a great

big flea-ridden black bird flapping

around after him. It was tacky, and

beneath him entirely.

Anna still thought it was

funny, though – Anna with all her

thwarted dreams and luminous eyes

and strange, not-quite-appropriate

clothing – and her Poe pastiches had

come very, very close to making him

laugh on more than one occasion.

One night, thinking back to her

whimsical suggestion he train it as a

minion, he lured the creature close to

him with an outstretched piece of

toast – and to his dismay, it was

easily coaxed into hopping onto his

arm. It perched like it had been born

to perch there. The idea of breaking

its neck occurred to him. He fed it

more bread instead.

“Now you become the

protagonist of a gothic novel,” Anna

recommended, when he told her

about the crow‟s new trick.

“Well, I‟ve already got an

antagonist,” he said darkly. “She‟s

crushing my paperwork.”

Anna shifted her weight,

contritely. “Next, you train him to go

„caw‟ whenever you say something

intimidating. Oh, and buy a cloak,

that‟s important. Stand on rooftops a

lot, on moonless nights –“

“Don‟t you have actual work to

do?”

“Not even slightly. I Gave Frank

my notice yesterday.” He looked up

from the piece of paper he‟d been

slowly turning to confetti. “That way

my last day‟ll be the day of the

Christmas party and I can act like it‟s

all on my account.”

What he wanted to say would

have been out of character, so he

said: “Good.” She sort of smiled and

sauntered off to mess around with the

photocopier, left him feeling like

he‟d failed profoundly at something

important. There was a Secret Santa

for the Christmas party, of course.

Ignoring the name he had drawn

from the hat, Gary bought a length of

red ribbon and tied it onto the now-

docile crow‟s neck. Somehow, it

looked more wretched than it had

before.

“You are a terrible symbol.”

Croak.

“And a terrible present.”

Beady gaze.

But when he got to the party

Anna wasn‟t there. She had been

there, his boss said, eyes straying

repeatedly to the crow. Then she‟d

disappeared. Aware that he was

drawing a great deal of entirely

unwelcome attention from his

coworkers, he left the office and

climbed the stairs. She‟d said she

liked rooftops, once. He had been

pretending not to listen.

He found her with her eyes

fixed somewhere in the clouds and an

uncharacteristic stillness in her

gangly, ill-proportioned limbs. The

crow on his arm made a hoarse noise

and she turned sharply. The crow

raised its wings as he lifted that arm

to wave. She waved back. He had

practiced a speech. It was about how

he didn‟t actually want to kick a

puppy, and she didn‟t know him well

enough, and there was stuff in the

centre of him that wasn‟t gloomy,

and the days she didn‟t sit on his

desk eating grapes were the worst

days, and that she was the only

person he could think of whose

absence would make his life worse

instead of better. He said: “I‟m not

glad you‟re leaving.”

The crow made another

wretched little noise, and she

laughed, crossed in short steps to join

him where he was standing

uncertainly in the centre of the roof.

They looked into the darkening sky

together, where rainclouds had

gathered but not broken, and for the

first time in a very long while Gary

didn‟t see acid rain or global

warming or El Nino or looming death

of any sort in the clouds, he just saw

the gathering storm. And he felt his

arm slide around Anna‟s shoulders,

and he thought that all this wasn‟t so

hard after all.

21

Poetry

The Delicate Art of Discontent

Your face dilates my pupils;

I can feel you in my veins.

You are supposed to restore my faith in humanity

Instead you slowly bore me

Oh, the exasperation.

I‟m descending the stairs like

Duchamp‟s pretty little lady.

Yeah! Explosions in a meat packing factory baby!

Frustration is pouring out my skin

I‟m shaking with apathy

The vibrations send earthquakes to

New York and Tokyo

People fall into the cracks and go nowhere

They just keep falling

I let the wind turn the pages

Because I can‟t really be bothered anymore

The wind, it cries

But it doesn‟t cry Mary like before

It just cries because it is sick of being used

In pathetic metaphors

Now we return to you

You with all your laughable contradictions

You living in past-tense

You wearing those clothes in some sort of fashion

You, I don‟t know, shut up

I could some you up in two lines

But I won‟t

- William River

In the Presence of God; Whisper

I tried to remember what happened

In Proust

The Irony enters me anally

Fatally

Why do I live life sardonically?

Tragically I know not other ways

Practically. I‟m a victim of post-post-post-post

(Just trying to keep up)

Modern conformity. Statistically I‟ve

Successfully lost my Identity. Sporadically

I feel naturally inclined to emphatically deny

Mathematically proven science. Appliance

Of neutrality has no ability to

Intellectually stimulate my rationality.

I require audacity and critically

I demand obscenity.

- William River

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all tyrannical dictators forcing injustices upon their people. Show your

support for this matter by voting them your On Dit Editors.

VOTE 1 SAM AND JAMES and keep this revolution as bloodless as possible. Authorized by the Returning Officer, August 2011. Published by James McCann, 1195521. Please recycle.

Happy Retirement