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misc.issue #1 the picnic edition

misc.

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contents

Alyce Bennet pg 9 and 32

Emily Lloyd-Taitpg 10

Jurrah Chilcott pg 12-15

Mylene Simardpg 16

Jade Cantwellpg 18-23

Lyssa Trompf pg 24

Danmajyid pg 26

Gem Louisepg 30

Ray Chong Neepg 34

Kayla Brockpg 35

Keisha Galbraithcover art (picnic shots)

contents

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grapevine4.indd 1 25/11/09 11:15:30 AM

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editorial

it is with huge amounts of pride that i introduce you to the first issue of misc. magazine. the idea came about a few months ago; i was unhappy in my job (working for a magazine, but one that in no way interested me), missing decent money and being creative, and began a coaching program. lame yes, but it helped me get my shit together, realise i hated my job so much i needed to leave and get back that passion i had for what i do. so now i’m broke, but have this amazing publication to unleash upon the world. i can’t even express how excited i am for people to read it, to see the gorgeous works of friends and friends of friends and to maybe start thinking about what they could send us.

my most sincere hope is that this magazine grows and becomes a place where up and coming and amateur artists can share their work, get their name out there and have some published work for their portfolios. i also hope that it becomes something people look forward to, to reading the stories, pouring over the beautiful photographs and art and tuning out from the rest of the world for a little while.

i also want to take the opportunity to thank the amazing jurrah chilcott. this started out as a solo mission but i soon realised that my ‘getting shit done and organised’ gene isn’t as strong as jurrah’s, so while i compiled content and layed out the magazine, jurrah called printers and sold the ad space that would allow us to print. misc. is now a jurrah and keisha project and i would’t have it any other way.

thank you for picking up (or downloading) a copy of misc. please look out for us again in 3 months time and tell your friends, coworkers, bus driver, whoever and help spread the word about a little publication that just wants your love.

all the love,

p.s. if you get so into some of the content that you want to contact the contributor, email me at keisha@misc-magazine.net and i’ll make it happen.

editorial

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this is the first issue of misc. magazine

keisha galbraith creative director + design nerd (editor)

jurrah chilcottmarketing director + word nerd (editor)

http://misc-magazine.net

any suggestions, complaints, submissions or unmarked bills can and should be sent to

mag@misc-magazine.net

publisheremerald press

www.emeraldpress.com

misc. magazine would love to publish quarterly, but is subject to people giving us enough money to make it

happen.

all content is copyright of misc. magazine and cannot be reproduced in whole or in part without writen

permission from the editors. so don’t steal our shit!

9by Alyce Bennett

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LIVING WITH A MUSO

For some, the idea of living with a musician conjures images of late night jams, strangers passed out on your couch and awkward encounters with pant-less

groupies in your kitchen of a morning. While there is surely the potential for any and all of these things to occur, the truth of the matter is that you are more likely to awaken to the sweet strums of a banjo, come home to a hot meal and have someone around during the day to let the Telstra man into the house.

Living with a musician is kind of awesome.

My flatmate is Emma Davis, a tiny English minstrel who writes incredibly sad songs. It can be a little confusing at times to hear her sing about being so devastated she might die, and then have tea and nachos with her in the garden a moment later. As a rule I would describe her as quite a chipper person. She wears colourful knitted jumpers and spends her weekends eating pastries in the sunshine. We meet most often as I am coming home from a day of office based drudgery and she is heading out, freshly showered to meet someone interesting somewhere fun. If you’ve ever run into her, margarita in hand surrounded by beautiful and intelligent hipsters you’ll know what I mean.

Here in lies the appeal of Miss Davis. She is definitely no sad sack. Her songs are cathartic. When she is sad, she writes a song about it and then the bad feelings gets caught among the guitar strings and she can go back to the Good Weekend quiz good as new. As much as the break up albums in my collection are useful for when I want to sit in a darkened room and have a good cry, the writers seem like they would be downers. The

songs are great but the people are not exactly on the top of the list for a Sunday picnic, Emma on the other hand probably already has a wheel of brie and some vodka goon ready to go.

Lately I have been listening to Emma’s album in the car as I go to work. It helps me to resist the urge to throw things at my boss or put my foot through the monitor. Her songs tell the stories of how good people who try their best sometimes still hurt one another. There are no Jerry Springer scenarios, just people trying to be happy and not always being successful. There’s also one in there which is a an excellent reminder that if you break the heart of a musician then you run the risk of being forever immortalized in song as a soul-less hussy who would sell your kidney for a six-pack.

In spite of a body of work dominated by ex-lovers, broken hearts and grim realities, Emma Davis can still make you smile. Sometimes it’s important to remember that bad things happen to everybody, that happy people have difficult memories and painful histories that keep them up at night just like everyone else. It is equally important to be reminded that just because you are sad right now, it won’t last forever. We all have days that leave us thinking becoming a hermit is a viable option. To get through it some of us drink, clean, shop or bake, and others write beautiful songs to make it ok again. Thank goodness we have an Emma Davis in our lives to remind us that someone else knows just how we feel.

Emma’s debut ablum is out now and avaliable at Fish Records. For more info visit www.myspace.com/emmadavismusic

by Emily Lloyd-Tait

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NZ through the eyes

of a holga

by J

urra

h Ch

ilcot

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15by Jurrah Chilcott

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Winnipeg, 2008 - It’s late at night on the howling, desolate, dark windy prairie, a wolf cries in the distance. Safe now inside the igloo, I shudder as the temperature drops and tumbles down to the point where the grainy television reads, “frostbite alert - skin freezes within one minute of exposure”. The family huddles together to rob one another of each other’s warmth and we watch in hushed horror as the boiling pot of maple syrup comes to a sudden, silent, deathly stop. The weak fire has raised its white flag, no maple syrup soup will be consumed tonight, and I, like the delicious sticky sap that sustained my forefathers, grow stiff and rigid and hard as glass. That night, as I crawl into the warm carcass of a freshly slaughtered moose that is my bed, I decide - no more. As I violently rip the frozen snot off the tip of my nose, I decide I must go now, go south. Souther than south. Off to the land of Oz, to warm my blood and soften my cold cold heart.

Like the great explorers before me, risking it all in search of a better way of life, I embark on a long, harrowing journey towards the place that could be my paradise. Winnipeg to Denver, Denver to San Francisco, San Francisco to Tokyo, Tokyo to Bangkok, Bangkok to Bali, Bali to Sydney. I arrive in a state of bewilderment - what TIME is it? Where am I? I feel as though I’ve been turned inside out. But ultimately, I feel exhilarated as I look straight up to that glorious hole in the ozone layer and feel the white, boiling sun roast my face.

As a white, employable non-criminal who arrived by plane, (roughly the same words, I kid you not, used by the Australian Immigration Office) entry into this strange land of opposites is

handed to me on a silver platter. Well, let’s not mince words - a silver platter compared to some, but more like a cardboard platter clumsily painted in a silvery shade, because later I will learn that being granted permanent entry to this place would be like spotting the pernicious and elusive drop bear – not bloody likely. Having said that, who am I to complain? I’ve left my free and democratic country because I was a little bit annoyed with the weather and have come here, like so many other young international loiterers, in order to “find myself” (and apparently one’s innermost philosophies and fundamental raison d’etre can be found at Bondi Beach at the bottom of a can of VB) and the generous Antipodes have not only let me in, they jumped at the chance to culturally enlighten me.

My first and most challenging lesson is language. As an outsider, what tool is more effective than that of words, of communication, to facilitate my learnings and interactions? From day one, I am bombarded with a foreign speak unlike any I’ve ever heard. What a shock to find that I, foolish Canuck, have been uttering far too many sounds to convey meaning. Mel- BORN, Can-BERRA, Bris-BANE? Oh, no, no, no. MEL-bn. CAN-bra. BRIS-bn. Canadians would probably conserve some much-needed bodily heat if we could only mimic the resourceful Aussie, with its languid language of laid-backness. “Oi, maytes. Fetch ya sunnies and get in me ute, we’s goin’ to uni to get Robbo and Shaz. Get some brekkie, few stubbies, head to the footy fo’ the arvo. Whatta youse farkin doin’? Get in ‘ere!” Indeed, a beautiful exercise in brevity and conciseness, is it not?

All Aboot Australiawords and photos by Mylene Simard

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Then there’s a myriad of customs and cultural entities to absorb. Losing my Vegemite virginity is somewhat of a cruel initiation. I slather on that thick brown sludge without restraint or discrimination and in one painful bite, I learn that when it comes to this yeasty, salty spread, less is more.

Then there’s the wildlife! Redfern, to me, is an untamed jungle. The raven’s cry is like a baby gurgling in pain and for those first weeks, I shudder at its morning song. The cockroaches that inhabit the dark corners of my house are about as large as the great Canadian beaver, but nowhere near as adorable. I now sleep clutching a can of cockroach poison instead of bear mace. I am also stunned to find that the largest, hairiest, most menacing-looking spiders I’ve ever seen up close in my life are as friendly as soft little kittens, but that I must ALWAYS shake out my shoes for fear that their tiny cousins are waiting in there to inflict excruciating pain, paralysis, and ultimately, death. The lizards and possums that slither and saunter around my yard fascinate me.

Kangaroos, though, perplex me greatly. It’s a strange love-hate relationship you have with the animal that graces your coat of arms... all at once, this great marsupial is the proud emblem of your country, an annoying and hunted pest, a common victim of roadkill AND a delicious meal consumed by most. You love them, you hate them, you eat them, you run them over. I regret that I’ve never had the honour to see a live ‘roo, only post-mortem, mangled and disfigured on the road, grilled and drizzled in gravy on my plate. Not the same one though, that would be a cruel fate for such a beloved national treasure.

Alas, as I’ve mentioned, after being on the lookout for that mythical drop bear named Permanent Residency, I’ve given up my quest. The cold winds of the Arctic have summoned me home and as I prepare to slip out of my thongs and into a pair of insulated wool socks and clumsily large snow shoes, I reflect on my time here. This country has a streak of badassness that I completely identified with - your heros are violent bushrangers, enigmatic homicidal maniacs and award-winning beer drinkers (a former prime minister, for one). But that being said, there’s a generosity of spirit here that I’ve rarely experienced before. The warmth of your people is the warmth that I truly was seeking out, unbeknownst to me, and I will hold it close to my heart on the voyage back home. (It’ll help me melt open the door to my abandoned igloo.)

Australia’s striking sights and sounds awoke my senses, your sunshine browned my skin, your booze spiked my blood and your kindness broke my heart. Good on ya, mates. Good on ya.

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the photography of Jade Cantwell

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the photography of Jade Cantwell

The infamous cuban curtain wall

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Mex

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Looking outward not inward

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Tree markings

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Brothers Klaus Chapel

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Colour Coordinated ConundrumThis year I made my not-so-eagerly-anticipated return to the world of sport. Being a rather injurable person, I strayed from the green grasses of the soccer pitch at 20, also realizing that no one found the goal keeper choreographing dance routines on the goal line or singing Pocahontas songs endearing past age 12. 2010 provided a new spin on the game that coerced me back after what was supposed to be a permanent hiatus – boys. Yes, my soccer team was a mixed one, and although my predilections for fat boys with beards and glasses and the wider hipster population would most likely not be served, I was sure to see at least one boy without his shirt on. And so I joined a team, made new friends, and was injured constantly. One girl Canon Drilled me (see: Street Fighter), giving me a concussion, I stressed both my left and right ankle ligaments, heard my hip flexer strain, I have some pretty awesome scars, but by far the icing on the season’s cake came on grand final day. Only 35 minutes into the game, a small man on the opposing team by the name of Johnny shot the ball at such close range,

that upon [magnificently] saving it, my wrist broke. I stayed on the pitch, trying to hide my injury until half time, at which I thought I should ask some advice about my swollen ham of a hand. I was sat on the sideline to watch the second half, one painkiller down with a beer in one hand and a bag of ice on the other. And then it happened – we won, and so instead of going to hospital to confirm my break, I thought the pub, skulling cider from a trophy and one too many jager bombs might just do the trick. It didn’t, and my friend dropped me at RPA emergency at midnight, which also happened to be my birthday. Now I shall reference the pictures accompanying this little tale, as the two don’t really have anything to do with each other except for the cast on my left arm. Upon receiving my fire engine red cast, which I was told was the only colour left so I had to deal with it, I made a promise to myself to colour coordinate with this new accessory for the length of time that I had it on. And so begun my 28 days of pleasure and pain, after which I wore pastels for a week, and have still not completely recovered from (in mind and body).

by Lyssa Trompf

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“Read loudly Danma, we want to hear your Chinese.” said Ade Deijie. I stopped my reading and switched my attention from the newspaper to her. Her cheeks were rosy from long periods sitting in front of the metal stove. The light made her large bright eyes look more attractive and a silver necklace decorated her neck with coral and green turquoise, framing her pretty triangular face. Her black hair rolled up onto her head was covered by a pink headband, her black silk Tibetan robe covered with yellow spots and tied with a red sash. She was only wearing her arm through her left sleeve and her right sleeve was hanging down her back as she had house chores to do. Her faded blue blouse has lost one upper fastener and I could see a yellow string amulet hanging in the place where the missing fastener should have been. The two narrow brass bracelets on her right arm were touching each other making sounds as she added fuel to the stove.

She had a charming smile when I put my eyes on her. I smiled back, nodded and began reading the Chinese characters. Usually, I’m quite shy when reading Chinese in front of other people. I spoke only Tibetan until I was 9 and I’m afraid they will laugh at my bad pronunciation. But Deijie is different from other people. She is one of my best friends and she was my desk mate when we were in primary school. She dropped out of school when she was in grade three.

Deijie has natural talent for dancing and singing folk songs which she learned from her mother. Her mother was also known as a good singer in the village.

She would bring Deijie to every wedding party to perform, if someone had invited them. Her mother was so proud that her daughter had such a good voice. During Children’s Day, Deijie had to sing folk songs otherwise her mother would beat her with a willow branch until Dejie promised that she would sing songs next time. Deijie was also doing well with her studies and her school teachers all liked her very much. I was always quite jealous when she got presents from teachers and classmates, however she was my best friend. We were like sisters in our childhood. We played together, shared food together and exchanged clothes when we liked. She often helped me to review my lessons and encouraged me to participate in school performances. Her outgoing personality influenced me greatly to the point that I also imagined I could be a singer in the future. Our vivid childhood together did not last long; we had to separate because life played tricks on us. Thinking back now, it was our fate.

On a chilly winter morning, all the students were wrapped in thick Tibetan robes and having morning study hall. Everyone’s face became red and we constantly rubbed our little hands together in order to make them warm. Our breath froze against the classroom windows.

I shared Dejie’s Tibetan book and we read the text in a loud voice. My problem was that I found it difficult to concentrate on my reading when the teacher was not keeping a close eye on me. I was quite naughty in class. I also became Deijie’s body guard after she had fought with

several of the boys. Boys in our class liked to tease weaker students and Dejie fell victim to their taunts. When the boys would knock against Dejie or hide her books, I would fight back for her. I pretended to be reading with Deijie during class. My eyes already strayed in different directions. I saw Chejia using all his strength to concentrate on his reading. He closed his eyes and his shaved head swayed from left to right. His small mouth opened widely as he pronounced the words clearly.

I quickly tore a piece of paper, rolled it into ball and threw it at Chejia. The paper ball hit him square in the face and he opened his eyes to check who had hit him.

“Who threw that?” said Chejia getting more and more furious.

I turned my head as soon as possible. I grabbed a book on my desk and pretended to read the text in a loud voice. My heart was beating so fast, I was afraid he would figure out that it was me who hit him. I didn’t stand a chance of beating him as he was much older than me. Through my squinted eyes I saw he had already returned to reading again. I giggled as he didn’t know who played this trick on him.

Suddenly, we heard the door open and all students stopped their reading. We raised our heads and saw our Tibetan teacher arrive with a woman who was wearing a thick yellow jacket. Her blue headband covered half her face. In Tibetan culture, a woman’s headband colour indicates

DESKMATEA MEDIUM-SIZED METAL TEAPOT BUBBLING WITH BLACK TEA WAS CONSTANTLY MAKING NOISE ON THE STOVE. THE WHITE TEAPOT BECAME BLACKER FROM THE SMOKE. A WOMAN WHO LOOKED TO BE IN HER THIRTIES APPEARED WITH A FULL ARM OF YAK DUNG AND SQUATTED IN FRONT OF THE STOVE TO ADD MORE FUEL TO THE FIRE. SEVERAL CIRCLES OF SMOKE AROSE FROM THE STOVE AND CLIMBED TOWARDS THE PAPER CEILING. THE ADOBE WALLS AND WOODEN CEILING WERE PASTED WITH WHITE PAPER AND CHINESE NEWSPAPERS. I USED MY RIGHT FOREFINGER TO POINT TO SEVERAL CHINESE CHARACTERS AND READ THEM IN A LOW VOICE.

by Danmajyid

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her age. From teenagers until into their forties, women will cover their heads with a pink, white and red head scarf. Older than fifty, women will cover their heads with blue, green and brown color head scarf. Her gray pants were wet from dew on the grass and willows. One hand was in her left side jacket pocket; the other was clutching her jacket nervously. She was quite anxious standing in front of the class. To my surprise Deijie stood up and made eye contact with the woman.

“A ma, what’s wrong?” said Deijie.

“Deijie, I came here to ask you to stop your schooling and come back home. You know your father is much sicker than before. He suffers greatly from his tuberculosis and can’t leave his bed. He coughs day and night, I saw him bring up blood. Because he can’t work, we don’t have enough money to pay your school fees. You know my arthritis is bad and I can’t walk properly to herd livestock. You need to come home to take care of your father and help me to herd livestock” she said in a low voice, her eyes filling with shiny tears.

Deijie lowered her head and sat on her chair heavily. I noticed her sobbing. She didn’t cry loudly in front of the class. She controlled her emotion and showed her willingness to her mother but I knew she was dying to study at school. I also knew she wanted to be a doctor in the future. She said she wanted to be able to cure people who are not able to afford medicine. Unfortunately her father is a good example. Her family has no money to take her father to see even a local

doctor. Their only option is to use home remedies to reduce her father’s suffering. Unfortunately she had no chance to achieve her big dreams. Her dream changed into a butterfly and flew away from her. She can’t chase it, because she has no wings. I also noticed my eyes got wet too. I felt as if a big mattress was covering my head and it was hard to breathe.

I was frozen beside her and didn’t know how to comfort her. She slowly put her books in her schoolbag and prepared to go. She took my hand in hers and put a pink plastic pen in my palm. It was so familiar to me. I liked that pen a lot, especially the cap as it was the shape of a crane’s head. She got this pen from the county town where she travelled when she got good scores in singing competitions. She was the first student who ever went to the nearest county town in our class. She went there with our music teacher. She told me about the county town after she came back. She said the food is totally different from ours. She tasted the best Chinese noodles and had a cold drink. She was so embarrassed the first time she ate Chinese food. She used her two hands to take fried noodles from the dish to her mouth. She didn’t know how to use chopsticks. At home, people use their hands to eat tsamba, mutton and beef so she didn’t hesitate to grab the noodles with her hands. Servers and other customers in the restaurant looked at her strangely. She felt uncomfortable, but she didn’t know why they stared. Her teacher taught her how to use chopsticks that day. She also told me there are so

many shops on the street, standing side-by-side. You can buy anything you want, if you have the money. She was curious about every little item and wanted to touch them.

“We are friends forever no matter where we are. I believe you can make a difference in your life. I hope my pen can be your companion when I’m not beside you. Good luck with your study and keep in touch with me.” She patted me on my shoulder several times and said good bye to the other classmates.

I was like a wooden pole stuck in one place and stared at the pen. It was impossible to grasp it, I think I was dreaming. I pinched my face hard and realized this was not a dream. When I snapped to, I tried to rush to Deijie, but the door had closed behind her. She was gone. I hated myself for being so greedy. I cared for this pen more than our friendship. I regretted that I didn’t prevent my friend dropping out of school. If I did, I know she would grow to become an important person in our community. I am sure that with her talent and abilities she would make positive changes in our society.

After Deijie left school, I felt lonely and didn’t want to go to school either. I began to cut classes and didn’t do homework on time. My teachers were all annoyed by my bad habits. At the beginning, teachers scolded me in front of class. At the end, they ignored me even if I came to school. Finally, I totally lost my way and I couldn’t catch up my classes. With no friends and indifference from teachers, I decided to

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give up my study. I was afraid to go home for the winter because my parents would beat me if they discovered I was not going to school. My grandmother would protect me when my parents beat me but my grandparents were in the summer pasture. In a messy situation, I really had a subhuman life at that time. I was not brave enough to express my thoughts to my parents. It’s better to share my thoughts to my grandparents. I decided to go to the summer pasture.

“Grandmother, I’ve come back!” I rushed to her and threw my arms around her neck.

“Why don’t go to your parents? It’s quite far from here to your school. You need to walk back to school by yourself. Your grandfather and I have no time to send you, go to school.” She said and kissed on my check.

“Grandmother, don’t worry. I already quit my school. I will be with you from today.” I said and tried to show my smile. Unexpectedly, my grandmother looked at me, surprised.

“What did you say? I can’t believe what you just said.” She said angrily and her face changed colour.

It was the first time I saw my grandmother really angry. She was almost never angry with anyone in her whole life, but she had a strong temper. I was choking on the rest of my sentences. I just paused on the way, waiting for her permission to speak. She fondled my tiny short pigtails and wiped her tears. This also my first time to

see my grandmother was crying. She is an iron woman in my heart and mind. She is very tough and strong with her work. She never complained how hard her life has been. She has overcome all difficulties which arose after her first husband passed away. She brought up her children by herself. But this time she cried. She spoke to me in a heavy tone.

“Danma, you are so young and you don’t know how hard our life it is. You are my hope to be an educated woman. I can’t support your tuition before I die. I don’t want you to repeat our old traditional life. I never had a chance to walk out of these snow mountains to see a new place. My youth was buried under these giant mountains.” She said and she hugged me tightly.

I just nodded and sucked my head into her Tibetan robe to cry as long as I want. I felt safe and warm in her robe.

“Hey Danma, can’t you read one single sentence from the newspaper? Didn’t you study Chinese in school? Deijie said and laughed in a sweet way. Her words broke up my memories. She caught my attention back to the room. I read Chinese sentences but it sounded like crying. I tried to control my emotions.

“How wonderful you are Danma! Look at my poor life.” She sighed and started on me.

“This is Karma. Danma, you should try to reach your dreams. I have confidence

in you.” She said and showed her smile again.

I want to smile back, but my mouth lost control. My eyes filled with those shiny tears and I felt something block in my throat. She lowered her head and she was crying to. She was crying inaudibly. She blew her nose on piece of tissue and covered her face with her rough hands.

Deijie’s life was much more difficult after she married a man who was from neighbouring village.

Deijie is 26 years old and she has one son and one daughter. She married Li Chenggui when she was 19 years old. Mr. Li migrated to my village in the seventies, after the Cultural Revolution. He became a part of the villagers’ community in Daiqian Village. After he came here, he converted to Buddhism. He has a Tibetan name and is called Caidan. His family members participate in all religious activities. But Mr Li’s parents still keep Chinese customs and were not very pleased with their son’s changing after he became the family patriarch. His parents forced him to marry Deijie even though he did not like her. She gave birth to a daughter when she was 20 years old. As she lay, giving birth to her first child, the room temperature was below zero. No one made a fire in the room when she gave birth. Seven days later, she began to work again. The family treated her badly and no one took care of the baby or the mother. Family members were not happy that she gave birth to a daughter. Family elders didn’t give one glance to the child. Deijie’s mother-in-law found an excuse and left house. Father-in-law was also herding in the summer pasture. Mr. Li always got drunk and spent his time with another woman in the neighbouring village. She cried every day and felt sad; she thought there was no more hope to live in this miserable world. Around that that time she thought about suicide, but she did not want her parents to feel even sadder at losing her. She gazed upon her child and repeatedly said “You’ve been given a poor life. Why did you choose this family? Why did you become this family’s child?”

Diejie needed to recover her strength and take care of the baby and herself. She collected yak dung for fuel and boiled a little rice porridge. There was no more

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food at home. One time she craved for food so badly she asked a neighbour for some. Her husband discovered that she did this and beat her until she couldn’t breathe. She had no strength to fight back. There is no way for a woman to fight back against a man when she is getting beaten. His leather boots trampled her body when she fell to the ground. He also used a metal stick to beat her on the back several times before leaving. His said as his excuse, “You destroyed my family’s reputation asking for food from our neighbours. We should never ask a neighbour for food.”

Deijie said, “I didn’t argue with him; I was just lying there, waiting for his scolding and beating to end. I shed my tears silently and I could not share my sorrows with anybody. I ceaselessly asked myself what kind of bad things I must have done in my previous life. Why should I suffer under this monster’s hands? I bore my pains and lived for my child. I did not want my child to grow up without a mother and continue to suffer. I was like his livestock and worked hard for him just like he was my owner. He beat me when he was not pleased or in a bad mood. He didn’t need any excuses; he beat me when he wanted to. My daughter died after thirteen days. I discovered my child had died when I came back from collecting yak dung. I didn’t know what

happened to her. I was afraid that the families would chase me away because my child died. It is so shameful when a husband chases his wife from his home and she must go back to her family. No one wants to marry you and people will make many rumours about you for the rest of your life. I asked for one of the villagers help and asked him to tell my husband that my child died. My husband didn’t come home after he found out. I wrapped my child into one of my tattered cotton garments and buried her in a marmot’s hole. My heart was aching like a knife was twisting in my heart.”

Deijie used a shaking voice and said, “This is how I suffered when I gave birth to my first child.”

She blew her nose again. Her tears dropped down on her face one by one. I guess her tears moistened my heart too. I felt pity for my friend’s miserable life. I didn’t dare to look at her and also don’t know how to console her. We sat silently for few seconds. I didn’t know how to break this silence. Finally she said her husband is the sky. His face is just like unpredictable weather.

She said, “Having a good husband who does not beat you means you will lead a better life in the future. So I always tell my daughter to study hard and find a

good husband in the future. I don’t want my daughter to repeat my life. My second birth was also to a daughter. My mother-in-law and my husband’s attitude were the same as before. But grandfather was pleased to have a granddaughter. He raised this child by himself. The third time I gave birth to a son. My husband and mother-in-law smiled ear to ear. Also my husband stayed at home for three days before he left. My mother-in-law takes care of the baby. This is the difference between girls and sons. I am still living for the sake of my son and daughter, otherwise there is no reason I can remain in this family. My husband sometimes beats me and scolds me, but less than before. My heart is already cold. Even if he changed his attitude towards me, I didn’t want to stop him when he stayed with that woman. My life goal is for my children to get educated and lead a better life. I don’t want my children to repeat my life again in this rural village. I hope he can continue to support my children so they can go to school.”

“Of course your children will get good education.” I said to her in a loud tone.

I felt happy that our relationship didn’t change at all even after being separate for long time. She treats me as a good friend. I promise her that I will stand on her side forever.

Danmajyid is a young Tibetan nomad woman from the Amdo region of Tibet. She will commence studying a B.A. in Communication (Social Inquiry) at UTS in January 2011, with a scholarship of her first year’s fees from UTS:INSEARCH. Her passion is to achieve an international standard tertiary education so she can return to develop her own community and start her own non-government organisation.

We are currently looking for donations from both individuals and organisations to cover Danma’s living costs and tuition fees. Please visit www.facebook.com/TeamDanma for more writing by Danma and information on donating to help Danma achieve her dreams - teamdanma@gmail.com

30

31by Gem Louise

32

Generally speaking, I don’t like exercise. I can’t ride a bike; I can’t swim any kind of stroke. I caught pneumonia playing team sports as a child and I have broken an ankle walking down a staircase. I like wine, I like lengthy lunches and I like cigarettes.

There are a lot of words, phrases, images and slogans out there that demand you to be fitter, a ‘better’ version of yourself. We all know that, it’s media critique 101. From a health perspective it’s not actually all a bad idea, but for the most part someone is trying to get you to buy something, not live longer.

While you might not take direct heed of these ‘reimaginations’ of yourself, they can seep into your subconscious, guilting you into considering pilates classes and early morning jogs. Each time you wake up and your head is heavy from the night before, you promise yourself to quit drinking (at least for a few days) and start doing some exercise. You are repulsed at the thought of your body as an anatomical cross-section – grape-stained guts, charcoal lungs, parched throat – and so you envisage that working up a sweat will wash away your corporeal sins. Of course, if you are anything like me, these thoughts die away quickly as something else flits into frame and diverts your attention. Like, say, someone offering to buy you a drink.

I have friends that go to the gym, they even have memberships. They have paid hundreds of dollars in

advance for the privilege. They go in the direction of their house of pain and I go home, via the bottleshop. As I hear the satisfying crack of a screw cap, I settle in and take a sip. I am content.

Thinking too long, however, I started to wonder. I realised that underneath, I was envious of their motivation. I wanted to know what its like. Do you feel different afterwards? Does exercise snowball an entire life change, whereby you drink less, sleep more and think clearer? And so, I decided to conduct an experiment. I decided to go to the gym.

I chose a swanky one close by. The plaque outside the door read: ‘Our members feel comfortable to come and start their new purpose in life to change their health and fitness and our team offer the necessary support and encouragement for people from all walks of life and age groups to achieve this’. Hmmm.

“Uh, um, hi. I was just wondering if I could come and use the gym. I mean, just once. Just to, you know, try it out? I’ve never been to a gym before, so I don’t really know anything about it”. I fumbled to a sharply dressed lady behind the counter wearing a blazer and a head set.

“So what kind of membership would you be looking for? How often would you be aiming to come to the gym?”

Did she not hear me? “Uh, I just kind of want to come here and see what it’s about. I’ve never been inside a gym, so is

The Virgin

Gymicidean awkward recount by Alyce Bennett

33

an awkward recount by Alyce Bennett

there someone who can show me how the machines work?”.

“Fill this out please”. She handed me a form that reiterated similar questions to the ones she had just asked. I sighed and scribbled in answers to get the show on the road. My ‘old self’ had given ‘new self’ an ultimatum by which we as one entity would be spending one hour only inside this place. Three minutes in, my actual exercise time was ticking away.

I reluctantly handed over the non-member fee of twenty dollars and then an over-lively man came out of nowhere with a clipboard, asking me what I would like to work on, what classes I would perhaps attend, my ultimate body goal. I told him I just wanted to use the machines for one hour and asked if he could please show me how to use them.

“Ohhh, no, no, no. Only personal trainers can give you advice about which machines are right for you and you only get to spend time with the trainers if you sign up to a membership”.

I was losing patience. ‘Necessary support and encouragement’, my arse. “I’ve paid twenty bucks already. Just tell me how to turn on the treadmill”.

Though the place was practically empty, it was claustrophobic. I felt like everyone else knew I was an imposter.

There was a lady to the left, puffing away on the treadmill and a girl with purple hair riding away on the bikes in front. ‘Maybe this is not so bad’, I thought and regained some confidence. I began a walk at normal pace and continued to soak everything in. On the level below there was a man using a machine which required him to bend over as if receiving a prostate examination.

I increased my pace slowly and was surprised that I wasn’t already hyperventilating on the floor. I looked around casually and even faked an itch on my lower back, so that I could remove one hand from the rail to scratch it, making it seem that I was very much at ease with the entire process.

I smiled to myself realizing the strangeness of static walking. Travelling perpetually and getting nowhere.

Aiming for half an hour on the treadmill, I made a decision to devote the middle ten minutes to high-density walking. As it clicked over, I looked forward to pumping up the pace. Up, up, up, I pressed the speed button. Music thumping in my ears, my walk turned into a fast strut.

It felt like my breath was travelling all the way through me, down into my feet; and my heart seemed to be excited about waking up after a long sleep. I could feel my face heating up and sweat beginning to bead on my forehead. I imagined how my lungs were taking it, and I pictured them as having mustaches, and wheezing.

Seven was my speed and my heart rate was up to 150

beats per minute. I felt so good that I thought I should attempt to pull of a jog. Cranking the level up to eight, I managed four frantic steps before I almost lost my footing. All that constructed confidence deserted me very quickly.

I stuck out the rest of the thirty minutes, gradually decreasing the pace like I had seen people do in films. Also having noticed that the other exercisers had stretched afterwards, I tried that while patting my face with a towel and drinking some water. I felt that this helped me regain a little bit of the gym-legitimacy I had lost.

I moved onto the bike and the irony was almost too much. I started pedaling, clumsily. Not sure if this was how one would pedal if one could operate a real bike, I was anxious about whether the people around me were quietly sniggering at me. The pedal straps were painfully digging into my ankle, but I didn’t stop for fear of being more noticeable. I just had to get through twenty minutes.

Day dreams again took me away to a world where I could ride the streets freely, wind in my hair, a little basket on the front, a little bell too. Oh, what rhapsody I could live out the summer afternoons in!

It was around minute sixteen when a sharp pain appeared in my right thigh. It felt like someone had grabbed a tendon, threaded it onto a fiddle and began to play. I kept up the pace, slowed the pace, stopped entirely.

So I was three minutes short of the goal, big deal.

Relieved that it was time to leave, I pried myself from the bike, didn’t bother with the fake stretches and headed straight to the change room. I was dizzy and my leg muscles were a bit numb.

Eyeing the shower, I felt that it would be an apt way to end the experience as a whole. ‘I’m off to hit the shower’ as they say in movie gym-speak. Although not sure of the level of nudity appropriate I stripped off entirely. The shower was cold and disappointing, which nicely epitomised my experience at the gym.

I’m not implying that exercise is a bad thing, because there is certainly a mountain of scientific proof to suggest otherwise. In fact, I definitely enjoyed that small window of adrenaline I experienced on the treadmill. I simply don’t understand the attraction to the ego-soaked, over-priced and hyper-hyped environment of a state of the art gym.

I bundled my things and with my head down, I scurried out the door relieved at the retreat from such awful alien territory. Outside, I was actually momentarily caught off guard by the normalcy of my neighbourhood.

I recovered and crossed the road to the bus stop, fully aware that home was but a twenty minute walk from where I was. I waited a good fifteen minutes for that bus but I didn’t care. I sat there, soaked up the afternoon sun and smoked a well-deserved cigarette.

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Recipe for disaster

In the true spirit of reality cooking shows such as Masterchef, this segment is dedicated to a classic recipe. Easy to make and undoubtedly attempted by 90% of Sydney siders. Today we present

You will need the following ingredients:

Disaster Mix1 long sleeve shirt1 pair of Ksubi jeans1 bunch of friends2 btls of red wine1 stick of eyeliner1 mobile phone 3 notes of $506-8 hours of mixed tunes

Icing1 Berocca tablet

How To...Disaster Mix

1. Pre-order a taxi for 120 minutes.2. Prepare the Disaster by using a mobile phone to gather the bunch of friends at a central location. This process will take approximately 1-2 hours. As this process begins, start adding the bottles of wine. These should be added intermittently in 285ml increments. Keep an eye on the glass levels, and once the wine drops below 5ml, refill and repeat.3. Now take the Ksubi jeans and slide them on until the jeans completely cover the legs. Ksubi is recommended but Just Jeans or Jeans West will suffice if Ksubi is not at hand.Add the long sleeve shirt to the top layer making sure each

button is paired with and inserted into the corresponding hole. Failure to do this will result in a lopsided layer. Zhuzh the sleeves of the shirt by rolling them up past the elbows. This will give a broader appearance to the frame and present well.4. At this point apply a very light layer of eyeliner to the eyes. Not Adam Lambert style, but enough to accentuate the eyes.5. By now the bunch of friends should be set and ready as well. Continue to add wine until completely absorbed.6. Finally, line the jean pockets with the notes.7. Now it is time to add the 6-8 hours of mixed tunes and the Disaster will be done.

Icing

Take the Berocca tablet and add to water, allow for infusion. Once carbonated and settled, absorb into the Disaster.

This icing is especially good as it will take the edge off the Disaster as you remember periodically people you met, things you said, places you went, friends you made, numbers you took, bitches you dissed, drinks you spilt, drugs you ate, seals you broke, glasses you lost, clubs you danced, pashes you dashed, shots you shot, and texts you sent.

Serves: 1

For a variation on this recipe, wine can be substituted with a spirit such as vodka, whiskey, or bourbon.Berocca can also be replaced with a greasy hamburger and chips.

by Ray Chong Nee

35

Recipe for disaster

Brownies v biscuits from the kitchen of Miss Molly

If you have ever found yourself on a cool and cloudy Sunday afternoon in the midst of a great baking quandry (brownies, or biscuits? Or brownies? Biscuits! No, brownies...), then this recipe is for you. The answer is not brownies or biscuits, it is brownies and biscuits. If you’re super-keen you could use homemade biscuits, however if you’re super-keen to tuck into chocolate-y goodness quickly, then store-bought biscuits will be just as good.

You will need...• 150g butter• 200g dark chocolate*• 3 eggs, at room temperature• 3/4 cup plain flour• 1/2 cup cocoa powder• 1/2 cup brown sugar• 1 packet of Caramel Crowns (chop 10 roughly, eat the other 2 as soon as you open the packet...)*real chocolate, not the cooking substitute. The ‘You’ll love Coles’ brand is surprisingly tasty and good value.

The how-to...1. Preheat your oven to 180 degrees, and line a square tin

with baking paper (this way, you can just lift the entire slab of brownie out once it is cooked).2. Melt the butter and dark chocolate in a saucepan over low heat, stirring constantly. Set the mixture aside to cool a little.3. Sift the flour and cocoa into a mixing bowl. Tip in the sugar. Beat the eggs, one at a time, in a separate bowl (in case any of the eggs are bad - this way you won’t contaminate all of your other ingredients) and add them to the flour mixture. Pour in the cooled chocolate mixture and mix everything until combined. Add the chopped Caramel Crowns and stir through.4. Scrape the mixture into the baking paper lined tin and smooth the surface with the back of a spoon. Pop it into the oven for about 30 - 35 minutes, or until set. Let it cool in the tin for about 10 minutes - this will give it time to firm up.5. Cut it up - this recipe makes 16 neat squares - and put it onto a pretty plate. If your feeling friendly, leave it out someplace where your flatmates can find it.

You could make this with any other kind of biscuit. If you’re not into biscuits, nuts are a good substitute - macadamias and hazelnuts go quite nicely with chocolate.

With thanks to Elaine for her super camera and photography skills

by Kayla Brock