Of those I have loved...

Kenny - He was divine; a smooth, creamy caramel colour from nape to toes with perpetually perfect hair and brilliant blue eyes. My girlfriend JB kissed his friend at a beach party and when he discovered we were friends, Kenny asked her to give me his number. I didn't know who he was, but when horny teenage boys are left to their own devices in a small, regional town, they are awe-inspiringly organised when it comes to scoping out chicks. Kenny drove a little, white four wheel drive and was terrified of blood. We were together for six months. In the end he cheated on me with a girl who came to be known as the girl with which all our high school loves cheated. Her name was Karolien. He has a really cute girlfriend now called Kim. I don't know her but I bet she's lovely.

'Chard - My best friend's cousin. He was a handsome rouge with a golden heart. He was the good guy - reliable, and trustworthy. It was impossible not to like 'Chard, and he was the best friend I ever loved, although he had a violently jealous streak. We were inseparable for five months. He moved to Sydney to be with me. We broke up a few weeks later. It took me a long time to understand why I didn't want to be with him anymore. He's married to one of my high school girlfriends now, and every time I see them together it makes me smile.

DC - DC was the most breathtakingly beautiful man I had ever seen. I met him through a friend at The Palace in Coogee. We were 18. He told me I was pretty and called me "LL". He lived in Belmore in a boarding house presided over by an old matriarch called Mary. Mary didn't allow girls in the house. DC would unscrew the screen on his front room window to smuggle me in and he'd stroke my hair and whisper sweet things in my ear until I fell asleep. But he was troubled. Despite the unwavering smile and the irresistible charm, DC was desperately fighting something that I couldn't fully understand. DC had darkness inside him; a powerful, destructive energy that would suck him under for weeks at a time. I became obsessed with fixing him, like nursing a wounded animal.

Cam - Cam was the love of my life, once upon a time. We would have gone to the end of the earth for each other, striking down anyone who dare suggest perhaps we weren't right; that perhaps all the sadness and anger and frustration and fear and heartbreak bubbling beneath the surface was the Universe's way of telling us this was a bad idea. But fuck you, Universe, we weren't going to listen. We thought we could move mountains. We were mean and cruel to each other out of hurt and sadness and desperation and exhaustion. In the end, we were so entangled it took us two years to break free completely. I look back on our relationship as though it was a period of somebody else's life; there is such discord between who I am now and who I was then that I find it difficult to feel anything but empathy for that broken shadow of a girl, as though it wasn't actually my experience, but somebody else's story I once watched unfold. Cam changed the trajectory of my life. I used to resent him for that - now I'm in awe of it. If it weren't for Cam, I wouldn't be where I am or what I am. For that, I thank him.

Si - Light of my life, darling of my days, Si is the kindest man I know. A gentle giant with a brilliant smile and hypnotising, icy-pale blue eyes that belie his precious soul and shine with warmth and love and beauty despite his steely stare. Si is worldy and clever, with an open mind and a beautiful heart. He has a temper - a family curse. I think he'd like to believe he's stone cold, that nothing can hurt him, but I ain't buying it. I still don't know where or how I found him but I plan on keeping him. (Bigger than the world, bigger than the whole sky... xx)

Show us your tats!

A little Steinbeck magic to cherish for the rest of my days...

Psycho-babble

When it comes to slips, I like mine Freudian. Silk is good too, for want of repressed childhood trauma or bottled up rage.

T-shirt Wisdom

"The rich get ugly and the poor get ugly. The rest is history." - Reg Mombassa for Mambo.

Red and Black

I've been a little absorbed in social freedoms, libertarian V authoritarian political themed literature over the past few months, and it has got me thinking...

The problem with capitalism is that it best rewards the worst part of us: the ruthless, competitive, cunning, opportunistic, aquisitive drives, giving little reward and often much punishment - or at least much handicap - to honesty, compassion, fair play, many forms of hard work, love of justice, and a concern for those in need.

I'm not a Communist. I don't believe it works. I don't believe it works because I believe people like to own things, and as Hugo says, "equal partition abolishes emulation...and ultimately labour." Hugo sums sums up the fiscal and social dilemma of nations beautifully in Les Miserables - you can have a read here. (As an aside, people often ask me to recommend them a great book - Les Mis is the one tome I truly believe everyone should read at least once before they die - it will reshape the way you look at the world.)

So then, the question I pose is this: How do we get by; how do we prosper socially, responsibly, freely in this crazy old world?

The Cure

A broken heart is what makes life so wonderful five years later, when you see the guy in an elevator and he is fat and smoking a cigar and saying, "...long-time-no-see." - Phyllis Battelle, American Journalist

When the lights come on again.

We were bad for each other.

So in love it made us stupidly, irrationally, blindly insecure. We spent half the time screaming through walls and down phonelines, with wet eyes and shaking hands, consumed by the fear of loss, speaking unthinkable cruelties to mask the hurt or unable to find the words or the breath or the energy to make everything ok; or else swept up in a euphoric break from reality, lolling about all flaxen-haired and sunny-skinned, bare limbs twisted on white cotton, touching fingertips and drunk on the fantasy that one day we'd run away from the world and just be us, together and beautiful, basking in the devine and finally drifting off to eternity while we slept; old and wrinkled and gloriously happy, holding each other by the hand and the heart. At least we realised the overwhelming damage we were doing and got out before our mutual self-destruction; staring into the void of infinite nothingness, beside each other but all alone, a wasted pair of starry-eyed dreamers.

Metropolis Metamorphosis

If Australia were a family, Brisbane would be the proverbial middle child; the misunderstood, seemingly unsophisticated quiet achiever, underestimated and dismissed by her siblings Sydney and Melbourne and treated with little more than a sneering indifference.

Though we protest the sniping and snobbery of our southern sisters, there’s no denying Queenslanders have always relished their inherent underdog status. From Cape York to Coolangatta, maroon blood flow througheth our veins. Unsurprisingly, Queensland is better known for its cauliflower-eared State of Origin behemoths than its world leading creative industries princincts and unique emerging cultural scene.

Let’s be honest. Only here would an infamous, 18-year-old student protester charged with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest go on to become one of the state’s best loved and longest serving premiers. Even the genetic mastery demonstrated by our home-grown Miss Universe Rachel Finch wasn’t enough to distract Australia’s media from the beauty’s distinctly nasal northern twang - enough to make even the cheese-eating pageant circle cringe. Where else but Queensland, ay?

But undeterred by the stereotypes, Brisbane is finally coming of age, growing out of her blue-collar roots to become a confident cultural epicentre in her own right.

According to Dr Raymond Evans, author of A History of Queensland, any lingering cultural cringe is attributable as much to our colonial immigration policy as a predilection for bordies and thongs.

“When they were encouraging european immigration, Queensland’s 19th century colonialists didn’t want intellectual people, they didn’t want creative, cultural people. They wanted people who could work with their hands,” explains Dr Evans.

“That led to quite a physical society, but not a particularly cerebral or intellectual society.”

Prioritising brawn over brains continued well into the twentieth century. As late as the 1970’s - when controversial social conservative Joh Bjelke-Petersen reigned over ‘the Moonlight state’ - about 38 per cent of all Queenslanders had only completed five to six years of schooling.

Queensland’s women were also substantially outnumbered by men, though two Brisbane feminists defiantly chained themselves to Toowong's Regatta Hotel bar in 1965 to gain equal drinking rights.

“The disproportionate gender ratio meant you had this bachelor kind of culture that developed a strong sense of mateship and bonds, but also hard drinking, rough-and-tumble kinds of personalities, and an environment for women that was dominated by male values,” says Dr. Evans.

Today, Queensland’s somewhat culturally baron, blokeish history is of small significance to the hoards of well-heeled fashionistas who stomp Paddington’s quirky LaTrobe Terrace each weekend; the groovy, creative types who discuss Kubrickian cinema over lattes in West End cafes; or the local hipsters who flock to Fortitude Valley’s James Street to acquire high-end fashion and social collateral.

But the city’s coming of age has been gradual and subtle. The renaissance began in the former working class suburbs of the 70’s, when middle class professionals moved in to renovate run down workers’ cottages (now exorbitantly priced real estate in some of Brisbane’s trendiest inner-city suburbs), while the 1988 World Expo became a landmark prelude to significant cultural events.

The inner city transformation continued throughout the 90’s with an increased emphasis on urban renewal projects - now led by the Brisbane City Council’s Urban Renewal Task Force - including the conversion of some of the city’s most historically iconic but derelict blue-collar landmarks into bustling pink-collar public spaces. Take for example, the reincarnation of the New Farm Powerhouse as a hub for creative and offbeat theatre, music, comedy, film, visual arts, festivals and ideas.

The rippling cultural transformation came to a head in 1998 with the implementation of the Queensland Government’s Smart State Strategy. Illustrative of this change in the ‘Banana Bender” psyche, the State Government spent over $3.6 billion investing in people, ideas, research, partnerships and infrastructure to realise its vision of a state where knowledge, creativity and innovation drive economic growth.

This included a $60 million Creative Industries Precinct at the Queensland University of Technology - the first of its kind in Australia and now an international hub for cultural enterprise. Recent Queensland Government estimates suggest that the Queensland creative industries sector is worth $3.4 billion annually, generates about $1.1 billion in annual export sales and employs 74,000 people.

According to Lindsay Bennett, director of Lindsay Bennett Marketing and the man behind Mercedes-Benz Brisbane Fashion Festival (MBFF), the influx of people moving to Queensland’s capital from the southern states - ironically lured by the tropical climate once so destested by European settlers and described by Dr Evans as a key catalyst in the “leathery” Queensland disposition - has upped the ante.

“Brisbane’s consumers expect cultural events, shopping and infrastructure to be parallel with that of Sydney and Melbourne, and I’m confident we have the capacity to satisfy this growing demand,” Mr Bennett says.

The city is a hugely competitive market for spring/summer fashion, and Mr Bennett has been tirelessly crusading to promote Brisbane as the perfect location for launching collection during the warmer months.

Even influential Vogue Australia editor Kirstie Clements has commended Brisbane on its anti-parochial fashion platform and positive fashion festival vibe.

Having secured MBFF’s Southbank venue for the next three years, Mr Bennett couldn’t be more thrilled.

“Southbank is the perfect conduit between the arts, fashion, and tourism industries - all vital components in Brisbane’s cultural melting pot,” he says, adding that focused attention of local designers through MBFF means they don’t need to move south to be recognised on the national stage.

The timing of this year’s Festival was perfect, coinciding with the Valentino Retrospective: Past/Present/Future exhibition , shown exclusively at Brisbane’s Gallery of Modern Art (GoMA), the impressive example of architectural prowess situated next to the new State Library (opened in 2008) and a stone’s throw from the Queensland Performing Arts Centre (QPAC), the Brisbane Powerhouse and the thriving Southbank restaurant and market scene.

This year, nine of MBFF’s 23 events were completely sold out, and many more were close to hitting that mark. In August, participating designers’ retail sales were in excess of $4 million nationally, up by 50 per cent since 2009 - proof that the annual event is working.

Unique, edgy, and unapologetic, Brisbanites are busy forging a cultural and style identity all of their own, which keen observers describe as adventurous and loaded with colour, with a fresh, youthful aesthetic that compliments the Queensland lifestyle.

“Australian cities have a different way of life and a different style. While Sydney is more about the pop culture and the hype, Brisbane is quirkier, edgier, avant-garde,” says Brisbane-based fashion designer George Wu.

So what will push Queensland to realise her full cultural potential?

“Brisbane is a much more cosmopolitan city now than it ever was, and a more tolerant society is emerging,” says Dr Evans.

“More women are getting into responsible positions in society and public life now, and that’s turning the culture around.”

These women include current Premier Anna Bligh, also Minister for the Arts, who has committed a significant cash pool to her special interest area. This has included more than $30 million per annum in support for GoMA and the Queensland Art Gallery, which are attracting record numbers of local, interstate and international visitors.

We may never truly shake the stereotypes imposed on us by other so-called culturally fertile parts of Australia. But historically, this modicum of repression has acted as a creativity incubator, and Queenslanders have a habit of far outstripping their detractors’ expectations.

Our strength lies in our unwavering faith in our own potential. And while the southern states were busy congratulating their cultural superiority and viewing Queensland through tired eyes, we’ve created a unique, thriving identity and a style that cannot be imitated.

As for our cultural backwater status? No matter - after all, this is the Sunshine State. We'll just bask in the dreamy kiss of that old seductress in the sky until the rest of the country catches up.

Lara Lavers for FROCK PAPER SCISSORS

The Queensland Flood Appeal

"Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise." Hugo.

Queensland is currently facing its darkest hour; the worst flooding in the state's history. As of 4.30pm QLD time on January 12, 12 people have been confirmed dead and grave fears are held for over 50 who remain unaccounted for.

I have been one of the lucky ones - my apartment is at the top of one of Brisbane's highest hills. My sister hasn't been so lucky; this morning her and her partner were evacuated as the flood waters lapped at the base of the driveway, SES crews and police predicting that their entire building will be submerged come sundown. This was however, a slow inundation, giving residents plenty of time to do what they could to protect their homes and then get the hell out out of there. Brisbane, at least, has not been subjected to the cruel and unpredictable flash flooding that devastated Toowoomba, Grantham, Murrays Creek and other areas in the Lockyer Valley - incidents that are set to see the death toll rise as the waters receed and the recovery effort begins. A truly catastrophic event; the victims in the flood ravaged west didn't stand a chance. It breaks your heart.

Please donate what you can to the Premier's Disaster Relief Appeal; you'll be helping ease the pain for thousands of Queenslanders who have loss everything and witnessed horrors unspeakable. No one should have to go through this alone.

You can donate via Internet banking - here are the details:

Account Name: Premiers Disaster Relief Appeal
BSB: 064 013
Account Number: 10006800

SWIFT code for international donations: CTBAAU2S

Shoe projection

In shoes, as in love, you really only have one shot at the big time. The pair you found by chance, that went on to be the pair you could always rely on, fitting in with any sartorial combination and making your legs look fabulous in the process. Sure, you might find others that you lust after, even love. Ones that walk stoicly with you through life, with which you create beautiful memories or that captivate your imagination for a fleeting moment, taking your dreamy, Summer getaway in their stride. But as balmy days and sultry night give way to ochre landscapes and cruel Autumnal winds, our passionate infatuation fades. Finding appropriate trans-seasonal footwear is a tough task.

Mine were a pair of tan leather sandals with a five inch heel, a one inch platform and a buckled sling back. I found them at humble Sportsgirl, and they were only 120 dollars. Sure, there may have been more glamorous, more comfortable, or more sensible heels out there, but somehow when I put this pair on I felt the Earth shift; they rocked me to my very core. Three years of joy, challenges and remarkable adventures later, they broke. I was so sad and angry that I threw them in a council bin in the middle of Surfers Paradise and stormed back to my hotel barefoot. I didn't even pause to consider that they might have been repairable; that with a bit of skill and understanding, just maybe the strap could be reattached to the sole and we'd continue our trek through life together.

While time heals wounds, it also creates myths and casts a fog of doubt over our reality. Were my memories of our time together the reality, or was my reality being coloured by my broken heart? After all, this wasn't the first time these shoes had broken - the buckle snapped in the first year I had them. With youthful hope I'd repaired the buckle and we were given a second chance, but from then on every time I wore them they dully rubbed at my skin. Sometimes, if I wore them for long enough I'd have a tiny cut on my ankle that would take a week to heal. So, were they even worth repairing in the first place? Was I an idiot for thinking they wouldn't break again?

While I ask the questions, do the soul searching, get angry, reminisce happily or plunge into despair, I will never shake the basis feeling I have for those shoes. Just thinking about them makes my heart flutter, and on the odd occassion when I've seen the same style on someone else's feet I can't help but smile, remembering how much joy they brought to my life, while breathing through the vague twinge of sadness that sometimes rears it's head from the pit of my stomach.

I will never know whether those tan leather sandals from Sportsgirl were broken beyond the point of repairation, and that is a regret that will cut every time I get dressed. But I believe with my entire being that there's another pair of tan leather sandals out there for me. And if by chance we find each other, it will be beautiful.

In full bloom

Fresh blooms make me smile.  I picked up these darling, blood-red carnations at the markets this morning, and oh how they've brightened my day!

The girl's got style.

I love my niece's new do-it-yourself 'do (undercut, choppy spikes on top, asymetrical fringe, big chunk missing on the left side). "I think it looks funky," she says. She's four.

I love how she's standing by her decision and is refusing to be swayed by what anyone else thinks of her style. Beautiful little girl.  Secretly, I'm super proud of her. I wish I had her courage of conviction.

I think it looks funky too, Imp. Don't let the haters stop you from doing your thing.

Hey, Smart Girl!

A Q and A that turned into a D and M, for the beautiful men of STAB magazine. It had to be subbed by half so it fitted on the page (yeah, sorry guys!) but here is the transcript in its entirety. Enjoy! x


Derek Rielly V Lara Lavers for STAB, Issue 44.


Hey Smart Girl,


Tell me...


Who are you?
I’m a Brisbane-based journalist of 24. I was a dancer once, but then my body betrayed me. 20 years old and broken, can you imagine? Now I carry a card in my wallet – a license of sorts - in case the steel plates and screws holding my left knee and hip together set off a security checkpoint. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m holding out in hope that it will someday.

I’m a few months shy of a post-grad degree in Mass Communication. In the meantime, I freelance. Depending on the day, I could be writing a news feature on the Congolese humanitarian crisis, or a magazine fluff piece exploring society’s obsession with fame. Writing makes me happy. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t be a journo. Thinking about that makes me sad.

The closest thing I have to an office is the roof of my apartment building; a wide, open slab of concrete with a few air conditioning vents and a big old brick wall that soaks up the heat. I climb up there to write and think while the soft kiss of dreamy afternoon sunlight caresses my skin.

I live in a city-fringe suburb that’s only recently been gentrified. There’s graffiti on the sidewalk and a soup kitchen next door; the kind of place where groovy, creative types discuss Kubrickian cinema over lattes and self congratulatory cool kids from the hipster suburb a few blocks over flock to accumulate some social collateral. Everyone wears Brixton hats and smoke cigarettes. When I’m not writing, I’m filling my apartment with beautiful things and covering myself in tattoos.


Do smart girls have it tougher than beautiful girls?
Being intelligent is a wonderful thing. Navigating life is much easier when you can grasp concepts quickly, negotiate tricky situations democratically and begin to understand why people are the way they are. But intelligence is pretty useless outside a purely academic setting if you’re socially inept, or you’re not empathic, or likable, or savvy enough to make use of your smarts in this crazy world.

Beauty is inspiring and captures our attention. But what’s the point of having the whole world hanging if you’re just a beautiful idiot with nothing to say? Beauty and brains aren’t mutually exclusive; not exactly a new or profound concept, but I guess some people are happy not to make that mental leap. I’d rather be extraordinarily smart than extraordinarily beautiful. If you’re smart enough you can fake the rest; beauty, charm, whatever...


Have you ever been mystified by men's behaviour toward you?
When I was a teenager I was horrified by it. Physically, I grew up fast. I had the boobs and the body but lacked the sophistication to contend with the leering and the propositions. Many a Lolita reference was made. My older sisters took great pleasure in informing grown men that I was, in fact, a girl of 12. Oh how quickly the colour would drain from their faces! As an awkward and emotionally ill-equipped child, it was mortifying.

Every now and then I’ll come across a man who’ll make a value judgement based on what I look like, then not know how to respond when he finds I’m capable of stringing together a cohesive sentence. It used to bug me when I was younger and felt like I had something to prove, but now it’s just part of the hustle. Besides, mystery and beautiful contradiction are what make people interesting.


What is the most important book you've ever read?
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Kesey. It’s my favourite; I’ve read it more times than I can remember. I love the way Kesey questions the societal perception of “normal”, and the notion of the general consensus. It’s full of all kinds of great hippy ideology. And it sure is beautiful to read; consciousness rises from its pages.


What five books most shaped who you've become?
Apart from Cuckoo, probably On The Road by Kerouac, Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, Les Mis by Hugo, A Moveable Feast by Earnest Hemmingway, and, it’s not a book but I’m including it anyway, “Frank Sinatra Has A Cold”, written by Gay Talese for Esquire in ‘66. It’s an odd mix of classic, beat and hippy literature, and literary journalism. I love how Kerouac can make simple words say profound things; how Wilde uses the most beautifully illustrative language while alluding to something much more sexy and sinister; and oh, how I’ve fantasized about riding across America with the sun on my skin and flowers in my hair, getting high and experiencing collective consciousness with Kesey and the Merry Pranksters! What a dream! Nothing moves me more than a masterfully penned work of literary art. Probably why I wanted to become a writer.


Describe a scene in a movie that has moved you to tears or to action…
I can’t remember the last time I cried in real life, but movies turn me into a blubbering mess. After I saw Blood Diamond I started doing a bit of research into humanitarian issues faced by civilians in war zones, and that’s how I became involved with Women for Women International, an organisation that provides aid to women and children who have been brutalised, tortured, macheted, mutilated, raped or displaced during periods of armed conflict. Essentially, we provide immediate aid, then education services and financial support through a micro-loan system to give these women a means of supporting themselves. We work in areas that generally fly under the media radar because, for one reason or another, they’re not on the western world’s agenda. That’s pretty difficult to deal with.


Is overt female sexuality empowerment, exploitation or a pandering to our patriarchal society?
Empowerment is about being authentic. It’s subjective, so it manifests in different ways for different people. I think women are capable of making that distinction for themselves.

For me, the hyper-sexualisation of women is boring in its basis interpretation of sex appeal. How very pedestrian, being so one dimensional.

It’s sad to see pretty young things bleaching the life out of their hair and shoving bags of saline under their skin in an attempt to conform to some outdated, myopic beauty ideal. Poor little darlings! I feel sorry for them, teetering around, reeking of ammonia peroxide. How do they not become overcome by the fumes! That’s pandering, and it’s ugly in its desperation and obtuse in its misapprehension of feminine allure.

There’s something unequivocally sexy about a woman lounging around in just her boyfriend’s shirt with bed hair and a coquettish smirk on her lips. Women are magnificent creatures by their very nature; a knowing glance, the smooth curve of a woman’s waist, the sweet smell of moisturiser and perfume, the feel of soft hands on a man’s skin - way cuter than acrylic hair and plastic tits.


What obscure words do you use to flaunt your smarts?
Capricious! Machiavellian! Facetious! Altruistic! Not only brainy, but super-fun to say!


Have you ever felt compelled to hide your smarts?
I’ve never really been drawn to people who consider being intelligent a fault. My friends are all brainy, and at school flunking a test or not handing in an assignment didn’t score you any points socially. I have come across people who’ll try to belittle anyone for even the vaguest of nods to cerebral elegance, but to me, that’s more of a reflection of their own insecurities. There is a time and a place though; wanky academic regurge for the sake of one-upmanship is just obnoxious. Sometimes it pays to come across as a little less aware, less switched on, than you actually are, especially in my line of work. Key talent are often more inclined to talk to you about sensitive subjects if they think you’re harmless hack.


If you wrote a novel, what would it be about?
Life, love, adventures, pirates, heartbreak, cheap wine, philosophical musings, sex, coffee and tattoos.


Describe your most valuable experience.
Moving to Brisbane on a whim when I honestly thought I might die of a broken heart. There’s no sting quite like that of love gone wrong, but two years and much water under the bridge later it was the best thing that could have happened to me. Ah, the warm glow of hindsight, ain’t it grand!


Why do we start life with left-leaning politics but shift right with age, with experience?
Maybe we get a little jaded and intolerant as we grow older and forget what it’s like to be young. We work hard all our lives to put down roots, accumulate wealth and acquire assets, and it becomes all too easy to resent people who in our clouded judgement drift through life wanting something for nothing, when really they're probably just trying to get by the best they can in this too-big world.


If 10 decisions shape your life, what have been yours?
I’ve never really been one to agonise over the decisions I make. Mostly, I’ve just considered what will make me happiest and done the best I can with the resources I have at the time. I’m not nearly as impulsive as I was five years ago, but I am where I am today, not because of anything that could possibly be conceived as meticulous forward planning. I probably could have done things differently, but I’m a product of my experiences and looking back I’d have missed out on some wonderful opportunities and beautiful relationships if I’d been more considered and methodical when it came to making big decisions.


What are seven ways to get ahead?
Stay single, live passionately, grow your skin thick, act with integrity, listen and remember everything you’re ever told, surround yourself with people that inspire you and pay all your good fortune forward the moment you get the chance.


What are seven reasons to drop out?
You’ve lost your inspiration, the novelty’s worn off and the reality ain’t what you thought it’d be, you can’t remember why you started in the first place, your morally questionable activities are stopping you from sleeping at night, you have a spiritual epiphany, fall face-first into a life-changing love affair or decide to go back to school. No one’s ever been worse off for having loved, and it’s no crime to seek a little further education.


If Sofia Coppola made a movie about you, how would it be played out?
It would be a subtle and sexy adventure love story about a flaxen haired, dreamy-eyed country kid who set off at 17 to find her place in the world. It’d have a cool soundtrack and beautiful scenery – probably set in France, because everything sounds better in French.


Are men essentially slaves to their testosterone cocktails?
No! Men are perfectly capable of logical, considered behaviour. Then again, I’m not a man, neither real nor imagined, and that somewhat diminishes my credibility as a commentator.


What's your favourite virtue?
Eccentricity. Beautiful kooks are the best kinds of people. The ones who never stay angry, or yawn, or succumb to boredom but flit through life chasing their bliss; who smile when it’s raining, laugh loudly, plan grand adventures, wink at the stars and live in awe of all the breathtaking beauty in the world.


What are your favourite names?
Hunter, Flynn, and Harper for girls, and Emmett, Finn and Caius for guys. I’ve never really liked girly names, and the odd literary reference is unintentional. I’m just a massive nerd.


For what fault do you have most toleration?
Absent-mindedness is so sweet and endearing. I think behind those dreamy eyes are brains so full of profound thought there’s not enough room to consider such mundane things as wallets or phones.


What military event do you admire the most?
Anzac Day services always make me a little sad of eye. Regardless of your opinion about the justification and politics of war, diggers deserve our respect.

A voice for The Wretched Ones.

I've recently rekindled an old love affair that began when I was thirteen, the embers of which have been glowing inside my heart for a decade.  Victor Hugo, I love you.

A master of profound simplicity, here are some of my favourite passages from his book Les Miserables - a book so beautiful and so poignant it damn near breaks your heart.

‎"He pondered on the sublime conjunction of atoms that gives matter its substance; that reveals forces in discovering them, creates the separate within the whole, proportion within immensity, countless numbers within infinity; and through light gives birth to beauty. This conjunction, this ceaseless joining and disjoining, is life and death."

"A former turnkey at the prison, now aged nearly ninety, perfectly recalls the unhappy wretch who was chained at the end of the fourth row in the north corner of the prison yard.  He was seated with the rest on the ground and seemed to understand nothing about his situation except that it was hideous.  No doubt there was also a vague notion in his ignorant and untutored peasant mind that it was excessive.  While heavy hammer-blows riveted the iron collar round his neck, he wept so bitterly that he could not speak except to mumble from time to time, 'I was a tree-pruner in Faverolles.'  Still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it in stages as though he were laying it upon seven heads of unequal height, a gesture designed to indicate that what he had done had been for the sake of seven children...everything of his life was blotted out, even to his name.  He was no longer Jean Valjean, but No. 24601.  As to what became of his sister and children, who knew or cared? What becomes of the leaves of a tree, sawed down at the root."

"He had asked himself whether human society had the right to impose upon its members, on the one hand its mindless improvidence and, on the other hand, its merciless providence; to grind a poor man between the millstones of need and excess - need of work and excess of punishment.  Was it not monstrous that society should treat in this fashion precisely those least favoured in the distribution of wealth, which is a matter of chance, and therefore those most needing indulgence?"

"The question seems almost justified when one considers the shadows looming ahead, the sombre confrontation of egoists and outcasts.  On the side of the egoists, prejudice - that darkness of a rich education - appetite that grows with intoxication, the bemusement of prosperity which blunts the sense, the fear of suffering which in some cases goes so far as to hate all sufferers, and unshakeable complacency, the ego so inflated that it stifles the soul; and on the side of the outcasts, greed and envy, resentment at the happiness of others, the turmoil of the human animal in search of personal fulfilment, hearts filled with fog, misery, needs and fatalism, and simple, impure ignorance."

and finally...

"Should we continue to look upwards?  Is the light we can see in the sky one of those which will presently be extinguished?  The ideal is terrifying to behold, lost as it is in the depths, small, isolated, a pin-point, brilliant but threatened on all sides by the dark forces that surround it: nevertheless, no more in danger than a star in the jaws of the clouds."

The Punctuation Pedant

"Let's eat Grandma!", or "Let's eat, Grandma!". Don't kid yourself. Punctuation saves lives.

The Hidden War

In the village of Walungu, 24-year-old Lucienne M’Maroyhi was home with her two children and younger brother when six rebel soldiers broke in, bound her wrists and ankles and raped her. One after the other.

“When the first one finished, they washed me out with water so the next man could rape me,” she said.

Then they turned to her brother.

“They wanted him to rape me, but he refused.”

So the soldiers stabbed him to death in front of her and her children.

Ms M’Maroyhi was then dragged to a forest camp, where was held captive as the rebel groups’ sex slave.  She was raped repeatedly, every day, for eight months.

Make no mistake.  This was not an isolated attack committed at the hands of a few rogue soldiers.  It was just one part of a systematic campaign of sexual terrorism being waged in a country widely regarded as the worst place in the world to be a woman.

There is a hidden war being fought, and the most frequent targets of this war are women.  In the Democratic Republic of Congo, rape is used as a weapon of war.

Yet no humanitarian crisis generates so little attention per million bloody and battered victims, or such a pathetic international response.

Since the Hutu-Tutsi genocide that claimed nearly a million lives in neighbouring Rwanda spilled over into the Congo more than a decade ago, the Congolese army and local militia groups have been fighting over the land – home to some of the world’s richest mineral deposits.

And while the western world may not be directly financing this war, thanks to our obsession with sparkly jewels and technological gadgets we are inadvertently creating an environment where it pays to have it continue.  Senior Congo researcher for Human Rights Watch Annneka Van Woudenberg explains.

“The armed groups here fight over the natural resources,” Ms Woudenberg said.

“This is how you buy your guns; this is how you get power.  A lot of what goes on in Congo is about the fact it has just about every natural resource under the sun, and people want it.”

The Congo is situated in the west-central portion of sub-Saharan Africa, bounded by Angola, the Republic of Congo, the Central African Republic, the Sudan, Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, Tanzania, Zambia and the South Atlantic Ocean – a bigger area than Spain, France, Germany, Sweden and Norway combined.

The enormous amount of mineral wealth throughout the Congo makes it desirable land for mining. Cobalt, copper, cadmium, diamonds, gold, silver, zinc, manganese, tin, germanium, uranium, bauxite, iron ore, coal and coltan are found there in abundance.  However, despite having some of the richest mineral deposits in the world, people in the Congo are among the poorest, second only to the people of Zimbabwe.

“Whether you have a gold ring on your finger, or you’ve bought a diamond or you have a mobile phone that has coltan in it, or you have copper wiring in your house, chances are that somewhere in your life, you’ve got something that comes from Congo,” Ms Woudenberg said.

Congo is home to 80 per cent of the world’s coltan reserves, a mineral that has become a crucial part of this hidden war in recent years.  Used to manufacture pinpoint capacitors used in consumer electronics like mobile phones and computers, coltan is being exported from the Congo at an ever-increasing rate to satisfy the western world’s insatiable lust for the latest in technological gadgetry.

Helen Veperini of BBC News reported coltan exports from the Congo to western markets are directly fuelling the Congolese civil war which broke out in 1998, and continues to wage in the east, despite the signing of peace accords in 2003, and a UN led peace keeping operation that began in 2005.

An estimated 6.9 million people have died since 1998 in the Congo, making it the deadliest conflict since World War II.  In eastern Congo, the prevalence of rape and other sexual violence is described as the worst in the world. The United Nations estimates that more than 200,000 women and girls have been raped during the war, some as young as three years.

In brazen contravention of International Humanitarian Law, and in addition to the widespread sexual violence, there have been frequent reports of weapons bearers murdering civilians and destroying property.  It is estimated millions are now dead as a direct or indirect result of the fighting, and many hundreds of thousands more have been displaced.

The United Nations estimates Congolese civilians are now dying at a rate of about 45,000 per month due to widespread disease and famine.  The same reports indicate that almost half of those who have died are children under the age of 5.  This death rate has prevailed despite UN efforts to rebuild the nation.

Philip Alston, a senior United Nations investigator concluded that “from a human rights perspective, the operation has been catastrophic,” as reported by Nicholas Kristof for the New York Times.

According to Kristof, who spent time interviewing rape victims in the African nation earlier this year, the Congolese war is a conflict driven by warlords, greed, ethnic tensions and impunity and has spun out of control.

“While there is plenty of fault to go around, Rwanda has long played a particularly troubling role in many ways, including support for one of the militias,” he wrote in his January 30 column.

Human Rights Watch reports that for every Hutu rebel sent back to Rwanda in 2009, at least seven women were raped and 900 people forced to flee for their lives.

Last year, the United Nations Security Council took a huge step by voting unanimously for a resolution denouncing rape as a tactic of war and a threat to international security.

In the resolution, the Security Council noted that “women and girls are particularly targeted by the use of sexual violence, including as a tactic of war to humiliate, dominate, instil fear in, disperse and/or forcibly relocate civilian members of a community or ethnic group.”  The resolution demanded the “immediate and complete cessation by all parties to armed conflict of all acts of sexual violence against civilians.”

However the response of the international community has been described by Human Rights Watch as “incommensurate with the scale of the disaster”.

“Its support for political and diplomatic efforts to end the war has been relatively consistent, but it has taken no effective steps to abide by repeated pledges to demand accountability for the war crimes and crimes against humanity that were routinely committed in Congo,” the organisation claimed in a August 20 report.

According to Ms Woudenberg, the systematic nature in which these attacks on women are carried out makes the conflict situation in the Congo unique from other war zones.

“This is not rape because soldiers have got bored and have nothing to do.  It is a way to ensure that communities accept the power and authority of that particular armed group,” she said.

“This is about using it as a weapon of war.”

These rapes are often so brutal that women have died of internal injuries sustained during their attacks.  Those who survive are shunned out of fear they’ve contracted HIV or because their attacks were so violent they can no longer control their bodily functions.  Almost all are abandoned by their husbands and families who believe their attacks will bring shame to the community.

When asked in January whether he would still marry his girlfriend if she were raped, young Congolese man Saleh Bulondo replied “Never,” reported Nicholas Kristof for the New York Times. “I will abandon her.”

Judith Registre from Women for Women International explains.

“When they take a woman to rape her, they’ll line up the family and other members of the community to witness it,” she said.

“They make them watch.  What that means for that woman when it’s all over is total shame, to have been witnessed by so many people as she’s being violated.”

Owing to the difficulty of distinguishing legitimate from illegitimate mining operations, several electronics manufacturers have begun to take responsibility for the role they have played in this ongoing and brutal conflict by forgoing central African sourced coltan entirely.  These small steps will begin to draw public attention to the war, but experts stress the onus is still largely on consumers to ask the right questions.

“How many people go into a shop when they’re buying a gold ring and ask, “Where does this come from?  How do I know a woman hasn’t been raped in order to get this small grain of gold to a shop?,” said Ms Woudenberg.

“We don’t ask the questions, but we are a part of it.  We’re all a part of it.”

Right now, there’s no way of truly knowing whether your new mobile phone or diamond engagement ring is dripping in the blood of a Congolese woman or child, but experts agree consumer demand for legitimate gems and minerals will force industries to act, and then we can begin to work towards peace in the Congo – a task that has proven too difficult for the country to undertake alone.

As for Lucienne M’Mayorhi, she escaped her jungle captors and has taken on the brave task of spreading her story.   Let’s hope the fortitude of survivors like Lucienne can inspire world leaders to step up and intervene in this desperate and despicable tragedy against human kind.

- Lara Lavers for WFWI.

This week I...

...experienced first uncomfortable flight. Wiggled butt down Chapel Street. Fell in love with Melbourne...again. Planted long-time-coming kisses on girlfriends' faces. Drank Moscato. Drank champagne. Drank beer. Toasted love and the institution of marriage. Danced like a hoochy. Had my shoes stolen. Drank champagne again. Fell asleep in the middle of a party. Laughed with friends about it later. Regretted the champagne. Wallowed in self-inflicted pain. Jumped back on the wagon. Played tour guide. Bought retro alarm clock. Bought huge watch for $25. Realised two of the dials on said bargain watch painted on the face. Laughed about it. Wrote a column story about "faking it".  Was reminded about how beautiful my friends are. Felt sad when they jumped on a plane back to Cairns. Wrote feature about chick love. Sat in an airport for five hours. Hugged sister. Cried watching Les Mis 25th anniversay concert. Ranted to bestie about Joe Jonas casting. Went to sleep singing "Castle on a Cloud". Got a surprise call from ex. Secretly smiled about it. Wrote a column about my mean streak. Sang "Who am I?" in shower. Realised object of lust is married. Realised object of lust has kids. Laughed at myself. Wrote a column about it. Got attacked by a magpie...again. Dressed wound. Nursed ego. Laughed with my housemate about it later. Was reminded how lucky I am to have such gorgeous flatmate. Wrote story about sharehouse horrors. Finished final uni assignment. Clicked heels together on handing it in. Bad knee gave way and I fell. Laughed. Wrote story about shame. Let that old seductress in the sky kiss my skin. Danced with the devil. Ate a kebab.

Where else but Queensland?

Though we protest the sniping and snobbery of our southern friends, there’s no denying Queenslanders have always relished their inherent underdog status. From Cape York to Coolangatta, maroon blood flow througheth our veins. Unsurprisingly, Queensland is better known for its cauliflower-eared State of Origin behemoths than its world leading creative industries princincts and unique emerging cultural scene.

To quote columnist Michael Hodges of Time Out, grey old inner London "is a perfect place for the miserable … [but] it's being miserable that gets things done. No one comes to the capital to be happy. They come here to do stuff."

This idea is reinforced by psychology Professor Joe Forgas's recent work at the University of NSW, which suggests not only that grumpiness can enhance cognition but also that grey, rainy weather improves memory and acuity, while sunny weather encourages forgetfulness.

In other words, there's what feels nice, and there's what gets stuff done.

This may help explain why Melbournian culture is traditionally more fertile than that, shall we say, of sunnier climes. It may also explain why a modicum of repression seems historically to act as a creativity enhancer. Take that, self-congratulatory southern cities!

Queensland is considered one of the world’s most beautiful tourism destinations and it isn’t difficult to understand why. Unfathomable stretches of mysterious, untouched tropical wilderness lie just beyond our back fences and the Pacific Ocean softly caresses our feet while we dig our toes into creamy-white sand and bask in the dreamy kiss of that old seductress in the sky, 300 days a year.

It’s ironic then, that the root of the “banana bending bogan” stereotype we so vehemently deny lies in the very things that make the Sunshine State such a desirable holiday destination today.

Let’s be honest. Only here would an 18-year-old university student be infamously bashed by police, hospitalised, then charged with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest only to go on to become one of the state’s best loved and longest serving premiers. Even the genetic mastery demonstrated by our own Miss Universe Rachel Finch wasn’t enough to distract Australia’s media from the beauty’s distinctly nasal northern twang - enough to make even the cheese-eating pageant circle cringe. Where else but Queensland, ay?

- snippet from Metropolis Metamorphosis (Lara Lavers for FROCK PAPER SCISSORS 2010/11)

STAB mag, Issue 44.

Richie Freeman for STAB mag

People die of common sense, one lost moment at a time.