Drawings & writing by Darcy Rock @darcysrocks
Edits & design by Tyler @wickedalien and firstname.lastname@example.org
Drawings & writing by Darcy Rock @darcysrocks
Edits & design by Tyler @wickedalien and email@example.com
Aren’t you made from the same stuff as stars? The same comets and planets that lead you to drink in whiskey bars?
If you die in the middle of the night, then your ambitions will die with you. Your drive and your thoughts will all be for naught if your death occurs. Take up a seat for two and ask inside if your self-referencing word should be I, me or you. Create some self-reverence mixed with self-loathing and ask yourself if you want to be drunk, sober or stoned.
You’re one-hundred years old with frail bones that causing wailing moans. Arthritic bones mixed with gin leads to pained knuckles and worrying.
Lachlan is a short fiction/poetry writer who studies at LaTrobe University.
Why its sad: Tig talks about the disease that spread throughout her digestive tract, her mother's sudden death, her recent break-up and diagnosis with cancer just days before this recording.
Where to check the full show: Spotify
Why its sad: Simon explores his strained family relationships, the bleakness of solitude and the pain that comes with love.
Where to check the full show: Amazon
Why its sad: Corey confronts a childhood in and out of foster homes, questions his sexuality and opens up about addiction and a suicide attempt
Where to check the full show: On Tour
Why its sad: Mike retells his history of unrequited love, unfaithful relationships and a car accident which would lead to a great injustice
Where to check the full show: Spotify
Ethan Andrews is a comedian from Newcastle and a long-time Sensitive Adult Daily contributor. Sign up to his #fastfood52 for weekly reviews of fast food or at least chuck him a follow @ethanisatuni
I had a flick through my old journals today.
I am not in the habit of re-reading them because it can be quite draining, and to my surprise there are still certain pages I can’t bring myself to read over.
But despite the fact that I may never want to open them again, and regardless of all the times I’ve debated throwing them all onto a bon-fire, I am very blessed to hold such an intricate link to my past (even if younger me shits me to tears something chronic).
I’ve kept journals since my first year of uni and currently I’m half way through my sixth one. It’s a habit that’s still with me and I can’t imagine myself without, for three reasons,
1. I love seeing blank pages and holding an unknowable future in my hands
2. As an excessive worrier and over-analyser I need an outlet
3. I have terrible memory so I like to write moments down so they’re not lost
What makes the older ones particularly harder to read though, is that my anxiety disorder went untreated for the first four years of journal writing, and I felt deeply isolated for a very long time.
So, I thought I’d share with you some snippets from past entries just as a small reminder to anyone who may be feeling lonely or low at the moment, that you’re not alone. I also added in some of the weirder ponderings that also feature throughout these very rough looking notebooks.
[The title of this article by the way was the forward by Arthur Rimbaud to his Deserts of Love poems]
[talking about one of my high school friends] …maybe I should stop bothering really? Because you can’t be a good friend to someone if you can’t come to peace with all their pain in the ass ways – it’s a package deal
I think I have to come to terms with my demented brain which can only seem to remember pointless bollocks like Simpsons quotes – how the fuck did I get into uni again?
It’s Christmas Eve & the very horrifying and most un-jolly thought has crossed my mind that perhaps every single thing I have ever dreamed or fantasized is doomed to not come true or that it will come true but there’s a terrible catch attached
I’m frightened that I’m that friend people compare themselves to and reassure themselves their lives are worthwhile
[after my roommates ate some of my shit] ….Fuck me, yakult isn’t even nice – this pretty much tells me anything of mine isn’t safe in that fridge, I could put bottles of my own piss clearly labelled as such and they’d still be gone.
I need to stop thinking that deep, entrenched thought I have that I’m just not talented at anything.
Failure doesn’t make me a complete write off for any kind of happiness and success in my life. I’ve never really thought this until today – but maybe there’s something beautiful in knowing that you’ve fucked everything up & surviving to tell the tale.
I’m starting to think that I’m one of those people who everyone thinks is just strange & it’s only people who I’ve eventually worn down who’ve grown to like me
There was a genuine moment of fear last night that I’m basically doomed to be rejected by every single girl I’m attracted to – I do need to drop this self-doubt bollocks though it’s just not ever appealing on anyone
[talking about my extended family] Occasionally I think maybe I could let them know I’m gay but what’s the rush? I have enough stress in my life right now & there’s too many of them, how would I do it? Get a megaphone and pull a Kanye during Kris-Kringle – ‘I’m gunna let you finish but…’ If they ask I’ll tell them, otherwise just leave it for the time being
I can’t decide whether I like the haircut I got yesterday, it is quite short. I suppose it’s not the hair’s fault that my face isn’t great & on reflection I’d prefer a wall of hair acting as a make-shift mask
I literally wrote the last of my essay in my car cause I couldn’t handle looking at the mess of my room anymore, knowing I didn’t have time to clean
…Yeah I’m doing that, fuck it I don’t care my dignity died away a long time ago
I’m sitting in the park wearing a trench coat – I probably look suss as fuck
In years’ time if I want to play the most intense as fuck drinking game I could always re-read this here journal and drink every time I mention [a girl I used to see]
Watched Revenant last night – Tom Hardy’s character, I don’t know, if someone was attacked by a bear and you had murdered their son & you’d once tried to bury them alive surely you wouldn’t try knife fighting them, you’d just let them have that victory. Fuck the olden days were grim
My box of pills read – MR Ellen M_ so that gives you an impression of the state of my face today
Ok just then I was actually involved in a war with a huntsman. I did finally get a mug over him but at one point I unintentionally sat on a nectarine so in a way we’re both winners’
I’m still such a child at heart, eating vegetables makes me pull these faces in disgust
[it was about 4am and I couldn’t get back to sleep] I’m scared though that if I look too tired and horseshit tomorrow everyone will think it’s a hangover & I made this big speech last night about how I just don’t get hangovers. So I’m really feeling the pressure to go to sleep and avoid looking like dick.
I had this strange dream last night where I’d trained a goldfish to catch Dorito’s in its mouth
I think this job, the universe is trying to teach me to live in the moment, because honestly I’ve never known a month to move so slowly, it feels like I’ve been alive for 200 years.
Just got my eyesight tested and I have some terrible news: he said I had ridiculously good eyesight. So my dream of being a sexy glasses wearer is dead.
Christ I’m bored! I’m starting to think that my life is so dull at this point in time that keeping a journal is probably unfair on you, I mean why should I write it down? So one day I can relive a time where I sat on my ass 90% of the time? At least my last journals I was a hot mess so they’d be somewhat amusing.
This is why being around people who you knew in High School kinda sucks. They assume that you haven’t actually changed in five years.
I’m very honoured that she’s sent me another update, I’m glad I actually managed to successfully console someone instead of making it worse. Before I was about to console her Wednesday night there was a real fear that my presence would make her cry more.
I wonder if I’ll ever have truly close friendships and relationships again. I’m very needy and I think TV and pop culture have given me an inherent and hugely unrealistic expectations of how much time friends should spend together and what meaningful relationships looks like.
Just saw a tattoo that said ‘I Bike’. My question is what happens if one day you’re no longer mad into biking – what if you fall in love with tobogganing so much that it makes biking look like a piece of shit? I’m about to get a snake on my ankle though – who am I to judge?
Cognitive distortions (or unhelpful thinking patterns) exist as irrational logic in our thinking that tend to reinforce negative thoughts and emotions. Once we recognise the presence of these distortions we can challenge them and approach distressing situations with tools to help us cope.
Black & White Thinking
Thinking in extremes. Believing something or someone can be all good or bad rather than in-between or shades of grey. This includes using words like always or never to describe yourself, others or situations.
Believing that if you feel something is true, it must be true.
"I feel bad so it must be bad"
Feelings are just reactions to thoughts and thoughts are automatic brain reflexes
Thinking or saying "I should" (or shouldn't) and "I must" therefore putting pressure on ourselves and setting up unrealistic expectations
Assuming or inferring another persons thoughts or expecting the worst possible scenario without solid evidence
Believing we know what is going to happen in the future and treating it as a certainty
Compare & Despair
Seeing only the good and positive aspects in others, and comparing ourselves negatively against them
Mountains & Molehills
Exaggerating the risk of danger, or the negatives and minimising the odds of how things are most likely to turn out.
"What is the bigger picture?"
Sometimes events trigger memories of being hurt in the past, leading us to believe the danger is here and now, rather than in the past
When we notice only what our filter allows us to notice and we dismiss anything that doesn't 'fit' we are also dismissing the positive/realistic.
Attributing a persons behaviours to his/her character or personality
"This is how they are all the time"
Rather than thinking it's temporary or just for one event
"She just made a mistake"
Imagining and believing that the worst possible thing will happen in a situation, when realistically things will turn out better or surprisingly different.
Turning twenty is waking up knowing that you’re going to watch ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ someday.
It’s also having a sudden and insatiable interest in citrus scented candles and an IKEA level comprehension of Feng Shui.
This may eventuate into even more bizarre patterns of behaviour and urges; such as visions of starting up your own artisan cheese company in the South of France.
You may even find yourself reading the boring articles that you get notifications for on your phone because of an unexplainable whim instructing you that you have some kind of moral duty to half-inform yourself on the world’s issues.
Twenty is waking up every morning to another feat in Donald Trump’s master plan to destroy the earth and another celebrity death. Twenty is deleting the news app from your phone and going back to sleep.
The worst part of turning twenty is the realisation that the thought of weddings no longer makes you want to vomit into the nearest half empty mug—although babies still make you nauseous.
It’s standing on the porch and watching the rain and not being able to articulate anything else.
It’s having half as many people post on your Facebook timeline for your birthday, and being more concerned with the fact that you’re not really concerned that that no one gives a shit about your birthday anymore than actually being concerned that no one gives a shit about your birthday anymore.
It’s being okay with the idea of having a nice lunch with close friends instead of a party on your special day.
It’s starting a Pinterest board for jewellery that no one will ever see and being content with the implications behind that, and it’s worrying about whether you’ll get through the piles of books on your reading list.
It’s carrying a water bottle with you at all times, and longing for extra spending money to buy your friends nice gifts.
It’s spending ten dollars on wine instead of eight dollars.
It’s keeping an eye on plane ticket prices and the real estate market, even though both of your goals pertaining to those two subject matters are unrealistic.
It’s looking up bedding and décor on the Urban Outfitters website and keeping the tabs open just in case the money comes in.
It’s finally closing the tab for an article your mum sent you a month ago that you never got around to reading.
It’s being fine with receiving a Meyer voucher card for Christmas.
For some, it’s posting fewer political rants on Facebook because of an unexplainable new found awareness in regards to the fact that arguing with a small group of your peers isn’t going to make a difference—It’s tweeting about it instead.
It’s catching up with QandA debates through three minute segments on social media and attending less political protests because you don’t have the time—but feeling bad about it.
It’s feeling ashamed of your generation for not voting in the general election, but then receiving a fine for not voting in the council election four months later.
It’s not being able to make new friends—and sadly—not caring. Well that is until the weekend comes and you’re forced to endure an obnoxious display of everyone getting lit without you on Snapchat.
It’s taking a yoga class without your mum paying for it, but never going again.
It’s going to the gym for the first two weeks of the new year, and acting like you’re too cynical to make resolutions, but having a list of goals in the notes app on your phone.
At times, it’s thinking that getting a new haircut will solve all your problems and help you get your life together.
It’s going on V-line day trips to distract yourself from the fact that you still don’t have your license and drinking chai tea as though it changes the fact that you ordered Uber Eats three nights in a row.
It’s watching the weather reports with genuine enthusiasm and catching yourself exclaiming things that your mum would say like: “There are always options,” to High School graduates concerned about their ATAR results.
You might even find yourself ordering hot chocolate, or lemonade—or, you know, stuff that actually tastes good (like drinks that aren’t beer)—because you’re not as worried about looking cool anymore.
It’s using the phrase: “let’s book in a time” when arranging a coffee date with an acquaintance.
It’s throwing away a bunch of clothes to try that thirty item wardrobe trend for the sake of minimalism and spiritual cleansing (or whatever) and immediately purchasing a bunch of clothes you’ll never wear again from Savers the following fortnight.
You’ll also find yourself signalling to the waiter for water in any given situation because it seems like the right thing to do—and, I don’t know? Social conditioning.
And as I’ve now found, it’s reading reviews instead of watching the trailers before you see films.
It can even be embracing the reality of dogs instead of kids and renting instead of owning a home.
Twenty is the age that, unexpectedly, a small apartment with some plants and books and a cat seems like a dream. Like how you can tell something is a daydream in a movie because of the saturation of squint inducing, warm white light.
Twenty is accepting that you’ll be alone forever—like a deranged cat lady—and not even minding after yet another night of no matches on Tinder. Twenty is then deleting said app in order to signal said lifestyle changes; closing your eyes for a moment; feeling sad and alone; opening your eyes; downloading the app once more; refreshing…no new matches. Dating apps are kind of like retail therapy; like spontaneous shopping at night, except for the fact that your Amazon wish list can’t reject you—unless, of course, you have insufficient funds. You think you might have insufficient funds. Can a person have insufficient funds IRL? You’ve always kind of identified with the ‘declined’ message that appears on the card machine after an innocent shopper has scanned three bags worth of groceries—another fascinating and nihilistic humiliation ritual.
Twenty is staying at home and watching British comedy instead of going to the party.
Twenty is every decision, moment, night feeling like a vital thread in an ongoing narrative or movie. Every empty and useless minute, hour, day, and week is experiencing the weight of the directors ashamed eye as he tosses his omniscient, metaphorical, twenty-foot beret. But at least your twenties have a great soundtrack.
Twenty is feeling like you’re letting down Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton and Charlotte Bronte every time you decide to watch the Kardashians instead of working on your non-existent, genre transcending debut novel. Twenty is telling them to fuck off…Twenty is then the delusions of grandeur creeping back to you hours later.
Twenty is realising that you never had a High School romance, or ran away from home, or got caught trespassing at night. Twenty is assuming this means that your twenties are going to have to be the seminal years of your life instead of your teens. It’s also deciding that you better get started now if the next decade is going to define your life like in the movies. Twenty is lifting up the blanket; sitting up; contemplating this, and falling back into bed.
Twenty is envisioning the coming decades as a series of Wikipedia entries.
Twenty is ascertaining that everyone cool was already famous at this age, and that no one cares if you’re mildly good at something past the age of eighteen. This insight forces you to accept that you’re either going to have to become exceptional at something, or that it’s too late for you. Twenty is acknowledging that it’s too late for you and that you’ll never be Lorde. Twenty is throwing out all the black clothes in your wardrobe to symbolise this.
Twenty is not knowing whether you can take sitting through ‘Introduction to Film’ another year, deciding to take Literature instead, and regretting the decision shortly after scanning the weighty list of unpronounceable Russian texts.
Last night, twenty was giggling while playing crack the egg on the trampoline with friends and then having to take an Uber home.
Twenty is trying to work up the courage to say something interesting to the Uber driver. But then it’s asking, “busy night?” instead, and pretending to text someone the rest of the ride home.
Spending your lunch break on campus watching a Livestream of the Oscars and tearing up after Mahershala Ali’s speech is also how twenty feels.
Twenty is deciding that this essay is terrible and wondering whether it was worth dropping out of your degree to pursue Creative Writing.
Nina is a writer currently studying Creative Writing at RMIT. You can find more of her work here
How long have you been writing for?
As long as I can remember, but probably publicly since the mid-90s. The scene back then was different than it is now. It was 90s, grunge era. It made sense to go to a dingy, stinky sort of pub with an open mic and read poetry. I guess what was important back then was self-expression, using language and being public. And I guess the entry for me was always a physical presence, being together in the same room.
What do you think has been the influence of the internet on the writing scene?
It’s a paradox, isn’t it. It is really a lot easier to find out what’s going on and put it in your diary and say “yes” to everything but not actually turning up because you know they’ll be something else. For some people it’s really great, if you’re really stressed about being in crowds you don’t have to be there. I think it would be good if there were more events that were less stressful and/or more accessible.
What are your ideal writing conditions?
I really need expanded periods of time, sort of the sense that it could be a day, an hour, the sense that I don’t have a lot of other things that I have to do. I’m also doing a creative writing PhD at the moment so for me it’s kind of work as well. It’s intense and very self-directed, you have to be committed to making progress over time. But It’s like an extension of what I’m doing anyway.
How do you cope with the pressure surrounding others’ achievements on social media and what you yourself are working on and achieving?
On the one hand its poetry so it’s always going to be marginal. Public achievements are always minor. There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, it’s kind of just the rainbow. The thing about going from open mics to having books published is that it’s very gradual, each thing you do is like “oh wow that’s fantastic” and then a few weeks later it’s not so special anymore. I’ve been lucky enough to not think too far ahead. I’ve never planned a career or had a goal. It’s always been what do I want to write next, what am I interested in and then what am I going to do with it.
I often feel because poetry is so marginal I feel like “I want to write something that is important” but that maybe I don’t do that sort of political. You’re more likely to connect to other people not by writing something universal but writing something particular. It’s kind of counter intuitive but people will translate it by either relating to it or seeing differences and finding subjectivity.
Do you try to reach a niche or certain audience?
It sort of relates to being highly sensitive. If I’m thinking where do I fit in? It’s a small step to start thinking, “I shouldn’t do this, I should do that” because I need to fit into this space here. It can be inauthentic and can also not be very pleasurable. If I’m just writing what I’m interested in doing, it’s so much more enjoyable.
Also relating back to the the thing about shared space. You just go and see what happens. I think in terms of finding a niche, it is partly about following your intuition. You look to see what other people are doing, because you’re interested in what they’re doing, you're passionate and its important to be an active part of a community.
Andy is a poet from Melbourne. He has performed at dozens of events and festivals (including The Age Melbourne Writers Festival, Brisbane Writers Festival, Prakriti Poetry Festival [in Chennai, India], Goa Literary & Arts Festival, Australian Poetry Festival, Queensland Poetry Festival, Clifden Arts Festival [Ireland], Newcastle Young Writers Festival and Overload Poetry Festival), had poems published in a variety of print and on-line journals, been awarded grants from the Australia Council and Arts Victoria, been the recipient of an Australian Society of Authors mentorship, and self-published two collections of poetry. He has been awarded residencies from Victorian Writers Centre, Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre (Perth) and Asialink. He is also an infrequent collaborator with musicians, sound artists and other writers.
Check out his website and poetry at Among the Regulars
No one gets it. Well none of my friends do at least. The excitement of the whole new experience is overwhelming I credit that, it’s just another whole new world. Getting used to it and also dealing with the harsh comments ‘Oh how lucky and wealthy you are to be able to rent an apartment on your own.’ Behind that, hey you the one who commented, yes you. Do you fucking know that it’s hard? I am lucky and I swear by that but I am so not wealthy. I’m paying every bit of that by adulting.
Every second you may be staring at my Instagram page and talking shit about how I get what I want and other jealousy words, I’m working. I’m working on my assignment to pay for my future self; I’m working on my online shop, to help supply bits of my normal life fees; I’m typing and reading, reading and typing trying, hard, to accomplish my dream to get published or just to improve myself to live the life I want; I’m working my ass off trying to get things straight of how to pay this bill, how to contact the energy company or how the fuck two cigarettes appeared on my patio when I don’t even smoke and it’s on the 29th floor. Yeah, so there’s that.
It’s really nice to be able to be independent to know that I can actually achieve something on my own. The freedom is really nice and you don’t need to explain any decisions to anyone. Everything on the surface is nice, it’s wonderful, but what hurts and stings are the things underneath. A long time ago I told myself never to judge someone, they may have their own stories to tell, they may be having a hard time. It’s also true that they might be struggling or hurting while you are mouthing bullets in their direction.
I had a time before moving back to Australia that I was severely anxious and depressed. I wouldn’t go out for days and would just cut off social media and stopped talking to people. I was defeated for a few weeks, was debating whether I should give up on coming back to Australia and living the life I wanted, but I was glad I stepped on the plane so I would be able to sit on my comfy floor pillow in my new place typing my feelings into this piece right now.
Seems like I have so much negativity in me but I swear that’s only this, only when I get to express my feelings and not shove them deep somewhere and never bother to dig them up to feel them. So if you’re hesitating on anything you want but afraid of failure or any other obstacles that is in your way of achieving that, then I would say ‘Fuck Them, and just go for it’. Yes, there would be pain; Yes, you would live through a few times of agony but you will survive, and I’m proud to say that adulting sucks but it really is something I have learnt to enjoy after I have fulfilled it and know how to stay alive if there is only myself to rely on in the future.
Jasmine is a writer studying Creative Writing at RMIT.
Whenever I would come home, distraught in one way or another, (omg emotions are so hard sometimes), I vividly remember, my loving and generous mother telling me that there wasn’t anything to worry about; ‘you’re just crying because you’re Greek. Remember when we visit Yaya in Melbourne, she’s always crying? it’s because she’s Greek too.’
Born and raised in England with an English father and a mother that I identified simply as Australian, being Greek meant nothing to me. It made me feel as though, there was some kind of defect and my emotions felt unfamiliar to me. It didn’t help me understand that I was reasonably upset because that boy told me I was silly (one day you will pay Edward Jenkins), instead it shifted all the blame into my own 7 year old shoulders. I wasn’t upset because someone had hurt my feelings, it was because half my blood cells were overly emotional, crying and screaming in Greek.
Instead of being told that it’s ok to have your feelings hurt sometimes, I was shown that emotions are foreign and often have no root cause.
Unfortunately, there’s this ball ache of a thing that is the human condition. As we grow older, we realise that despite all of our ambitions, dreams and achievements we can’t avoid being sad, disappointed, stressed, angry etc. All the things that we associate with negativity and stow away in a big bag of emotions labelled ‘BAD, AVOID AT ALL COSTS’.
Honestly, it’s a pain in the arse, and I hate having to realise that I can’t be happy all the time. Despite how much I wish it to be, despite how many barriers I put in my mind, despite the times that I have a stern word with myself and say ‘C’mon now Tara, you’ve just made yourself a nice cup of tea, why aren’t you content, peaceful and happy with life?’ that heaviness in my chest, that tension headache, the uncomfortable flutterings of my heart don’t budge, no matter how mean I am to them, no matter how many times I tell them to go fuck themselves. I’ve slowly, and bregrudingly, come to the realisation that it’s ok not to feel ‘good’ all the time. It’s actually, even ok and normal, to feel really upset, to feel really frustrated, and it’s perfectly fine to wish that things were different. It’s all ok.
Tara is a writer living in Melbourne. She studies counselling at ACAP.
Use this questionnaire as a guide to help understand how you are feeling:
This post can be found at Self Love Above All
First, can I just say being a part of the 2017 NGV Book Fair was so incredibly humbling? When I made zine #1 just over a year ago I did not think A, there would be a sequel B, there would be contributions from more Sensitive Adults, and C, in the heart of Melbourne’s subway a supportive lil nugget of zine goodness would exist; yes, yes, we all know I’m talking about Sticky Institute.
So, in preparation I spent the week knuckling down, slogging away at my goal for the fair:
2 new zines + badges + having everything looking fre$h.
Lesson: we mustn’t blame ourselves when things don’t exactly go to plan.
The first instance of this was the Edward Sullen Zine. As those following Sensitive Adult Daily would know Edward Sullen has been an integral part of establishing a voice and intention for many features and appeared in earlier Insta pics doing just that! He was printed all nice and ready to go in a coloured mini-zine (which I imagine will be available soon on the website) however after redoing the page numbers to match the captions and the perfectionism in me and ahhhhh. It wasn’t formatted correctly so It didn’t quite get done.
Lesson: some things just aren’t to be.
Our spot was Sunday 1:30-5pm; purposely chosen as the TIME to give me the most TIME to do all the things that take TIME as I rarely seem to plan TIME effectively. T I M E
The other zine I had in mind was “Inside the Sensitive Adult” which I did actually finish and have ready. I aimed to print the day before at Sticky but mistook their opening times and hopped across the road to Officeworks who couldn’t quite scan away the grey background as I used pink paper…
Lesson: don’t use pink paper if you want the background to be white.
And so, no new zines were printed for sale and this also meant the badges were not ready either. I am a human. I have human hands, human ideas and like a human I fall short of the expectations I have of myself. Its fine, we cry into our sleeves for a while and think about what we’re going to get for dinner.
Lesson: laksa is all you ever need.
(p.s thanks to all the lovelies that visited the stall and those who picked up some goodies too!)
This issue of S.A.D is the brain edition. Is there any correlation between the Corpus Callosum and your name?
This is where I should remark on the way that the Corpus Callosum, which connects the two hemispheres of the brain (if I googled it correctly) is the perfect analogy for the way Corpus connects us as two spectral musical beings ...or something?
But naa it was just a silly name we chose when we were in school. I wish we were that insightful at 15!
Why did you choose to record ‘The Sliding Scale of Morality in Japan’?
On one hand, we’ve made a conscious decision to invest ourselves in Corpus and use it as a vehicle to experience as much of the world as we can. On the other, we are thoroughly weird dudes and almost decided to record in Japan as a joke. It’s still astounding how an off-hand remark between us just took on a life of it’s own and we somehow thought it was a completely normal thing to just buy plane tickets to Tokyo. Either way, we wouldn’t trade the trip for anything.
What was the influence behind writing such a passionate and emotional album? Are your personal experiences always reflected in the music you write?
We were both in pretty introspective places going into the writing process, so there was definitely some pent-up energy that was looking for an outlet. Being away from home seemed to exaggerate the importance of some of the stressors in our lives and bring into focus how isolated we were from others.
We stayed up with our mate Clay (who produced the record) most nights in Tokyo talking about everything and anything, from our all-encompassing theories of the universe to politics to personal shit. I guess that’s something we’ve always done but having the whole process condensed into three weeks in an incredible city with two of your best mates put the album on a different level for us.
How do you guys cope when life is throwing you curve balls? Any specific music?
Mostly by binge listening to Jeff Buckley’s posthumous “Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk”. Otherwise channelling it into music and other creative outlets is often helpful. Failing that I attempt to drag myself out of the house and see other humans/go for a long walk/meditate/exercise/try to avoid intoxicants/hug my cat.
Does Corpus have any news on the horizon we can look forward to?
We are working on our first full length release. We are in the very final stages of writing and it’s sounding as dark and sordid as ever.
Is there any advice you'd like to leave the S.A.D readers with?
Never be afraid to ask for help, I am regularly amazed that other people can relate to issues that I am convinced are unique to me – knowing that there are other people out there who struggle with similar issues or are simply there for you is infinitely helpful. Also, don’t try to escape reality with drugs and alcohol!
I sit with the dark dense mass inside my chest -
lids heavy with exhaustion,
as my head lulls forwards
another knot is added to the ropes in my shoulders -
a stronger tension is created,
pulling my neck backwards
the knots help me look up at what I don't want to see,
a mass towering over me
shiny granite heavy sharp
It's presence makes each pulse of my heart painful
Reminding me. I am anxious.
Reminding me. I cannot cope.
It's powers hijack my inner monologue
i am powerless because i am always wrong i am predestined to bend and frump, to be lonely
How do I make it go away? How? this infinitely present mass.
I try to kick it - to ignore it - to tell it to piss off.
It just compresses further, as it expands physically within my body.
Sometimes, i'm not stressed,
appeased by warm sips of tea,
mass lies dormant, snoozing.
I let the air from my breath softly caress it
tickling dark mass with feathers
the edges round off
the stone rumbles sleepily, repositions itself,
some of the tension tightly holding the rock together releases,
black glittering dust falls off the sides
I slowly breath more and more around the stone
The warm wind eventually shifting it from its foundations.
the rise and fall from my chest supporting me, I walk towards the mass,
to see it.
I see the rivets my breath has eroded into the rock.
I follow their meandering directions with my finger tips,
gathering the glittering dust;
specs of Anger and Sadness and misc emotion.
I rub the specs onto my translucent skin.
To see what they look like on my face,
to try them on.
When I'm done,
When I need to reemerge,
The marks won't rub off,
Out damn spot, OUT
I don't want everyone else seeing my imperfections,
Seeing evidence of the mass.
But the pain is on my face now.
I explore, I challenge, I accept.
I look at my face,
The smudges from the mass have started to fill in gaps,
The parts of me that I had banished blend into beautiful patterns,
And they belong.
Tara is a writer and longstanding Sensitive Adult Daily contributor. She studies counselling at the Australian College of Applied Psychology. You can contact her through her email: firstname.lastname@example.org
The sound vibrated through his bones, working its way through his eyelids, weaving through his mind and into his dreams. What a horrible thing to be woken from a dream as blissful as the one he was experiencing on this particular night. The thump only got louder and louder, the increased vibration shaking him from his sunset laden dreams and back into the brown room. The brown room which had contained his life, his body and his soul for the past many years, years which had now become a distant blurry memory. Was it possible for a room, a mixture of plaster walls and a timber frame, to know him better than any person had ever attempted?
The thumping ceased and the room, the familiar brown room, remained as silent as ever. Mother nature had drawn the curtain of night slightly, letting the light trickle through the curtains and run down his face like water. He slowly rolled over, his knee gently knocking the woman’s thigh next to him and he grunted softly in apology.
He paused to look at her, the woman sleeping in deathly silence next to him. The sun caressed her lips softly, revealing every hill, line and groove like her mouth were a valley of golden dunes in the desert. Her black eyelashes had an ethereal softness to them and clung every so delicately to her eyelids, the way dainty petals clung to the stem of a flower. Her pale cheeks had been kissed by the light, by life and by the elements and they had all left a memory in the form of a freckle in its place. This woman’s extraordinary beauty was a rather startling and stark contrast to the brown room. Her skin gleamed a million different shades, more colours than he alone could possibly identify. Her place in the bed, covered up in the familiar brown quilt cover poured life back into the sad old room and the sad old man.
Her presence aroused the feeling, the urge and the desire to stare at her all morning, all day and all eternity. Money, love property, company, anything she desired, asked for, he would have yielded, he’d have offered anything to help close the distance between them. The dream-like beauty of the woman held him captivated, completely enveloped in observing her every feature that he failed to notice that the thumping had begun again. The noise bounced off the brown walls like it would the fists of a gorilla beating its’ chest in preparation for battle.
It became louder, more aggressive. The vibrations so violent, dust that had remained untouched for years on the highest shelves in the room began to fall off, creating a monstrous looking cloud of dirt, dust and neglect. And suddenly…
And as he lay in silence yet again, letting it and realisation coat him, his mind whirred like a machine, cogs turning and processing the information right before his eyes. For he did not know this woman. As much as he wished to lie to himself, to pretend that she was his wife, that she was as much in love with the brown room and all its’ brown contents as much as she was in love with him; he couldn’t pretend. His sunset laden dreams were the fantasy he could never aspire to; he would always be just with his lonely self and that lonely colour brown. As for the radiant woman, she was not even an acquaintance, nor a stranger he had passed in the street. She was just one of the many humans who lived her life without the contact of millions of others doing the exact same thing as us right now, destined to never meet. She was not his destiny.
What she was however, was dead.
Bethany Edwards began writing detective novels about a crime solving ginger cat in primary school. She is now studying Creative Writing at RMIT. You can find her Instagram at @bethany_edwards
A note about the piece-
This story was not a planned piece, it just poured out of my brain and onto paper during a writing exercise during class a few weeks ago. My work often holds more of me than I care to admit but this resulted in an inside look into my mind in a strange way. But I hope that some of the aspects and themes can resonate with others as well, I feel this isn’t a story that only I can relate to, because everyone has that fear of being alone. I often find myself nervous about being anchored down in one place for an extended period; my biggest fear is having betrayed myself by doing nothing with my life and ended up in a brown room, alone with a poor excuse of a figment of my imagination as the man in the story also did. I find myself lost in my own mind a lot of the time, always planning or daydreaming which makes for some pretty sad social skills. This fear is also a positive thing in a way as it gives me an extreme motivator, always driving me creativity and in other areas of my life. As for ending up in the brown room, only time will tell!
"I traded for this at the Festival of the Photocopier after someone at the Sensitive Adult Daily table handed Wanderer a card that had me giggling.
The mixture of humour and anxiety had me wondering what I was getting into with zine, but I had to check it out.
It’s hard to know where to start with this zine because there are so many good things to talk about. Despite it being 8 pages (not counting front and back) long, every time I thought I knew how to take it, it brought something new. First it started with quotes, then it went to art, and later it got into things like cognitive distortions. There’s even a ‘confessions board’ and classified section (both of which you can submit to).
It’s like an entire community space within a mini-zine. It’s fantastic.
I think the thing that I like the most is that it includes ‘sensitivity’ along with mental illness. I think there are a lot of people who aren’t diagnosed as mentally ill out there who hear ‘you’re just too sensitive’ (or something of the like) too often. That this zine could grab their attention, too, is an excellent thing."
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A mix of your favourite classics
1. TIME AFTER TIME - The Intrusive Thoughts
2. TIME TO PRETEND - The Delusionals
3. TURN BACK TIME - The Instant Regrets
4. TIME WARP - The Disassociated
5. ROCK AROUND THE CLOCK - Mania Sisters
6. GOOD RIDDANCE (TIME OF YOUR LIFE) - Everyone I Ever Loved
7. EVERYTIME - The Failures
8. CLOCKS - Terrify Me
9. FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME - The Panics
10. FOUR FIVE SECONDS - Vomit Vultures
By Sophie Capern, featured in Sad Times Zine available for purchase in shop.