A free, monthly, non-format magazine for local goodness.

Freelove Edition 1
Freelove Edition 1 Title

May 2012


Hi again. Another edition has been put together for your ears, eyes, hands and noses. Let us know how it tastes. The roots have been spread and Freelove is now available in selected cafes and places in Melbourne. Sydney and Brisbane are coming. More on this here. Still wondering what this is? click here.

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by Christopher Doyle

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The Worst Things I Have Ever Done

by Tara Kenny

Actions speak louder than words. Well done is better than well said. The shortest answer is doing. These well penned word bites roll off the tongue. Their catchiness is ironic considering they endorse the effective opposite of the gift of the gab—actually doing shit. Is what we do really more important than what we say? I hope not. Come judgement day at the pearly gates of heaven I’ll be praying that the best of intentions trumps what actually went down. Here is my confession, in no apparent order—the worst things I have ever done.

Murdered a gold fish. (This sounds a lot more messed up than it was). I’m not one of those serial killers who began their lucrative career by torturing small animals for kicks. My only homicide to date was an honest mistake that has haunted me for some time, contributing to my conversion to vegetarianism in a bid to make amends with the ghost of Scaly (one half of fish duo Scaly & Shiny, circa 1995). Here is my suspect statement: 1. Like any other day spent as Scaly’s sole provider I prepared his fish snacks for mealtime. 2. In my enthusiasm to perform the pressing duty of feeding Scaly I accidentally poured the entire packet of aforementioned snacks into the fish bowl. 3. Out of normal childhood fear of getting in trouble I ran out of the room and destroyed the evidence. 4. Fish really do have two-second memories. Scaly died that day, cause of death: binge eating. RIP Scaly, you had a beautiful spirit.

Voted a girl out of ‘the friendship group’. I blame the popularity of films such as Mean Girls and Bring it On for my actions. With role models such as Regina George and a troupe of champion high school cheerleaders for many of my formative years some form of copycat bullying was inevitable. I was young and impressionable.

The actual voting out occurred one recess in grade four after a rational and considered reasoning was offered to the undesirable, outlining her shortcomings as an 11-year-old girl/friendship group member. I do feel badly about this but she was probably really annoying and her contribution to the ‘Cheer-o-cracy’ was well below par, so I did what had to be done. She can go shave her back now.

Vomiting: everywhere and often. I’m not bulimic so there is no excuse for my behaviour, which unlike an eating disorder is entirely self-inflicted. I have no one but myself and a rich family history of alcoholism to blame—blood is thicker than vodka, apparently. This has occurred in inappropriate places such as inside multiple cabs, various licensed venues, the bar of a nightclub after doing a shot (perhaps in an attempt to make a point about the negligence of the bar staff) and last but not least, on more than a handful of my friends.

I’m sure these individuals appreciated the gastric particles of someone other than a baby making contact with their epidermis. Whilst this offence may not be considered serious enough to bar me from heaven I do risk much more concerning lifetime bans from the city’s hotspots and venues and the inevitable morning after public shaming. NOTE: I am working on this destructive social behaviour.

Cheating on a boyfriend. This was an emotionally draining, stressful and ultimately unfulfilling experience that no doubt tops this list. It probably stemmed from a desire for attention and to feel valued, both of which would have been better served by applying as a Big Brother contestant for validation, or alternatively, calling my Mum. The benefit of hindsight, hey.

What I did not realise when I made the split second decision to cheat was that getting someone other than your boyfriend to have sex with you doesn’t say anything positive about your desirability, it just suggests that you have functioning genitalia. Not that much of an achievement, really.

Having cheated on someone and been cheated on, both to heartbreaking effect, I can safely say that whilst neither party is in a desirable position, having something bad done to you is generally easier to deal with. Being the wronged party is also likely to provide fodder for some angst ridden poetry/journal entries/a blog (if you are a fame whore). It may also cancel out some of the bad things you have done—an eye for an eye, that’s how it works, right?

Being too boring to plagiarise this article. So I read an article called ‘Everyone I’ve Had Sex With’ on Thought Catalog written by a brazen lass called Megan Boyle. The title basically explains the article, which used the same level of frankness. Too real. I briefly considered plagiarising the idea of the article but then realised I couldn’t—not due to deeply engrained moral values, but because I am a mass prude and thus the article would not have reached the word limit required. Not having the ammunition to write such an article might top the list of the worst things I have NOT done. That article is coming soon.

So I’ve confessed and repented, 10 lashings and 100 Hail Mary’s for me. Can I come into heaven now, please?

Photography

by Jono Winnel

Photography Photography
Freelove Edition 1
Freelove Edition 1 Title

April 2012


Hello. Freelove is a free magazine, published each month, starting now. Every edition will feature four songs, a poster, writing and photography. This is edition 1. You can order the printed version here for free. Or digest the digital version below. We'd love to know what you think. (read more)

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by Mark Drew

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No Expectations

by Willow & Blake

James had left a note sticky taped to his front door that read “Gone to Babble for some food, come meet me!”

She looked out from under the balcony that sheltered her from the torrential rain she had just endured. Ironically her car was parked outside the café in which James was now situated. She begrudgingly swept up a streetpress from the ground to shield her already soaking hair, and trod off down the street to find him.

James was nestled in a cozy nook of the cafe, basking in the warm glow of the fire behind him. He was writing poetry with a friend. She joined in, finding the whole process rather intimidating. After making small talk, complaining about work and sharing a sticky date pudding, they decided to go back to James’ home.

She explored her surroundings, amused by the objects she found littering the dwelling. Half an aeroplane rested in a corridor, James looking at it as if it were nothing more than a coffee table. They ventured upstairs and she settled in front of a small furnace that gave off a surprising amount of heat. James shuffled around the kitchen, clearly wary of the fact he didn’t have much to offer in the way of refreshments. She didn’t mind, but noticed he was uncomfortable. They ended up drinking black current vodka out of mugs.

James picked up his guitar and began softly strumming its strings, caressing them with his fingers as the ad-lib lyrics tumbled out of his mouth. there on this stormy night.

He told her stories and they were as beautiful spoken in real life as they were in his poetry that had led her to be there on this stormy night.

James recounted adventures from when he lived on the largely uninhabited Great Barrier Island, a time that he looks upon fondly. His days were filled with swimming, writing, singing, smoking and sleeping with French beauties on multi-million dollar yachts. She didn’t feel uncomfortable listening to him talk about these experiences – there was something so natural about the way he described this most basic, primal form of human contact. “I’m quite liberal when it comes to sexuality, I love women, they are beautiful; there is nothing wrong with two people finding each other attractive and enjoying that”. She nodded; he was right.

His poetry often explicitly detailed his sexual encounters and she found it oddly endearing, the way he was able to retain the beauty of this act while penning it in such thoroughness.

They talked about literature and art, photography and music, his mind housing a wealth of knowledge akin to that of someone three times his age.

She asked him what was next, and he said he didn’t know – but that one day he envisioned himself living in Europe, drinking tea, smoking joints and being creative, whatever that means. He didn’t see someone beside him through these adventures; in fact, he made note that he had never really imagined sharing his life with one person in particular.

She received a phone call which ended the evenings encounter.

She returned the following night and they were pleased to see each other.

That night, the drinks menu offered an odd mix of black current vodka and coke zero. She dislikes coke, but accepted the drink, remembering his discomfort the previous evening.

Again, the conversation darts back and forth between a myriad of cultural riches until after prompting, James, both a gifted photographer and writer, begins to discuss his art. It’s clear to her that he undervalues his skill, in fact he doesn’t really consider it a skill at all. She has noticed in her travels, the overwhelming number of creatives who see their skill as something of little or no value, perhaps because it comes so easily to them. She reminds him that whilst writing a poem about what he experiences might come as naturally to him as breathing, for some people, stringing four coherent words together is near impossible.

He sighs and mutters “I suppose so”, and she worries that this beautiful soul will never truly understand the joy his work has brought into her life.

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by Hilary Faye

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