♡ ➼ magazine clippings

[cherubim]

in front of you lay countless extracts scattered on your desk.
the night is crisp, and you choose to read one before slumber.
which one do you choose?
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a small gathering of recollections. feel free to stay a while.

[cherubim]

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➼ birthday cakes
➼ lucidity
➼ pathogenesis
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➼

[cherubim]

It's coming up to your tenth birthday, and assuming you're a kid who loves celebrations, you can't wait until the day arrives. The world seems so big, so intimidating, and you think that turning ten will suddenly bring about a whirlwind of events that will show everyone just how mature you are. Ten is a significant number! Two digits that follow your name, so close to the taste of teenagehood freedom the movies tell you about. You watch those coming-of-age movies like they're the gospel, planning your future and writing a wishlist similar to the one in Suddenly 30. You love that movie.
But first, before you can proudly say that you're almost a tween, a dilemma befalls you - what cake will mum make? It must be perfect to wow your school peers and reflect your mature interests. You tell your mother this and list possible designs that would show just how cool you are. Do you care that they're almost too complex for a homemade cake? Absolutely not. The idea is concrete in your mind, and surely your mum, jack of all trades that she is, will pull it off.
Instead, she whips out the age-old Women's Weekly cake books and leaves you to flip through the well-loved pages. They're falling apart from years of use, and you think to yourself that you're way too mature for the dolly varden cake. Only kids have those cakes. But you still loved that pool cake.
First made in the 1980s, with a reiteration made in the early 2000s, Women's Weekly Children's Birthday Cake books have been a staple in my family since before I could even remember; three of them, one from grandma, two bought while I was a mere toddler. My mum was grappling with the struggles that come with raising your first child, and detailed, time-consuming cakes were not her forte, much less something she wanted to do between childcare shifts. Of course, dad was never one to take the lead and organise birthday parties - that was always mum's job. He provided for the family, nothing else. Organising parties was already so stressful; writing out invitations, making sure to invite the whole class, putting together party bags, and making up platters of party food. She really didn't have the money or time to go out and order a cake. That's who the Women's Weekly cake books catered towards; parents who had minimal hours and resources outside of work. The cakes looked fantastic, even if they only took a few hours to make - that's what made them so accessible.
I recently read an excellent interview with one of the ladies who helped create the books. She explains that the books were made to be imperfect; many of the cakes pictured were prototypes, and even though they had time to perfect the design, one of the leading publishers loved them regardless of the lack of fine-tuning. Hence, they took photos then and there and used them in the final product.
Personally, I find it all quite endearing: a book by mothers for mothers, not focusing on tiny details and using products that were cheap and easily accessible. Most cakes in those books don't even give you a recipe for the cake itself; the creators used 50-cent home brand packet mixes (they were probably even cheaper back then, actually) from their local Woolworths, and most of the details used lollies, biscuits and household objects. A lot of the time, licorice was used as detailing for eyes and mouths, cut-up marshmallows were used as petals and tongues, and Smarties (the chocolate buttons) were a staple for irises. The icing recipe was the same for a lot of cakes, too, simple and easy - milk, butter, a dash of imitation vanilla and icing sugar. Add in some food colouring, and away you go! Some cakes were a bit more complex; some used fresh cream as icing, such as the iconic castle cake. I vividly remember mum making the castle cake for my sixth birthday, telling my dad to make sure he kept the cake inside of the fridge until we were ready to go to McDonalds. It inevitably ended in disaster, as my dad has never been one to follow instructions - he left the cake on the bench in the middle of an Australian summer, and the entire thing wilted in less than ten minutes. Needless to say, I ended up getting a generic McDonalds ice cream cake in lieu of (which was quite exciting for me nonetheless), and mum has never let him forget that mishap.


I have fond memories of going through those books a week before my birthday and dog-earing the pages that held the cakes I desperately wanted mum to make for me. I had so many favourites, particularly the piano, the stovetop, and the magic toadstool. I don't remember every birthday I had, but I have many photos of my cakes throughout the years, and I love going through those books with mum now, pointing out every cake she ever made me and telling the story attached to each one. There was never a cake without some sort of tale to tell, need she remind me of the castle cake? Growing up was harsh in a working-class family, but every painstakingly made cake was worth more than gold to me every year. Honestly, I still would rather any cake from those books to bakery-made cakes, simply due to the sentimentality that comes with it. My birthdays may not have been abundant with gifts and fancy decorations, but they were homemade, and that is more than enough for me. x

[cherubim]

The gold trails, not unlike syrup-soaked fingers trailing down frail skin, slowed with the pause of dizziness. Nausea clawed its way up a constricted throat, bypassing the tonsils and settling on Maev's tongue. The sense of feeling, of reacting to a movement the body isn't equipped to steady itself with, it gripped the adolescent's shoulders and shook violently. THIS IS FEELING! It wails, cries, desperately shatters inked porcelain (unfeeling, yet holders of grief) in corners. YOU ARE FEELING! REMEMBER THIS! The world around her is hushed, pillowed and muffled. There's a shape stumbling its way closer to Maev with an outstretched arm, gripping the chains attached to her swing (paused, now). If she unfocused her curse-ridden eyes the figure would dissipate, and that was fine by her. Maev was alone, is alone, and knew solitude like the endless tendrils of veins weaving through her body (she can feel their movements). Solitude is comforting, stubbornly unmoving figures are not. x

[cherubim]

"You make me ill." She says. He makes her ill—in ways weaved through a lovesick poet's sonnet, in ways that have logical definitions to them, in ways that she refuses to put a name to. 'Acknowledgment is the first step' she had read. It was a brittle, thick textbook with countless smudged pages from students prior, detailing the knowns and highlighting unknowns of the human mind. Mercedes gave it to her in an offering of both understanding and quiet curiosity; it helped understand patients—but why? Acknowledgment is a means to an end, an agreeance of existence, a placeholder of acceptance, a pathway to change. She means to say: I've developed an unspeakable illness of feeling, and you are the crux of it. x

[cherubim]

[Three Women — Sylvia Plath]


Light fails to catch itself within the wound's ichor, bloodied dew beading itself at the edges of its maw. She watches the beads coagulate, becoming solid under her scrutiny—transfixed, the world grows dim around her. Her fingers (steady, this time) swipe at the largest pearl, smearing it over her stomach. The wound's depths are visible, surrounded by the whites of dermis; it wasn't deep—far from it—but the jagged pattern had spanned from navel to rib. "It's fine," she hums, squeezing the edges together (like juicing an orange, he thinks). Another wave of blood trickles from the gash, following the inlet of rivers prior. "Nothing a few stitches can't fix."
He recalls something, then—an offhanded comment, a confession shielded: "I'm like an untended wound, one that has never been looked into." x

[cherubim]

An inked black soaks her vision—drowning, yet never gasping for air. It's endlessly stagnant, here where those corporeal lay silent, bodies becoming fragmental half-formed things. There is a subtle buzz, a ringing in her ears, that has no birthplace (though she feels more alive than ever). Calliope cannot tell if it is a blessing, a curse, or something fickle in between; she's a glass-half-full, windfall-believer sort of girl, so she begs it a blessing. For one, her self doesn't ache an insatiable desire for relief; her bones now stitched, never broken. She blinks, clearing the stray sprites clouding her vision, and sees—black turns to red, to white, blue, grey. She knows this place. Knows it to be once a commune of information, of collaboration, of companionship. Its startling hollowness led her to the invisible string of realisation. Holograms warned of such a phenomena with font chasing after itself, broadcasting: THOSE WITH WEAK CONSCIOUS TRAPPED IN ENDLESS DEBRIS, NEVER TO WAKE. x