Published in Overland Issue Photonic Overland · Uncategorized P[a]ra[pra]xis Josh Mei-Ling Dubrau and Mark Havryliv Author note: This version of the P[a]ra[pra]xis app for iPad is one facet of a continually evolving generative text work in collaboration with Mark Havryliv. Other iterations include standalone and networked generation and sonification of text in realtime. The object is always to call into question the ‘permanence’ and thus the authority with which print and screen inscribe the written word. Josh Mei-Ling Dubrau Joshua Mei-Ling Dubrau holds a PhD in Creative Writing from UNSW. Her work has appeared in Poetry and the Trace (Puncher & Wattman, 2013) Southerly, Cordite, Sydney Morning Herald, the Australian, The Night Road (Newcastle Poetry Prize judges’ anthology 2009) and Computer Music Journal. More by Josh Mei-Ling Dubrau › Mark Havryliv Mark Havryliv is a composer, programmer and interaction designer with a PhD in Mechatronics. He is interested in the musical possibilities of integrating realtime sonification with other disciplines like game design and creative writing and has developed several software packages for doing so. He has presented and published original research on haptics, mobile phone music, and computer music. More by Mark Havryliv › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays First published in Overland Issue 228 2 March 2024 · LGBTIQ Irony of a faggot policeman Hiero Badge There is no such thing as a Queer cop, it is a contradiction of terms. Some officers may happen to be homos, bisexual and so on, but this is not saying much. Nobody is born a cop; they are acculturated and at some point, they choose it, and in choosing it, they sever any claim to Queerness and community. First published in Overland Issue 228 1 March 20241 March 2024 · Housing Freehold Elias Greig My father took us up to survey the damage, crying openly at the extent of it, at how much it would cost him to fix, at how beautiful his dream had been — at how no one had supported him in it. It was cold in the house, so we camped beside the fireplace. I did not sleep. The house sold, well below its value. We were, in one sense, free of it.