Benefit 1: Accessibility
One of the main benefits claimed for cryptocurrencies is that they are easily accessible by anyone with secure web access.
• Development of cryptocurrencies has reflected all the elements of Smith’s (2001) model of innovative cultures: ease of participation, freedom from external control, and the prospect of social and financial rewards.
• More than 5000 cryptocurrencies on the market – total market valuation estimated > $300 bn (Brown & Smith, 2021)
Benefit 2: Innovation
Easy access to cryptocurrencies has encouraged the development of innovative applications
Examples: BAT tipping; Litecoin ease of use; Sports club cryptocurrencies (Patel, 2021)
Benefit 3: Return on investment
Cryptocurrencies have not yet shown that they can retain or grow their initial value. However, for Bitcoin in particular, investors have been attracted by the promise of significant return on their investment.
• Highest rate of return – 18% (Dasman, 2021)
Risk 1: Volatility
Cryptocurrencies are subject to price volatility due to the combined influence of supply and demand, investor and user sentiments, government regulations and media hype.
• Bitcoin price jump after media promoted Proshare’s introduction of exchange-traded fund (Reiff, 2022).
• Examples of investor speculation and reactive trading impacting particular cryptocurrency price (Van Welle, 2021)
• “The Musk Effect” - how the value of Bitcoin is affected by Elon Musk’s tweets (Lapin, 2021)
Risk 2: Insecurity
Cryptocurrencies have inherent vulnerabilities, creating insecurity that cannot be overcome solely by regulation.
• Cryptocurrency is designed so as not to need gatekeepers such as banks or government – this means there is no third party to undo any harm if a protocol or code turns out to contain bugs (Power, 2021).
• Global crypto exchanges are poorly regulated and vulnerable to political instability and turmoil. This affects investor’s confidence in their ability to translate crypto balances into widely accepted currency. (Blowden, 2021)
Risk 3: Limited liquidity
The high trading volume of cryptocurrencies put strain on a nascent system of global crypto exchanges. Whilst improving volume capacity has helped, a more robust system is required to meet the burgeoning trading demand and improve liquidity.
• The success of cryptocurrency is dependant on the ability to ‘cash out’ to fiat (government issued) currencies via crypto exchanges. These are currently insufficiently regulated and developed, causing confidence and supply issues (Rutherham, 2021).
To be recommended in very limited circumstances
Paragraph plans provide an overview of your essay and provide an effective starting point for structured writing. The next step is using this plan to expand on the points as you write your essay.
In almost all cases, written assignments call for students to explore complex topics or aspects of an area of study. Any academic writing task is an opportunity to show how well you understand a particular topic, theme or area. Usually this means demonstrating how various ideas, knowledge, information or ways of thinking are connected within the context of the task or area of focus.
This means that successful academic writing presents ideas logically, and that there is high connectivity within the writing. In other words, the aim should be for writing to have high flow to help make the connections clear.
Three ways to achieve this include:
Topic sentences, or the leading sentences of a paragraph, play a key role in connecting the ideas of an essay. High-flow topic sentences should look to include three key elements:
Consider the following examples of topic sentences in response to an essay question about Virtue Ethics.
A low-flow topic sentence : Aristotle defined phronesis as practical wisdom.
This sentence does not reference the topic (virtue ethics), nor does it link to an idea from a previous paragraph. It does however, introduce the sub-topic of the paragraph (phronesis).
A high-flow topic sentence: Another fundamental concept in Virtue Ethics is phronesis.
This sentence refers to the essay topic (virtue ethics), acknowledges that this is an additional concept that build on the previous paragraph, and introduces the topic of this paragraph (phronesis).
Well-constructed paragraphs have high connections between sentences. In general sentences that promote flow should:
The following paragraph example can be considered high-flow. It includes sentences that reference the previous sentence ( underlined ), add new information ( maroon ) and use topic words ( green ).
Another fundamental concept in Virtue Ethics is phronesis. According to Aristotle, phronesis is a form of practical wisdom through which individuals make principled decisions in line with virtues such as courage and honesty (reference). Its practical nature means that phronesis can only be developed over a lifetime of carefully considered actions and sober reflection . This practice builds a person’s moral character, allowing them to make morally-defensible choices even in unfamiliar and complex situations (reference). In other words, it is a kind of social and professional skill, which at first requires conscious effort and can still result in mistakes. However, through discipline and persistence, it becomes second nature. As a result, practitioners consistently act wisely and in accordance with the virtues they uphold . Their wise actions further strengthen their own character and contribute to human fulfilment at both individual and community levels (reference).
Transition words help make the relationships and connections between ideas clear. Some examples of helpful transition words and phrases for various types of connections include:
Like X, Y is... Unlike X, Y is... In other words, This means that... For example, For instance, | Moreover, Furthermore, Additionally, Likewise, Similarly, | However, On the other hand, Therefore, As a result, Consequently, Hence, Thus, |
Success Now! workshops are available live online or on campus. Register here for workshops on research and writing . You can also organise an individual consultation here to talk to a learning advisor about planning your assignments.
The Institute of Australian Culture
Heritage, history, and heroes; literature, legends, and larrikins
18 April 2014 · 1 Comment
Culture in australia, an essay towards national self-respect, p. r. stephensen.
Third Instalment January, 1936 Section 40 : Politics and culture Section 41 : “Equal status” Section 42 : Loyalty and disloyalty Section 43 : “Populate or perish” Section 44 : No need for a protector Section 45 : Bloodstained Europe Section 46 : Sires to the slaughter Section 47 : Australia is an island Section 48 : Chauvinism and culture Section 49 : Commerce and culture Section 50 : Noblesse oblige Section 51 : Wardens of the future Section 52 : The bone-pointers Section 53 : One place is enough Section 54 : A New Britannia Section 55 : The true Australian creed
Australia: Published by W. J. Miles 4 Rosedale Road, Gordon, N.S.W.
First Published 1936
Wholly Set Up and Printed in Australia by The Forward Press Limited, 175 Campbell Street, Sydney. Registered at the General Post Office, Sydney, for transmission through the Post as a Book.
Each, desperate, his sword against the world, A blow for his diverse illusion tries. The truth man leaps to when the banner’s furled, And man confronts his bosom, makes him wise.
— Sonnets of Baylebridge
Source: P. R. Stephensen, The Foundations of Culture in Australia , Gordon (N.S.W.): W. J. Miles, 1936
Editor’s notes: This book was dedicated by P. R. Stephensen to his wife, Winifred Sarah Venus (née Lockyer).
The Foundations of Culture in Australia was republished in 1986, with an introduction by Craig Munro (who had published a biography of P.R. Stephensen in 1984, Wild Man of Letters: The Story of P.R. Stephensen , which was republished in 1992 as Inky Stephensen: Wild Man of Letters ).
Baylebridge = William Baylebridge (1883-1942), Australian poet (born as Charles William Blocksidge)
5 May 2014 at 14:49
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Visiting Research Fellow, Department of English and Creative Writing, University of Adelaide
Carol Lefevre does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
University of Adelaide provides funding as a member of The Conversation AU.
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My sharpest experience of loneliness was during the New Year period when I turned 22. Following the breakdown of a youthful and doomed marriage, I had landed in a new country, in a city, Wellington, where the only people I had contact with were at the job I’d just started. They were work acquaintances, but not yet friends. Luckily, one of them realised I would be alone over the Christmas break. She invited me to spend it with her family. I couldn’t have been more grateful, yet once Christmas had passed, I found myself alone again, preparing to greet the New Year and my birthday.
My father had died four months earlier, so I was not only alone, but grieving. In the aftermath of his death, my mother and younger brother had left Sydney and returned to South Australia. Their move had left me feeling as if the world I’d been raised in had collapsed behind me. I felt there was no way back.
Even at work, in a busy office, I existed in a bubble of pain and separation. The people around me all had busy lives, complex connections, history with the place they occupied. I was out of my country, a discarded young wife, a bit of an oddity.
On that New Year’s Eve, watching from the kitchen window of my flat as car headlights streamed towards me and away, I felt rootless, forgotten. I had slipped through a crack into a dark vacuum. Knowing I had brought this upon myself was no comfort. Each hour crawled by like ten. I didn’t see anyone to speak to until the third day of January, when I was relieved to return to work. Afterwards, I always volunteered for shifts over long weekends, so as not to repeat the experience.
Loneliness is felt as a profound and painful yearning for connection. In her book The Lonely City , Olivia Laing describes it as
like being hungry: like being hungry when everyone around you is readying for a feast. It feels shameful and alarming, and over time these feelings radiate outwards, making the lonely person increasingly isolated.
Laing has talked about the shame of loneliness , describing it as “a taboo state that will cause others to turn and flee”. People who are lonely often try to keep the fact a secret, fearing it will make them appear weird, or needy. Fear can lead them to become hypervigilant for signs of rejection, which in turn leads to rejecting behaviours. In this way, loneliness forms a persistent cycle.
“In a sense our lives are nothing more than a series of stages to help us get used to loneliness,” wrote Japanese writer Haruki Murakami . Daunting as this idea may be, many of us will face varying states of loneliness as we age, with the inevitable losses of parents, siblings, partners, and friends.
A recent study shows nearly one in three Australians feel lonely, and one in six experience severe loneliness.
Songwriters have always been sensitive to the emotion of loneliness, though most have sugared its bitterness with a plaint of romance gone awry. In 1949, Hank Williams sang of a night when time crawled by to the whine of a midnight train. Wrapped in the waltz-time that shouts the lack of a dance partner like no other beat, I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry became a country music classic. By 1960, Elvis Presley was crooning Are You Lonesome Tonight? , while in the same decade, The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby documented lives of haunting emptiness.
Growing up alongside those songs, and a slew of others, few of us believed we could ever be old and sad enough to become the people they were singing about. But loneliness is not exclusively an affliction of age: new mothers are at risk, as well as the recently bereaved, refugees and other people living outside their own culture.
Perhaps the most poignant aspect of this hard-to-define, yet devastating emotion is that it can even affect people in the midst of busy lives – and people within families, who for some reason feel misunderstood, unloved, unheard, unseen.
The World Health Organization has declared loneliness a global public health priority . It links loneliness to depression and suicide, and an increased risk of cognitive decline and dementia.
In the United Kingdom, a joint study commissioned by the British Red Cross and Co-Op, Trapped in a Bubble , found nine million people there (almost a fifth of the population, and more than the population of London) often or always feel lonely. In 2018, the British government introduced a national strategy to tackle the problem, and appointed the world’s first Loneliness Minister . Australia has been urged to do the same.
Japan appointed their own minister in 2021, prodded into action by escalating suicides (particularly of young women) during the pandemic.
Since then, other countries are trialling their own solutions: some good, offbeat ideas include “ chat checkouts ” in a Dutch supermarket, where shoppers can stop and chat rather than be shuffled through as fast as possible.
The Loneliness Project , a research collaboration between the University of South Australia and an Adelaide Hills community centre, is just one Australian initiative. Together with local people, who responded to an advertisement, they will develop strategies to address community loneliness: plans so far include a cafe, regular social activities, a women’s development program and a podcast.
“The health risks of loneliness are thought to be as high as for smoking or obesity,” says Hayley Everuss, the project’s community development officer.
Ending Loneliness Together is a national network of organisations formed to address Australia’s growing loneliness problem. Their 2023 survey found lonely people are more likely to suffer anxiety and depression, and to have worse physical and mental health. Perhaps surprisingly, people over 65 were the least lonely, with 26% of 65-74 year-olds and just 13% of those aged 75+ reporting loneliness.
The highest rates of loneliness were among those aged 18-24, at 38%. With the transition from high school to university, or to first jobs, young people are faced with paths that stream away in many directions. Social media offers the illusion of connection, yet it may be the very thing that makes them feel most isolated.
While frequent social media use isn’t connected to loneliness, according to the survey, social media addiction is: 16% of lonely people reported being addicted to social media, compared to 9% of people who are not lonely.
Lynne, an artist now in her seventies, tells me as a young woman she was very much a “people person”. She thrived in communal living and was happy in the most chaotic of houses. In those days, her greatest nightmare would have been to find herself living alone. Decades later, she is doing it.
Since the breakup of her marriage, and the move from a family home to an apartment, followed by retirement (and as someone vulnerable to anxiety and depression), Lynne was managing reasonably well. Until the pandemic hit. Pre-COVID, she had more people dropping by, but now they’re out of the habit. “We just broke the pattern,” she says.
COVID-19 pushed all of us apart, with its masks and gloves, and its 24/7 drive-through testing stations, often sited in disused or semi-abandoned spaces. As we waited late at night in the sealed bubbles of our cars to be swabbed, those makeshift outposts – aglow against the urban dark – embodied something of the luminous menace of the painting, Nighthawks , by the American artist Edward Hopper.
Painted in 1942, it shows four people inside a brightly lit New York diner, a capsule of shadowless light set among darkened, empty streets. The lack of an entrance is a troubling detail, and the figures inside appear both exposed and trapped.
Hopper, a man known for his immense reserve, insisted each painting was an expression of his inner life, publicly stating his belief that “the man’s the work” and so the pictures “talk about me”.
A habitual night-walker of New York’s streets, Hopper began Nighthawks late in 1941, after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbour propelled America into World War II. Dimmed lights and evening blackouts became the norm in the city; it was a different kind of crisis to the pandemic, but a crisis all the same.
For the viewer, a Hopper painting resembles an exquisite short story, which invites the reader to receive and interpret the elements of place, character and tension according to their own experience. Paintings like Automat (1927), in which a young woman sits alone in a cafe serviced by machines, and New York Movie (1939), with its bored or contemplative usherette standing to one side in a movie theatre while a film plays out on the screen, invariably return me to that lonely time after my father’s death. That is when I first stumbled upon Hopper’s work.
“The loneliness thing is overdone,” Hopper said . And I doubt I would have described his figures as lonely when I first saw them – if they were alone, they had been captured in a moment of typically human solitude. But now, decades later, I see that Hopper’s figures spoke to something deeper in me than the apparent loneliness of a young woman living far from home.
As great works of art have the power to do, they struck a note against my truest self: the part that had chosen the solitary path, despite its perils and pitfalls.
Meanwhile, the pandemic jabbed at us with its vocabulary of punishment: “isolation”, “quarantine”, “lockdown”, “curfew”. Only separation was safe. COVID’s social distancing rules normalised a fear of close contact we may never entirely lose.
For Lynne, travel is a way of offsetting the loneliness of solo living. “I love seeing other places, but also I’m with people around the clock,” she told me. “I’m usually sharing with the friend I travel with, so I wake up in the morning with someone, I go to sleep with someone there. And that’s the bonus on top of the travel.” After a recent month-long trip to India, she is again facing days when she doesn’t see or speak to anyone, unable to re-establish her pre-COVID social connections.
“I hate the fact that I wake up and it takes me so long to remember which day it is. And the thing about it is that it’s of no consequence, whereas once it was important whether it was Saturday or Sunday or Monday.”
Loneliness appears to be less prevalent in some other cultures. Over her many trips to Bali, Lynne has noticed that, despite the challenges of poverty, no one there is much alone. In a local family she’s become friendly with over the years, the grandmother has been cared for within the family, bathed and fed by her grandson when she became very ill.
Across Western society, we have long ago lost the village model of living, though a version of it still prevails in places like Bali. If we are lonely, it is an unwelcome outcome of the way we live now in the first quarter of the 21st century: tuned to the “self” rather than to the family group. (If there is a functioning group.)
Family networks stretch nationwide, or even globally. But families themselves break down, or become so complex in their connections and loyalties, they often cannot provide a safety net for those who encounter serial losses and find themselves alone.
The loneliness of our “me” culture is quietly driving change. In Australia, co-housing schemes are creating “intentional communities”. This means either living in a collection of private homes, accompanied by communally owned shared spaces, or in developments of self-contained dwellings, arranged within common areas for shared activities.
Communal living, or co-housing, is a revival of the village model that arguably served our ancestors better than our current individualism is serving us. As we push deeper into the century, and our population ages, co-housing, or versions of it, are likely to become a mainstream housing form.
Not all loneliness is involuntary, and my own suffering at 22 arose because I chose to isolate myself. But for old people, loneliness mostly accrues over time. When combined with grief, it can be hard to break out of the isolating bubble. As a society, we are not skilled at knowing what to say to grieving, lonely people.
Interestingly, a research paper on loneliness by the pioneering German psychiatrist Frieda Fromm-Reichmann refers to the way loneliness following a bereavement is often counteracted by a process of “incorporation and identification”. In this defensive behaviour, a person mourning the loss of a loved one comes to develop a likeness “in looks, personality, and activities” to the lost beloved. In this way, they fight their loneliness.
I read this with a ping of recognition. After my mother’s death, I clung to the things that had belonged to her. On most days, I carried with me one of the soft cotton handkerchiefs she favoured. I wore her hand-knitted jumpers, spritzed her perfume. I found comfort in the steady tick of her wristwatch and bedside clock, and the fact I was so often told how much I look like her.
My mother used to say four days at home alone was about her limit. I like to think we never allowed her to reach the four-day mark. But as her hearing deteriorated, the daily phone calls became more problematic. Visual impairment and impaired hearing are both factors in social isolation for all age groups. Many of the old people I’ve spoken to have mentioned hearing loss as presenting significant difficulties.
Eighty-year-old Philippa, now living voluntarily in aged care following her recovery from a serious stroke, explains how she prefers to watch movies with subtitles. “But sometimes they’ll say that the subtitles can be really confusing for the people with dementia. So [I say] what about doing it for me, or people like me? And there’ll be a little bit of silence there.”
COVID only increased the difficulties for Philippa, and for countless others with diminished hearing, since most care-home staff have English as a second language and mask-wearing inhibits lip-reading. “Deafness is the hidden disability, and people are impatient,” Philippa says. “They get irritated when you ask them to repeat something.”
Blindness is perhaps even more isolating than hearing loss. But any disability or serious illness can set people apart. A diagnosis, such as cancer, leaves you feeling alone with your body, knowing no one can go through it for you.
Of course, we sometimes choose to enter states of constructive loneliness. These are usually temporary, and often looked forward to, such as retreats of various kinds, or creative residencies. Nearly all creative works are begun and finished during periods of productive aloneness. For writers and artists, solitary toil is the norm, but solitude lacks loneliness’s razor edge.
A side-effect of my loneliness in those far-off days was that it was when I began to write. But although I later returned to Australia, I never again lived in Sydney. I was right to have sensed the collapse of that world, and though I have been back, it was never as someone returning home.
There is a loneliness to these losses of time and place that we can only absorb.
That no one, living or dead, shared my 22nd birthday is a grief with no possibility of resolution. It is related to the way our younger selves are forgotten with the passage of years. And to the fact children will never quite be able to believe in their grey-haired grandmothers’ existence as young women in miniskirts and skinny-rib jumpers, with painted-on “Twiggy” eyelashes and platform shoes. Not even when we show them the photographs.
These are states of irredeemable loneliness, when what we mourn is who we once were.
My second period of great isolation was a long stretch of years from my mid-thirties, when I agreed to move to an island on the other side of the world, into a culture very different to anything I knew. We shared a common language, but the local accent was so strong that every time I opened my mouth I was identified as “foreign”.
In The Lonely City, Olivia Laing, who is British, writes of being misunderstood in New York because of her “different inflection”. Laing quotes Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, who she describes as speaking for all exiles: “The silent adjustments to understand colloquial language are enormously complicated.” As both Laing and I discovered, failing to make those adjustments marks one out as “a non-native, an outsider”.
I described my emotional state during those years as “ homesick ”, but I see now that homesickness is only another facet of loneliness. Like loneliness, which abates with connection, homesickness fades as soon as the sufferer reconnects with home.
But for those who become permanently displaced – through war, or natural disaster – what is lost with their migratory loneliness is not only the familiar faces and places of the past, but the identities that have been evolving over their entire life spans. They have to begin again to create their narratives, and there is acute loneliness in not being known for who we are, and for where we’ve been.
Jean Rhys’s autobiographical-leaning novels reek of the migratory loneliness she endured after being sent from Dominica, aged 16, to live with an aunt in England. Rejected from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art after two terms because of her inability to speak “proper English”, Rhys became a sometime chorus girl. She drifted into the same rootless, damaged and damaging existence – eked out in rooming houses and seedy hotels – as the heroines of her novels.
Wide Sargasso Sea , published when Rhys was 76 and all but forgotten in literary circles, was the culmination of her talent. A work both of genius and of long hard labour, it was also a complex fusion of Rhys’s life with literature: a lushly imagined prequel to Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre . In it, Rhys channelled her experience of the particular suffering of exile into the character of the young Creole heiress Antoinette Cosway, the first Mrs Rochester.
Following an arranged marriage to an unnamed Englishman who is desperate for her dowry, Antoinette’s journey from post-slavery Jamaica to incarceration in the attic at Thornfield Hall is only marginally more dramatic than Rhys’s own trajectory from Dominica to Devon. It was a route that took her via Paris, London, and latterly Cornwall, with a brief stay in Holloway Prison, charged with assault.
During the writing of her masterpiece, Rhys was living a lonely, poverty-stricken, alcohol-fuelled existence in the Devon village of Cheriton Fitzpaine. Continually at odds with her neighbours, she was thought by local children to be a witch. Daily life could hardly have been more bleak.
But as Olivia Laing observes in The Lonely City, “many marvellous things have emerged […] things forged in loneliness, but also things that function to redeem it”. With the publication of Wide Sargasso Sea, Rhys’s life did change for the better, just when she needed it most, despite her bitter response that success had come too late.
So what measures can we take to shore up our lives against future loneliness? Is forewarned forearmed? By looking ahead and accepting the possibility loneliness might come knocking, we could work harder at building new friendships. We could introduce more sociability into our lives before we even really need it: by volunteering, or embracing a group activity such as a walking club, a choir, or by taking a class.
Recently, delivering a bundle of bedding to the Salvos, I was directed to a receiving area, where all the people in sight within the cavernous warehouse were elderly. A small army of them was receiving and sorting donations. In another part of the building, other elderly volunteers were selling clothing and bric-a-brac. It is the same when I visit the Oxfam secondhand bookshop.
Voluntary labour largely goes unnoticed, but without it, most charities couldn’t function. By doing good for others, we could also be doing good for ourselves.
It helps, too, to remember there are people all around us who doubtless feel the same. We never know what is going on in the background of the lives we brush up against. A greeting and a smile could go a long way towards making someone feel that the world is not an entirely hostile place.
I’ve managed my own lonely times by reading. A good book offers a world one can sink into and become part of. Books – and public libraries – can be places for the lonely to shelter. But reading is a solitary pastime. Ideally, if looking to treat loneliness through reading, one would join a book club or discussion group, so the activity can be shared.
Perhaps the surest antidote is to develop, if not a love of solitude, then at least a tolerance for it, and find ways to make our alone-time fruitful. As we age, we’d be wise to cling fiercely to the skills acquired over a lifetime and continue to develop them. We should also consider taking up new ones.
With typical melancholy and pragmatism, Murakami insists
the older a person gets, the lonelier he becomes. It’s true for everyone. That being the case, there’s no reason to complain. And besides, who would we complain to, anyway?
Only ourselves, I suppose. But while recent statistics appear not to support Murukami’s assertion, there exists the possibility that older people are just more stoic, more habituated to their solitude and less comfortable revealing loneliness, even in an anonymous survey.
I ask myself as I write this: Am I ever lonely? The answer is, sometimes. Because writing is a solitary practice. It takes me out of the world for hours and days at a stretch. But I write in a house I live in with two other people, who I can go to at any time for company and conversation.
What if I were to lose them? The dark reality that shadows our small household’s happiness is that one day, I will – or they will lose me. What is to become of the one of us who remains?
Will they be as desolate as Eleanor Rigby? Will they listen through the too-long nights for Hank Williams’s lonesome train? Or will they mourn for a time, and then, sensibly, find ways to forge new connections?
Young people aged 12–24 make up a quarter of Tasmania's growing homeless population. Chloe Hume and Trent Kiely are two of them.
The banks of the Tamar River, flowing through Launceston in Tasmania, are lush and green.
On one side sits Trevallyn, a hilltop suburb with some of Launceston's most beautiful views and houses dating back to the late 1800s.
On the opposite side, a cluster of homeless people sleeping in cars and caravans have taken over a stretch of land near a $25-million redevelopment, the Silo Hotel.
One of the caravans has been home to 20-year-old Chloe, 23-year-old Trent, their cat Dexter and dog Rocky since May last year.
It might seem like a rough way to live, but for Chloe and Trent, it's the most stability they've had in a long time.
"It's our healing chapter," Chloe says.
"Our whole lives, both of us have been through hell and back pretty much, both in our own ways," she says.
"And now it's just really recovering so we can have a good rest of our life and just be happy. We're going to take it easy and get our mental health better.
"This is our paradise."
Last year, Chloe and Trent became homeless when their rental was sold. The couple found themselves priced out of the rental market with nowhere else to go.
Trent is recovering from a motorbike accident, still needing surgery to walk properly.
Chloe, who grew up in and out of foster care, had become homeless when she ran away from a group home as a teenager.
"If no one wants you, you just get put into a home with lots of other kids that no one wants.
"I really hated it."
Finding the caravan meant Chloe and Trent could finally have their own space after being rejected for multiple rental units, a chance to get back on their feet.
They pay $200 a week in rent to the caravan's owner, and spend $12 a day on petrol for a generator and $20 a fortnight on diesel for heating.
The only support they can lean on is Trent's family, where help is exchanged back and forward between parents, children and siblings.
"It helps out very well. We do it for the whole family," Trent says.
For Chloe, living in the caravan has been a positive change from her past.
"I like my life now," she says.
"[Trent] is the only person I've ever felt comfortable around. I've never really felt like I could be myself with anyone."
The biggest worry now is whether the Tamar River will one day flood their sanctuary.
"The most unstable part of living here. Isn't that funny," Chloe says.
That anxiety was at its peak during the cold and rainy Tasmanian winter.
"Every time it was pouring down, cloudy, it was like, 'it's getting higher, I don't want it'. Oh, my heart was sinking a lot," Chloe says.
Because Chloe and Trent have had no luck with rental applications, they decided to focus on making the caravan as much of a home as possible.
At first, they had no way to store food and had to carry water to the caravan in buckets.
"We'd eat noodles every night, and packet pasta and stuff. Lost all our weight," Chloe says.
With a fridge and a garden hose extension to get water straight to the caravan, life is much more comfortable.
There's one addition that they are especially happy to have: a washing machine.
Before having their own washing machine, the pair had to haul their clothes to the laundromat in taxis, and sometimes the cab would drive off on them.
"I felt unhygienic as a chick being here," Chloe says.
Chloe feels there is a stigma attached to homelessness and people assume most homeless people must have substance abuse issues.
"We don't necessarily want to live in a caravan or next to a river, but this is what we have.
"It sucks because people probably think we're just, like everyone else, junkies or something, you know?
"It makes it hard, because people don't want to reach out. They're probably too scared.
"It's not even that bad down here. People actually have to give us a chance."
Words: Nelli Saarinen and Abigail Varney
Production: Nelli Saarinen
Photographer: Abigail Varney
This photo essay is part of a larger photojournalism project examining Australia's housing crisis.
The Great Crumbling Australian Dream is a collaboration between Oculi photographers and ABC News, with support from National Shelter.
The series was made possible with a Meta Australian News Fund grant and the Walkley Foundation.
Oculi is a collective of Australian photographers that offers a visual narrative of contemporary life in Australia and beyond.
Photojournalist Rachel Mounsey follows Warumungu traditional owners in Jurnkkurakurr (Tennant Creek) as they tell stories of generational housing displacement — and their ambitious plan to reclaim their home.
Read the story
Louise Goode's fight for the place of "emotional comfort" she called home lasted a quarter of a century, until it was demolished in front of her as she screamed for help.
Photographer Aishah Kenton looks at three households embracing communal living to see if Australians can adapt their way of life as housing becomes ever more unaffordable.
Pets in the Park is a national charity focused on the health of companion animals whose owners are experiencing homelessness. Photographer Abigail Varney documented the volunteers and the animals and owners they encountered in Tasmania, Victoria and the ACT.
By Lachlan Haycock
At a glance
RSL NSW is committed to commemorating and supporting veterans of all conflicts.
The inaugural Middle East Area of Operations Commemoration , the first of its kind in the country, was held on 11 July. Initiated by members and hosted by RSL NSW, it is designed to foreground the remembrance of veterans of recent conflicts, and the concurrent and ongoing sacrifice of their families.
Check out a selection of photos from services in Sydney and elsewhere in NSW below.
Corporal Ron Schultz (below), RAAF Base Richmond Indigenous Liaison Officer, provided an Acknowledgement of Country.
Major Sarah Winter (above) of the Australian Army’s 2nd Health Battalion, illustrated the scope of challenges faced by personnel during deployment.
“Our job was intense and stressful, but equally essential to the lives of those [we protected].”
Present at the event were Her Excellency The Hon Margaret Beazley AC KC, Governor of NSW; The Hon Chris Minns MP, Premier of NSW; and RSL NSW President Mick Bainbridge, who read The Ode.
“Each veteran here today and across our state will hold different memories [and] reasons to commemorate,” said Bainbridge. “Please leave today carrying the memory of our fallen comrades with you. We will never forget their commitment or their legacy.”
Junior Legatee Ziggy Till (above, second from right) recited This Ode , a poem by Rupert McCall that mentions the name of every Australian who did not return home – including that of his father Brett Till, who was killed in Afghanistan in March 2009.
The day prior, Minns had announced a $2 million investment by the NSW Government to build a new war memorial dedicated to honouring the service and sacrifice of those who served in the Middle East area of operations, and their families.
While there are often resources spent commemorating wars with no living veterans, RSL NSW is committed to directing resources to returned veterans and their families.
Kane Hall (above left) laid a wreath representing the ex-service personnel who have died by suicide .
“It’s great to see RSL NSW and other organisations coming together to support my cohort of veterans,” Hall said after the event. “It was also great to see a modern service with its roots in older commemorations.”
“We need to continue looking towards the future.”
“It was the first time I’d heard This Ode by Rupert McCall,” said RSL NSW member Nathan Murphy, who served alongside RSL NSW President Mick Bainbridge. “Hearing those names being read by Tilly’s son was something else.
“It was very poignant.”
The service also featured a performance of Sappers Lullaby by Fred Smith, accompanied by Royal Australian Navy Band Sydney.
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