The Menteur Myth Issue 2024

U

MYTH2024

U

MYTH2024

Untitled 2

Invocation of the Muse 4

p a p y r i 6

Queen of Spades 7

Six Arils 9

Yelena Moskovich on Myth 10

Ascendance 13

Thank you for all you gave me

and I am sorry for what I took. 14

Centuries 16

Dr. Ben Hutchinson on Myth 20

Accidental Seascape 23

Light of the World 25

The Pain Of Coming Home 27

Accidental Landscape #1 35

Pouvoir, Force, Lunaire 36

Pulling Cards 37

cassandra of troy tells another lie 38

Ascension du coleptere 40

pandora 42

Xoài David on Myth 44

Myth of the Beetle 52

naturalisation (n) 54

Fertility Goddess Pentagon 56

chimney sweeping 58

spawn 59

The Waiting 60

Le Tub 62

African Roots 63

Dr. Eve Kalyva on Myth 66

Blue 69

Blue Skinned Gods 70

Fleur du Mal 72

With A Little Help From My Friends 73

Le Vase 83

The Kidnapping of Europe by Zeus 84

Jim Kylam on Myth 86

Daddy’s Dialogue 96

A Little While 101

Contes et légendes du Roi-Psychiatre 108

Jazz to Lizzie 109

The Gods of ProPpaku 110

Brohus Landskab VIII 117

Brohus Landskab VI, I 118

Brohus Landskab III, VII 119

Brohus Landskab IX 120

Dr. Ariane Mildenberg on Myth 122

Jazz to Lizzie 125

Delphi, Greece, 1982 126

As Long As It Stands 127

Jazz to Lizzie 129

Mistress of the Crap Mountain 130

Accidental Hero: Thin Place 138

Jazz to Lizzie 139

Heather Hartley on Myth 140


Grandmother for her myth and memory 148


the patron saint of the cucumber bin 152

Editor in Chief

Julia Yee

Assistant Editors

Amber Shooshani | Robert Deshaies II

Poetry

Robert Deshaies II | Kelly Lín

Fiction

Ashlee Camehl | Amber Shooshani |

Paula Becka | Gabriela Silgado

Non-Fiction

Jordan Garza

Photography

Davíd-Marcelo Arévalo

Art

Robert Deshaies II

Book Design

Dimitra Liva

Social Media Design

Ana Beatriz Borbolla Maroño

Marketing

Julia Yee | Alexandra Janeiro

by Julia Yee, Editor in Chief

The namesake of our magazine, The Menteur, was

inspired by the idea that ‘fiction is the lie behind

which we tell the truth’. The same could be said

of myth – this year’s theme. Regardless of whether

they are grand stories of gods and monsters, or

the more tangible tales passed down through our

ancestors, myths are rooted in the essence of what

it means to be human: the attempt to navigate

this one, beautiful, mortal life. In that way, myths

become us and we become them.

Myths are fundamental to understanding where

we came from and who we are. Myths give us

hope. They open our eyes to our past and our

future. They allow us to see the world differently,

through the eyes of others, whilst simultaneously

asking us to explore and challenge our place in it.

Cover art: Jim Kylam,

Mythe, 2024, drawing on

paper, 21 x 29.7 cm

Inside cover:

Xoài David, detail of

Ascension du coleptere, 2021,

linocut in lost plaque

technique (three layers),

35 x 50 cm

Print:

University of Kent, Canterbury

Such are the sentiments brought to life by the collection

of poetry, prose, art, and interviews within

these pages. Together, they create a constellation

of imagery and allegory that we hope invite you to

trace your own stories in between.

Our heartfelt thanks goes out to all our contributors.

We are honoured and delighted to share your

art with the world.

1

2

Untitled

Ila Shapiro, Untitled, 2024,

coloured pencils on

paper, 21 x 29.7cm

3

Invocation of the Muse

Tell me a story

of great pain and great anger.

Tell me a story of fury and rage.

Tell me of many voices,

faint and detached,

whispering honour into the dreams of soldiers.

Tell me of the wrath of a man too good to fight,

too scared to stop, and destined to die.

I want to hear of righteous glory

in the face of countless deaths.

I want to hear of Achilles, son of Peleus,

man immortal, blighted and damned,

play to the prophecy that plagues him.

4

I want to hear of his conquests

over the Achaeans and of how their bodies

shuddered

under that sword, that spear, that chariot,

those horses, his lover, his mother, his Gods

And his Goddesses.

Their bodies, soul-lighter, left to rot as

God-damned charred carrion in his wake,

unable to distinguish between the foot soldiers

and the mighty generals

downed by their hubris, such as the unplanned

plan of Olympus.

I want you to tell me in the way that you do.

I want to know every detail that I have no claim to.

I want to know of prophecies trivial, feeble.

I want to hear every lie.

I want to know every truth, again and again.

God’s whims and mortal plights.

A history that means nothing

in the face of a fight so brutal it burns everything to ash.

Juliette Evo Heurtevent

5

p a p y r i

helen of troy

used to be helen of

men

elaus didn’t ask

to be helen of any

one in this

godsforsaken war

doesn’t give a shit

about how

to pronounce

patroclus helen of

hymn of lure of

muse of myth of

mouth of o

helen of anything

doesn’t matter how

fragmented the

manuscripts they

do not waste

study on

the gaps

i am only ever

helen of

someone

else

Alexis Deese-Smith

6

Queen of Spades

For three days I sat in a hole staring up at the

moon. On the third night, I climbed out, carrying

the Queen of Diamonds on my back. Her tears

could sink a ship and sway the moon off its course. I

prefer an anchor to the earth.

Underground, mesmerised by the strength of her

own flame, Diamonds said, “Hatred is better than

indifference. You won’t understand, for you were

once eight pawns, and I was always a Queen.

Off with her head, off with her head, off with her

head.” I turn the statement over, until it is flat on all

sides, and build a rungless ladder out of it.

On the surface, the sky glitters and the grass shimmers

with rain. The scent of petrichor, worms in

the dirt, and a far-off city eroding itself.

The path is dense with leaves, green palms gently

slapping our faces. I slash through them, releasing

pent-up anxiety. Diamonds sulks, but her feet are

light as air. My energy bursts like a pulsar while

hers falters, a collapsing star. She floats slightly

behind me, silent.

My amber eyes glow and I growl, a low rumble.

I transform into a panther, streaking through the

night like fibrous lightning. I embrace my freedom

and lick the dirt from my paws. I sense Diamonds

has deserted me. It is never for long; her desires wax

with the moon. At New Moon she will pick a mate

7

and at Full Moon inevitably abandon him, folding

back to me.

This one’s pull was different, she’s convinced.

“You’re so beautiful I could cry,” he said, but then

he wiped away her eyes. They grow back, silver

reservoirs of sadness.

I never make that mistake more than once. As

a pawn I could not afford to. As a Queen, I am

infinitely more careful. If I shed a tear, it will grow

into a spear. I love the practicality of emotion, this

adornment of daggers. I carve constellations into

the sky with them, tracing our journey from one

harbour to the next, as fate shuffles us across the

stars.

Carella Keil

8

Six Arils

I wanted just a taste of life

A little one

A taste of pain but not a full bite

An amuse bouche

Instead

Instead

Instead

I was held in Styx

Not even by my ankles

A full dunk

An icy plunge

The world was safe

Until it wasn’t

Love was obvious

Until it became soft

A little rot makes heat

Insulates growth

The burn in your chest is supposed to be there

You didn’t know that?

Your ancestors didn’t tell you there would be no more deep breaths?

No more gulps?

You’ll get them now and then, sure

Just hope they’re green and sweet

Careful you don’t fill your lungs with the wrong stuff

The wet sucking whistle

You won’t know which of course

Is it a gamble when the odds are so uneven?

One day the ground was firm and then it shook.

You can never make your body trust it again

Love is not what you think

Neither is pain

And be careful what you ask for

Use specifics

Or maybe just let time reveal the shift

Stay above as long as you can.

Frankie Cain

9

on MYTH

Yelena Moskovich on Myth

10

How would you define myth?

The composition of universal psychic imagery

into a narrative that gives us further meaning or a

sense of cohesion about our human reality.

How has myth been prevalent in your life?

One of my first memorable encounters with myth,

I believe, was the stories in the Torah in a Jewish-American

school when I had just emigrated

from Ukraine as a Jewish refugee at age seven.

Though as someone who was never swept away

by story as much as language, I would say my true

relationship to myth began during those same immigration

years when I was learning English and

Hebrew alongside my Russian. Three different

alphabets, different landscapes, reading directions,

ways of transporting what I privately think and

feel into blocks of language that could be shared.

Have there been any myths that have oriented

you to the world?

The mythology of what is in my control and what

is not in my control.

Conducted by Robert

Deshaies II,

Assistant Editor

Photo: Davíd-

Marcelo Arévalo

Do you have any myths about yourself ?

Yes, of course, lots. The fact that I can say ‘love’

and ‘death’ and ‘hunger’ and ‘joy’ in not only different

languages but with idioms, imagery, abbreviations,

pictoral equivalents and so on, the space

and variation between these deep sentiments is a

living myth about my relationship to core elements

of origin and being.

If so, how real has the myth become?

As stated above, but to add: a very real manifestation

of myth is how I present my physical sense,

my clothes, style, hair, make-up, posture, gesticulation,

etc. I’m trying to communicate to the world

11

how I make sense of myself, where I’ve come from

and where I’m going, and how that seeks cohesion,

integration, or rejection, friction, with my external

given and perceived reality.

What’s the difference between a myth and a

lie?

That’s an apples to oranges dilemma, for me. The

essence of mythology is creating imagery and narrative

to give meaning, etymology or grasp aspects

of our reality. “A lie” is a term that comes from a

moral assumption, that there also exists “the truth”.

Myth does not need the existence of truth to come

into being.

What would you consider to be the most

impactful myth?

Dante Alighieri’s The Divine Comedy, for its use of

style and verse, its philosophical, theological, lyric,

gothic, and sensual tonalities. It has a bit of a smirk

to it. It provokes, but it’s also very romantic and

sentimental.

12

Lisa Mueller & Robert

Deshaies II, Ascendance,

2024,

acrylic on canvas, 62 x

100cm

Ascendance

13

Thank you for all you gave me

and I am sorry for what I took.

When I thought they were coming,

I hid you everywhere I could find.

I stuffed your laughter into pillows,

tucked your mind between books on shelves,

slipped your smiles behind picture frames,

hung your body in the closet,

in the pockets of old sweaters,

balled up in the soles of worn boots.

I peeled back my skin

to slip in our memories,

hoping no one would ever get that close.

In my haste,

I lost track of everywhere I hid you.

I do not even know where to look.

The pillows are flat,

the frames reused,

the sweaters eaten by moths,

the boots no longer fit.

Worst of all,

I lost you in my body.

Everything else they found,

everything but what seeped into my bones,

where I cannot find where they begin,

and I end.

14

You find your way into my life,

in the bodies of strangers,

not knowing they carry you,

as I do.

Somewhere in my body,

there will be what you gave me

and what I took.

Grace Bacon

15

Centuries

Mimi and I were childhood friends, and one day we

woke to find we’d both been turned into mountains.

Like mountains tend to do, we resigned ourselves to

this fate and got used to the way our skin now felt:

coarse, cold and craggy.

Humans settled at our feet and plowed the earth that

stretched out beneath us. Together, they weathered

out the cold, brushing the last of winter’s snowflakes

off their shoulders, and though the rain clouds

always came rolling down our backs, they treated us

with respect. Mimi was often afraid at night, fretting

over the way bears tended to attack the locals with

their giant paws in her forests. She did not like these

frightening incidents. I always listened to her, that’s

what friends are for, but privately, I saw her inability

to adapt to change as a sign of weakness.

We had a lot of laughs in those early days. Like when

the tree roots and mushrooms’ silky threads tickled

us. The insects burrowed deep into our flanks, crawling

into the smallest of our crannies. When the mist

hid her from me, Mimi would give herself over to the

pleasure of it, and would heave a big sigh. And then

another. And an even louder one. I knew exactly

what she was up to. When we woke the next day, I

greeted her coldly even though it wasn’t her fault,

she was just a lonesome mountain, in need of touch.

There were only old mountains around us. Once,

while eavesdropping on a couple of hikers on my

back, I learned that the locals believed fantastic creatures

lived in them. I wanted to be infamous like that

too, with people telling legends about me. I surprised

some of my visitors with visions, hoping they’d think

16

gods and devils lived in me too, but they often ran

away screaming, then kept me awake all night with

their flood lights. When I told Mimi about this with a

sneer, she said I was cruel and turned away from me

for the day.

The winters grew warmer and instead of snow, there

was only rain. Mimi liked the shoots that grew all

over her come January, but when a sudden cold snap

killed them off, she mourned them for days and I

was the one who had to console her. Her sniveling

annoyed me, I just couldn’t understand how a shoot

could be more important than, say, me.

But Mimi predicted something about the weather.

The trees grew sickly, the wheat fields dried out, and

the locals’ children rarely wanted to work at our feet.

Those who stayed behind grew wrinkled and stooped

and more and more sad. Their children moved away

and neither Mimi nor I could see all the way to

where they lived.

I had to call to Mimi more and more often, and

would tremble if she didn’t answer. The trembling

caused the locals to run out of their homes but some

didn’t make it fast enough and the houses caved in

on them. It alarmed me and when I grew alarmed,

I usually laughed. Mimi reproached me for killing

humans just for fun and that made me laugh even

harder.

We still had our moments. Like those rare times

when the sky was spotless and we could see beyond

the old mountains and could send hawks to those

towering heights of those we found appealing. If the

hawks came back with the message that they liked us

too, it made us giggle, our faces pink with the setting

sun. We combed each others’ crown of trees and

17

tried to guess how many years it would take for the

other mountains to reach us.

One day a foreign family climbed up my spine. They

looked different from the others, or at least, that’s

what we heard—to us, they looked just as small and

insignificant as all the others. The family was followed

by another, and then another. Some of them

prayed in between the trees, and some of them fell

to the ground with exhaustion. The locals did not

like them. Some of them stood on the edge of the

forest and yelled after them to leave. I was fond of

my locals, and didn’t like it when they were upset, so

I rolled the occasional rock down on the travelers,

and if they slept at my feet, I would crack my back

so they would think the earth might start to shake

underneath them. I wanted to show Mimi that our

people were much more important than our seedlings,

and she admitted that I was right. She liked

to glimpse them from a distance, liked when they

stumbled sleepily out of their homes and into their

cars in the dark, shone their blinking headlines onto

the road to work.

Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep at night, I gazed

at Mimi, admiring her lines, her summits, her trails.

Once or twice, I looked between us and noticed that

Mimi, assuming I was asleep, had drawn away from

me.

I was fine with this, but then again I wasn’t. I

dropped rocks on strangers, blew frosty air down

their necks, sent packs of wolves in their direction.

I wanted to get Mimi’s attention but at times like

these, she was focused on secretly edging further

away from me.

By the time Mimi caught on fire, the distance was

18

so great between us that a pond had started to grow.

The birds left the trees to investigate, animals scampered

towards the villages. The deer who couldn’t

escape fought for air; the squirrels screamed; the

wild boar wheezed. They all burned. Terror weighed

Mimi down and I wrapped myself in the forest fire

smoke, quietly waiting until it was all over.

Helicopters came. Wailing red fire trucks started

to hose Mimi down. Humans ran into the forest in

brightly colored vests and returned carrying suffocating

animals. Mimi waited for the last of the smoke to

disappear for days, and when the first weeds tiptoed

out onto her back, she opened her soil and swallowed

all the fallen animals. She showed me her festering

wounds, and I showed her the road the locals had cut

out of my flanks and told her not to complain. After

that, the only sound that broke the silence between

us was the whisper of the mosquito clouds.

When I glanced down again, the pond had grown

into a deep mountain lake in which the tourists

drowned every summer. The foreigners left, and in

their wake construction workers poured hot cement,

living in those houses the locals had abandoned long

ago. Sometimes I hear Mimi sigh, and for a moment,

I wonder if she’s having a bad dream because of me,

but I know it’s just the insects claiming her as their

home.

Réka Borda, translated by Anna Polonyi

19

Dr.

U

on MYTH

Dr. Ben Hutchinson on Myth

20


Myth, for me, is something like an instantiation of

Aristotle’s distinction between historians and poets:

if historians tell us how things were, and poets

how things might have been, myth shows us how

we have imagined (larger versions of) ourselves.

Unlike the past tense of history, myth is timeless,

because it never existed in time in the first place.

This is perhaps its defining feature – and often its

cruelest – allowing us finite creatures to see our

own anxieties writ large.

It’s also worth remembering that myth is not just

timeless – it’s placeless. U-topia means no place,

which means every place. In the West, we tend to

think of myth as either Greek or Roman, but it is

of course also Egyptian, Indian, Mexican and all

the rest.


In my work – in the field of comparative literature,

where reception studies are such an important

aspect of the discipline – myth is inescapable.

In my life, though, I have often found myself

wanting to revise or supplement the myths: why,

for instance, do we have an Oedipus complex for

youth, but no Odysseus complex for middle age?

Myth offers a structure of meaning, but it is far

from exhaustive.

Conducted by Robert

Deshaies II,

Assistant Editor

Photo: Davíd-

Marcelo Arévalo


you to the world?

Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill has always

appealed to me – but with Camus’s caveat that we

must imagine him as happy. For such, surely, is the

way to health and happiness: keeping busy, having

purpose. We all need our boulder.


21

That I am self-sufficient and self-determining.

Patently, I am not.


We become the mask we wear, to cite Oscar Wilde.

But it’s still a mask.

What’s the difference between a myth and

a lie?

Myths aspire to represent (or re-present) truth, albeit

in symbolic, universalised fashion. Lies knowingly

pervert it.


impactful myth?

Human perfectibility.

22

Christine

Hopwood,

Accidental Seascape,

2019, acrylic on

paper, 29.7 x 42 cm

Accidental Seascape

23

24

Light of the World

A reference to the Holman Hunt’s painting with

Jesus holding a

lantern, meaning he is the light of

the world. But really, it’s electric light that is the

true illuminant of the world. It changed our entire

way of life. We just flick a switch, but it’s still a

kind of magic.

There is a light bulb in California which has been

burning

continuously since 1910. We only have

to replace them because the Phoebus cartel, comprised

of

international electric companies like

Osram, GEC, and Phillips organised at a secret

meeting in Berlin in the 1920’s, to fix the life expectancy

of light bulbs

to a maximum of one thousand hours. The cartel

fined

manufacturers for any bulbs that lasted

longer than a thousand hours, otherwise, we’d

never have to replace them.

Richard Butchins,

Light of the World,

Photography , 2021,

76.2 cm x 50.8 cm

The clock mechanism is from 1920 and still works.

The computer parts are from a new Raspberry

Pi that stopped working after a couple of weeks.

Flowers will

replenish themselves forever if we let

them.

The disabled are now a commodity,

an industry has arisen from the need to

constantly measure

25

and designate our degree of infirmity

(which changes according to how they decide to

measure us)

all in the name of parsimony.

Richard Butchins

26

The Pain Of Coming Home

Lasha spat out the soup, and spat out some curses

while he was at it. There was one ingredient

wrong. There was always something not quite

right. “It tastes good,” said Irem, the woman who

had graciously let him stay at her place. “You did

a good job… why don’t you give it a chance?”

Lasha tried to explain himself. “Not home!” He

tried to speak in Farsi, but it was his eighth language,

and he was fuming. “This…” he pointed at

the soup, “Bad!”

“Why are you so upset?”

“Because not home. Not… home!!”

He looked at Irem’s worried face and decided to

let go of his anger. He breathed long and hard. It

was unbecoming of a bard to be upset at his host.

And Irem was so tiny, the years had made her so

small and frail. She barely reached his elbow.

“Good enough. Serves everyone,” he said, bitterly,

as he left the small kitchen.

While walking, he looked at the mud houses, acacias

and olive trees, and how the people around

him were so content with being there. He looked

to the arid landscape that surrounded them, and

asked himself about going back to his hometown,

alone… but… how do you say “I am afraid of

going home” in Farsi?

A pair of washerwomen waved at him, smiling.

He waved back.

27

Nobody in that village spoke Kartvellian, his mother

tongue. What if he came home, and he had completely

forgotten it? How could he show his face to

his family? They would tease him. “Too much of a

big shot to remember Kartvellian,” they would say,

and he wouldn’t even understand. He’d be lucky if

they let him stay the night. But his biggest reason was

that Lasha used to have a friend. More than a friend.

Lasha loved that man the way most men loved women.

That man was his sun and his moon. And he was

in Constantinople, getting married to a woman, after

the many sleepless nights that Lasha had spent adoring

him. “Where was home without his dearest?” he

thought.

“Bard! Bard!” Some children ran towards him. “Sing

a song, bard!”

“Sorry, no chonguri,” he said, showing his empty

hands.

“Please bard, we’ll bring it!”

“You bring it, then!” said Lasha. “Careful!”

The children ran inside Irem’s house, and he could

hear Irem’s concerned tone when they began to

rummage through the bard’s things. After they came

back with his stringed instrument, Lasha examined

it.

“Chonguri not dead,” said Lasha, amazed.

“We were good to it!”

Lasha laughed. And so, he put himself to work.

28

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He sat on a rock by

the river, under the moonlight, by a tree with colourful

pink flowers. A blossom fell into the water

and floated downstream. He stared at it. No matter

where he went, he could always count on at least one

of these trees to be around. Usually, they made him

feel better.

This time, he felt worse. He did not know where to

go next. He could visit another city, but, he thought,

being in a new place with nobody he knew would

make him want to die. So, how about a city he had

already visited? Not Constantinople, where the wedding

was happening. And not Baghdad, too many

memories. Damascus? He felt powerless to walk such

a long road.

The river seemed appealing. But… no, he wouldn’t

end his life like that. The idea of fading away was

fair, but not the idea of leaving behind a corpse.

Maybe he could be swept by the river, downstream,

until he reached the sea, never to be recovered again.

Oh, what silly thoughts.

On the other side of the river, in the vast empty

plains, he saw a blue light. He looked more intently.

A woman was holding the blue light. She had long,

dark hair reaching her waist. She wore an ornate

winter dress. It was odd, it was not cold enough for it

anymore. He stood up on the rock.

“Hey!” he called to her in Farsi. “Lady! What you

doing?”

She didn’t answer.

“Excuse me!” he said in the language of the Abbassids.

“Why are you outside at this hour?!”

29

She stopped. She looked at him for an instant, and

then, she called back:

“Your accent… are you Kartvellian?” She said in

perfect Kartvellian.

Lasha smiled, and some tears fell down his cheeks.

No other language sounded as sweet. “Yes! Yes! Born

and proudly raised! Yes!—”

The night became foggier, but the moonlight showed

him a clear path. He crossed the river, he did not

remember how. He saw the blue light again. He

smelled that soup from his hometown, the one he

had tried to share with everybody. This one smelled

like it had all the right ingredients. “Dear lady! Did

you make soup? It smells heavenly!—” In the fog, he

did not know where to look, “My name is Lasha— “

He stopped. There was a cottage nearby, and it

looked just like the ones in his hometown. It was

illuminated by blue lights. If he had paid attention,

he would have noticed he couldn’t see the moon or

the stars.

The door opened. She had a different dress, just like

the women of his hometown wore, and her hair was

tied in a long braid. She smiled at him, “There you

are, Lasha!”

Everyone in the town called him ‘bard’, because they

couldn’t pronounce his name, but she said it perfectly.

The woman began to guide him inside. He wanted

to enter, but he stayed put. “Hold on… I am so

very sorry, could I ask you your name first?”

“My name?” She giggled, and gave him the slightest

30

pat on the arm. “You’re funny. How about you guess

it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare…”

She looked at him. Her eyes were big and hazel, and

her smile was friendly. He began to falter. He did not

have to ask her anything, after all. She had the right

to keep her secrets, didn’t she? But he stayed put.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “come back tomorrow night,

and I’ll answer all of your questions.”

Lasha blinked.

He stood up. He had fallen into the river, and he was

soaking wet.

Irem woke up early that morning and saw the bard’s

clothes drying outside. She called him for breakfast,

and he came out of the guest room with a stuffed

nose. Once he described what had happened, Irem

looked at him, pale as a ghost.

“Bard… No.” How do you explain what an evil

spirit is, to someone who struggles with the word for

‘daytime’? “Bad woman. Don’t follow her.”

Lasha looked at her, confused. “What is ‘follow’?”

Irem explained it using her hands, pretending they

were people. “Do you understand?” Irem asked, after

some moments of struggle.

“Follow is… when people… dance?”

“No.”

31

Lasha crossed his arms and looked at her with a concerned

expression. “I’m no know.”

Irem shook her head in frustration. Then, she stood

up, and pointed at Lasha to go to the other corner

of the room. He nodded, wishing to see where this

went. She walked behind him. Once he arrived at

the corner, he turned back, and Irem was right there.

“I follow you,” she said. Lasha had a realisation.

“Oh! Follow!” He nodded in excitement. “That is

follow!”

“Yes!” Then, Irem became serious. “Do not follow

the woman.”

“Why?”

“Not woman. Bad.”

“Spirit?”

Irem stopped, visibly confused. “You knew that word

all along? Yes, spirit! Bad spirit. Kills people.”

But Lasha could not stop thinking about her.

That night, Lasha wandered in the quiet night. He

stayed on the rock, with pink blossoms falling around

him. When the moon was up, he saw the blue light

again, approaching him. This time, he was doubtful.

A part of him wanted to follow her, but he remembered

what Irem said, and wondered… was it worth

it?

There she was, on the other side of the river. “Good

evening, dear Lasha,” she said, smiling. “Why are

32

you so far away? Come, come! I have good food for

us.”

Lasha smiled too, but then stopped himself, “What

happens after that?”

Her smile struggled. “Cross the river.”

A small but powerful part of him refused. “You said

you would answer my questions.”

“Cross the river,” she repeated.

He really did want to obey. “Are you going to kill me

if I follow you?”

She paused before she said: “This is your home!”

He did not want to leave, but he turned back. “No.

No…” He ran in the deep darkness, until not even

the stars could guide him.

He was out of breath.

His limbs felt heavy.

He kept running.

He needed to go home.

Even a not-quite-right home was better than a

dream.

Some children were playing in the river, when they

saw him emerge from the water with a gasp, terrified

and confused. He had been missing for three

days. After he was brought back to Irem’s, he was in

bed with a fever for another three. All he could say

during that time was “I am home” in Farsi, but he

33

remembered nothing. The village had been there to

help Irem look for him, and later, to take turns keeping

an eye on him.

When he opened his eyes, he was covered in sweat.

His throat was sore. He was in Irem’s guest room,

tucked in with thick blankets. Someone, a joyful

man with a powerful moustache, told him something

in Farsi. Then, the man repeated himself, slowly,

“You… well?”

“Yes?” answered Lasha. “Awake.”

The man gave Lasha a big hug. Then, he ran out,

and kept screaming in Farsi. Lasha could tell by his

tone that he was happy. After a while, Irem ran in,

covered in tears.

She kissed his forehead. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Lasha looked behind Irem, to the many people who

were coming into the room, and he said, with a

smile, “I want to make more soup.”

Cristina Alvarez

34

Christine

Hopwood,

Accidental Landscape #1,

2023, acrylic on

painting paper,

210 x 297 cm

Accidental Landscape #1

35

36

Pouvoir, Force, Lunaire

Pulling Cards

I drew tarot cards today

– a simple three-card pull.

I was Strength,

the lion that represents courage and compassion.

You were the Moon,

who hides a truth, or presents an illusion.

And our outcome was the Six of Wands.

In short,

a success, triumph, victory.

I’m forcing it.

I believe in the cards.

Ayesha Mukherjee

Jim Kylam, Pouvoir, Force,

Lunaire, 2020, Oracle

cards, 7cm x 12cm

37

cassandra of troy tells another lie

tricked again by the splash of light on a wall

you thought coming back would

soothe the tension headache that was

spreading from your hair follicles

into your mouth and through your

fingertips grabbing hold of your nerves

and forming already scarred knuckles into

fists with moon shaped dents in your soft palms

you know too much

watching the world pass you by

you wonder if that’s your fault

even in your best moments

there is a question in your eyes

even at your most comfortable

you question the breath that leaves

your lips and you wonder

who is this person i inhabit

at your worst you are an imploding star

there is heat coming from your red

rimmed eyes but you have lost your fire

you are devolving

it’s a quiet process but it leaves a black hole

an absence of light and an event horizon

no one dares approach what’s left of you

you will destroy them

in moments like these

you are not allowed to break

there is not much left to break

as soon as the sunshine hits your face

you’ll be gone

and the soft tones of you will fade

and you will leave behind a mess

and you will not be missed

it’s a last goodbye that says

you are not needed

38

you with your loud sighs

you will not come back to this place

you will be tricked by the light

you will become a shadow

and holding time in your hands

you will wish there was not so much left

in a quieter world you would have been gone by now

in the moment before the moment

running your hands through your

impossible hair and down your sloping

waist passed the lightning bolts on your sides

there will be a whisper

there was never more than this

Amber Shooshani

39

40

Ascension du coleptere

Xoài David, Ascension du

coleptere, 2021,

Linocut in lost plaque technique

(three

layers), 35 x 50 cm

original print for sale,

contact

xoaidavid@gmail.com

41

pandora

unforeseen, he knocked

his star-spangled toga dripping red

sugar, boiling to brimstone.

held at chisel-point, it took one crack

to uncover the marble perfection

underneath

soon i was plastered onto billboards

glossy magazines

in flashes like deer pelts

and i thought of my father on that mountain,

couldn’t tell whether rushmore or caucasus –

and look at me now, patina-pretty

beaten from bronze

alabaster bare, singing to you –

happy birthday mister president.

deceiver, all-giving, first woman (not first lady)

the cat that got my tongue, cat

killed by my curiosity, the taxidermy

rug in the oval office

lion choked by bare hands

and father, freedom is the eagle that eats out your liver

every day, you damned immortal,

let us be tempted

expel us from this sprinkler-filled garden

have some coke. have some cake. it’s a birthday after all.

ever woken up in this body?

still burning from the forge

still molten from metamorphosis

these lights still flashing

repeating your name, crowds of them, strangers,

42

pressing in.

they say i’m conceived to bring

our downfall, but lifting that lid, after everything,

i knew there was no sin left to release.

Xoài David

43

on MYTH

Xoài David on Myth

44

In conversation with

Robert Deshaies II,

Assistant Editor

Photo: Davíd-

Marcelo Arévalo

RD Hi Xoài, thank you for being here.

XD Thank you for having me.

RD Our editorial team has decided to feature

you as an artist spotlight based on your amazing

submissions throughout this year’s edition of The

Menteur. But before we get to that, I heard you had

a question for me.

XD Well, it was more like a theoretical question

for submitters, which was: how did you approach

the theme of ‘Myth’ in this year’s Menteur?

RD One of the questions I asked a few of our

previous interviewees was: what’s the difference

between a myth and a lie?

XD Ohh. Interesting. There are so many

multifaceted ways to approach the definition of

myth, but I always like to approach myth from its

storytelling aspect. When I saw ‘Myth’, it immediately

brought me back to my high school art class,

because I chose that as a theme for my diploma

project. I explored a lot of actual mythology and

fairytales, like Arabian Nights and the French Peau

d’Ane. Because for me what I really was interested

in was how you could use any medium, art or writing,

to tell stories. Which obviously sounds really

broad, but I was just really interested in how stories

were, like, this vessel for emotion and culture

and lessons.

RD So, returning to that time, were there any

particular mythologies that helped orient you to

the world or give some narrative purpose?

XD There was one story from Arabian Nights

that I illustrated, where the princess was trying

to save the man from this genie, and there’s this

whole transformation battle where the genie and

the princess transform all kinds of animals to

defeat one another, and she ends up sacrificing

herself. Not to save the man, but just for the purpose

of vanquishing evil. I found that very mov-

45

ing. Another big one that has stayed with me for

a long time was the myth, or the story, of Samson

and Delilah. There’s this Regina Spektor song that

I think a lot of people know and love as much as

I do, called Samson. There’s a lot of vulnerability

in that song, and that story at large, about cutting

the hair to take someone’s power. I remember

going to so many hair salons to draw this, and I’d

draw people cutting hair at the salon, or in certain

scenes on film, because it was such a conveyor of

intimacy. You physically transform how someone

looks and touch them in a very different way. I’ve

learned how to play that Spektor song on the

piano. I started switching the words outs to make

it queer. I love how it has transformed that song

because there’s this one line that goes, “the history

books forgot about us, and the Bible didn’t mention

us,” and I find that’s very pertinent to queer

people. That myth has stayed with me for a long

time.

RD Does the appropriation of “Samson” also

feel like the appropriation of myth? Do you find

appropriation prevalent in your artwork, whether

it is a reorienting or modernizing a myth for personal

use? In painting? Writing?

XD I find that the point of a lot of these myths

is to be appropriated. A piece I just submitted for

my workshop mentions Judith and Holofernes,

which is another story about a woman taking

power over a man, but that’s just my feminist side,

I guess. But, yeah, I love exploring all the different

depictions you can have of one story by so many

different artists, different ways they see it, how they

might focus on a character slightly differently, different

lighting - just the drama of it is fun. I think

some of it, a lot of these stories, the point is to be

depicted differently. I remember this one month

where I was really obsessed with looking at Jesus-

46

es, but in different cultures, so Asian Jesus, Arabic

Jesus, and I just had this collection. I go through

these little phases of obsessions. Then I move on

to the next obsession.

RD What have you been working on recently?

And would you describe what you’ve been working

on recently as prevalent to our theme this year?

XD To be honest, I looked through a lot of my

old work, like “Pandora.” That dates back to high

school, so there’s always a crossover for me with

what I’m doing in writing and what I’m doing in

arts. Then there was “Fertility Goddess,” which I

did make, first and foremost, because I was trying

to explore different printmaking techniques,

but I had always had an interest in pre-Christian

religions and “outsider art” and primitivism and

particularly prehistoric art because I went through

a phase as a teenager where I was interested in

Pagan religions and Wicca, and what was really

refreshing was how fertility was not stigmatised,

but celebrated. There was generally more worship

for birthing entities and women, and sexuality

overall, and I thought that was really refreshing.

So, “Fertility Goddess” is an echo of that, especially

because of my love for prehistoric art. I

love paying homage to people who are everyone’s

ancestors. My second tattoo and my fourth upcoming

tattoo are cave paintings, so it’s something

that’s always been close to me.

RD Have you found any myths about yourself

that you’ve created along the way? It sounds like

you’ve been steeped in myth for quite a while.

XD Yeah, I tried to answer that question. It

was an interesting one. I think it’s very hard for

us to have a, how do you say in English, prendre

du recul, taking a step away from oneself. We’re

always very much in our own space, in our own

bodies, and in French, they say avoir le nez dans

47

le guidon, which is having your nose in the handlebars

of your bike so you’re not looking at the

road. I think you learn a lot about yourself when

you journal, and when you look back years later

through your entries, you see how you’ve grown,

and I wouldn’t say there are any ‘myths’ because

it’s a lot more subtle than that. Your growth or

maybe your de-growth, sometimes your deconstruction,

which is equally important, is a lot more

subtle than that, and I wouldn’t use the term

myth. I’m very honest with myself, and maybe

some other people might struggle with this myth

concept within themselves, but I’ve always been

pretty direct about psychoanalysing myself and

not bottling things up or telling myself lies about

myself; at least, I hope. So well so far.

RD That kind of brings us back to the first

question I asked: What’s the difference between

a myth and a lie? You’ve answered that question,

it seems, through your journaling and the way

you’ve already tackled the “myth of self ” as you’ve

rooted out any discordant narratives, so it actually

refrains from being a lie.

XD Yeah, I guess. And it’s also these stories

where you turn your own experiences into stories,

but you keep them for yourself, like moral lessons,

because myth is also like a fable or a moral tale or

something that you can learn from. Like, certain

stories from religious texts, people might not

believe that happened for real, they just know it’s

there for the lesson.

RD Let’s talk about your most recent exhibit

at the Ressourcerie, La Petite Rockette. Did you

find myth emerge as a theme, however subtly, at

the showing?

XD I’d say a little bit, yeah, because a lot of

the main chunk of that art exhibition, which is at

the ressourcerie, was from my final year of French

48

art school, and you can say it has creationist

elements because I was very interested in “outsider

art” and scientific illustration. I was really

fascinated by these cross-section diagrams where

we just look at how everything is made, so it was

approaching a lot of vegetal themes where you

looked at a child interacting with like a cross-section

of a flower or like a frog where you could see

all the intestines inside the frog; I’m really into

creepy stuff like that. For me, you could say that I

approached the myth theme in the sense of “the

sacred” because that diploma project, which was

about biology and cross-section examinations, was

very much about the sacrality of life. I remember

working on that project and thinking we all have

water molecules or carbon atoms or whatever

whether you’re a human or a frog or a plant and I

thought that was really beautiful way of thinking.

If you’re religious, you could say we’re all God’s

people, we’re all made by God, and if you’re

non-religious, we’re all children of Mother Nature,

or we’re all made of the same things, and that has

that mythological sacrality.

RD I agree. Most creation myths are entangled

in the sacredness of creation. There’s also the

myth of how things are put together. In your exhibit,

I saw that you’re trying to look at how things

are assembled—why things are the way they are.

XD Thank you. I’m trying to mix a lot of

various things from my palette. I tried to show a

bit from every range, but that aspect was the main

chunklet.

RD Fantastic. Last question. As you attend

the University of Kent’s Paris School of Arts and

Culture, have you encountered any myths inside

Reid Hall, our residence?

XD I thought this was a really cool question

because, in many ways, America is a myth, and

49

I grew up in many countries; I went to international

schools, and there were a lot of American

people everywhere. Everywhere I went, there

would always be an American person. So, I was

very much part of that little bubble. I thought that

was interesting, and then, for maybe 6-7 years,

I was outside of that bubble. I went to French

school, I worked with French organizations, and

so coming back to this particular place, with the

similar private school elements where privileged

American students attended, was very interesting;

to be confronted again with that mythical aspect.

Because America’s a myth. So many people all

over the world could quote an episode of Friends or

How I Met Your Mother. You can’t really do the opposite,

going to a Western country, and ask if they

can sing a Vietnamese song or quote a Vietnamese

film, for example. So it’s interesting to be looking

at that again. I find it really fascinating.

RD Would you say there is a lack of translation

between East/West and West/East?

XD I wouldn’t say that. It’s not about East

versus West. It’s really about America specifically

and how it has such cultural dominance and is on

a pedestal. People are not necessarily aware that

that’s not the norm all over the world. It’s just that

everyone knows about it, but that’s not the way we

live everywhere.

RD Thank you so much, Xoài. I appreciate

your time, and we look forward to displaying all

your selected work in this year’s The Menteur.

XD Thank you very much for having me. I’m

looking forward to the release.

50

51

52

Myth of the Beetle

Xoài David,

Myth of the Beetle, 2020,

Linocut, 37 x 30.5

Original print for sale,

contact

xoaidavid@gmail.com

53

naturalisation (n)

1. The admittance to a foreigner of the citizenship of a country

2. The introduction of a plant or animal to a region where it is not indigenous

naturalisation (n)

1. Action de conférer la nationalité d’un pays donné à une personne qui ne

le possède pas

2. Acclimatation durable d’une espèce (animale, végétale) dans un nouvel

environnement

3. Taxidermy

Xoài David

54

Our

Beautiful

Republic

Does not believe in

Hyphenated identities.

Your language, dress, faith,

Remove them with a quick

Incision. Wear gloves.

For this paper you leave

Everything at the door. Take

No other names but

The one we give.

Drain out your insides

Flush all foreign matter

And like good little ducks

Stuff yourselves with

Everything that makes our

Nation beautiful.

When you’re done

Slip into your old skin

Zip it up

And get to

Work!

Notre

Belle

République

Ne croit pas aux

Identités plurielles.

Langues, habits, foi,

Retirez-les avec une incision

Rapide. Mettez des gants.

Pour ce papier vous laissez

Tout à la porte. Prenez

Aucun noms hormis

Celui que nous donnons.

Videz vos entranger

Et comme de bons petits canards

Gavez-vous de

Tout ce qui rend notre

Nation belle.

Quand vous avez fini

Renfilez votre veille peau

Fermez-là

Et au

Boulot!

Xoài David

55

56

Fertility Goddess Pentagon

Xoài David,

Fertility Goddess Pentagon,

2020,

Intaglio (dry etch, soft

varnish, and sugar aquatint

on zinc plates), 9 x 21 cm x

5 vignettes

57

chimney sweeping

(spring ritual)

The hearth hasn’t felt sunset’s touch since autumn frosts

hours of daylight stretch, brushing the dark stone

till the solstice marks the swinging

back of the pendulum.

trees dropped their limbs so we could keep warm through the winter

so a bird or burrower could line their nest

so the fungi and insects could feast in its rotting matter

burn down to its barest form

and carpet the naked soil.

oxygen-bearers, I sift your ashes free of coal

and the dust of you permeates the air

gray silk cinders I toss you to the chickens, killing fleas

I toss you to the crops, killing pests

I strain you with river water through fine cloth

the dark gold lye drips through, transformed by fire

tree body I boil the lye with the fat of an animal who gave its life to feed me

no part of you will ever be wasted, for lye and lipids to react, meld and bubble

you will become soap, and when I wash myself with your

reincarnated form

soap from the trees, soap from the duck’s winter skin, I will be clean, and give

thanks.

Xoài David

58

spawn

growing up means you realise your body functions without your permission.

it makes carbon and faeces and people. and whatever scandal is shaking up

the internet that day, whatever fast-forward circulation is occurring around

you, a quiet cycle takes place within, as old as the first ever breath, as old

as the damn fish crawling onto land and the cycle doesn’t care what you’re

wearing, what exam you have tomorrow, who’s buying you a drink, who’s

driving you home. the cycle exists only to grow an unbroken line. you can’t

unknow peeing on a stick, can’t undream the child with your father’s eyes,

this figment of code within waiting to materialise, waking up, you still feel

it, the tiny figure in your arms, understanding what happens behind a summer

tan, abs, and a new tattoo. under the mantle lies a deep, burning core,

a potent mix waiting, and in that moment, in that schrodinger’s cat moment

waiting for the two lines to appear, the boy is so far removed he doesn’t exist.

whether true love, or passing lover, he knows nothing, will never be intimate

with this being that simultaneously does and does not grow within you, you

poor guy, you will never be as close to another person as we are now, will

never be bound and wired to something existing, you lucky bastard, born

with the favoured chromosome, into your permittable ignorance, your inconsequential

childishness, your inevitable freedom, you sad man, born without

the gift, without the terror, of bearing such a new and living thing.

Xoài David

59

The Waiting

Summer has said Her goodbyes; Her welcome

warmth dissolved into winds that bit into skin

bitterly. The memory of luxuriating in light is suddenly

far from the mind, lost to the winds of time,

as if the warmer season ceased to exist. Summer

makes Herself scarce just like the breezes that

had once briefly brought relief during the heat of

those months.

Winter rays are hesitant. Most days, they stray and

prefer to stay far away, behind curtains of ominous

rainclouds. The glass of my window is not

warm to the touch. The pitter-patter of Winter is

common, rather than the potential found in early

summer mornings before the world wakes up. The

Winter grows wrathful, throwing deadly bolts of

lightning and roaring thunder as its rebuke for

our yearning. It withers the flowers and saps the

strength from the trees. Gaia weeps as the spectres

of the forest stand with hands outstretched towards

the heavens. All that the sky can do is offer

rain in reply to his lover’s cry.

A budding red rose grows, a reminder.

The season melts slowly, into Spring; so gently, one

barely notices. Until, one day, it isn’t raining as

often anymore. The canola field is growing again.

You sleep with one or two less blankets. Strawberries

stain your teeth and fingers red. The world is

rose-coloured and wondrous. Nature’s perfume

is in the air: honeysuckle, lavender and rose. The

forest is lush. The strength of the sun returns.

You lounge and lavish yourself therein. And then

60

you remember, you listen, closely, to that silence

that buzzes with potential. You hear birdsong and

ocean waves and laughter and a turning page.

Kelly Lín

61

Le Tub

(Ekphrasis inspired by Le Tub, a bronze statuette of

a woman bathing by Edgar Degas.)

This time she refuses to crouch, or slouch

Crumpled and crooked trying to reach

Behind her knees,

Between shoulder blades.

This time she reclines regally,

Semi sinking, half submerged

In the tub – her celestial cauldron,

Shell of divine deliverance.

Water laps at neck and hips,

She grips the edge of her cage,

Readying to emerge again.

Hair heaped over the edge,

Soul spilling, uncontained

In this container from which she was wrought.

Curled up, hands furled,

Legs crossed, bound,

Tightly wound,

Waiting to burst forth

Or slip deeper into her moon mother.

Does she belong to this world, or another?

So still, she lays

Lost in thought.

Goddess and girl—

Continuous cycle, made then remade

In milky shallows that ebb and flow

Around her elbows.

Star flung, cosmic bather,

Flexes her feet and stretches her toes.

Julia Yee

62

African Roots

My world was so large because it was allowed to be.

My trees are mighty and singular beacons on the

land of my birth. Around me, there is not another

tree for hundreds of metres. Many of them stand

alone and close to the shore. The mountains want

nothing to do with things of thirst— water is sacred.

Scarce. Down the shore, they feed on the trickling

leftover streams on their way to the ocean.

In the vast expanse of my homeland, trees stand as

solitary sentinels, each one telling a story of resilience

and survival. The one that survived more than

three forest fires in my lifetime alone, is my tree. I

would play for hours under its canopy, tangled in the

branches, my feet ungrounded. I remember being

a resourceful seven-year-old, scouring for a sturdy

branch five metres up into the sky. A rope was to

be attached. Little, but determined, I dragged it

through dried seaweed and sand, bushes and wetland.

It was a journey that only I understood, a mission

that forged an unspoken language between me

and the wilderness. Dad, who grew up in the juvenile

shadow of that tree, did not try to understand my

quest because he did not have to. He understood that

I was communicating in the language of explorers

and shamans, and all the people that travelled this

land before us.

Where I’m from, in this unrefined land, it’s the

shrubs and the flowers that connect us to the Earth. I

find it nearly impossible to describe how royal I am.

I am wealthy with the southern breezes bringing the

cleanest air from the South Pole. Amongst my flora,

I am the richest in the world. I walk barefoot to the

sea. Squishy undergrowth absorbs the mountain

63

water that trickles down to the ocean, creating an

almost permanently damp path. Soft. The ground

is black with nutrients, and it stains between my toes

where the water seeps through. A mark of ordinary

commute, but a sign of my connection to the land.

Shrubs brush against my legs, my arms, tickling my

stomach. In passing, I rip off a handful of leaves,

twisting them around my hands for a moment before

discarding them. The other hand carries my snorkel.

Sunshine, warm and golden, is being claimed by the

afternoon shadows growing behind me. I measure

time with light, not minutes. I read the time with my

fist between the sun and the mountain. Occasional

buzzing comes from life contained within the shrubs.

Sun beetles hiss, but lull when I approach. I think of

the sand I’ll soon reach on the small beach and of

how there are more stars than all the world’s sand.

I think of atoms and how mine are just mine for

no time at all. The vastness of the ocean before me

and the mighty range of the mountains behind me

remind me of this infiniteness I was once part of and

that I will return to.

Where I come from, invasive trees threaten this

balance. We burn the black wattles, whilst we dance

between the fynbos. I remember a tree perfectly

centred in the quad at Kleinmond Primary, a circular

sandpit surrounding it. I would climb the tree

repeatedly to its lowest branch, sit for a second,

and then drop down into the pit, amused. One day,

another nine-year-old took up a position right on my

landing mark. I was forced to correct, twisting my

ankle. Ouma bandaged my foot to remind me of my

injury. She said that it would heal faster if I knew it

was there. The tree might have been inaccessible, but

its fallen branches became swords, and the sandpit

turned into a pirate’s world. I was a peg-legged pirate

for the next few days.

64

The trees in New Jersey are rarely climbable. Mostly

they are manicured for the suburbs. The trees are

good, I remind myself, but they are not familiar.

They have no mountains to remind them of their

place. I feel finite amongst them, as if I am trapped

in a painting. The artists of the Hudson River School

would surely disapprove of the untangled trees

lining driveways. If they could even be called trees.

Was this the American Eden they strived to create?

Or was their vision of the American Dream simply

distinct from picket fences and perfect families,

people-watching from their porches? Are all Edens

made to be finite? Even mine? Will my tree wait for

me? I have to remind myself that this is not where

I come from. It does little to alleviate the self that is

trapped in the picture frame.

In my world, the boundaries were vast, limited only

by the horizon, and the trees were mighty beacons

that anchored my sense of place and belonging. Still,

I would lose myself for hours, dreaming, my feet

suspended in the air as I explored the world from

deep inside the tangling branches of my tree. Here,

I look up and lose myself amongst trees that are

pin straight and covered in poison ivy. I keep to the

pavement, scared of unknown insects and expensive

healthcare. The footpaths in America might be

paved in gold, but I hear Ouma’s words at the gate

before my flight echo, “‘n Voël verander van kleur

maar nie van veër, my kind.”

Tahlia Botha

65

Dr.

Dr. Eve Kalyva on Myth

on MYTH


Myths are encoded stories passed on to us.

Meant to have a deeper message behind what

they are obviously saying, their sources are

vague and aggregate, and so do their content

and meaning. Collectively, myths function as

carriers of values, assumptions and beliefs (or,

more broadly speaking, ideologies), both informing

an individual’s world view and behaviour,

and shaping communities, interpersonal

relationships and hierarchies. From an anthropological

and sociological viewpoint (cf. Roland

Barthes), myths articulate certain understandings

about the world and, notably in the modern

era, power relations.

How has myth been prevalent in your

life?

For my generation, myths have been prevalent

in the creation of national, gendered

and professional identities—for example, the

construction of “Europe” following the Cold-

War imagining of the “West”, the position of

women in society and in relation to marriage

and motherhood, and the neo-liberal deregulation

and marketisation of higher education

66

Conducted by Robert

Deshaies II,

Assistant Editor

transforming it into a competitive for-profit

assembly line governed by supply and demand

in crude financial terms.

Have there been any myths that have

oriented you to the world?

Aesop’s myths in terms of diligence, honesty

and virtue. There are important lessons about

justice too, but that is becoming an

increasingly mythical and illusionary myth in

our world today.


Not in the sense of the definition I gave above.

But I have upheld misconceptions about elusive

concepts such as agency, freedom and justice

once or twice.


Rather the opposite, following on from the previous

answer. I think there is an inherent sense

of failure in myth—or expectation to do so—

whether that concerns its narrative, application

or relevance to a particular context. Otherwise,

we would never learn.

What’s the difference between a myth

and a lie?

The difference is in scale, magnitude and temporality

(i.e. individual versus collective, direct

source versus aggregation of sources); as well as

in terms of prevalence, function and finality of

application. We internalise myths that in turn

shape our beliefs and behaviours at a collective

level, even if we might disagree with specific el-

67

ements these myths have at an individual level.

A myth prevails precisely because it functions

beyond the specific and, as Barthes explains,

beyond language. Lying in the realm of ideology,

its field of operation cannot be debunked by

logic alone, the same way a lie can.


impactful myth?

Of the “West” as a bastion and defender of

democracy, law and justice either domestically

or abroad—a grant narrative that builds on the

failed project of the Enlightenment. If unbridled

piracy, plunder and genocide have sent us

back to the Middle Ages, I was told that an age

of “Enshitenment” is likely to follow.

Christine

Hopwood, Blue,2008,

oil on canvas with

portland stone

ground,

60cm x 40cm

68

Blue

69

Blue Skinned Gods

1 A queen ruled the island,

divine blue skin and trident in hand.

Her kindness a gentle warmth

and love like everlasting sky.

5 We chanted Her name

during grey storms;

in a sea of earth, she sang back

“Look at me instead.”

9 She soothed our wounds

with milk and yellow root

and her skin, always shining,

dimmed in His presence.

13 His eyes held embers

and his skin held the sea.

Snapping her trident, he screamed,

“Worship me.”

17 The queen sobbed, under his thumb,

quiet like rolling thunder,

but when we bowed

her eyes held the same embers.

21 The rains came and with it whispers.

His skin dulled, then chipped.

Underneath was skin like ours,

earthen yet cheaply celestial.

25 “He’s like us!” someone shouted,

and we pushed him to the sea.

All that remained was earth skin

and red on the beach.

70

29 She grew tall with attention,

drinking the fear laced love,

but I saw the difference,

saw that her skin was also dull.

33 His paint didn’t survive the rains,

hers’ didn’t survive the heat.

While others sang, eyes closed,

I saw skin like mine underneath.

37 Her fires replaced the blue shine,

as others kneeled with folded hands.

But I didn’t have the courage to speak,

so I closed my eyes, and pretended not to see.

Anu Kumar

71

72

Fleur du Mal

With A Little Help From My Friends

(Based on a true story)

January 13, 1947

Ibagué, Colombia

Dear diary,

My name is Rosa Lemendro and I am 14. I live

with my mom, dad, and nine siblings, in a big

ranch with a pool to enjoy the year-round summer

of Ibagué, and with maids and grounds men to

take care of everything for us.

Here, we grow green plantain, tomatoes, feijoa

(a guava-like green fruit that I never quite got the

taste for), coffee beans, mango, mandarin-lemons

(an Ibagué specialty that combines the sourness

of the lemon with the sweetness of the mandarin),

and many other trees that have the kindness to

feed us their fruits.

My siblings and I all share rooms, but, as the oldest

girl, I’m getting a bit too old to share with my

annoying 9-year-old sister, Ruby, so in a few days I

will be leaving for catholic boarding school. When

I asked Roberta, my life-long nanny and maid,

what she thought of this, she told me how lucky I

was that my parents would want the best for me

and advised me to take advantage of all the nuns

could teach me.

Christine Hopwood,

Fleur du Mal, 2004,

drypoint, 40 x 30cm

But, as a little girl, great grandma Mila told me

all the stories about some ‘evil’, powerful female

phantoms that have terrified entire regions of

Colombia for centuries:

La Colmillona, a siren-like apparition of beauty

and grace until you get a little too close, and if you

73

are a cheater, a drinker, anything like that, you will

get devoured.

La Patasola and La Llorona, women in pain, who

lost their children because they themselves weren’t

quite born to be mothers, but their loss was nonetheless

a gargantuan one.

La Madremonte, protector of forests and mountains,

whose cries can be heard through devastating

storms and floods. I think I’ve heard her at

times back home, diary. She pursues and mysteriously

disappears those who would do her real

harm.

People believe they are all villains, but great

grandma had a different idea, and I now kind of

understand her.

Even though Roberta would yell at me, I’ve prayed

to all of these powerful, ancient women that it

takes a long time to make me “well-rounded”.

Three of my classmates have already been taken

out of school to be married off to rich landowners.

One of them is already 6 months pregnant.

She didn’t even get to finish school. I’m not ready,

diary.

January 16, 1947

They walked me down a dark wooden corridor

with doors on each side and carpeted in dark

fabric that smelled like feet. Each door had a cross

and a little plaque with a name on it.

The nun who showed me to my room gave me a

once over, grimaced, and left me behind with my

parents. The uniform I was forced to wear to get

inside the school is made up of a long linen beige

74

dress and a blue WOOLEN SWEATER. In 30°C

weather. They are trying to kill me. I tried to appeal

to my parents one last time. I did not want to

stay, so I begged them to take me back with them.

My mom was unmoved; my dad at least raised his

shoulders in apology.

March 25, 1947

It has been two months of 5am wakeup knocks,

gross oatmeal or plain toast breakfasts, praying

circles that would get your knuckles bruised if

you didn’t know the prayer by heart, dishwashing

duty at lunch, sewing and etiquette classes in

the afternoon and 9pm bedtime, and I can’t do it

anymore, diary, I will absolutely go insane. I miss

Roberta and Ruby; I miss running around the

fields and catching fresh fruit from nearby trees. I

need an escape and tonight, the nuns have their

weekly card game at the central church at La

Plaza de Bolívar. I have spent the last two months

listening to doors closing, lights turning off, late

night prayers and gossip sessions, and now I know

exactly what to do.

March 26, 1947

The lights were off in our dorm building at 9pm

as usual and in the next instant, I snuck out of my

door. I ran down the stifling corridor and found

the door the nuns use to come check on us or

leave fresh towels and toilet paper in the communal

bathroom. It was open, diary!

I dressed in all black so I could blend into the

forest that sits behind the school (forbidden for us

girls), I sent a prayer to La Madremonte to avoid

snakes or any other kind of dangerous creature in

75

there, and I walked all along the edge until I found

the school gate. I followed the gate into the forest,

and I only had to walk for about 15 minutes to

get to its edge. It. Just. Ended. I was so happy; I

ran out and followed the gate back into the street.

I walked for what seemed like hours, but I kept

looking at my watch and it said it was 10:13pm

when I reached the first store in the town centre.

I kept walking and followed the dim town lights to

a busy street, where I decided to go inside the first

restaurant or bar I saw to avoid running into any

of the nuns – or my parents.

And there he was, diary, I can’t tell anyone but

you. Heraldo. He was so handsome, and he smiled

at me as I walked into the bar my parents had

always warned me about. Billares. A place for bad

people doing bad things, according to them, but I

only found hope and cute smiles. I tried a beer, it

was bitter and gross, but he seemed glad to see me

drink it, and then it gave me the most wonderful

sensation of freedom!

But, ah, Heraldo. He and I talked for hours, he

asked me what I was doing there, and I lied, I

said I lived down the road and was waiting for my

brothers. He didn’t notice that they never came,

and when I had to run away at 10 past 12 he

didn’t complain, he only asked me to meet him

again next week.

I’m going to do it, diary. Even if he is 29 and I had

never heard of him. I need to see him again and

I need to get out of this horrible place where my

parents have forgotten me.

76

April 28, 1947

I’ve now seen Heraldo four times in as many

weeks and I love him, diary, I really do. He’s kind

and funny, he’s taken me on nighttime walks

around the town, always watching out for me and

taking care to check around corners for the nuns

or my descriptions of my family members.

I am also now a professional beer drinker. Every

time I see him, he buys me one, and I’ve gotten

used to the bitter taste.

But here is my big news, diary: He has asked me

to marry him, and I said yes! My heart is so full!

I am to meet him tomorrow morning at La Plaza

de Bolívar, he will take me to church and we will

get married and I will finally be free!

May 12, 1947

Diary, I am now a married woman. 14, married

and happy, can you believe it?

My parents almost died from the news, but in the

end, they promised Heraldo and I a house, to send

over Roberta –oh, how I’ve missed her–, and I’m

officially out of the nun prison!

Our wedding night was a bit painful, Heraldo

was very drunk (I guess so was I) and he kind of

attacked me. I bled. It wasn’t good, but the next

day Heraldo promised it would be better and it

has been feeling nicer as time goes by.

We have moved into our new house, a small but

nice little place with all white walls and a room

already set up for future children. Heraldo has

started working with my dad on our land. It was

his only condition to accept the union.

77

September 17, 1947

Dear diary,

I haven’t written in a while, turns out being a wife

takes a lot of time and sacrifice. Heraldo came

home drunk again last night. My 15th birthday

and he didn’t even remember it. My father fired

him a few weeks ago and I don’t know where he

gets the money, but this is happening more and

more often. The bruises are also taking longer to

heal and sometimes I wake up in the middle of

the night and find him inside me. I am in pain all

the time and Roberta said she thinks I might be

pregnant.

15, pregnant and with a husband that only seems

to want to drink and climb on me. What can I do?

December 26, 1947

Dear diary,

My parents have cut me off. They asked me to

leave Heraldo, they even said they would take me

back at home. I went back for a few days, but I

missed Heraldo, and Roberta couldn’t come with

me! He wouldn’t let her.

My parents tried to be nice, but I could tell that

they were annoyed with me. They still hadn’t fully

forgiven me for marrying Heraldo without their

permission, and I’m realizing that they sent me to

the nuns because they just didn’t have the time or

the desire to take care of me anymore.

Diary, I missed Heraldo, I really did. And I know

the man I fell in love with is still there. Two days

ago, he gave me a necklace with a heart on it for

Christmas. He loves me and I don’t want the scandal

with my friends to be worse than it already is.

78

I have started sewing dresses to make the doctor’s

bills and Roberta’s wages. Heraldo takes care of

the rest; he is not so bad as my parents make him

seem.

February 28, 1949

Dear diary,

It’s been a long time. I have been busy holding

up my family on my own. I now only see Heraldo

on the weekends and his arrival fills me with such

terror that I almost prefer that he would just stay

away. Little Eduardo is doing well. He’s fat and

strong, and crawling around the house. Roberta

is good with him. I wish I could be too. I now

understand La Llorona and La Patasola, left alone

to raise children they did not ask for, practically

abandoned by husbands who would chase anything

with a pulse. Diary, you’re the only one I can

tell, I find myself talking to them at times, whispering

into my pillow, commiserating as if we were

sisters in arms. They don’t answer, but I feel better.

August 3, 1949

I am tired, diary.

Now I understand the stories. I wish La Colmillona,

La Llorona or La Madremonte would come

and save me now. Take this cheating, drinking,

vicious man and make him so scared that he’ll

disappear into the forest to never be seen again.

Eduardo grows well, but I’m afraid I’ve infected

him with a deep and terrible fear of his father

which he, in turn, blames on me. Another life

grows inside me again and I feel it tremble as well

whenever her father is nearby.

Two days ago, Heraldo came home with a car.

79

A car, I tell you. While his family eats potato skin

broth for most meals. He apparently won big on a

card game at Billares and he bought himself a car.

A Jeep Willys CJ2A, to be exact. He made sure I

learned that.

What can I do now? I need someone to help me,

diary.

He’s dead, diary.

July 7, 1950

Heraldo is dead.

I can’t believe I’m writing these words.

Little Tania –Heraldo chose the name, same as

with Eduardo—, was born in March and he managed

to be there for the first month. It seemed like

his money had run out and he couldn’t afford to

not be home.

The Jeep stood parked in front of our house

for months, until a woman stopped by, said her

husband really wanted one of those and would

Heraldo give him a ride to see if he would buy it.

He refused, at first, but he quickly realized that

if he didn’t sell that devil’s chariot, he would not

even be able to eat anymore.

He left to take the man on said ride, but he didn’t

come home after.

I was used to his disappearances, but when a full

week passed without one sign of life, I went to the

place where the woman told me they lived.

There was no house there.

80

I walked the border of the cliff back to town.

Kicking stones and feeling guilty for leaving Roberta

with two children at home.

That’s when I saw it. There were tire marks leading

off the dirt road and into the cliff.

I risked a look on the edge, and I could see broken

branches and bent up trees all the way down the

steep hill.

I ran back to town and alerted the first police

officer I found. At first, he didn’t believe me, but

after a lot of screaming and arguing on my part,

he allowed me to take him to the place and then

he alerted his colleagues.

Some knew about the car and admired it; two of

them volunteered to scale down the mountain and

search for it. They came back with blank expressions

on their faces.

They saw the damaged trees and broken branches,

but that was it. They decided that the car had

bounced off the ground and fallen much deeper

into the trench, where they couldn’t reach it.

Me? I knew my prayers had been answered.

At his funeral, I came across a widow and her kids

sitting at the front pew of the church.

She smiled at me. She seemed about Heraldo’s

age, at least in her 30s, but with beautiful black

hair and a kind smile on her face, she could’ve

been younger. And then she introduced me to her

children: Eduardo, Talia, and Martín. Mónica was

81

her name and she seemed to know me already.

I laughed all through the funeral, diary. I couldn’t

stop, even through the priest’s dirty looks. Mónica

laughed with me. Only we knew what kind of

man our husband was, and only we could be truly

relieved that he was gone. What or whomever

made it happen.

I laid a bouquet of wildflowers on the dirt where

I saw the tire tracks, and when I lifted my head, I

could’ve sworn I saw three shapes hiding behind

the broken trees. But then I blinked, and they were

gone. I walked home, excited to see my children,

and Roberta.

Gabriela Silgado

82

Ponxe Premier,

Le Vase, 2023, 3D

render, 21 x 29.7 cm

Le Vase

83

84

The Kidnapping of Europe by Zeus

Ponxe Premier,

The Kidnapping of Europe by

Zeus, 2023, coloured pencil

and black ink on paper, 21 x

29.7 cm

85

on MYTH

Jim Kylam on Myth

86

In coversation with

Julia Yee,

Editor in Chief.

Interview originally

conducted in French.

JY Ok, first question, what are the stories that

inspire you in your art?

JK I immerse myself in a lot of esoteric, medieval,

and occult imagery, and I draw universally

from archetypes and emotion.

JY What do you mean by archetypes?

JK Archetypes are a strong symbol. For

example, when I draw a plant, it is not necessarily

a plant that exists. It’s more the symbol of the

plant, of nature. Like a human being that is not

necessarily gendered but more the symbol of the

human, the archetype of humanity. And then I

add my own feelings and poetry to it to transform

it into art.

JY Do you write poetry?

JK Not often, but I’m starting to. I also like to

add words into my artwork.

JY You like to use ancient symbols in your

art, right?

JK I use universal symbols that have been

present for hundreds of years. For example, the

vase is a timeless symbol across many civilizations.

And it’s very related to myths. When I was little, I

was a big fan of everything that was Greek myth

and Egyptian myth – I had all these books on

them. When you’re young there is a wonderfully

magical side to the stories.

JY Magic inspires you a lot in your art?

JK I’m more interested in the world of alchemy

than the practice of magic.

JY Are there any books, or music, or works of

art, which inspire you?

JK I like to create through music. I see the realisation

of an artwork as a musical composition,

with its own melody and rhythm that I draw out.

In terms of works of art, I have been inspired over

the years by art singulier, art naïf, and folklore.

JY Are there any specific myths that inspire

87

you, or that maybe guide you?

JK Not necessarily. I think it’s more unconscious

than that. Thinking about it a bit more, I really like

the myth of Icarus. I like the symbolism of going towards

the sun, the possibility of burning your wings,

being drawn to the light.

JY How did you find your unique style in art?

JK I didn’t go to art school, so I had to overcome

my lack of formal artistic education by working

and drawing a lot, which developed organically

into my own personal style.

JY How would you describe your art style?

JK I think there are some people who may find

my work rather simple, but if you start to dive into it,

there is more to it – another level to discover.

JY Yes, I see it. Do you have a preferred medium?

JK So, that’s my problem and my strength: I like

to do a little bit of everything.

Now I’m starting to paint again, but before I was

more into working with paper. It depends on my

state of mind at the moment and the nature of the

idea.

JY Are you inspired by specific colours? Because

I see that you use a lot of blue and earth colours.

JK I did graffiti for a long time, and in graffiti, I

used a lot of colours that were more classic and a bit

flashy. So, when I started painting, I used those same

colours. But, after a while, they made me frustrated

because I thought they were a bit too simple. And for

one or two years, I completely stopped using colours

completely – focusing on black and white.

Now I tend to use colours that are a bit ugly or dull,

and by mixing them together, it creates something

harmonious.

And the blue, well, I don’t know, it’s a fixation I have.

When I was little, I went every summer to the sea

near Marseille, and I’ve always been drawn to the

88

89

90

Mediterranean.

JY When did you start creating art?

JK I started with graffiti, around the age of 13

or 14 years old.

JY Why graffiti?

JK It was inspiring! I think it was a time when it

was still a little new, during the emergence of subcultures

like graffiti and skate in pop culture, which we

saw on TV. I come from a small town in the south

west, in the middle of the countryside, and I remember

my friends and I told ourselves we wanted to do

the same thing.

And I think that as a teenager you always want to

rebel against something, against society. You want to

do something a little bit different.

JY Is there anything else that you would want

people to know about your art?

JK I hope that in seeing my work there are people

who say to themselves, “I can also create”.

JY You want to inspire others?

JK I want to inspire people, not necessarily aesthetically,

but in the spirit of creativity.

JY Because the creation is for everyone.

JK Yes, exactly.

JY And what are your upcoming projects?

JK I’m working on a pop up shop at Seinograph,

in the 9th arrondissement, around objects and

decor. I’m also starting to prepare for my own exhibit

in October at a galerie in the Marais, organised by

Colloque.

91

Artist profile, text by Hélène Maes

Self-taught artist Jim Kylam elaborates a graphical

universe constituted of symbols and ideograms

tangled or facing each other. Whether on paper or

skin, on canvas or wood, the artist creates stories

and allegories, urging the viewer to appropriate

and interpret them.

Permeated with mystical and religious iconographic

elements, influenced by outsider art and by the

universe of filmmakers Alejandro Jodorowsky and

Kenneth Anger, the work of Jim Kylam proposes

a modern rendering of ancestral signs which becomes,

through his work of composition, a means

to apprehend and read the world that surrounds

us. Often imbricated in mirroring construction,

the symbols seem to evoke the ambiguity and duplicity

of all things.

The breadth of Jim Kylam’s visual vocabulary

and of the references spreading through it highly

contrasts with the economy of means which is

characteristic of his work: becoming more and

more monochromatic, the workmanship beautifully

sets off the symbols which are drawn without

ornaments, simply yet forcefully arranged.

Artist’s Website: https://kylam.fr/

Artist’s Instagram: @ jimkylam

Artist’s Threads:

https://www.threads.net/@jimkylam

92

93

94

For the full interview in French, scan here.

Photos:

© Valentin Fougeray

95

Daddy’s Dialogue

Dogger balls, handles, tight lines in pull – that is

your face.

Full glasses stood knives apart on my nose, how

is... how is this at your end?

Your eyes. My eyes...his loneliest to be. Did you?

Do I?

Spectacle hence made, I, I,

my blindness taking a Red colour—

This swim of an Auburn glaze spreads open like

retina on the bitumen gone Black.

Your blindness. Our eyes.

I do not see you, you. Not me. Not me.

Your pull of arms again, my sleeves running short

of hands.

Bloody drip, belts twice the size for the front seats,

your drive like XUV in a perpetual pose, taking

speed, I am running out of you.

Quiet print of colour on cuts of paper, a Blue kind

is the only one I know with you.

Then how, how dare you be blind? Call me not.

Blind lines split, split, scattered open the fog

on sod. I, I, I am more than water on grass.

A daughter to you almost saying your name.

Your daughter to you.

Grim her skin is loose on fabric, the calico threads

stitch up to her nape when I see,

my high neck wool strangling me about collar

bones, baby steps, foot, foot, legs two of this

baby I am born. Crawling mother, am I, I, I am

climbing my height high rib by rib.

You breathe. I sleep both baby eyes inside her

womb again.

Linear paths, stony bridges crashing the gates out,

do not, do not do what a daddy does. Be my father

to me.

I find my girl’s doorways to say, say, one more of

96

her tooth away from a scream.

I am, I am saying Is she with you? She is a friend.

Saying how long do you see? Oh but daddy we

meet first.

Saying green peas to serve over dinner, boiled

potatoes, dishes! Dishes!

I don’t do the dishes daddy. Hers a hand, one, two,

five, five times curving there I find your fingers on

latch—

mine go pulling fringes down frocks like crimson,

Teal, Mauve,

a Violet kind. I will paint it white this time.

The more expensive paddy grains, her mother fed

you all I see.

Yes daddy this is all you see.

A nasty kind that is me. Your better shape on culde-sac

a shadow,

I came, I come spraying primordial Black colour

on walls of neighbourhood.

Am I, I, I am outgrowing you, squeezing my skeleton

in. Of me, of you, of you.

Which bone do you keep?

So I am. So you were. And so I am again.

Yes, a nasty kind you are.

Junior coats, your damp anorak, rush of feet from

outside the boulevard,

this is your, your wet leather that prints her silhouette

a visceral blow, then a clink of a burst on windshields,

She, she, your wife is stitching my mother to me

out of glass fibres.

Too much Brown, this is when you say it is too

much Brown.

Soles of shoes like thump, thump, thump

a cry from grey coal tar before run my eyes dry

looking,

97

still looking at the silver screen on stones. All these

spheres are circles on my face—

Is this, so this is the way to go blindly home.

Running noses, two, two, we make a whole of two

inside your mobile animal.

Scraping, my fingers like one, five, seven, and then

the metallic flesh on ten.

What is this grey dust? The dust. The dust!

Daddy! The dust!

Our ashes. We made ashes inside bodies of metal.

Not a slap on me, your fingers decaying right on

wheels.

Too late to be loose. Too late to lose.

You save the bones for her, her, hers the skeleton

of a husband – are you coal at my doorstep?

Blue, Cyan, Turquoise, Azure, I will paint the sky

Black this time.

A night sky.

Enamel layers, Calcium deposit, and then You

bloody don’t shut me up!

I do not.

And then Dare not darling name me. Do not call

me by my name. I can, can, I cannot eat

tongues of me. Don’t you bloody say anything!

I do not.

Until That dead dowry, your father pays me not

for you. But you, you...

Do you stay my wife to me? All that dead matter

flaked out what blisters on paint.

Don’t you colour me up! Colour me up!

I do not.

Or, is it that Red Rouge collating in her eyes, unhinged

from day seventeen,

what berserk Blue never stopping the drip, ever so

unhinged so she is the maddest right now.

Your push of a dry line up her forehead so down

the road she can only cry—

cry, red rising damp, cry

98

like you do not, you do not talk on teeth.

Mine the jaws go soft with mother’s milk!

like Don’t I tell? I, I, I am talking to your milk

teeth! This child of a man! What child for my

man!

I am not.

Like tell me, do you tell me? Darling dear, how I

leave at tips of my blocks,

twice my count, I am keeping two less without my

molars now,

chew, chew, chewing your words to this catarrh in

my throat.

Not biting anymore my lips, I ate them up.

What is this now like What do you say? Are you

telling me anything? Don’t you tell me

anything! My name. My name! Are you telling me

anything?

I am not.

Like Wooden cases, tonight may be a table of

glass, the living room,

my baby girl, Ivy, Ivy, must you find me dead in

this house.

I do not.

I am dead in his house.

I am not.

Is she dead in this house?

I am not.

Are you dead in this house?

I am not!

Two to one, she is not. I am.

Babel reducing to monologue

binoculars for eyes,

I can spot window panes pied

in her Brown, in your White coat.

Spit, split, a slash, your muscle memory kept in

fibrils—

are you, are you, you are thinning this glass on

99

your side of this motile animal.

My eyes I throw out on the wayside of the road.

Palms and papa both on wheels running, running,

running away.

Must you find my dead body everywhere in this

house.

Walking, walking your footprints to my body on

polythene sheets

I press her shape in the front seat of your limousine

on your silver skin easily now.

Him and her, him and her, you and her—

This is the sound of my footsteps home.

Leather Brown, wearing now and then,

I am dragging my dead body home.

Ananya Dutta

100

A SHORT COMIC

A Little While

A Little While

Script by Robert Deshaies II

Illustration by Ana Beatriz Borbolla Maroño

101

102

103

104

105

106

107

Contes et légendes du Roi-Psychiatre

C’est la légende de Serlain, le chevalier un peu charrette

Et de ses compères Xanor, Helex et Niravam

Eux seuls sauront dénicher l’anti-mite

Pour les mythos à pattes qui me broutent le ciboulot

Méhaignié ! Dans ton donjon brisé,

Un autel à la gloire de Triazolobenzodiazépine

Le dieu méga relax

De la vaisselle pas faite et des heures stone sur mon lit

Sa cosmogonie psychotrope

Est emballée de plastique et d’aluminium

Couverts de petits noms qui ne veulent rien dire

Myorelaxez-lui la gueule ! s’écrie Xanor

Gare au pamplemousse ! s’écrie Niravam

Helex entonne un chant bucolique : « Voici venir la mydriase »

(sur l’air de « Voici le mois de mai »)

Tout tourne tout tourne

Me voici Sisyphe de la dyskinésie

Enfermée

Dans ma pharmacopée parano

Je me souviens

Orphée aux enfers de l’officine

Jouait du robot modulaire comme personne

Et je lui ai dit

Bonjour madame

J’ai une ordonnance pour trois boîtes de Xanax

Et 100mg de Sertraline par jour

Bénédicte Eustache

108

Davíd-Marcelo

Arévalo,

Jazz to Lizzie, 2022,

digital photography

Jazz to Lizzie

109

The Gods of ProPpaku

The Gods of ProPpaku were not known for

their looks, and that is me phrasing it in the most

respectful way. Their appearance was simply not

godlike. If a researcher would have the possibility

to ask a random sample of people from across the

world, across history, to describe the physique of a

God, surely none of the participants would come

up with the fluffs we, the people of ProPpaku,

were dealt with. The first informant would paint a

picture of a bright pink woman, with an almighty

trunk covered in the most colourful and brightly

shining crystals. The second one would name the

bark of a Ceibo tree, with its dense crown and

spiky thorns. A third would, with a mild horniness

in their eyes, sketch a centaur with shiny hazelnut

brown fur, a symmetrical six-pack and the eyebrows

of a supermodel. They would go on and

on: A glittery river in the Amazon rainforest that

accepts the offers thrown into him with a graceful

splash, marble statues with perfect jawlines in one

of those draining museums one finds in the capital

cities of European countries, an overweight lion

whose fat cheeks are covered behind red polished

manes. So many flavours of divine beauty would

be considered and dug up, but not the blurry silhouettes

of the Gods of ProPpaku.

The only word that comes to mind in trying to describe

the appearance of our Gods is: undefined;

but not in a spiritual way. The Gods of ProPpaku

were not like the incorporeal Abrahamic God.

Nobody would faint when being exposed to their

divine light. If one would make a satirical drawing

of one of our Gods, no angry believer would set

the flag of your country on fire. Our Gods were

110

OK with being cut out of wood, or being painted,

even in crappy acrylic paint from a discount

brand. Not that anybody would get the idea to

make a visual representation of these blobs. Not

even the most postmodern of art students would

come up with this. Would it be considered a waste

of materials? One hundred percent.

Don’t get me wrong. I can’t say the Gods of

ProPpaku were ugly. It was just that their shape

and appearance was lame, a mere nothingness in

grey scales. As if somewhere between Ares and

Hera, Homer spilled some ink and the Goddess

Kilikki was born; abandoned from the Illiad, not

even good enough for the underworld and therefore

commissioned to ProPpaku. The Goddess

Kilikki liked to emphasize that the Gods of ProPpaku

couldn’t be bothered. ‘The divine stands in

sharp contrast with all this ostentation,’ she would

say. Hardly any holy creature was spared. ‘How

come they don’t get that what holds pure beauty,

is the divine itself ?’ she regularly asked herself. ‘It

is pure blasphemy. Shallow and superficial. Why

do humans always need some aesthetic object to

pray to? I respect the invisible face of Allah more

than all these Greek peacocks or Hindu dandies.’

Her favourite example was Jesus. Everybody knew

one glass of pink wine was enough to get the

Goddess ranting about the king of the Jews. ‘This

wavy hair! Who gets a two hundred coins haircut

before being crucified!? His lower body definitely

suggests that leg day was never skipped. I’m sure

he’s delighted they nailed him to the cross without

wearing trousers. Well, I myself have other things

on my mind than fitness and hairstyling products!’

111

For us, the people of ProPpaku, it sadly was never

really clear what exactly Kilikki and the rest of the

Gods had on their minds. In fact, it was a complete

mystery to us what their purpose was in our

lives. As far as we knew, they simply had always

been there, but we couldn’t figure out in what way

they benefited us. Could they offer protection? Answers

to questions concerning the universe and the

purpose of our existence? Consolidation? Some

nice chants? All we got were some tales about their

lives, that were neither delivered by charming story

tellers nor presented to us through goosebump

inducing traditional song. When the God Huzpokki

started talking about his origins, his words had

a bitter flavour, and he kept going on irrelevant

sidetracks to emphasize his insecurities and fear

of failure. It is not easy to admit, but we sometimes

envied the Shintoists, the Christians, or the

Pemon. Not only were their Gods visually breathtaking,

but they also had some serious narratives

going on. Stanzas full of moral guidance with real

life relevance. That’s what we wanted, too!

One day, Marika, our spiritual leader, decided it

couldn’t go on like this. She had been reading a

Chassidic story and the message was astonishingly

clear to her. A woman was travelling per sailing

boat and took her most valuable property, a diamond

ring worth more than five thousand coins,

with her. When the people on the boat found out,

they tried stealing it in various ways. One more

clever than the other! The woman decided to

throw the ring in the lake. After which, peace returned

to all passengers on the boat, including the

woman. ‘Indeed, earthly possession is a stressful

matter! Such a transparent take home message!’

Marika thought to herself and decided to take

112

action. She collected signatures for a petition in

which she requested one story containing moral

advice reflected in clear metaphors. When five

hundred signatures were collected, she handed the

petition over to Bassaku, the God of Gods, with

the words ‘Please, we need some sense of direction.

Especially in today’s political landscape.’

‘You want me to go and wear a silk neck tie with

diamonds stitched on it and throw it in the river?’

Bassaku asked. We were bewildered by this question,

since nobody had mentioned any kind of

tie. ‘Political landscape. What human makes their

Gods responsible for politics? That’s a man-made

thing. I grant the first one of you that finds a holy

text that is occupied with politics inner peace

for three months.’ We had no idea that Bassaku

could give us peace of mind like that and, to be

honest, were a bit wary of the situation. But three

months was a lot, and surely enough to get the

reading rooms of the theology, philosophy and

anthropology libraries booked out for weeks. My

cousin found a section in the Laws of Manu, in

which a king is reminded that in military matters,

poisoned weapons should be avoided, and enemies

should not be attacked if injured or disarmed. But

Bassakipi laughed in her face and said something

about Aristotle and whether you need religion to

not release gunfire on an injured soldier. We were

used to lines like this coming from the ash grey,

nebulous bulk of emptiness that was the God of

the Gods of ProPpaku. At this point, it was more

than obvious to everyone of us, including Marika,

that our Gods were not going to tell us stories with

a transparent message. We concluded that we had

to work with what we had, and so we tried. Our

spiritual leader gathered twenty-seven ProPpaku

113

people –I had the honour to be among them— to

reflect on a tale the God Huzpokki once told us:

On a spring day, hundreds of years ago, I found a yellowish

sponge. I soaked it in water, rubbed soap on it, and started

cleaning the house. Sadly, the sponge was of poor quality. I

threw it out of the window and decided to use the leaves of

the two hundred years old oak tree in my garden. It worked

much better for cleaning. But, to my surprise, my hands

started itching after a while. I realized I was allergic to the

tree – or maybe the chemical reaction between soap and oak

leaves caused the irritation. Nevertheless, I had a problem.

In the meanwhile, my neighbour, the ninety-year-old

Suzanna, who had cut the sponge out of a big piece of sea

sponge that she personally fished out of the sea close to her

hometown, miles away from ProPpaku, knocked on the door.

When I opened it, she threw the sponge she had seen flying

out of the window in my face. She was very offended. It

was a sponge, so it did not hurt. But, if it had been a stone

and I hadn’t been a God, my life certainly would have been

in danger. From that day on, I decided to ask the children

from the neighbourhood to clean. Till today, the children

clean the house, using different materials, sometimes with

more and sometimes with less success, and yes, every once in

a while, with a slight allergic reaction.

We stared at Marika, our spiritual leader, as she

was rubbing her eyes, as if hand movements could

erase desperation. What was the moral of the story?

Somebody suggested the sponge was a symbol

of violence. Another one said the throwing of the

sponge was reminiscent of Protogenes, the famous

painter. Myself, I thought the story was utterly

boring, poorly structured, and badly written. I also

pointed out that it was quite unlikely that a male

God would come up with the idea of cleaning the

house. All I noticed around me were sighs, rolling

eyes, and sunken shoulders. A young lady tried to

114

lift the spirits. “When master Yunwen said Buddha

is a Kanshiketsu (dried shit stick), it left scholars

debating whether he meant a ‘stick’ of dried-up

faecal matter, or a dried stick to clean your anus

with.” Nobody really engaged with her comment.

We briefly focused on an older woman who interpreted

the tale in such a way that exploiting children

would be justified, but only if you suffer from

certain allergies. My cousin carefully suggested the

story meant that we can live in harmony together,

regardless of our priorities concerning cleaning

tools. While shaking our heads, we chatted about

the Tikal people. They used sponges in ceremonies

involving transition and transformation, as

these magical objects could make water and other

liquids disappear and reappear. We thought about

Jesus’ wavy hair and his holy sponge. How generations

of theologists could agree, in the friendliest

ways, that Christians around the world could suck

up God’s love like a sponge. All there was left for

us to suck up were the vague stories of the Gods

of ProPpaku. The meeting was ended without

reaching any conclusions. I am embarrassed to

admit, that this is how the story of the people and

the Gods of ProPpaku ends. Till today, we live

together with altering phases of mutual acceptance

or the type of frustration that can be felt

under your nails. For a while, we, the people of

ProPpaku, tried finding consolidation and moral

guidance in modern philosophy and science, but

our fluffy Gods float by too regularly and always

blur any potential insight for us to trust anything

too based on concrete facts. My cousin argues that

our religion is superior to all others, because of the

intellectual freedom our Gods give us. Last year,

she finished her dissertation titled The enlightened

mode of being in ProPpaku: When religion is omnipresent

115

but physically and narratologically underdefined. I don’t

think anybody really read or understood it. Good

for her, she got a top grade. Let’s hope she doesn’t

radicalise.

Personally, I often still envy the Zoroastrians, the

Sufis, and the Yoruba. When this feeling overpowers

me, I pay a visit to Marika, our spiritual leader.

In the meantime, she got convinced that, since

we get zero moral guidance, we have zero moral

duties. During these visits, we typically get drunk

on hard liquor and end up scissoring, while the

blubbery Gods of ProPpaku watch us and discuss

cleaning equipment.

Erlinde Meertens

116

Randi Ward, Brohus

Landskab VIII, 2020,

Photography, 10x14 cm

Brohus Landskab VIII

117

Brohus Landskab VI, I

Randi Ward, Brohus Landskab VI, 2020, Photography, 10x14 cm

Randi Ward, Brohus Landskab I, 2020, Photograohy, 10x14 cm

118

Brohus Landskab III, VII

Randi Ward, Brohus Landskab III, 2020, Photography, 10x14 cm

Randi Ward, Brohus Landskab VII, 2020, Photography, 10x14 cm

119

120

Brohus Landskab IX

These ‘landscapes’ were photographed on

the side wall of the Bridge House at Kronborg

Castle, also known as

Elsinore in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

The castle is located in Helsingör,

Denmark.

Randi Ward, Brohus Landskab

IX, 2020,

Photography, 14x10 cm

121

Dr.

Dr. Ariane Mildenberg on Myth

on MYTH


Can it be defined? It is a complex concept

grown out of cultural interconnections and

interactions. ‘Myth’ derives from the Greek

‘mythos’: ‘story’, ‘fiction,’ ‘saying’. ‘Mythology’

stems from the Greek ‘mythología’ which really

means ‘story’ or the stories/myths of a culture.

Greek mythology, for instance, is an extremely

complex network of myths, stories, legends and

symbolic narratives about gods or mythological

creatures, which were central to ancient Greek

culture, but which have appeared and reappeared

in literary history and art as a form of

symbolic and emotional undercurrent or safety

blanket of sorts. Myth exists in and across and

below all cultures. There is also an underlying

mythic level in much contemporary art and

literature.

How has myth been prevalent in your

life?

I teach a lot of early twentieth-century modernist

literature, much of which gravitates

around a simultaneous critique of literal

Christianity and an awareness myth, the underlying

mythic level mentioned above, the

symbolism of which loosely helps ‘order’ the

rupture of modern life and consciousness.

Conducted by Robert

Deshaies II,

Assistant Editor

122

When writing on Joyce’s Ulysses, in the essay

‘Ulysses, Order and Myth’ (1923), Eliot refers

to this as the ‘mythic method’ – a method he

uses himself in The Waste Land (1922). I am also

thinking of the wonderful modernist poet H.D.

who turned to a rewriting of myth to question

culturally prescribed gender. So, yes, in many

aways, through teaching and my own research,

myth is prevalent in my life to some extent.

Have there been any myths that have

oriented you to the world?

Strangely, the myth of Icarus, whose wings

melted because he flew too close to the sun, has

appeared and reappeared at important times

of my life, in museums, in lectures or books, as

sculptures in houses of friends. More than once

– in relation to work and life – it has helped me

reflect on perseverance, the meaning of (human)

freedom, and the humanness of failure.

In the words of Paul Klee, ‘man is half a prisoner,

half borne on wings.’


My name stems from a myth: Ariane comes

from Ariadne, so I often think/speak of the

myth of Ariadne’s thread and Theseus’ journey

in the minotaur maze. But my parents decided

to leave the ‘d’ out. Hence one of my acquaintances

now calls me ‘(d)’.


My name is real (as ‘real’ as names are, that

is). What’s the difference between a myth and

a lie? Some myths are true, others are a fab-

123

rication. The ‘truths’ of ancient myths have

also gotten lost via the transition from an oral

to a written tradition and through centuries of

re-telling. Still, there is a difference between a

myth and a lie in that there is an underlying

emotional, imaginative and symbolic depth to

a myth. While most myths are not scientific

‘facts’, their symbolic language can help hint at

or give clues towards some of the mysteries in

life. This is where we can return to the idea of

a ‘safety blanket’ of sorts.


impactful myth?

There are many! Possibly the myth of Odysseus

as his quest narrative, a tale of home-coming

and belonging, has been told and re-told in so

many different forms across cultures.

Davíd-Marcelo

Arévalo,


digital photography

124

Jazz to Lizzie

125

Delphi, Greece, 1982

We were in Delphi that spring for the temple,

the oracle, blue larkspur leaping like dolphins

across the hills. We were there for Apollo, the seer,

the priestess, the voices we heard in the sun-stricken

stones. We were there for the green sea of olives

beneath us — a family of buttercups, wind-drunk

and young. We were there for the drunken dancing

that followed the honey-laced marriage of friends.

Then we were dirtside, flung facedown, hungover

the balconies tilting in shipwrecked sky, sick

at heart lovers from other worlds, dry-mouthed,

gnawing the bread of the once-holy earth.

Cecilia Woloch

Laura Rivas,

As Long As It Stands, 2024,

digital collage,

29 x 34 cm

126

As Long As It Stands

127

128

Davíd-Marcelo

Arévalo,


digital photography

Jazz to Lizzie

129

Mistress of the Crap Mountain

Once upon a time there was as young man called

Steven Petrovic, whose ancestors came to this

country from the faraway eastern mountains such

a long time ago, that their names had become

completely unrecognisable to him. His ancestors

were miners that had left their homestead, lest

their children fall prey to the horrors of the mine.

Steven Petrovic was a picker at the Fulfilment

Centre. The Fulfilment Centre was located on the

outskirts of Stellarwood Valley, where there was

nothing but the Fulfilment Centre. Every day, he

went down to the Fulfilment Centre. Every day,

he pressed the ‘Clock Punch’ button on his phone

before handing it off to his overseer. Every day, he

took a product from the pod, placed it in a cart,

sent it to the packers to put in boxes.

One day, in order to locate product #898127 ‘Cat

Scratcher Laptop’, Steven had to walk down to

the most remote corner of the Fulfilment Centre.

The deeper he went, the more the sterile grey

floor became littered with oily foil and brown

boxes. All of a sudden, behind a pile of forgotten

cardboard, he caught the eye of a young woman.

An eye that looked like a shining green bauble.

Her skin glittered all shades of blue and green as

if covered with mica body butter. She didn’t wear

a yellow uniform like the other workers. The long

dress that wrapped around her body was made of

silken bubble wrap. Steven gazed at it, he could

tell it was plastic, but it was like silk to the eye. If

he were to dare touch her, he would even feel its

silkiness. And then, he saw it, peeking from under

her dress… a glossy green tail!

130

(a retelling of Mistress

of the Copper Mountain

as published by

P. Bazhov)

I need to get away, Steven thought. The older

pickers told him about her, this bubble wrap girl.

She is the one that loves to play tricks on young

men. She is the Mistress.

Too late.

“Steven Petrovic. What are you doing staring at a

maiden’s beauty for free? People pay good money

for a glimpse of me. Come closer.”

He was scared, but after all she was a girl, and he

was a man, and his shame of showing emotion in

front of a woman was stronger than his fear. From

somewhere, he gathered the courage to say:

“Are you fucking kidding me, lady? I’ve overslept

already. I can’t even take a pee break as it is.”

She laughed at his boldness, though he was unsure

whether it was in approval or jest.

“I’ve got a proposition for you that will relieve you

of all your pee breaks,” she said. “Come closer.

Don’t let anybody see us.”

She motioned him to come to her lair, behind piles

of discarded plastic, brown sellotape and cardboard.

Seeing no other option,

Steven followed.

Behind his feet, deep purple and petrol green

rubber lizards, so small they could be swallowed,

started forming a wave, pushing

Steven to a box he could sit on.

“I’ve had my eye on you for a while. They call you

Steven Petrovic,” the Mistress said. “But do you

know what they call me?”

“Mistress...” Steven said tentatively.

131

“Mistress of what?”

“Erm. Mistress of the Crap Mountain.”

“Exactly! Mistress of the Crap Mountain! And

you know why?”

She left no time for Steven, awestruck and hazy,

to think about the answer and continued her fiery

speech:

“Because this Fulfilment Centre has made a

mountain of crap in Stellarwood Valley! You keep

throwing your shit that you want to dispose of

straight into the valley. I cannot bear it any longer!

“Now, I could just flood the whole place, but this

is your chance of becoming a hero. Unless, of

course, you are afraid of what I have to offer.”

“I work in the Fulfilment Centre, what could I

possibly be afraid of ?”

“Well, good, because that is just what I need. A

man who has no fear left.

“Tomorrow, when you clock in, you will tell your

overseer this: ‘The Mistress of the Crap Mountain

has ordered you, you son of a bitch, to clear out

Stellarwood Valley. If you continue to throw your

crap out in this area, she will make sure to shake

the earth so bad, you will never be able to rebuild

your Fulfilment Centre again.’”

Steven gulped.

The Mistress narrowed her eyes. “Have you understood,

you who is not afraid of anyone?”

132

“Yes,” said Steven, “Mistress.”

He almost tripped over his own feet and pushed

over the boxes as he left her den.

She shouted after him: “Don’t forget the ‘you son

of a bitch’ part. Do as I say, and I will marry you!”

Steven stopped, and with a final bout of courage,

kicked the box that had fallen in front of his feet.

“Marry? Fuck off, you’re made of plastic! I might

as well marry one of the blow-up dolls in these

boxes!”

She laughed. “Fine, we’ll negotiate later.”

Then, she vanished behind the heap of boxes,

leaving foil and tape behind with her tail.

What was Steven to do? He couldn’t imagine talking

to his overseer like that, but he also couldn’t

image the kinds of things the Mistress would do to

him if he didn’t oblige. She could change the most

rigid old plastic into silk and gemstones. Imagine

what she could turn his soft flesh into! And the

worst part was, the Mistress wasn’t wrong. The

overseer really was a son of a bitch.

He decided he had no other choice but to stand

up to the overseer.

The next day, Steven didn’t wait. He walked up

to the overseer and said, without missing a beat,

“The Mistress of the Crap Mountain has ordered

you, you son of a bitch, to clear out Stellarwood

Valley. If you continue to throw your crap out in

this area, she will make sure to shake the earth so

bad, you will never be able to rebuild your Fulfilment

Centre again.”

133

The overseer’s eye started twitching. Then, he

slapped Steven in the face and yelled, “Are you

drunk? Who is this Mistress you are talking about?

I have a special task for you today that will help

you come to your senses!”

There was nothing left to do. Steven simply

started picking up products one by one. Suddenly,

the usual numbness of his feet started feeling

like lightness. He ran up and down the corridors

with an unseen speed. Faster even, than the robot

workers!

The supervisor was already rubbing his hands

together in anticipation of giving a good scolding,

as he walked over to see what Steven had done.

But what did he see! Lo and behold, Steven had

correctly sorted all the cat scratchers, all the epoxy

snowballs, all the gewgaws they gave them, and

more!

The overseer had to go back and consult with

the upper middle manager. After a while, they

emerged from their office and they told him,

“Steve, we don’t know where you got this speed

from, and frankly we don’t care. But we are willing

to make you a deal: If you earn us a yearly profit

within one day, we will do as your so-called Mistress

says. We will move the Fulfilment Centre

out of Stellarwood Valley. And we will give you a

severance so big, you could live comfortably for a

few years.”

So, the next day, Steven was back at it. Then, from

out of the cardboard, the Mistress emerged again,

and spoke.

134

“Steven Petrovic, there are some limits to the speed

your human flesh can go. But do not fear.”

“I never fear,” answered Steven, “You know that.”

The Mistress smiled, and this time Steven was

sure she was not mocking him. She made a gesture

with her hand in the air, and all of the rubber

lizards and plastic dolls came waddling over and

started lifting products together with Steven.

“While you’re at it,” she said, “Have you thought

about my proposal?”

“Oh,” said Steven, suddenly sombre. “You mean...

the marriage proposal.”

“Yes! Marry me, Steven Petrovic! Live with me

and you will have all the splendour you can wish

for. I’ve always wanted to marry a man with no

fear.”

“I’m really sorry, Mistress, but I can’t marry you. I

already have a fiancée. Her name is Anne. And we

don’t have a lot of splendour, but I love her, and I

want to marry her.”

“An honest man! Even better. This was a just test

of your integrity, you know.”

The Mistress grabbed a box of plastic doll jewellery

from a pod and turned it into real sapphire

and ruby earrings. “Here is a present for your

Anne.”

With the help of the lizards and the dolls, Steven

made the board of managers their profit. So, it

happened. The overseer of the board of manag-

135

ers gave Steven his severance, and the Fulfilment

Centre was moved to Gumball Valley and the

abandoned building got turned into a church for

the surrounding villagers to worship in.

Steven was honoured as a hero by the Stellarwoodians

for getting rid of the pollution. Soon, however,

people in the area simply commuted to work

in Gumball Valley. Not long after, the Mistress

flooded what was left Stellarwood Valley. Some say

it was because she was angry that her efforts had

led to the building of a church, a site of heathen

worship.

Many days passed, anchoring themselves in Steven’s

skin, carving and dragging it. His severance

pay ran out. His wife Anne sold the sapphires and

rubies that were given to her, but that money ran

out as well. Anne, who tried the best she could to

understand her husband, who turned her head in

awkwardness when she caught a glitter in his eye,

who pushed him every time he mumbled ‘Mistress’

in his sleep.

One day, Steven went missing. Anne set out to find

him, alone. It was only after looking for a long

time, that she discovered a den in what remained

of Stellarwood Valley.

Laid out on top of shimmering bubble wrap, with

a small, plastic doll next to his hand, she found

him. Upon realizing it was only his body, Anne

threw herself down in tears. Wanting to take

her husband’s hand to sob in it, she noticed that

Steven’s fist was clutched, and something shone

through his fingers. Gemstones! Her husband had

risked his life for her to have a way out of poverty!

But as she tried to take them from his hand, they

136

turned into plastic snippets.

Some say it was the Mistress who was sitting next

to him, shedding her tears for him, and for nobody

else but him.

Well, what more is there to say? That’s the Mistress.

A bad man who meets her finds nothing but

woe, a good man who meets her finds a little bit of

joy. There is nothing to be learned from her story,

other than ‘don’t meet her’. But every once in a

while, a human comes around who can make her

shed a tear.

Kasandra Sharac

137

Accidental Hero: Thin Place

I stood aside on the sidewalk

as a blind man wearing winter

drifted past me: white, fragile,

and without guile.

There were three apples on a window sill

and another world beyond that one

where violins were frantically

sawing in half

the last hope of nations.

I watched his footprints glisten

under the fluorescence.

The apples were patient and all

the other worlds kept on

keeping on.

It was then I heard

my name called

to testify regarding details.

Was I looking for a passing grade or

was this one of those life or

death situations I’d found

so amusing in the movies?

There is this tree in paradise

and beyond it a shorn field

with a crown of black birds

circling as if trained

to let in just this portion

of December sky.

Marc Harshman

Davíd-Marcelo

Arévalo,


digital photography

138

Jazz to Lizzie

139

on MYTH

Heather Hartley on Myth

140


I would like to answer with a word that is a place

of myth: Paris—a vibrant, peripatetic sometimes

stressful sometimes ecstatic, breathless, stunning

yet not always uniformly beautiful, head-splitting,

metro jam packed at rush hour, city of light yes

city of love yes cars honking yes—un café s’il vous

plait and make it quick!

It can be dizzying to be surrounded by so much

myth—from commemorative plaques all over

the city to street names to cemeteries, even to

the metro with its stations like Champs-Elysées-

Clemenceau, Saint Augustin, Victor Hugo, Saint

Michel, Michel-Ange-Molitor, Place des Fêtes—

for surely there is a celebration going on somewhere

in the city right now—Darling, did I arrive one

glass slipper too late to the after-party?

And then, I’m an American writer living in Paris

and sometimes write in cafés—that’s a lot of myth

to live up to, and all in one sentence.

How to parse myth in Paris?

Conducted by Robert

Deshaies II,

Assistant Editor

Photo: Davíd-

Marcelo Arévalo

According to Etymonline, the word ‘myth’ comes

from the Latin mythus, from Greek mythos, “speech,

thought, word, discourse, conversation and also

story, saga, tale, myth, anything delivered by

word of mouth.” Later, it comes from French

mythe (1818). Quietly noted in lower case letters in

the entry is the information that it is “a word of

unknown origin.” Inherent in myth’s etymology

is this idea of mystery and for all the wearing of

the heart on the sleeve of Paris with its beautiful

people and baguettes and cigarettes and all of the

other paraphernalia and accoutrements, there is a

deep mystery here that is connected to myth and

141

there is deep myth to this city that is connected to

mystery.

Paris says, “Friend, I myth you.”


It started with Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Translation

by Rolfe Humphries. Indiana University Press,

1955. $2.95. 416 pages, 1.25 pounds. (The object

of the book itself is mythic to me.) I was nineteen

and had taken a year off from university to write,

read, travel, work. To listen with friends to the

Clash and the Sex Pistols and The Cure and the

Smiths and in secret on my Walkman the Thompson

Twins and Wham! The secrecy part wasn’t

that I was embarrassed but rather had to do with

a punk-goth-myth thing that I had going that I

felt I had to live up to keep my suburban street

credit. I had it in mind that I was only as good as

the latest safety-pinned ragged jeans jacket and I

wore my fading, gather-ye-rosebuds-while-ye-may

youth—so I thought of it at nineteen, the teenage

years mythic for me—like that torn jeans jacket—tatty

and O so thin and worn, ancient I was

before being old. Ovid hit me like a downpour in

a heatwave—abrupt, frantic, urgent.

I’d read Greek and Roman myths growing up,

we’d studied them in English class in my junior

and high schools, but it wasn’t until that gap year

that myth struck me in what would become a lifelong

fascination and enchantment with myth.

This was decades before the latest versions and

visions—re-visions—and revelations with

Stephanie McCarter’s 2022 translation of Ovid’s

Metamorphoses and Wake, Siren: Ovid Resung by Nina

Maclaughlin in 2019.

142

“Whether we see Ovid’s own poem as art that

challenges power or reasserts it depends, in many

ways, on how we ourselves feel about power and

art and how we choose to read his tales,” writes

McCarter in “Reading the Power Dynamics of

Gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses” that appears on

Lithub.

At nineteen, I picked up my copy of Ovid in a

second-hand bookshop, a very well-worn and wellloved

copy—transformation available in cheap

pulp!—my black-painted nails chipping even

more as I dug for change in the cluttered bottom

of my grey backpack plastered with the names of

bands written in black Sharpie ink. I chose to read

Ovid—poem of art and power—to begin a lifelong

relationship with and connection to myth.


you to the world?

I confess that I googled this question. I was very

curious to see how Google would situate me in

the world of myth in its millisecond, souped-up,

hardcore algorithm version of this search.

The first page of entries ranged from “28 myths

of modern life exposed, number one: A penny

dropped from the top of the Eiffel Tower could

kill someone” to “Want to write a kick-ass novel

based on mythology? Do these things” to “Six

myths about climate change busted” to the more

luminous and thoughtful, “How do myths connect

humanity?”

This final meditative, haunting question made

me think of a quote by writer Madeleine L’Engle—“When

we lose our myths we lose our place in

the universe.” It is in going back to myth with its

143

central and centrifugal force that a vital, meaningful

answer can be found.

I realise that I may not have directly answered the

question but as myth can be shape-shifting and

transformative, possibly telling it slant—taking a

cue from Emily Dickinson in her poem number

1263 with the first line, “Tell all the truth but tell

it slant—” can reveal further meaning in between

the words, to be shared out in the world . . .



The most well-known myth about myself is that I

can get by with just two full Bialetti Moka pots of

espresso in a day. Everyone has a favorite “It” beverage

and espresso is ineluctably, fatally and blissfully

mine. It comes as no surprise to my entourage

that three of my favorite words in the French

language are la pause café. There is also the myth—

at once urban legend among friends and ancient

family lore—that I order espresso at midnight and

can miraculously still sleep peacefully. This coffee

creation myth has become most real! My battered,

beloved Moka pot, if it could speak, could attest

to such late-night coffee capers. Charles Maurice

de Talleyrand-Périgord—whose noble name is as

long as his equally noble quote—is said to have

said—is it myth? fact? hearsay?—that coffee is “. .

. hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.” What

the nobleman didn’t say as far as I know: “I’ll

have a double ristretto Venti half-soy nonfat decaf

vanilla double shot extra hot with foam and One

Sweet N’Low, please. Name’s Charlie. Thanks.”

Oh! Sweet barista! Another round of espresso for

all of my friends!

What’s the difference between a myth and

144

a lie?

This is a work of fiction myth. Names, characters,

places and incidents either are products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously mythically.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

a lie.


impactful myth?

Echo and Narcissus. This is recent. It happened

after I read Jhumpa Lahiri’s essay “In Praise of

Echo, Reflections on the Meaning of Translation”

in her essay collection Translating Myself and Others

that was published in 2022. Lahiri, after a career

of writing in English, now writes in Italian. The

essay begins by discussing her teaching the myth

to university students and goes on to explore her

role as a translator for two novels of Domenico

Starnone, Lacci and Scherzetto and how the figure

of Echo is key to Lahiri’s vision of and work as

a translator. She explores how transformation

can work in translation. She uses the myth as it is

recounted in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a loadstar text

for me. “We must be careful, however,” Lahiri

writes, “to not equate the word echo with simple

repetition. The verb Ovid attributed to Echo,

once condemned, is not repetere but reddere, which

means, among other things, to restore, to render,

to reproduce. It can also mean to translate from

one language to another.” I spend a lot of time in

French and Italian and although I’m not currently

translating texts but rather appreciating speaking

and reading in the two languages, this idea of

translation as transformation seems to me vital

and dynamic and essential, a key departure point

for exploring writing in any language.

145

146

Christine Hopwood,

Accidental

Landscape #2, 2023,

acrylic on painting

paper, 210 x 297 cm


147

Grandmother for her myth and memory

Midnight when you died, thorns bruised my

hands as I gathered your garden’s petals —

(Midnights — dark as skies you hid me from

— I was child-size — curled in

a cloth you baked me in — like risen bread — )

Spices in your swept kitchen— mute

now as tunes you hummed — then —

Mama-name I invented for you

when the home angers were too brute

and I called you — you in the blood black

woodlands— let me come to you, Mama-Baker, let me

— stay

Baker hands gnarled as olive trees

far from where you shaped your loaves —

(They’d already cut your old woman braid that

once reached to your naked feet — )

Midnight, when you left, the sweet breads

no longer rose — still I gathered their lone scents —

(How is it that recall holds your twisted stair,

your braided old lady curls where I slept

beside you hidden from that other bed )

Woman at a window now

still as your once upon door —

How can it be that

night is soft

with the trace of clove —

148

bread crusts always burnt

just a little — at a too high fire — ?

How can it be that you are lifting warm

squares — each to its own white cloth —

and you are wrapping me — here girl, see

what we have made — this is not the right night

to weep —

Margo Berdeshevsky

149

150


I describe myself as “eclectic, hectic, peptic and

occasionally septic”. A little flippant perhaps but

it does cover the boundaries (or lack thereof) of

my somewhat skittish practice. I am unable to

settle to any one discipline, though I do believe

drawing is my strongest skill and the basis of

everything I do. My favourite mediums are probably

oil paint, clay and coloured pencils but I also

work in stone, watercolour, printmaking, acrylic…

etc, etc, etc.

Christine Hopwood,

Accidental Landscape #3,

2023, acrylic on painting

paper,

210 x 297 cm

151

the patron saint of the cucumber bin

Met god in a parking lot outside the kosher grocery

store. He was crouching in the light behind

the empty crate of cucumbers,

wringing his hands like he wanted to apologise for

something but didn’t know how to say it. Between

the tips of his fingers there were stars going supernova.

His nails bitten down to the quick, and

ecosystems were rising, reigning, and repenting.

I saw my own face in the reflection of the water

by his feet, but he jumped in the puddle before

I could get a good look. I wanted to ask about it

but god was too busy shaking the water out of his

hair to hear me. When he was done he met my

eyes, and greeted them very politely. I realised he

had the same face as a middle school classmate.

I knew the lines of the smile. I knew the curious

look but it did not know me. Are you god? I asked.

Depends. To some people I’m a mostly dead fish.

To others I’m the way their daughters’ hair feels

between their fingers. To you, I am here: where

nothing becomes something, when you calculate

the square root of negative one and still choose

to smoke a cigarette. Are you god? He asked me

and I realised I didn’t have a mouth but it didn’t

change anything. Was I god? No, I decided, and

told him so. He laughed which shook an avalanche

free and I spilled my tea all over my hands. When

the flurry cleared, the crate of cucumbers was full

and I didn’t sleep for a week.

Amber Shooshani

152

Margo

Berdeshevsky,

et qu-elle vienne la sirene,

2024, pastel and pen,

65 x 50 cm

et qu-elle vienne la sirene

153

Study in Paris – in English

Kent’s Paris School of Arts and Culture offers advanced humanities

degrees taught in English in the heart of the French

capital.

Paris as your campus

Living and studying in Paris – one of the world’s most intellectually

and culturally influential cities – will inspire and stimulate

you.

Beyond our centrally located study centre in historic Montparnasse,

you can also explore the city’s exceptional architecture,

libraries, museums and special collections. With regular study

trips to sites of interest and intellectual significance, Paris

encourages students’

potential for advanced study and creativity.

Preparing for professional life

Whatever your career goal, a postgraduate qualification from

the University of Kent equips you with an impressive portfolio

of skills, specialist knowledge and practical experience to help

you succeed in a competitive job market. Living and studying

overseas

demonstrates independence, ambition, and resilience, all

attributes graduate employers look for when hiring. Many Kent

students

undertake internships in Paris to enhance their employability

and international credentials.

To find out more, visit kent.ac.uk/paris

The Menteur Myth Issue 2024

Transform your PDFs into Flipbooks and boost your revenue!

Delete template?

Save as template ?