The Blue Issue

ZIN EΦM A G A

THE BLUE ISSUE
T H E B L Uv oEl . 6 I S S U E

vol.6

Φ

MAGAZINE

THE BLUE ISSUE

VOLUME 6

Blue. I bet we've all been feeling it a lot lately. Be it stuck at home,
or away from loved ones, blue describes the mood of the moment. In
this issue our creators exemplify this, showing us that blue is not just
a colour: it's a feeling, an emotion, a state of being. It's the sky, it's the
rain, and the ocean. It's all encompassing. It's a longing, a sadness - but
most importantly: it's hope.

CHIARA ZUCCHELLI
EDITOR IN CHIEF

The Blue Issue | Φ 2

CONTENTS

Jumpsuit 4 Blue in Blue 27
by Viola Ugolini, art by Maya Twersky 6 by Ella Deregowska
7
Kintsukuroi 8 Corals 28
by Jack Verschoyle, 12 by Antonis
14
Ezamination 17 Observing Far From Home 30
by Dong Liu 18 by Ludovica Fionda
19
A Strange Kind of Blue 20 Kieślowski’s Color Trilogy: Blue 31
by Pablo Hubacher Haerle, art by Maria Luc 21 by Ulyses Razo
24
Out of the Blue 26 Security 33
by Antonia Kattou, art by Maria Luc by Zoe Mei, art by Wayan Chan

Ghost Apples 34
by Laura Empson, art by Izabela Adamczyk by Will Anderson, art by Gustave Muckensturm

Melancholia Another Life 36
by Zoe Chen, art by Izabela Adamczyk b y James Hopkin, art by Robert Innes Chan

The Language of Humanity 38The Excess of Denial
by Matt Dorabialo & Wayan Chan
by Eva Poshlost, art by Denis Fradkin & Fabian Kerj
Blue, a Documentary
by Francesca Tesler Photography 42
by Mercedes Lavin
Waiting
by Katarina Galić Let's Not Paint You In Light 44
by Liane Wergen, art by Renee Bertini
t’s the Thought That Counts
by Henrik Sherling, art by Katarina Galić Eyes Wide Open 46
by Maria Chiara Aquilino, art by Zalina Gamat
Dare to Blue
by Irene Kattou, art by Renee Bertini 48Creatures in the Pit

Foucault's Pendulum by Daniel Peixoto Murata, art by Jocelyn Holford
by Joseph Harcourt

The front and back covers for this issue were created by Amanda Summons.
For enquiries, and more of her work see @amandasummonsphoto on Instagram.

3

ART by Maya Twersky

JUMPSUIT

(HAND ME DOWN)

by Viola Ugolini

It is last year, and my clothes are blue and large.
Snowflakes have started falling like words I cannot say

I would rip my chest open if it weren’t too extreme
and I would ask you to take out the tangled up stuff.
You’re happier than me, can you make yourself sadder?
Replace my liver with your guts and sew my skin tightly
so I can see me through the eyes you’re lending me now.

Last summer, in my sleep, my friends have killed a boy.
his torso has frozen but shrunk in its size
his eyes were blue and watered as his porcelain skin is now.
I found him in a cupboard and I held him in my warm hands
and I thought that I liked him and wanted to know him better.
You see, these kinds of thoughts are why I need to be untangled
because, unlike the blue boy, they really should die young.
It is this year, and my friends here have blue eyes.
Water has started flowing like the things I need to share

I’d unzip my chest open, from my face to my blue jeans
and I would ask you to wear me like a jumpsuit.
You’re taller than me, can you make yourself smaller?
Replace my bones with your flesh and show my skin proudly
and see me through the eyes I’ve been given by birth.

And please, say you won’t ever wear or hand me down

5

KINTSUKUROI1

by Jack Verschoyle

It’s Blue
Blue like the Thames
like the sound of the tube
thundering over Blackfriars

or like the traffic lights
at the junction by King’s Cross
Blue like this city’s polluted night
or the smell of forgotten bins

blown in your face by exhausts
of a jam in an underpass
with its heat and the red, coarse
faces of drivers; their skeletal eyes

Say what you like
but I can tell that my city is a lover

sending me blues like letters
They fall at the foot of the door
Silently. Uninterruptedly
Mending every fracture

This is the way all love should come.

Now in the dark, this house, I turn it
in my hand like a fine blue goblet
Conducting a tenor ring to linger
as I trace the scars on the lip with my finger

1 The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery 6
The Blue Issue | Φ

7 EXAMINATION by Dong Liu

A STRANGE KIND OF BLUE

WITTGENSTEIN LOOKING AT A PAINTING BY YVES KLEIN

by Pablo Hubacher Haerle

Most of us have been in a situation where we which colour-words I know or what society told
were struggling to find the right words in me about colours, if I look at a monochrome blue
order to describe something, be it an emotion, a painting by Klein, I know what I am looking at.
feeling, an atmosphere, or a colour. Normally, in The unconceptual trumps the conceptual. Indeed,
such circumstances it seems as if we have a sense what could prove more clearly that there are
of what we want to say, we simply do not know experiences independent of language? One only
how to do so. Especially perceiving a strange needs to open one’s eyes and see.
colour has often been thought of as representing
a pure phenomenological experience prior to any By contrast, Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein
concept, language or thought. Perhaps the most is sceptical about private experiences prior to
striking example of this are the monochrome blue language (PI §§ 256 ff., 361 ff.). Quiet broadly
paintings by Yves Klein. The mesmerising shade put, Wittgenstein thinks that for a phenomenon to
of blue used by the French artist has a very strong have some form of existence, it must be a possible
effect on the viewer: it seems as if this blueness object of public discourse (PI §§ 199-202).
attempts to swallow the viewer, engulf them in Accordingly, a strange colour impression must
a sea of fluorescent colour and eventually one’s carry the potential to be publicly verbalized in
head will get dizzy from staring at it too much. order to be anything at all, let alone an impression
At the same time, it is not straight-forward how of something (PI §§ 293, 371).
to give an adequate description of their particular
shade of blue. Confronted with such an intense How does this go together with the experience
colour we are at a loss for words. This can be of looking Yves Klein’s paintings? What would
seen as a triumph of the sheer force of the sensual have happened if Wittgenstein was to look at such
quality of experience over the societal forces an intense monochrome wall of blueness? Of
which shape our perception. It does not matter course, we will never know. Wittgenstein died in

The Blue Issue | Φ 8

1951 and Yves Klein exhibited his monochrome impression which I also perceive, etc. – “you
paintings for the first time in 1954. Nonetheless, can’t look at the impression”.
this essay engages in some form of philosophical
imagination by picturing Wittgenstein looking at In this passage, Wittgenstein rejects a ‘two-stage
a monochrome blue painting by Yves Klein and model’ of perception, i.e. the idea that, first, we
reflecting on what these paintings could have have impressions (or sense-data) of every aspect of
meant for his philosophy. our surroundings and then, in a second step, select
which ones we draw our attention to. Importantly,
So why is it that Wittgenstein would deny this model must proclaim impressions which are
the possibility of colour-impressions prior to somehow registered by us, but not consciously
language? One of the main reasons for rejecting the noticed. Perceiving something, on this view,
notion of language-independent impressions is his consists in drawing one’s attention to impressions
thought that in such a case one does not describe one already has. So, in focussing on the particular
a feeling that is in some sense pre-existent to the lighting of a room, one’ attention shifts not to the
utterance, rather one produces it by observing and room, but to one’s own impressions. Not only does
describing it. According to Wittgenstein, through this presuppose an ‘inner sense’ which operates
the activities of observing and describing the on top of perception and incites a regress, but also
impression itself comes into existence. On this it just seems clearly absurd, since focusing on the
view, there was no impression beforehand and thus, lighting of a room means drawing one’s attention
there was nothing to experience before language to that very thing: the lighting of the room.
comes into the picture. To illustrate this arguably
counter-intuitive idea, Wittgenstein mentions the Doing justice to this fact (and refraining from
example of describing the particular lighting in a introducing philosophical confusions) means
room. When the sun is setting and the room is lit to reject this two-stage model. According to
in red, the description will be simple and straight- Wittgenstein, there is no metaphysical impression
forward: We will describe the lighting as red. which I ‘translate’ from (PI § 335), nor is there
When, in contrast, there is no particular lighting, the perception of an ‘inner object’ (PI p. 60).
say, at 15:00, and the room is just ordinarily lit, no Consequently, the idea of a fixed impression
specific description will come to mind. There, we ‘inside’ of me, while at the same time being
are inclined to say “What about it?”. Wittgenstein concealed to me has to be attributed to the range
then goes on to ask, if the room was not lit in a of grammatical fictions. This means, that in the
particular way in both cases. He answers: case of the ordinary lighting, there was no colour-
impression. Only through our description, we
Well, this question as it stands, is senseless, create the impression.
and so is the answer “It was…”. The order
“Observe the particular lighting of this Sentences which do not describe something pre-
room”, does not imply any statement about existing but rather seem to produce their own
the appearance of this room. It seemed to say: objects have deeply interested Wittgenstein and he
“This room has a particular lighting, which also wrote about expressions of pain, intentions,
I need not name; observe it!” […] When we fear, joy and other mental states, so called
obey the order “Observe the colour…”, what avowals. Most of these utterances, he argues, do
we do is to open our eyes to colour. “Observe not aim at truth, for there is nothing to compare it
the colour…” doesn’t mean “See the colour to, no public criterion of correctness (PI § 258).
you see”. […] By attending, looking you Wittgenstein followed from this that an avowal’s
produce the impression, you can’t look at the object can neither be known nor doubted (PI §
impression. (BlB, p. 176) 288).

When we describe a particular colour or a Even though this claim seems strikingly strong
particular lighting of a room, “we open our (and is indeed contested) there is something to
eyes to colour”, i.e. we focus and thereby create it: If we imagine Wittgenstein looking at Klein’s
something that was not there before. It is not that monochrome, how could he be wrong if he said
we already had the impression of the particular “This blue is like my childhood in Austria”? Even
colour and now we are looking at our own when he said “It seems like my sister’s eyes” –
impression in order to describe it. This would lead although Margarethe Wittgenstein-Stonborough’s
to an obvious regress, since I would then need eyes are brown, as we can see from her famous
to perceive my impression, producing another portrait by Gustav Klimt – it could be understood

9

as an association between, say, the intensity of the blue, reference 1311, mixed with the polyvinyl
colour and the sister’s temperament. It seems that acetate resin Rhodopas M6oA”. Even though this
in the case of impressions, one is absolutely free is a true description of the colour used by Yves
to choose and say whatever comes to mind. Klein for those paintings, it seems unimaginable
that Wittgenstein would accept this as spelling
Despite this thought carrying some seemingly out what he originally wanted to say. When he is
empowering potential, it can hardly be true. looking for the right word, he presumably aims
Imagine Wittgenstein having the following internal at a satisfactory description within our ordinary
monologue while looking at a monochrome colour concepts and not the vocabulary of a colour
painting by Yves Klein: expert. The morale is, what “accurate” means
depends on the context, whatever fulfils the need
This is a mesmerising blue. Is it more like a satisfactorily will be accurate: “‘Inexact’ is really
light blue or more like a dark blue? This is a reproach, and ‘exact’ is a praise” (PI § 88).
hard to tell, it seems to lie in the middle. Also,
it seems almost fluorescent. Is it shiny? Is it What does this mean for the question of
turquoise? No, it has not enough green in it. whether looking at a painting by Yves Klein
But what kind of blue is it then? Could it be is an unconceptual experience independent of
some kind of violet? There is definitely red in language? At least, this suggests an alternative
this painting. Or am I mistaken? picture: instead of conceiving of the inability
to give a correct description as an indicator that
Here, Wittgenstein struggles to find the right words experience is somehow ‘larger’ than language and
that fit his impression. He is trying to achieve thus prior, we are now able to see this inability
something, namely giving the correct description. as an expression of the fact that in this case the
If it would be completely up to Wittgenstein as rules of language are not clearly specified. The
to what makes his colour description true, where blue used by Yves Klein could be thought of as
does his struggle, his uncertainty come from? representing a boundary case for our ordinary
The confusion disappears once we allow for concepts of language. Within our normal colour
multiple kinds of impressions. Saying “This blue concepts, there is simply no rule how to correctly
is like my sister’s eyes” and “This blue seems describe this particular shade of blue. Accordingly,
almost violet” are moves in two completely it is impossible to correctly describe this colour
different language-games and the rules for since it is unclear to which category it belongs. As
what counts as “correct” vary between them. a matter of fact, it is not clear which colour this
For any given situation, there is not one correct is. This, however, has as much to do with some
description, no absolute standard of correctness. kind of ‘unconceptual’, prelinguistic, or pure
phenomenological experience as the uncertainty
To see this, consider the following scenario: whether a particular item from IKEA is still a
Wittgenstein and his sister, Margarethe, play the chaiselounge or already a couch.
game of who can give the best description of
Yves Klein’s painting. After pondering different Instead of representing a limitation, conceptual
options, Wittgenstein gives up his restless search indeterminacies can be seen as a potential
for the right words and settles to describe the for new ways of speaking, seeing and acting.
painting as simply “blue”. Now, Margarethe says Besides just an undetermined colour, this can
“ultramarine” and Wittgenstein exclaims “Yes! also apply to one’s feelings, one’s sexuality
That’s exactly what I was looking for”. What has or one’s body. In boundary cases, ordinary
happened here? It all depends on what is meant concepts may feel inaccurate and the need for a
by “the best description”. If the aim is to give new vocabulary becomes vital. Pursuing these
the name of the pigment used, “ultramarine” is questions further means to depart more and more
more accurate than just “blue” and Wittgenstein’s from Wittgenstein’s philosophy. Still, one of
exclamation indicates that he accepts this rule. Wittgenstein’s central achievements was to drop
However, if the point of the game is to describe the idea of language as always fulfilling the sole
one’s feelings when looking at the painting, purpose of accurately describing reality. Only by
“ultramarine” might be more misleading and abandoning this, can we redirect our attention to
worse than “blue”. Also, it is not true that the various ways in which language shapes us and
more accurate is always better, since suppose vice versa.
Margarethe had suggested “pure ultramarine

The Blue Issue | Φ 10

11 ART by Maria Luc

OUT OF THE BLUE

by Antonia Kattou

Think of a stream, how it cuts through the well again, you wonder as your computer screen
mountain and flows. It always flows, forward, finally loads and you are greeted with a generic
sideways, feeding life into things otherwise picture of a peacock in all its electrifying blue
dead, with such ferocity, such determination glory and you wonder how unfair it is that in the
in its seemingly unsettling liquidity. The water animal world it is the males that strive to beautify
is only blue because the sky is reflected into themselves and not the females. The females are
it or so they say, and so now you look up, you more preoccupied with the practicalities of cocks
wonder, is the sky blue or is it the water, which in both the animal kingdom and society and it
of the two is a giant natural mirror? A mirror. suddenly all makes sense. For the female carries
A moment of pause, perusal, thought, stares. the burden of the male release. She is a vessel,
A naked body in front of a mirror crisscrossed a container for impatient sperm, for cock. You
by veins, like deep blue lines, drawing across a wonder if he is like a peacock, good for nothing,
breathing canvass, carrying pulse. Or worse, a flashing a fancy tail, wanting to simply relieve
bruise you rush to hide, when love took a wrong himself and leave the rest to you. You, why must
turn, when a hand was raised not in affection but it be you who does all, all the minute travails he
in a passion – not the kind of passion you wanted. takes for granted so that he may appear as grand
You pull your sleeve over it and pretend your as a peacock and you hope he is better than that.
eyes are not watering at the thought… you are That, a thing, a fact, this is solid vocabulary,
still in love with the eyes, the blue eyes, and the and I don’t like it. I want to move away from the
empty promises for change. Change, like blue source of the pain, I want to flow away from it
hydrangeas whose colour changes depending on like rain. Rain falls in a storm; it gushes down
the soil, so one year they might be blue but the the mountains away from the shock of its calling
next they might bloom pink and then the tears into being with an urgency to meet the calmness
come. Like waterfalls, salty against your cheeks of the sea. But the sea is only ever rarely calm, it
and now you embody it, the feeling of blue, a blue is where the drops no longer matter and all people
feeling; is this why they’ve named sadness and see are gallons, litres, tons and you realise you
melancholy so? So you decide to leave, to walk have a baseless argument for not liking things,
your way among the streams of people in the city, facts, thats’. You look around and feel a gladness
a vast ocean of consciousness and invalidated for everyone’s eyes are glued on the screens
experience, a blue silence that is produced by the and are not paying attention to the tears that are
too many. You walk, wiping the tears, panicking, silently sliding down your face in release. And
thinking, how will I mask all this blueness when out of the blue, you think, Oh, little does he know
I get to work? A distraction from the color that I have my own release. Suddenly you are out of
defines your insides and outsides and yet as you the blue, no longer blue and he is trapped in it.
lower your body into the desk seat and press You let the water flow and in it take all the false
the tower on, you are greeted by an updating hope, all the futility in desiring his blue eyes,
Windows screen. This was your escape and now in the dark blue stamps his hands leave on your
it’s gone, now you have to wait, and it is now body, in the places where love should have been
that the emotion seems to rise up at the back of but never was. Oh, you’re out of the blue for sure,
your throat, you’re swallowing hard, resisting you’ve arrived at reason through emotion, you’ve
the wave, the tsunami, instead you reach for the flowed away like the stream cutting through
water bottle with its blue tinted plastic, with it’s the mountain, you’re heading down into the sea
printed perfect droplets of H2O, you take a sip with the same ferociousness. Your tears give you
and focus your eyes, watch the water mass as it strength, give you clarity, you just keep crying
trembles when it meets the solidity of the wooden like your life depends on it. And out of the blue
desk. And you calm yourself, you’re here again, you are finally out of the blue. You’ve already
you breathe. Breathing, you think of how easy left, you’re gone, and he has no idea; Right then
it was to breathe before, before you felt as deep and there came the release and resolution, out of
and as wide open as a well. When will you be the blue to no more be in it.

The Blue Issue | Φ 12 ART by Maria Luc



GHOST

by Laura Empson

The Blue Issue | Φ 14 PHOTOGRAPHY by Izabela Adamczyk

Anelle stared out of the window, her eyes herself, starting with her velvet skin moving on to
fixated on the trees outside that swayed gently her muscles and tendons until her bones fell onto
in the chill autumn breeze. Clouds melted into the the wool. Henry supposed it might make her more
deep blue sky, now barely visible as the night present, but he still didn’t want that fate for her.
started to take hold, the inevitable blackness just Henry just wanted his wife back.
around the corner. The thought crossed Henry’s
mind that it was hard to tell if the trees were what There was a silence that lurked between them,
captured her attention, or if it was in fact the pane signalling a duel neither of them would back
of glass that was stained from the heavy rain that down from.
had plagued their home and the surrounding fields
for weeks. Henry had frequently joked to Anelle “You have to do something other than stare out
that despite everything they had been through, the window.” There it was. “I can’t help you if you
God still found it appropriate to cause a minor won’t go into it with me, or even look at me, or
flood in the basement and run a river through if you don’t move.” Nothing again. “Nell please,
their garden that had drowned the anemones they tell me what you’re thinking at least. I can only
had planted in the spring. Anelle didn’t find that begin to understand what you’re feeling but you
very funny. It was still not raining, and the sun have to–“
had made no effort to shine through the clouds for
some time. The sky was just there, as was Anelle. “Enough,” came her quiet voice, her face just
visible in her transparent reflection. Her eyes were
“Can I do anything?” Anelle didn’t respond. closed.
Instead she pulled at a thread on the sleeve of
her blood red jumper without looking to find it, “Enough… enough? I’ve barely bloody said a
rolling it between her chapped fingers in some word and you say enough?” He knew he should
kind of ritual. stop when his voice raised with each repetition
of the word. But this time, Henry was the one
“The rain has stopped,” she said, in a manner that who had had enough. “Seven months – SEVEN
was so numb she seemed unconscious. Henry’s MONTHS of this moping and silence and fucking
heart fell at this statement. mourning! Basically over half a year with no
wife, no life inside this house except the dog
“It stopped two days ago Nell. Remember? On who you keep ignoring. I get ignoring me Nell, I
Tuesday. The day your mum came round.” GET that you blame me for all this; Hell, I blame
me too! But what has the dog done? Ignore me
A heavy silence dropped between them, and Henry but walk the sodding dog! Do you know how
turned his eyes away from his wife’s untamed many times I’ve had to scrub his piss out of the
hair and down to his shoes, scuffing at a bit of dirt carpet when I get home from work? Do you even
that had worked its way deep into the carpet. He ask? It’s getting bleached, Nell. BLEACHED.”
tried to see what it was, but it was just dark and Henry was getting off topic. He refocused his
unbudging, so he gave it a final hard push with his frustrations onto Anelle. “Jesus wept, Nell, you
toes and then stood up just a little more quickly can’t even stand within six feet of me let alone
than was appropriate. go to that counsellor that Barbara recommended.
How do we get over this if you put no fucking
“Fancy a walk? Badger misses you taking him EFFORT into it? I can’t understand your logic,
out, you always take him in the woods on those I can’t even imagine that there is any. I’m your
trails he likes, that have the rabbits for him to husband, would you at least act like I’m not the
chase.” Nothing. “Or you could take him by the ghost in this house?”
bridge and you could feed the ducks. I can cut
some bread up for you if you like, it wouldn’t be At that word – ghost – Anelle whipped around and
any trouble, love. Do you want me to do that?” suddenly Henry felt her gaze burning into his, her
“No thanks, I think I’ll stay in this evening.” corneas aflame with her pure hatred for him at his
Henry tried to restrain himself from rolling his uncaring words.
eyes, but he couldn’t, and the act hurt him as he
did so. Anelle sighed as though she could sense “You think – you really think – I don’t know
his disapproval but she continued pulling at the you’re there?” Even so early into her declaration
dark red string that grew longer with each twirl. her voice trembled in an uncomfortable falsetto.
It had only been a stump when she started, now “You think I don’t notice your hovering, how you
it was nearly down to her knee. He thought that ‘caringly’ nudge me toward the outside world
one day she would get the end of the jumper, with and how you judge me? I am grieving Henry,
it in a bloody heap over her feet. But would she GRIEING, not that you seem to know what that
stop there? What if she kept unravelling pieces of means.”

15

“That’s not –“

“It’s my turn to talk! My turn…” The string grew
longer. “I am not saying you aren’t sad or broken,
but you aren’t feeling what I am holding within
me like a tumour that expands every time I try
and think of anything else. I’m carrying around a
death within my body, within my heart, in a way
that you cannot understand. You can try, but you
can’t really. You didn’t grow him, have him, fail
him… I did. Something went wrong in me. And
you sat there thinking how awful it was. I had to
expel him from the only place where he could be
mine when I knew he would never take a breath
outside me. In me he was safe, or the illusion of
safe or something. You had the distance Henry,
I never was afforded that. I could only scream;
with every push, I knew I was killing him. For
nine months I thought he was going to be mine at
the end of all of the morning sickness and weight
gain and craving meat when I hadn’t eaten it for
twelve years! I thought I would have something
to show for it all, someone to love… You may
‘understand’, you may ‘empathise’, you may even
bloody cry in the car in the parking lot at work.
But you can wipe your eyes and sit behind your
desk and put in the numbers that, let’s be real,
mean very little, so it is easy to get lost in them. I
can only look out of the window at everything he
never got to see.”

They were both stunned by her frankness. They
both felt the stab inside them as they stared at each
other, finally sharing some kind of uncomfortable
understanding.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Henry fumbled
in his pockets, and produced a crumbled pack of
Sterling Duals, two stale looking cigarettes bent
from the efforts of extraction. Anelle shakily took
one, and looked expectantly at him, until after an
embarrassed “oh” he handed her a lighter. She
placed the cigarette behind her left ear, took a
deep breath and placed her hand on the handle.
As she turned it, the outside came in and she, in
turn, took a shaky step out, just one step over
the threshold. Badger ran excitedly past her,
nearly knocking her over. She took the cigarette
between her lips, lit it and inhaled heavily. Henry
followed her outside, placing his jacket around
her shoulders, almost entirely concealing the
string. The sky was darker now, and stars were
nearly visible.

MELANCHOLIA

by Zoe Chen

A multitude of tiny orbs that shine
And sparkle in the dark nights’ sky,
Inviting and alluring, you travel upwards
To their solitary depths,
Cold and alone.
The illusion is broken,
They are nothing
Fool’s gold and silver, a wisp
Of a childhood dream.
Stone cold and mocking me,
A vacuum for the warmth and closeness
of a mother’s embrace.

17



PHI MAGAZINE

PRESENTS

BLUE

A DOCUMENTARY BY

FRANCESCA TESLER

OFFICIAL SELECTION

THE BLUE ISSUE

2020 EDITION

19

The Blue Issue | Φ 20 WAITING by Katarina Galić

IT’S THE THOUGHT
THAT COUNTS

by Henrik Sherling

Mindfulness apps are taking over. Do you stuck on thoughts, let them pass and return focus
want to be 10% Happier? How about to the breath. It’s like counting to ten to stave off
Waking Up to some enlightened state? Would anger for just long enough to regain your senses.
you like some Headspace? You must at the very The idea of mindfulness is to teach yourself to
least desire some Insight. Or perhaps you are after always see your thoughts from the outside, to
mere Calm, so UnPlug, Relax Now, and start a evaluate the thought without getting sucked into it
Simple Habit to enhance your Pzizz and Aura — — to observe your spiralling thoughts and realize
Aura? Why yes, there is something for everyone “that’s a vortex, best not go there,” thoughts can’t
— the quacks, the skeptics, the fidgety, the merely harm you unless you let them. Your pain and
confused, and you. Why don’t you get started? suffering come from letting yourself get sucked
into a cycle of bad thoughts, not from the stuff
Different apps pretend to do different things. your thoughts are about.
Some aim to improve your sleep (Pzizz and Relax
Now), others to keep you productive and improve It’s easy to see how your productivity and
your focus (Headspace and The Mindfulness happiness would shoot through the roof if you
App), yet others are merely glorified soundscape- could get your mindfulness practice sorted — and
collections (Oak), and Waking Up — well, we’ll if mindfulness actually works. And according to
get back to Waking Up. In the end, each is a the gurus, it most certainly does, on both counts.
glorified remix of the others, with superficial Look at what Sam Harris’s Waking Up marketing
add-ons like sleep and breath audio to go along team have to say: “[Mindfulness] is a kind of
with the guided meditations. It hardly matters superpower… It can be the difference between
which came first. Throw a relaxing soundscape having a brilliant career, surrounded by creative
on top of a soothing voice, and bam, you have people you love working with you, and being the
yourself a meditation app. The race to catch the scary guy in the office who just got fired (again).”
coolest meditating coach is on. The problem is This superpower can be yours today for only $99
that nobody knows who meditating coaches — or per year!
gurus, as they prefer to be called — are in the first
place, so it’s hard to get impressed by names like I got 24,800 Google results for the search term
Joseph Goldstein (who?) or Sharon Saltzberg (no “mindfulness metastudy”. A whole host of these
clue). seem — although not all randomized control
trials — fairly robust. Almost all point in the
This celebrious strategy is perhaps most prominent same direction: mindfulness has low to moderate
with 10% Happier, which only vaguely pretends positive effects on stress, anxiety, and depression
to market itself to skeptics — “Learn to meditate both in general and clinical populations. There
from the world’s top mindfulness experts,” not has even been a very recent meta-analysis of the
from some dorm-room pretenders. But look: I fell effects of internet-based mindfulness, with the
for it. Goldstein is a fantastic coach, I think. Then same positive results. (Zhang, Xue, and Huang
again, how would I know? 2020) In short: it works.
Each app tries to prove that the others are moving
in the wrong direction, even if the general idea of Some worry it might work too well. The Guardian
mindfulness is the right one. Wallets are finite and (twice), Irish Times, Vox, The Independent, and
fears of subscription run deep. This is a zero-sum The Economist have all suggested that meditation
game between the gurus. is, or might become, a tool for big business to
fight justified discontent. David Forbes wrote
“To be mindful is to be aware of your own a whole book about it. Mindfulness tells you to
experience, moment to moment, without look inward. Your ailments come from attachment
judgement. Why not give it a go?” says The Oxford to your thoughts. You’re just the kind of wuss
Mindfulness Centre. It enables anyone who who gets riled up by anxious thoughts and that
practices it to live a more attentive, appreciative needs to end. If your job “is” shit, you are just
and vibrant life.” Mindfulness practice begins not meditating well enough. You could manage
with attention to the breath. Instead of getting the stress by just being a little more mindful.

21

You keep trying to escape from your woes with this leads to an infinite regress, for each little self
entertainment. Stop! Purge your thoughts, get would need a littler self at its wheel, controlling
inner peace — buy the 10% Happier app today. less and less. So there is nothing left at the end of
That way you can sleep at night, even if you are the chain: no self.
working for The Dow Chemical Company. There is no ‘ghost in the machine’, this much is
true. But the idea that there would need to be one
The ideology of mindfulness is, like Stoicism — for there to be a self is a notion that depends on
which, not coincidentally, gave rise to Cognitive a very strange idea of a ghost to begin with. We
Behavioural Therapy — an ideology that simply who have Woken Up to science know that this is
gives up on the world and retreats to the “inner a simple mistake, there are no ghosts around this
citadel”, to the safety of your own private neck of the woods. Whatever our selves are, they
thoughts.(Berlin 1969) It is the ideology of are not that. In general, the very idea of an essence
shutting yourself in mom’s basement and sitting of the self is subject to the Buddhist rebuttal: if the
on the computer all day, because at least you self is substantial, if it is something on its own and
can control you new Mage character in World of by itself, then it must be something that conflicts
Warcraft. It is the ideology of the late capitalism with the essence of the mere body, or the mere
that has created a world that no longer appeals to thought.
us. Its only hope of good PR is to make us look
away and shut ourselves in. So the existentialists were right: the existence of
the self must precede its essence. The essence of
And we are all too happy to do so. “We, in a the self is to exist. And the self is just the kind
way, enjoy our ideology,” Zizek says in The of thing that determines itself. This is why you
Pervert’s Guide to Ideology, while discussing can eradicate yourself. We can only understand
John Carpenter’s They Live. In Carpenter’s meditation through the existence of a self that
movie, the main character has to viciously fight conceives of itself as the failed Wizard behind the
his friend to get him to wear a pair of sunglasses curtain, flailing to regain control of the illusion.
that magically reveal the underlying ideology of But this self-conception is false: it entails the
every message you encounter — on billboards, impossibility of a self-conception in the first place
on TV, in newspapers. We enjoy our ideology so — even though the idea of a self-conception is, of
much we would fight to keep it. course, its own condition of possibility.

And meditation does feel great. It feels like Even the Woke, even Sam Harris himself if I
self-improvement, like purity, like control. It’s may make such a bold suggestion, are living
an ascetic pleasure, like slamming the door to their lives in light of a self-conception — which
your room leaving problems outside. Live in implies, at least, the existence of their selves. No
the present, let go of your attachments, see your voice, no matter how soothing and no matter how
thoughts from without — see, says Sam Harris, comforting its soundscape is, can guide you to the
that there is no self in the first place to attach your fact that there is no self, for this too relies on the
thoughts to. Once you Wake Up you will discover self.
your helpless drift down a river of thoughts that
are not yours but just there. This argument from the formal existence of the self,
from the premise that, whichever way one goes,
There is no you in the first place, only a bundle one is going there in light of a self-conception, is
of thoughts and perceptions, including the thought not going to sit well with the mindfulness gurus.
that there is a you. Your pain and suffering comes It begs the question. The question needs to be
from the idea that there is a self, you, that can wrested from this pinch. So let us “simply begin
suffer; but there is not. This illusion must be again”, as the gurus like to say, by considering
overcome in order to overcome suffering. You what would happen if you were to meditate
must Wake Up. Or if you cannot quite get there: successfully. You begin by observing your own
get 10% Happier by giving up on your attachment thoughts as if they were external objects. The
to your self 10% at a time. you observe your observation as yet another
externality. But once you realize this regress, you
But this Buddhist idea, and the Stoic idea too, is see that there can be no internality left; each link
based on bad metaphysics. Its worldpicture relies in the chain will be not-self and there will never
on the idea of a ‘ghost in the machine’, a little be a self.
self sitting at the wheel, keeping the lights on
and watching your life through little eye-shaped But who is this realization occuring to? It is
windows. The Stoics want to hand over the itself external, in the Buddhist sense, so it is not
control to the little self and let it deal with only the occuring to anyone. But this simply amounts to
problems it can handle. The Buddhist view is that the denial that there were any selves to begin

The Blue Issue | Φ 22

with. This clearly begs the question right back,
for the argument assumes that we can rely on the
premise that selves must, in some way, appear on
the inside.
The trouble is, as we have seen, that by these lights,
nothing can appear on the inside. Things can only
be seen against a background, from a distance.
But things still exist, even though they can only
be seen this way. They appear in our thoughts and,
except for the bravest subjective idealists, this is
sufficient to indicate their reality. If we accept that
something exists if it appears somewhere (say,
in a thought or a room), then it is clear that the
self exists by the very thought experiment that
is supposed to undermine it. For in taking it one
step further, we see that someone, I, can see the
thought experiment either as eliminating me, or as
proving me. This must be accepted by Buddhists
and the Woke in order for them to sell their apps
as disillusion: they think there is a right and wrong
answer. But the very possibility of being right or
wrong about a self must presume the existence of
a self that can be right or wrong. The essence of
the self does not follow from this proof, but its
existence does.

Thus, the apps can’t live up to their promise.
They can’t give you back control, though perhaps
they can make you happier and less stressed. But
this achievement is predicated on the offer of an
ideology that covers up the existence of the self,
gaslighting the victims of late capitalism in the
process — if there can be no self, there can be no
victim. The illusion is is not shattered but replaced.
And the replacement is a convenient ideology
for businesses who want to run you down with
meaningless or harmful work but blame you for
being anxious or depressed.

The fact is that you are a self who lives your
life in light of your self-conception. The way
you conceive of yourself in part determines who
you are and what you can do. And the way you
conceive of yourself depends also on your body,
but most importantly on how others conceive of
you, and also themselves. Most likely, your work
really does suck, and you should do something
about it. That does not mean that you should not
meditate. Take some time to do that. No amount
of ascetic aspiration can rid you of your own
existence except by suicide. That is why the real
question, shoved aside by the ideology of the apps,
is why not kill yourself? If all there is to life is to
ardently try to conceive of yourself as an illusion,
then this might be a decent option. But thankfully
you are not an illusion. Sadly, that means that your
pain is probably real. Mindfulness can take the
edge off. But its claim to treat the cause, and the
claim that this cause is the illusion of the self, is
not even coherent.

ART by Katarina Galić

DARE TO BLUE:
MONOCHROME OUTFIT

by Irene Kattou

When I was eleven years old I had the genius They are one of the most underrated fashion
(I thought) idea of matching my bright styles, often seen as over the top and lacking
yellow pants with a matching top and a matching sophistication. But when done right, it's a trend
pair of yellow all stars. I went out like this to the that can turn heads!
park with my classmates. I still wonder to this day
how I didn't get bullied for it. I guess I wore it Yet again, some dismiss Fashion as a shallow
with confidence, probably they kept their bitter topic of light discussion. But I disagree. For
comments between them. anyone daring enough to embrace colour on
another level and live my eleven year old fantasy,
Regardless, to this day, I can still remember keep reading! This time, instead of yellow, we are
how incredible I felt, discovering new creative going to work towards achieving an unforgettable
frontiers. At the time, I did not know that what I blue monochrome outfit, by using my top five tips
discovered had a name: Monochrome outfits. of styling monochrome outfits.

The Blue Issue | Φ 24

TONES AND SHADES

Decide if you are going to use different tones and
shades of blue or the same ones. This is a very
important step in creating the outfit. If you are
going to use the same exact shade of blue, make
sure that the blues match exactly and that the
texture of the fabrics match or are complimentary
enough. There is nothing more tasteless than
using fabrics that do not match. If you are trying
to do a monochrome outfit for the first time, I
would suggest to begin with different tones of
blue. It is easier to find pieces in your closet that
are different tones of blue rather than the same.

WHAT’S THE OCCASION?

This will help you focus on what items you should
wear, but also help you with picking up fabrics that
will upgrade or downgrade your outfit depending
on the occasion. As a rule of the thumb, shiny
fabrics like silk and satin upgrade your outfit,
although could be worn for a semi-casual setting
too. Cottons and polyesters are great options for
casual and semi-casual occasions.

PLAY WITH TEXTURES

You could keep it simple and minor or you could
go all the way with it. I mean it. Embrace the
craziness! For example, a woolen top, a faux fur
coat accompanied with sequined pants that have
a similar shade of blue is a great idea. Mix and
match and see what works best for you!

ACCESSORIZE

Shoes, jewellery, belts and bags are a great way to
add your personal touch to an outfit. You can either
pick blue accessories or use a bolder strategy, that
is accessorize with the complimentary colour of
blue, orange. Light blue looks best with shades
of pink and Baby blue looks amazing with grey,
peach, and dark blue.

FINAL TOUCHES

Don’t forget to decide your makeup look! A
Dramatic Cat Eye is a good option, although if
you are brave enough you can play around with
orange and blue eye shadows too.

And that sums it up really! Play around, enjoy the
process and embrace the uncertainty. Fashion is
in many aspects, like Philosophy. You reconstruct,
construct, add and tear apart. Wanna be featured
on our instagram? Tag us with your electrifying
outfits with the hashtag #blue_issuechallenge.

FOUCAULT'S PENDULUM

by Joseph Harcourt

Leading over the cobbles his lady,
So bound was soul and livelihood, so scraped:
Across steep paving, chequered and shady
And loath to permit progeny unshaped.

Yet grace is found here still. Inheritance:
The pride of their subjectivation, smiles
At old tradition’s face, not penitance,
As fools who see his love as vill’nous wiles.

And so does swing the pendulum with ease
Of another, too Foucault, gently moved
As mortal can’t affect, sole cosmic breeze
May change the course and be some change thus proved.

The Blue Issue | Φ 26 BLUE IN BLUE by Ella Deregowska



The Blue Issue | Φ 28

29 CORALS by Antonis

OBSERVING FAR FROM HOME by Ludovica Fionda 30
The Blue Issue | Φ

KIEŚLOWSKI’S COLOR
TRILOGY: BLUE

by Ulyses Razo

Ido not pretend to say anything original in through a glass window to distract a nurse while
this review of Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Blue she steals pills from a cabinet, with which she
(1993). Without reading a single article or essay attempts to kill herself. Before moving into a new
on the matter, I am confident that academia has apartment and living a hermetic life, Julie calls
swallowed Kieślowski’s color trilogy (which Olivier from her husband’s mansion and asks him
begins with Blue, is followed by White (1994), if he’s in love with her, which question Olivier
and ends in Red (1994)--a triptych, I am told, answers in the affirmative. She tells him to come
which is meant to symbolize both the French over immediately. They sleep together, only days,
flag and the triad values of the French revolution it feels, after Julie’s husband’s death. Moreover, in
(Liberté, égalité, fraternité)), as well as the rest of the morning, we see just what Julie has in mind.
the Polish filmmaker’s oeuvre. Nevertheless, and When Olivier wakes up, Julie is already dressed
as Andre Gide once put it, though “everything that and preparing to leave. She thanks Olivier for the
needs to be said has already been said…no one sex and tells him, without saying so explicitly,
was listening,” and so, “everything must be said never to contact her again. Julie uses Olivier as a
again.” mechanism by which to overcome the grief of her
husband’s death. Afterwards, it would seem that
The characters of Blue are these: Julie (played Julie wipes her hands clean of him.
by Juliette Binoche) is the newly widowed
protagonist, who loses both husband and daughter However, when Julie learns, through a television
in a car accident. Olivier (played by Benoît set in a bar, of Olivier’s intention to complete the
Régent) is Julie’s now dead husband’s friend and concerto Julie’s husband left behind, she, with the
musical collaborator. Julie’s husband, importantly, audience, is outraged. She confronts Olivier and
was a famous composer who had been assigned tells him, “You can’t. You have no right.” This
to put together a symphony for the unification of common ground, Julie’s husband’s work, sets in
Europe. Immediately after the husband’s death, motion the rest of the film. Though Julie is initially
Olivier rushes to his deceased friend’s home (more enraged by Olivier’s audacity, the two eventually
of a mansion), arriving there even before Julie begin to collaborate on the symphony. Fittingly
has a chance to return, and is already collecting enough, a relationship which no one expected to
(one is tempted to say stealing) all of Patrice (the see develop blossoms over music whose purpose
husband)’s papers. Later on, Olivier announces is to unify the countries of Europe.
on television that he is planning to complete
the symphony for the unification of Europe that In the closing scenes of the film, this very
Patrice was unable to finish before his death, an symphony plays, and in the lyrics of the song
act which the audience is prepared to regard as we hear that which fulfills the beauty of the film,
essentially selfish, given the greedy light in which both moral and metaphysical. The lines that the
Olivier is introduced. film leaves imprinted upon us are these: “Though
I speak in tongues of men and angels, if I have
Meanwhile, Julie is presented to us as one of the not love, I am like a noisy gong, or a clanging
most hardened characters we could ask for. At the cymbal.” Julie, like the audience, learns, as hard
hospital, while she recovers from the accident, as the lesson may be to swallow, that no matter
she throws an object (we don’t quite see what) what happens in one’s life, even in the midst of a

31

most tragic experience, one cannot hope to survive teaches, ‘turn the other cheek.’ In other words, if
without love. For, as scripture teaches, even “if people everywhere are just as good and just as bad
I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all as people anywhere, then it’s also fair to expect
mysteries and all knowledge, and [even] if I have a more stringent moral imagination within a true
a faith that can move mountains,” if I “do not have believer, particularly that of the Judeo-Christian
love, I am nothing.” And it’s this appeal, moral faith. For it’s in this religion, as Nietzsche argued,
and existential, which it seems to me renders that suffering is turned into a virtue, by which
Kieślowski’s film so compelling. Through this paradigm-shift pain, even or especially when
invocation to a higher power, bracketing whether inflicted upon us by our enemies, is welcomed as
we ourselves feel inclined to believe in such a a gift, as a test from God. This loving acceptance
being, the film aspires toward a bitter maxim of every ill that might befall us is something
(bitter for those who, like Julie, would have which would be quite hard to find in an agnostic,
liked to rid themselves of love, thereby avoiding especially a (post)modern one; one would need to
emotional harm) is in itself a powerful and be a mystic, or something of the like, to truly have
compelling conceit. a Christian reaction to misery, it seems.

It is in this way that Blue manages to come We know that Kieślowski was a private Christian,
across as intensely profound, as a challenge to the a fact which goes a long way in understanding
modern moral imagination, namely through its the almost divine quality of his work. In The
suggestion that perhaps modernity acted rashly in Double Life of Veronique (1991), for example,
its complete rejection of Christian values. Though the camera’s wandering through its world is not
it’s arguably true that atheists and agnostics unlike experiencing a waking reverie, the beauty
are on the whole about as moral as Christians of which one wants to call heavenly, even if a
(some might claim more so), it’s also true that certain hellishness is to be found within that
without the quasi-masochistic approach to life’s holiness. The inverse might be said of Blue: it is
sufferings, which belief in a God provides, one within Julie’s hellish suffering that love, a divine
has much less incentive to, as the Christian God boon, manages to blossom.

The Blue Issue | Φ 32

ART by Wayan Chan SECURITY

by Zoe Mei

Brown hair drip
drops down onto
black squishy flip flops
and
seamless white plastic shower floor.

Then it is tan sand
and saltwater spray;
and the great gray-blue ocean
lies before bare burrowing toes
and air vent breaths
are washing tides
and the shushing breeze.

She is naked and young and alone
tan, svelte and smooth
squeezing sea from dark tangled hair
on a beach
where air smells sweet
salt, not stinking seaweed
and everything the temperature of her body.
The sun burns not too hot or bright
in pastel-streaked sky
rays not of needle glares but cotton.

The standing,
quiet calm
no chatter but seagulls
air enough to fill both lungs:

a world that is plush and halcyon
and needs no reason

33

APPLES

by Will Anderson

I had sworn off romance for at least two years,

which went great until I heard Nat “King” Cole sing

about how he was walking along and—flash!

bam! out of some orange sky,

his love came in apocalyptic, alakazamic splendor—

which is how most of my relationships begin

and how you appeared to me, in the midst of ruin—

but I’m being dramatic.

You’ve become a part of my life so quickly

and the West Coast is burning! Orange!

The apocalypse seems so incredibly nigh in these times!

Despite that, you call to tell me about your favorite poem in Hebrew,

and translate it over the phone: some poet

who wishes he was a painter visits a friend

named Mike Goldberg who is a painter

and is working on a piece with the words SARDINES in it, of all things,

which baffles the poet as the days continue,

and the painting continues, and the poet continues—

until he goes to check in on Goldberg one day

and finds that he’s nixed SARDINES, he’s painted over it!

Buh-bye, fish-words!

which baffles the poet again until suddenly

the poet finds himself possessed

by the color orange, and at this point you note

that there are different words for orange in Hebrew,

fruit-orange and color-orange,

in the same way the Greeks had wine-dark seas

or plain boring porphureos ones, and different words

for so many yellows too—but you say you’ve been possessed

by orange, like your here-to-unnamed Israeli poet,

that you have wrestled with it your whole life.

When you were just one, your mother

came from Israel and didn’t fully understand Halloween,

so she dressed you up as a pumpkin

in the midst of so many Beauties, Masked Beasts,

and Darth Vaders—really standard Halloween fare—

and in the photo you show me you look

like animate seasonal decor, and so happy to be so.

O to be one year old again,

when there are no words for anything.

O to just feel it all so intensely that

sometimes all you can do is cry about the fact

that you didn’t get Cheerios!

Woe be to the Cheerio-less child! To desire denied!

O to be a child, to have nicknames again:

Wilbur, the tyke, the cherub, Willy-Doo,

and your nickname: Mish-Mish! How adorable—

but you’re still translating that poem from Hebrew to English for me,

The Blue Issue | Φ 34

and the poet has been wrestling with orange

for some time now, writing about it until lines

turn into stanzas and stanzas turn to pages all without

ever mentioning orange, and he even titles it Oranges, only

to later find Goldstein’s painting

in a gallery, titled SARDINES!

which is the end of the poem you tell me! Haha!

And I love it, even translated and over the the phone.

And then we hang up and continue our lives, and this poem continues,

and paintings all over the world continue until

I share a clump of O’Hara poems with you,

and you do some digging and find to your astonishment

that O’Hara knew Mike Goldstein too, which raises so many questions such as

if O’Hara went to Israel or if Mike Goldstein went to New York, and

we wonder too where your here-to-unnamed Israeli poet even lived,

and our theories are flooding into our conversation

until we find O’Hara’s “Why I’m Not a Painter”

and discover that your poem is just a translation into Hebrew!

But everyone is talking about O’Hara nowadays! O’Hara this!

O’Hara that! Did you know O’Hara knew Jackson Pollock?!

YES! Everyone knows, so don’t flash me with trivia

pouring out of every orifice of your royal-you body.

It makes all the wonder of everything pour out,

and no one likes a mess. Why can’t we talk

about more interesting people who lived

with their pockets turned all the way out?

Like how His Grace, Nat King Cole, was made to sing

in nearly six different languages, so that on his first take he belted out

L is for the way you look at me! and then he brushed the dirt off his shoulders



cleared his throat, and crooned Toi qui n'a peut être pas compris!

and who the hell knows what that even means,

but god save the King because he sounds good in every language and any age—

or what about Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, who enlisted in the Army at 13

and whose entire career was catapulted by a recording session

that he was black-out drunk during. And what about Bob Kaufman,

who was obsessed with Golden Sardines, which are arguably cooler

than regular fleshy ones or any words about them, which might be why

he took a vow of silence for ten years, from the day JFK was assassinated

until we pulled out of ‘Nam—and aren’t all these people

so full of wonder and mystery, Mish-Mish?



But the ceilings falling in, the bottoms falling out, I’m going into a spin,

and all this wonder is filling our eyes with so many shades:

mine are glaukos, your eyes are walnutish, and O’Hara’s eyes

were a sort of fishy goldenrod—but now they’re gone,

aren’t they? A shame, really. He left men who looked like St. Sebastian draped in sadness—

but we’re alive and we go to the park to paint in the grass and you’re trying to pry out

the orange that’s stuck in your head, so you make a whole painting,

can’t get the shade right, and title it The Despair of Color—

and later we lie in bed and you tell me about a half-dream

you slipped into where we were orange from the waist down, and I ask what color

we were above the waist, and you tell me that there wasn’t anything there.

LONELINESS OF A SHIP by Gustave W 35

ANOTHER LIFE

by James Hopkin

We sat on the safety barrier and listened, our each had three lives. They were the rules.
bare feet just touching the tarmac. It was Evenings I’d walk home barefoot, wet shoes and
funny, really. To think this was the same noise as socks dripping in my hands. Too many lost lives.
before. Back at the house it had been a murmur, My father would be sitting in front of the TV, still
soft and distant, a scream caught at the back of a in his oil-stained overalls. Watch for the leeches
throat. Now, up close, it was hard, violent, enough in that stream. Bloodsuckers they are. He spoke
to make our little brains rattle. without looking up from the TV, and I could
never tell if he was joking or not. When I told you
* about it, about the leeches and the stream and the
bloodsucking, you shrugged and said you were
When you first moved into the house with the immune. So I decided I was too.
garden, it didn’t interest us, that faraway sound.
And if it did, we didn’t let on. The garden kept us You once told me your mother wasn’t your real
occupied. It was big and wild and we never knew mother, and your real mother lived by the sea. You
where it ended and where the world began. said if we followed the stream far enough, we’d
get there. I tried to picture it. The stream giving
My mother didn’t like it, us being out there, in to open water. Waves peeling and falling. The
among the trees with their permanent shadows land just ending.
and roots bulging like tumors from the ground.
Maybe it was because you were older, already at “When it turns salty it means we’re close,” you’d
high school. Maybe because your parents were say, and you’d dip the tips of your fingers into the
new to the village. Whatever it was, she’d make stream to taste the water.
us report back every hour, like homing pigeons.
If we didn’t, she’d walk up to your house in her I wondered how many lives we’d need. All the
grotty white hotel slippers and yell for us. Boys! way to the sea.
Boys! Over and over until we came. We’d get back
all wide-eyed and flushed, and she’d be standing Some days we’d make it so far that the shade of
there, arms crossed, while your mother sat on the the trees broke into an overgrown field. Old farm
wetrot bench smoking cigarettes. machinery rusted in the grass. Here we’d arm
ourselves with big sticks fallen from dying trees
“Not past the swing,” she’d say. “Understood?” and plant them into the ground with every second
step. You’d be the leader, because you were
We’d nod and she’d look over to your mother, as older. Me, the right-hand man. We’d go on like
if to make sure she’d got it too. Then she’d walk that, beside the stream, my feet in your footsteps,
back home, those old white slippers picking up listening to the motorway drilling in the distance.
more dirt with every step.
Boys! The yell was the only thing that brought
The swing was an old car tyre suspended from a us back. Lost lives became wet feet again. Those
tree by a length of rope. It was there when you thoughts of the sea became strange, distant.
moved in, hanging where the flowerbeds ended and Sometimes we’d go so far that if the yell came, we
the mowed grass turned wild. A stream glugged wouldn’t hear it. We’d hear the gulping stream,
beneath it, and towards the end of summer, when the thud of mud underfoot, and the patient growl
the water dropped, we’d jump off the tyre into the that grew with every step. Maybe that’s why we
stream and hop from stone to stone, letting out kept going. So we wouldn’t have to go back.
giddy screams whenever the other misplaced a
step and soaked a shoe. A misstep cost a life. We *

The Blue Issue | Φ 36

Another red car spilled past. You cursed. Reds of passing cars. I looked across at the channel
were mine. Blues yours. that separated our side of the motorway from the
other. Little blades of grass had broken through
“Alright,” you said. “You win.” the tarmac and were growing beneath the steel
barriers. I thought of the old machinery in the
Your voice strained against the roar of a white van overgrown field. And of the car tyre hanging in
passing. I nodded, and wiggled my bare toes. Our the garden. And of how we’d never hear the yell
shoes and socks dried on the hard shoulder, the from here.
tarmac warm under the late afternoon sun. Too
many misplaced steps. Lives lost on the way. “Actually,” you said. “Two lives. One there, one
back.”
You stood up and struck your stick against the
safety barrier. The steel shuddered beneath me. A truck shook past. Then another. Rumbling in,
tarpaulin thrashing, before growing faint and
“If I run across, I get a life back.” disappearing, like waves dying on the rocks.

Your words merged with the momentary shrieks You didn’t even put your shoes on.

37 LOCH AWE by Robert Innes

The Blue Issue | Φ 38 MINIMALISM by Denis Fradkin

THE EXCESS OF DENIAL

by Eva Poshlost

“People who admire De Sade are con artists, are brought into the folds of polite society. The
do you hear? Con artists! … Did any of ground of the righteous and well to do. But there
them eat shit? Yes or no?” Georges Bataille, ‘Blue is a drive for shame. We are voracious for shame!
of Noon’
Since the 1950’s there has been a denial of death.
I will tell you the human condition. The How many have seen a corpse? Once upon a time,
human being has one hand counting, one hand the dying would be cared for by friends, by family.
masturbating, and a slit throat. Writers like They died at home and all- young and old alike-
Bataille and Artaud tried to describe the darkness stood a chance to see their human state and treat
of the human condition. Bataille himself, inspired the dying with respect. Now, we pack the sick, the
by the Surrealists, Nietzsche and Freud, laid out old and the dying into hospitals and care homes.
an incomplete framework for a bifurcated human The gross weakness of self-satisfied confidence.
psychology, separated between the drives for the Though we have always been vile, our self-denying
discontinuous (that is the domain of distinct living cleanliness is condescending and paradoxically
beings, language, knowledge, numerical identity, humiliating. Jewish tradition involves tending to
social creation and ethics) and the continuous a body, washing it before burial. Islam blesses
(the domain of eroticism, death, shame, the the dead by burying them quickly so that they
sacred, transcendent, and impossible). Let’s say do not fester. Death and its sickness are faced.
“YES!” The centre of the drive for continuity is We, however, are the generation without shame.
excess. “Excess” is “that whereby the being is Without memento mori. We shuffle the sacred into
firstly and above all else conveyed beyond all the appalling house of the quantifiable, and seat it
circumscribing restrictions” (Preface to Madame at the table of reason.
Edwarda). Excess is pure being. Excess is being as
it transcendentally is. It is pouring out. All human The assimilation of filth, and the cleansing of death
activity can be fundamentally assigned between and perversion, into the domain of discontinuity,
these two drives of discontinuity and continuity. has rendered the drive for continuity ravished.
Adam named the animals. Noah numbered them. In the ‘Preface to Madame Edwarda’, Bataille
They were accountants. Eve ate the apple. Isiah diagnosed such a state as untenable. He believed
saw the face of God. They were beyond. human beings would find themselves reinstating
taboos out of a psychological hunger. This is
But look at us! Settled in a time where kinks are partially true, however Bataille failed to feel out
so readily accepted, sex is invited into casual a different type of human who could monstrously
conversation and there are more attempts at clear thrive in this situation- the “denier”.
categorization of once shameful matters than ever
before. Today there is a celebration of religious Who are deniers? The perverts who ruin their
diversity, but an ignorance towards God. Our lives orgasm and deny themselves are examples par
are regimented by growth. We accumulate money, excellence. Those who ruin their orgasms, they
possessions, energy, understanding. We expend sacrifice those ecstatic contractions, which
so little! The notion of doing things for their if celebrated would make them momentarily
own sake, or for no sake, is utterly lost. Worst of divine. They abandon themselves. Others work
all! Our time shuns death. We have cast out the themselves up only to never cross the threshold.
limitless, without losing our drive for it. Utterly They are those who deny an orgasm. They leave
contemptible. We have degraded ourselves. We frustrated, but with an enduring arousal. Without
have reduced everything to mere numbers and the cleansing fire of release, both are dazed and
sums. This is how there is a tolerance for religion worthless. These beings are far crueler, and far
but not for God, for God is utter transcendence. more impressive than those who would naively
Religion has been castrated. Signifying no more meet their compulsion for the continuous. They
than trivial actions. Sex has become a health are despondent. They are cuckolded. They are
pursuit! Yet, sex is ruinous. It steals control. Burns hungry. Committing such a crime against the
out minds. The point of orgasm verges on the self. They are voracious! Those who abandon the
annihilation of the self. We are more conservative sacred out of a sense of the sacred. They meet the
now than ever. Where before the necessary taboos drive for absence with absence. These reflective
of life were chastised but never denied, today they humans exploit it for an unsatisfied-satisfaction.

39

Bataille’s error was that the assimilation of drown. I will float! Bataille was wrong in thinking
perversion can itself be a perversion. It is, human beings would ultimately find the sanitizing
however, only a gift of the few. Most are not so of taboo intolerable. Evil may thrive off self-
self-reflective. Many walk in the insipid monotony denial. I will not stop, I find denial too arousing.
of naming, and others are too weak to endure the
shame of shame. The former pursue the sanitation Know that I hate you. I mock you and get off on
of taboo. The latter recoil from it. Cowards. Some, mocking you. You cannot reason with me. I am
though, neither pursue nor recoil. They writhe not motivated by reason. I do not do this for you
in it. These deniers may experience an obscene or for myself. I just do. As do we all. Feeling is
weightlessness in the clean conservative world. all there is. This is not something to know, but
This obscenity is of a different order. There is a again to be felt, and felt transparently- such is
ruinous satisfaction in the starvation of ecstasy. consciousness. This self-denier. I walk across this
Bataille did not dream far enough. The intolerable city, with rich blood flowing through my breasts
life of a clean human being is precisely what a and a heat between my legs. I will corrupt the
truly evil human would endure. world with my eyes. I will not commune with
the world. I am this new limit of negation. A still
* breathing vacuum. Starving feels so joyous. Who
can achieve a greater state?
“...all those who are masters of their language,
all those for whom words have meanings… are If this were a different medium, you would have
pigs.” Antonin Artaud, ‘All language is garbage’ felt an extended silence. You would not have
spoken, because of the vacancy in my splayed
Do you not see that I hate myself? I feel hate limbs and pale lips. Seeing me so transparent and
towards my being. Don’t be confused. I do not mentally spent, you would have been a voyeur. As
wish I was dead. Nor do I wish I had never existed I regain my awareness, I notice a slither of spit has
at all. But see that I hate my own being. It is a left a mark on my blouse. It’s still damp. It could
most magnificent hatred as well! As if I have not have fallen longer than five minutes ago. It’s
been flayed. With my burning thoughts shifting annoying me. Besides that, my gaping mouth
between surges of uncontrolled panic and absent- seems to have left an acrid dryness on my tongue.
minded despair.
I will tell you! At a job interview, among other
Now to mock people past and present, for in all ages questions, I got: “Miss Poshlost, how would you
have the conceited played politics. Pure insanity. propose to sequence postings on different social
Politics breeds bad faith. It is only a distraction media platforms when marketing a new health
or an avatar of death. Look no further than the drink?” I answered their trivial questions, but all
countless revolutions and civil wars! How many I saw was dust and it made me wet. I pictured
fought for ideals, as opposed to blindly following seizing the dust and covering my tongue with it.
the fashion of their social circles? Hypocrisy! Yet, I pictured rubbing it into my eyes. How it would
the results are all the same. Death. It is absurd. scrape and bloody them, and how a hopeful
Inevitable. Bataille saw that the stench of politics flow of tears would try to expel the alien bodies.
is the stench of death. This is why in ‘Blue of I pictured scooping a handful of the dust and
Noon’, the protagonist Troppmann abandons releasing it up my cleft. What it would be like to
his interest in the socialist revolutionary Lazare. make love to dust, to have it kiss my womb. This I
One can imagine the fetishizing that occurs in pictured as I answered their questions, presenting
revolutions! Do you not feel the hatred within them with a steady confidence and a congenial
yourself, your nausea and contempt for being? smile… When I had my first period, I ended up
having four in one month. I wanted to die. The
I love you, sweet reader! We are the fly in the nausea was total and the ache crippled me. It was
milk. Human beings are hideous. The bleeding the first time I realized that my body is not my
celibate nun. HA! Until one day she bleeds her ally. Three months later I actually gave up food
last! HA! The old sperm-producer who cannot because I’d heard that a prolonged lack of calorie
get erect! HA! How ludicrous and hopeless these intake resulted in the ‘cessation of menses.’ If
figures are. Acting against themselves. Their you, sweet reader, would but vomit in your mouth.
actions scream of futility! In any case, it matters Have the internal acid rise up and burn you. You
not. These words are EMPTY. This is excess. would feel that you yourself are not safe. I say this
for no reason beyond myself. Not even for myself.
I recognize the response you have to reading this.
But, I won’t ever stop pouring out to you. It is all Though I am afraid, I still act. Bataille thought of
anyone can do. Where others swim. Where others limits, but I look beyond. He failed and showed

The Blue Issue | Φ 40

himself to be too fearful. His own ideas paralyzed and turn my consciousness into the ideal of agony,
him. He failed like De Sade failed. Like Artaud you would disembowel me. I picture you revealing
failed. Cowards. The paradoxical shame of denial me below the navel and carving out an opening.
is satiating. Do you know, if we met, sweet reader, Plunging your hands into me, before emptying
on the street, I would ignore you? That would be my intestines onto the floor. I picture you setting
my gift to you. Shame through absence. The gift some to hang between my legs, releasing some
of denial. If we were in the same room, sweet secondary genitalia, and making me anew before
reader, I would do such things to you… the end. How magical that would be.

As I write this, I fear for my life. I fear that you, I would say I hope you forgive me, sweet reader.
sweet reader, will kill me. I picture your method. But, how would you know that I am not getting
Whether your self-assured hands would coil off on your condemnation, or your pity? You
around my long, delicate neck, and you would would do best to say nothing, no? But, I don’t
watch my pretty young face slowly redden. Giving acknowledge you. My very words are excess. My
way to an anxious purple, with my boundless thoughts dissolve. The filth poured on this page is
terrified eyes fixed on you, my assailant. Before not to be understood but felt. It is pure excess. A
finally climaxing in an empty, swollen blue. After release of the sickness latent in the flesh. Nothing
that no more would I pour out. Lifeless, lie there. is ever done by us. All that this is, is experience.
I the victim and you the perpetrator. Perhaps These are not the words of safety or home, these
you would shoot me or stone me, or kick me to are the words of beyond. Behind my eyes is
death, with each blunt hit falling like a kiss from not even an abyss. When Perfection had itself
God. I picture that anger, disgust and revenge crucified, what else do you expect?
overwhelms you, and wishing to humiliate me,

41 LAST BREATH by Fabian Kerj

The Blue Issue | Φ

43 PHOTOGRAPHY by Mercedes Lavin

LET'S NOT PAINT
YOU IN LIGHT

by Liane Wergen

I have colour-coded my lovers
Do you have a preference?
How about the colour blue
Like forget-me-nots or
My favourite socks
Orange is already taken
Autumn no longer the same
I used to love October
It now reminds me of his name

Let's not paint you in light
But deep oceans and far peaks,
The darkest shade of night,
Winter air on my cheeks and
My notebook containing poetry
Cold colours or are they just calm?
Hot chocolate by the radiator
Your laugh is why I stay warm

Neither sadness nor farewell
Feeling blue here means sweet dreams,
Our breaths blurring into aquarelle,
And falling, like soft first snow,
Quiet mornings whispering
I found my colour too

If I was yellow
You turned me into spring

The Blue Issue | Φ 44

45 ART by Renee Bertini

EYES WIDE OPEN

by Maria Chiara Aquilino

I enter the room and it’s all red.
Burning, shouts
I can feel them inside;
nothing is left of me.
Eyes wide open, they can’t see
and I am scared to let them.
I close my eyes and it’s all blue.
Calming, sweet
I can feel the tension release;
the light caressing my skin.
Still I hear voices, yet they are far
and I am rising above,
In my dreams

The Blue Issue | Φ 46

47 ART by Zalina Gamat

CREATURES IN THE PIT

by Daniel Peixoto Murata

Got rain on my face
got nothing to face.
I’m late for what’s due
I’m sinking in the blue.
My Dad told me he was no person of feeling -
that’s how he did, how he coped with living.
When there is much to do, sadness has no use
but I couldn’t keep away the blue.
My Mom told me I was losing my way -
I should listen to her, but I was too astray.
She gave me advice I couldn’t refuse
but I was already too deep in the blue.
My Brother told me to do anything but think -
Meet some nice girls and pay them a drink.
Don’t think on feelings: find yourself a muse
but the muse couldn’t get that I’ve got the blue.
My Wife told me there was no love anymore -
she never got how much of me was sore.
She would complain, and shout, and accuse
but my heart was pumping the blue.
I’ve got to sink to the bottom of blue
to get blue in my lungs and nothing to do
so I could find new ways to feel
so I could find new ways to heal.
Dad, and Mom, and Brother, and Wife:
they made their claims but mine is the life.
Like those strange animals living in the pit,
I’ve found myself right in being misfit.
I’ve found my light deep in the depth,
it was in the blue that I could breath.
Got rain on my face
got so much to face.
I must pay what’s due
I’m swimming through the blue.

The Blue Issue | Φ 48