The Liminal Issue

v o l .10

Φ

MAGAZINE



The word liminal comes from the Latin word līmen, relating to the
stage in a ritual or process where participants stand at an ambiguous
threshold between its beginning and end.

More recently though, usage of the term has broadened to describe
political, cultural and personal change as well as rites. During liminal
periods of all kinds, things may reverse or momentarily dissolve,
continuity of traditions may be uncertain, and future outcomes once
taken for granted may be thrown into doubt.

The dissolution of order quintessential of liminal moments creates a
fluid, malleable environment that has enabled our creators to explore
the feeling of being at the cusp of something different.

CHIARA ZUCCHELLI
EDITOR IN CHIEF

CONTENTS

Floating 4 Second Stage 30
by Nadya Wijaya, photography by Mimi Garcia by Francesca Caselli

In His Nice Apartment 6 Photography 32
by Jane Debate, art by Cveta Gotovats by Manuel Schiavi

Pure Schizo 8 Dandelion 34
by Joseph Welbelove by Maria M. Guasch, art by Antonis

After Some Time 10 36An Interview with Professor Maisha L. Wester
by Holly Law, photography by Mimi Garcia
by Antonia Kattos

Limbo Galore 12 Photography 41
by Antonia Kattos, photography by Çağrı Ertem by Çağrı Ertem

Most of the Time I Wear Knives on My Feet Three-Faced Giano 42
by Filippo CorteseWayan Chan
14by Maria Payro, art by Wayan Chan

Fire Escape 16 Prisoner 43
by Hassan Ali, art by Renée Bertini by Tadhg Kwasi

Some Traditions are Sexist 18 Art 44
by Panni Orban by Johan Gamper

I Went to the Edge of Munich 20 45Jesus in Spokane International
by Jack Verschoyle
by Victoria Comstock-Kershaw, art by Deborah Pearse

Depth Navigation 21 Rhytmic Tears 48
by Deborah Pearse by Mimi Garcia, art by Antonis

Limitation 22 50The Limitations of the Figure: Francis Bacon
by Xenia Knoesel, art by Wayan Chan
by George Williams, photography by Julio Meyer Ziff

An Intimate Experience 24 54An Interview with Roberto De La Torre
by A.
by The Editors

A Good Time for Killing Demons 26 Photography 60
by Tarun Gidwani by Roberto De La Torre

The Liminal Place of Undecided Motherhood 19°23'47.0"N 99°14'16.7"W 62
by Alex Cat, photography by Maria Payro
28by Andrea Koll

The front and back covers for this issue were created by Antonis.
For enquiries, and more of their work visit antonis.uk or @turquoisedance on Instagram.



Floating

by Nadya Wijaya

I’m floating
My face is kissing the sun
As my back is soaring through the water
These two elements
creep in every joint of my body
The heat of the Sicilian sky
And the cold of the Sicilian soil.

I like it like this
The absence of totality
The equilibrium of forces
The symmetry of burdens
The availability of possibility.

Will I drown?

I like it like this
My head is hanging
between my made and unmade life,
My body is swaying
between my complete and incomplete moves,
My senses are oscillating
between my state of being and unbeing,
My feet that are set
between the intersection of meanings.

I like it like this
For shapes and forms fraud us,
Structures fail us,
Borders limit us,
Order bores us.

I like it like this
The non-existing form,
The permanent becoming,
of things, of people, of times,
of places, of the world.

PHOTOGRAPHY by Mimi Garcia

his nice apartment

by Jane Dabate

We stare at each other staring back at nothing. The room is simply so full of him. The flag,
In between the pages of rebirth and bloom, decorated with Greek letters he worshipped in
neither here nor gone, silent or speaking. I unhook college. A framed photograph of his dog. Two
my own bra. He puts on his own condom. In this beers on his nightstand. His. Mine. Both opened.
way, we each abdicate what we might otherwise Both full. There is no space for me here. He didn’t
owe each other. We are selfish flesh and the want me to forget my clothes.
other’s presence is, at most, situational. He does
not know about me. If he were to know about me, I can’t remember why I’m here. It feels like I am
I am confident that my presence would become, at always here. Every time I leave I’m back in this
best, accidental. room. There is no entrance, just a semblance of an
exit and the realization that I’m still in his bed. I
The whole ordeal lasts less than five minutes. I don’t know exactly what I am after. I try to leave
don’t know if I want to return, however considering with a bottle of flavoured vodka he bought me and
he chooses to hold the blouse on his floor hostage, one less shirt. There is a point of no return, and I
the choice isn’t really a choice. His condition is don’t know the point of returning anyway...
so simple; another visit, another evening or five
minutes spent with my body (wow) (thank you) But I want my shirt back. He tells me he’ll only
and the clothes are mine again. It’s easy. give it back if I give him myself again. He says I
must return, and suddenly I do.
He lives in a nice apartment. I know this before I
even arrive, thanks to Google Maps. I arrive and No reciprocity grows in this garden.
it is, in fact, a nice apartment. After he finishes, he
tries to talk to me. I think, ‘Please Just Be Nice’. We’re lying in bed and I can feel it again. I smile
and laugh.
He talks about his apartment. He thinks it’s nice
and wants to make sure I think so too. I agree. “You're laughing. What is it?” He asks me. He is
He’s not wrong. It is nice. not laughing. I have been here before too.
“Nothing, I’ve just been here before.”
The ritual of giving always starts with a bow. I “Of course you have.”
didn’t think so much about it. Rumi said there are “No, I’ve been here before.” I stretch my legs out
one million ways to kneel and kiss the ground. I and then cross them into a knot. Then I hold my
feel hollow here and I’m already on the ground, open palms up toward the ceiling.
but instead, I find myself kissing him. My knees
are cold. He watches me. I speak again.
“You know what I mean.”
In his bedroom, there is no breath for worries. Now he is smiling. “I know what you mean.”
They suffocate. There is no time for any moment
besides the present. I did not ask one thing of him. He looks different, like there’s one less thorn in
Some may say he asks too much of me. “Girl”, he his side. I like making him happy so much. I like
says, “girl, girl, give me your space, your time,”. making him happy so much that I’ve stopped
He says, “invite me into you. I am going to finish. caring about what it takes. I will do just about
I am going to say how. I choose when you’ll leave, anything with myself. He doesn’t want to watch
only to pay for your own train ticket home.” I me come undone.
don’t know finishing from starting. I don’t mind.
I abdicate these choices along with other things, But I’m here and his to watch, so he isn’t looking
like my autonomy, and whatever I would owe him away.
elsewhere.
Worth can puddle here, and I crouch down for a
I don’t mind. taste of it.

ART by Cveta Gotovats



pure schizo

by Joseph Welbelove

In the 1970s, Hunter S. Thompson wrote the plagued with weak, ineffective leaders, massive
now legendary article "The Kentucky Derby inflation and everyone is losing their collective
is Decadent and Depraved". In response to this, marbles. And we all know where that ends up
his editor Bill Cardoso coined the term “Pure leading to. Regime change?
Gonzo,” referring to the style of his writing – a
hodgepodge stream of consciousness, a mapping So the times have changed? We’re faced with a
of ideas and biting satire of American Culture. It predicament. Do we plug up the rotting wound
wasn’t objective, it wasn’t kosher, and it wouldn’t of a dead and decadent society and retreat into
have been published in any ‘reputable’ magazine. the now fabricated and legendary tale from the
But, God damn, didn’t it change the entire face of 20th Century? One of Evil rising and the mother
journalism! And now I, Joseph Welbelove, will spirit of the ‘60s combating it with peace and
coin the term “Pure Schizo” to refer to the ever- love to create a “fruitful,” “peaceful,” “tolerant”
increasing ‘schizotisation’ of art, philosophy, and “caring” humanity? No! That illusion, that
culture, society and arguably of all our current Hinduistic ‘Maya’ (literally meaning “illusion”),
realities. But what is Pure Schizo? With this piece, is gone from our collective imaginations, yet some
I will attempt to tell you with the best of my current still cling onto it to protect themselves against the
knowledge and abilities. Pinning down “schizo” is crushing blow of reality. But now we must conjoin
difficult unless you’ve already observed and come the bleeding wound that society has been for the
to the conclusion that we live in a schizophrenic last 30 years with the desire to go back to the
world. Simply, it’s a contradiction of form. stable, traditional, familiar, Modernist values of
Not a juxtaposition, not a contrast: an Absolute Western society, of ideals that aren't being broken
Contradiction. down, something that brings stability to the mind.
But this meta-modernist oscillation results in a
I see pure schizo as the materialisation of the contradiction where one mentally tries to grasp
philosophical stance of meta-modernism, an ideas that have already been deconstructed by the
extension of postmodernism, going into effect. Postmodernists like Deleuze or Guattari and those
It’s a sign of the, until now, theoretical, abstract who followed in their footsteps. It results in a post-
word salad of an understanding becoming a truth world where no ‘idea’ has a bedrock to stop
solid concept. But what exactly is this new it from spiralling into the abyss, where culture
intriguing concept of thought? I would say that repeats itself in a never-ending spiral of post-post-
it's the understanding that one can think and act irony, which has resulted in the dominant culture
both, equally sincerely and ironically, and that cannibalising itself. A cultural chimaera of Global
viewing the contradiction of life is a pathway to Tribalism & Individual Solipsism.
enlightenment – a philosopher that encapsulates
this is Slavoj Žižek. It's perhaps the real start of And why has this happened? The internet killed it.
mysticism coming back into the worn-out secular That’s why! It allows for too much information to
culture of the times – a culture that is fed up with be readily available in the world where much of
our current state of being in the 21st Century. It’s it competes for our unbridled attention. It’s where
the realisation that ‘postmodernism’, ‘capitalism’ controversy is propagated based upon political and
and the ‘Left & Right’ are finally dead, that they’ve cultural lines. This manufactured rift only benefits
been rolling around on the floor like a squealing the self-inflated tech industry and the 0.1% who
pig with its throat slit for a while now and what benefit from a divided society. Just look at the
we’ve been experiencing for the last two years of state of the world: it lacks harmony. The AI-based
the pandemic was the pig finally dying. Covid-19 algorithms and the all-seeing eye of the mobile
has shown the weakness of our governmental, phone Panopticons created the perfect individual
financial and psychological systems. We are now hole for our attention and energy, which, in turn,

shapes and controls our minds. Even leading destiny without the patriarchal control of man,
scientists and engineers don’t exactly know how yet with this freedom chooses to express her
these systems work. I’m sure you’ve had a similar sexuality in a way that can still be consumed by
event where you’ve been thinking of something— man. And without going on a tangent I see this
let’s say a pair of geometric trousers—for you to as a reflection of how the culture of OnlyFans
find a day later an advert for the exact style of has completely changed the face of pornography
trousers that you thought looked cute. Why does and the sex industry; instead of selling sex, these
this happen? Did you see this advert before but women instead sell a sense of companionship to
didn’t consciously observe it, or does the algorithm the lonely man. The film could’ve been so more
know you so well that it knows exactly what you by exploring deeper the concept of ‘The Male
want? Who knows? Gaze’ (presented by feminist film theorists) and
the portrayal of women in society. Along with
But now, a new, internet-based cultural its already existing schizophrenic lead character,
understanding of the globalised world is about dream-like sequences, and the fact it wants to
to take place, where everything is based upon a confuse the audience, it could’ve resulted in it
real and fake, synthetic and organic contradiction being pure schizo but it didn’t. Maybe with more
of ‘'oniric'’ aesthetics in film, music and the input from the film's co-writer Krysty Wilson-
other arts. We see now the subjective building of Cairns, it could’ve been? But was this really the
invisible connections of contradictory ideas and kind of story that should have been written and
concepts in philosophy. I’m going to use examples directed by a man in his mid-forties?
from contemporary cinema. One piece from 2021
that caught my attention was David Lowery’s The What I’m trying to express is that philosophy has
Green Knight, an Arthurian meditation on death been banging on the door for a while. But now,
adapted from the 14th-century poem Sir Gawain the door has been kicked in by the chaos of the
and the Green Knight. It caught my attention last couple of years. The precursors, that Deleuze
because it lacks a level of certainty around the and Guattari now must be viewed as called this
reasonings behind the images and story motifs that building of connections “Rhizomatic thinking.”
appear on-screen in the film’s aesthetics as does Instead of ideas being representations stemming
the quest of the titular character played by Dev from an ideal point of origin like a tree, it’s instead
Patel, the natural beauty of the traditional mise-en- a stemming connection of maps between ideas
scène plays with computer-generated visual effects and concepts like a potato root; it’s the creation
to make the entire piece feel like a dream. It’s both of the ‘new,’ schizophrenic way of thinking.
a deconstruction of the hero’s journey and a revile Rhizomatic thinking is the current stage of the
of a more traditional understanding of ‘in touch’ collective consciousness’ view of culture, society
perhaps even ‘queer masculinity,’ honour and and reality. Like that of the unstable mind of a
death. The fact that the film’s promotional trailers paranoid schizophrenic conspiracy theorist — it’s
and posters are that of a typical action-fantasy held together with red string. In another way, I
genre is contradicted by the film itself because think of the Beatles’ song Come Together, because
it has next-to-no “action”, which resulted in its perhaps this red string is what connects our
mixed reception. It screams pure schizo! collective minds. I see the current growing pains
of our society, be it Racism, Sexism, Political
I also think of Edgar Wright’s Last Night in Soho Polarisation, full-on Class and Gender war, and
a psychological horror about a first-year fashion what feels like a constant unprecedented state of
student who's just moved to London, and while, in unrest throughout the world that is on fire but one
my opinion, it was well-constructed shlock with a that is also ultimately coming together. Could it be
weak script that fell apart in the second half, I felt the start of healing and real connectedness of our
it could’ve tackled more deeply the contradictory human race? Or not? Because, at the moment of
way that the modern woman understands herself writing this, Russia has invaded Ukraine, starting
in the current world, at least from my perspective, the biggest conflict in Europe since 1945 that
a woman that is completely in control of her could very well lead to World War III.

After some time

by Holly Law

After some time,
the height of the entrance shrinks down,
and you have to become
smaller yourself
in order to fit inside.

The heat exchange slows.
Make your memories,
but they won’t mean much to
anyone who wasn’t there.

Inside your granddad’s house,
there was that musky vanilla smell
from the potpourri.
You catch it sometimes when you walk through a door,
and it takes you back.
I know.

And there was that moment when everything clicked into line
inside you when you were listening to Bohemian Rhapsody
on the bus to school and you thought that Queen were talking directly to you.
You woke up crying once because you killed your brother in your sleep.
Believe me, I know.

Everything is breaking into smaller pieces
that can be carried outside carefully and
arranged in a different way,
or left apart. Your choice.
The entrance is shrinking.
Your granddad’s house, your bus ride and your dream
are all on the same street as mine.
But will you see the right door? Through the dark,
the glitter of time and rain.

The heat exchange is slowing down.
I will remember your memories sometimes,
and you will remember mine.

After some time,
the height of the entrance shrinks down,
and you have to become
smaller yourself
in order to fit
inside.

PHOTOGRAPHY by Mimi Garcia





LIMBO GALORE

by Antonia Kattos

In perpetual limbo Oh, it ages you
Between my uterine beginning This.
And my six foot end This thing,
I seek and seek Tied into the virginal states
And find and find Of newness
Only to ask And bliss;
More questions
Again. I walk around with eager exhaustion
I am bittersweet,
This constant state of The aftertaste on
Ephemerality A tongue
Is deceivingly That cannot be washed away,
Tiring in its constant Until one’s teeth sink into something different.
Inconstancy. The visceral memory
I wonder Clinging
If there is no end Like I have
Until the end Clung on so many deaths.
What if there is nothing
To transcend? Yes, I indulge my pain,
I have made it a friend.
And when I reach Imagine having to walk
An end With it to the end, not knowing
I find a beginning yet again, How to embrace
And I sleep What you saw coming
Only to awake Long before,
Again Lesson after lesson
And again Beginning after ending
And Everything constantly
Again. Giving way
To more and more
There are no full stops And more.
Only semicolons
Only pauses Keep notes,
In between; Here comes the mock finale,
I keep searching You read the assignment,
For the thrill Limbo galore.
I used to feel
Facing the world PHOTOGRAPHY by Çağrı Ertem
At the edge of seventeen.

Most of the time i wear
knives on my feet

by Maria Payro

Swish, scratch, spin. I balance my body on In this sense, being “a skater” is an intermediate
blades less than half a centimetre wide. I use space inhabited by every single person who uses
the edges to turn angles, the toe-pick to scratch knives to propel their body—from your average
the ice, I spin on the belly of my skates. couple who stumbled across a rink, who, after
drinks and a date, can barely steady themselves
Sure, I’m dizzy, but the cold air quickly fixes that. on the ice, to Olympic champions and Stanley
Cup winners. Objectively, of course, some are
“It’s like walking on jelly,” says my six-year-old better than others, but everyone who skates finds
student. No doubt, ice can be slippery—I have themselves, always, in the position of improving.
the bruises to prove it—but it’s also rough, rocky, “Falling is part of skating, the important thing is
and dry. “Would—would you like an ice pack?” I that you´re trying.” This is what I say to everyone.
ask her after a bad fall. She looks at me like I’m As such, there is no ultimate destination when it
incompetent. How can I offer her more of what comes to ice skating.
harmed her in the first place? But ice can ease
pain, just as much as it can cause it. No destination except for the ice rink itself.

After a decade or so of skating, I feel in my Lucky are those who get to skate in frozen lakes
element when I’m on the ice, which to me is a and rivers, those who get to risk falling into
unique threshold whereupon I can envision and hypothermia-inducing waters, even if it’s just
create. Am I the same person with or without my once a year. I learnt how to ice skate in Mexico
ice skates? Sure. But I can’t say I’m the same City, where, although some find it hard to believe,
body. I can’t do on my own two feet what I can do ice skating is quite a popular sport. Sure, most of
when my blades glide on the ice. To me, skating our ice rinks are found in dead and deteriorating
is like breathing, at least in the way Alan Watts malls, the same signs have been hanging in the
describes breathing. “You can feel on the one same places for decades, the buildings are falling
hand I am doing it, and on the other hand, it is apart, the ice is slushy and yellow, and spiders
happening to me.”—because the ice just carries climb the ceilings that drape, decaying over the
me once I’m on it. ice. The only thing that changes are ticket prices,
reflecting inflation and gentrification in the city.
As I work on my Ina Bauers and my Hydro- The windows are shattered—the signature of
blades, I know, as every skater does, that our sport strong hockey players—and the skate shop
is an ever-evolving one. Forty years ago, very few smells like it sells one item per month. You
people attempted double jumps; today, triple and will, however, always find dozens of sweaty and
quadruple jumps are standard Olympic practice. zealous children, stumbling about in their thick
What I intend to exhibit with this (apart from the hockey gear and dazzling little costumes.
fact that I’d be an Olympic champion if this was
the mid 20th Century) is that a skater can never I look back at being one of them with nostalgia,
perfect the art of skating, as there is always room days on end at the rink with my brothers. In some
for growth. ways, I was a better skater, because I had less fear

ART by Wayan Chan

than I do now, but I was also worse, in that I was does it hurt when I do this? Right, what about
less accustomed to skating. I also knew less about when I do this? That hurts? Okay, it’s probably
ice, and rinks in general, those liminal spaces, just sprained, it’ll be okay.” This is usually how
where one both controls the ice and is controlled it goes. “Don’t worry you’re okay, we’ll get you
by it, fighting against its impulse to slip and off the ice in no time.” The worst accidents are
shatter you, while using its friction to jump and the ones I don’t notice, the ones where the friend
spin. or the lover comes over, panicking, begging for
help. I skate their way as fast as I can. Blood,
Working at an ice rink, my friends say, is a rom- incarnadine, leaking onto the ice, which I’ll have
com job, and I agree. Romance? Well, hockey to scrape off later. Sometimes flesh spilling out,
players date figure skaters, freestyle skaters date visible bones or parts of fingers, or even an ear
rollerbladers who then make their way over to the once—but to be fair, there’s a reason why they
ice, the hockey coach dates his students’ parents, call that spin the Hair-Cutter.
the couple skaters are in an open relationship, and
one too many guys have confessed that they learnt “I’m afraid I’ll slice one of my fingers with the
how to skate so they could bring dates to the rink blade,” say most first-time skaters. I look at my
and impress them. Anyway, enough gossip. hand, a bright red scar spread across my knuckles,
evidence that I’ve been doing Biellmans without
Comedy? A woman, in her thirties, recently gloves. “It rarely happens,” I reassure them,
refurbished. A plaster over her brand-new nose, a “Unless you’re doing figures where you actually
pair of perfectly perked tits, above a D-cup. And hold the blade.” It rarely happens, until it does.
forfuckssakes do not throw your hands above A tall teenager, taller than me, blood sploshing
you when you are about to fall! She does, then, out of his finger, he’d fallen and not moved his
as the laws of physics require, flips forward, flat hand out of the way. He couldn’t skate at all, so
onto the ice, the aforementioned features brave I placed the weight of his body on my shoulder
the fall. Have you ever seen a broken nose? A and dragged him out. The thought of cleaning
deflated boob? What about both at the same time? up blood replenished my stamina. It didn’t seem
I felt bad for laughing. Most people are victims of like a lot of blood, but I couldn’t see, so I told
their own bodies —rarely is the ice responsible him to go wash it in the men’s toilet. I fetch the
for falls, only when there are dents, or say, loose first aid kit, stand waiting outside of the toilets.
chunks of ice. Nothing. A cleaning lady walks by, I ask if she
can go in and check whether the kid’s alright. She
The machinery for the ice rink I work in was walks out, her face is white. I rush inside, it’s a
installed in the early thirties, I think. It certainly crime scene: bloody handprints dragged down
predates the war, this engine room that looks the mirror, blood spilling from the sinks as if it
like an abandoned nuclear plant in Siberia, with were pouring out of the faucets. On the counter,
icicles that hang from thick ice-engulfed copper half-slipping onto the floor, half-conscious, this
pipes. I laughed when I realised there was a pit teenager, and the thick stench of blood. Time to
for disposing of old ice: back home, they dump it call the ambulance.
in the parking lot and within a few hours it’s been
swallowed by the sun. I guess it is what is. The feeling of flowing
through crisp cold air, like I’m water or wind, is
“Hey, what’s your name? Are you okay? Okay, always stained by the smell of sweat and feet, and
[name] do you think you can get up by yourself? the way blood brilliantly scintillates, as it settles
No, okay, don’t worry. Where are you hurt? Okay, on the translucent ice.

fire escape

by Hassan Ali

she watched the chameleons
as they scurried up and down the steely
blood-red fire escape. she wished she

had their sangfroid, that she could just traverse
up and down such heights as she pleased without
the specter of the ground lingering around
her nostril. her gift stared

intrusively at her, reminding her
that she was already an hour late. the sultry
silver of the wrapping paper kissed the morning
light while she stood there silently, admiring
their entanglement, cautiously extending
her fingers forward to feel the sparks

i see her name light up from across
the room. her radiation cuts through
everyone at the party. wiggling
my way past the patchwork
of bodies, i get to the balcony and look down
at her distressed grimace, fearful but
calm, making snow angels on the pulpy concrete

ART by Renée Bertini

Some Traditions are Sexist:
Should They Stay That Way?

by Panni Orban

When young, liberal internationalists hear having to be “asked to dance” by the man. For fans
the term “folklore,” they likely envision a of the novel Pride and Prejudice, this might exude
primitive, mythical experience far removed from Romantic fantasies of 19th century conservatism,
our current conception of modernity. This notion but, at the same time, there is nothing nostalgic
of folklore as a phenomenon of a distant past is about the assertion that a woman essentially
inaccurate, however, as it still constitutes a real cannot exist in the sphere of dance without the
and active part of many cultures around the world man first consenting to legitimize it. Furthermore,
to this day. in most dances, the woman is submissive while
her male partner “leads” her through a series
In my case, born in Budapest, Hungary to of spontaneous choreographies. This gendered
Eastern European parents, yet having immigrated dynamic exists even in solo dances: whereas for
to Washington State when I was five, the men they feature the heavy-hitting of the legs
displacement of my childhood was grounded by and complex rhythmic sequences to showcase
my affinity for Hungarian folk music. I’ll admit, the strength and skill of the dancer, there is no
sometimes it eludes even me as to how I am able female equivalent except Roma-style csingerálás
to love, at once, both Nirvana and manele, AC/ and mahala, which sexualize the female dancer
DC and csárdás. Yet, since my dad was a well- who perpetually borders the threshold between
known primás, a lead violinist in Transylvanian empowerment and subjugation to the male
folk circles, I grew up attending táncház, gaze. Moreover, Hungarian women themselves
community events where musicians and dancers indirectly empower this patriarchal cultural
gather to celebrate their Hungarian culture. Over paradigm by consenting to be subjugated as
time, I gradually shifted from being an observer hagyományőrzők (“guardians of tradition”).
to an active participant as a double bass player.
And yet, while my doctrinal, 21st Century
Nevertheless, my experience growing up as feminist outlook causes me to wince at the overt
one of the only female musicians in these male- sexism upheld by these traditions, my passion for
dominated “professional” folk circles presented them prevents me from denouncing these customs
me with an increasingly frustrating Catch-22: as irredeemably archaic or backward. For one,
the stronger the connection to my cultural roots the active thrill of experiencing the dance as a
became, the harder I found it was to reconcile woman, who is energetically spun around her
my Washingtonian, liberal outlook with the more male counterpart, complicates the overt sexism of
conservative customs of my native heritage. For the gendered dance roles. In a way, the female’s
example, in a recent conversation, my friend dynamism makes her more dominant than the
and fellow musician Balázs—who, like most man and, in the words of my friend Balázs,
members of the Hungarian folk community, tends showcases the woman through an intimate gesture
to lean conservative—surprised me by asking for of love and respect rather than entrenching her
my opinion on whether I thought our traditional subjugation. Additionally, the sexist dimension
styles of dance were sexist or not. of Hungarian culture embedded in the dances
is merely a single element of the larger táncház
My instinctive response to his question was “yes, experience that intimately brings people together
of course.” After all, these dances often reinforce through the sharing of folk music, singing, food,
traditional gender roles and power dynamics. and language. If I focused exclusively on this
For example, there is the tradition of the woman negative aspect, I feel that the greater beauty of

these traditions would be unjustifiably ignored. The conservative Hungarian government has
Furthermore, while Hungarian folk dancing has a defended homophobic and xenophobic discourses
long-standing, historical tradition among peasant with the same argumeent: “cultural preservation.”
communities, the improvisational genre emerged The difference is that this is weaponization
in the 1980s as part of the reactionary movement against not just foreign intervention, but in
against Soviet occupation. The traditional sexism order to discriminate against its own population.
reflected in Hungarian folk dancing should thus A more nuanced reconciliation requires the
be understood within the context of Hungary’s abandonment of a definitive “Western cultural
broader, cultural turn to conservatism at the standard” against which all other cultures are
time, which was seen as the best way to resist evaluated.
foreign domination. In a way, then, these dances
represent more than the sexist traditions they With that in mind, I think there is a way to
embody—they represent the essence of “being appreciate the beauty of certain traditions
Hungarian”. despite some of their inherent outdatedness.
After all, by restricting disagreements to binary
Perhaps my ambiguous feelings about my frameworks of sexist or non-sexist, agreeable or
friend’s question points to a greater philosophical non-agreeable, we may end up condemning as
challenge facing globalizing societies today. “wrong” entire traditions that culturally enrich
In Hungary’s case, the main antagonist to the world we want to live in.
present-day cultural conservatism is the liberal,
internationalist left. Insofar as Hungarian folk
dancing historically preserved national—and
thus, patriarchal—culture, recent attempts to
modernize it according to the well-meaning,
liberal standard of universal equality was
regarded by conservative Hungarians as a direct
threat to the sovereignty of
their Hungarian identity.
Accordingly, it appears that
the universal liberal standard
of equality often requires
the sacrifice of the cultural
singularity of historical
traditions, thereby neatly
illustrating the paradox
of modern liberal
internationalist discourse:
as much as it claims to
stand for the celebration
of cultural pluralism, it
only tolerates diversity
insofar as it does not
compromise Western
values.

Certainly, this

doesn’t mean that all

traditions should be

left unexamined or

passively condoned.

I went to the
edge of munich

by Jack Verschoyle

Each night now, in the deeper and darker
hour of November,
I head home – out of Munich.
I’m sure that, when old, I remember

how the fog
settled, whispering to the ground
and the bogs
in its green belly. Rocks grinding

and embryonic buds ageing together
under cloudy mirrors – shallow icy tongues
rolling. Thundering deer,
feeding their young,

Fighting through bramble
and sweated thickets. In my dreams
I am among them, scrambling.
Fog clings to my seams

Fatal moonlight
of my chilled face
hair bubbling with white
pearls; my decorated face.

The scene was killed by a stark
naked morning. Munich, morgue
made of elements known to talk
to cities with fog and time after dark.

DEPTH NAVIGATION by Deborah Pearse



Limitation

by Xenia Knoesel

The world looks larger
without you
disagreeably so.
I wish you were convinced how good it feels
to have smallness surround both your ankles
not angling from one side to the next
leaning through altering anachronisms:
Parochialism is what we need.
I slip in and out of you
and cannot hold one page
not one letter
in place
once I am off,
again,
in the vastness of ineffectual farsightedness.
I’d rather look small
at smallness
where all that exists matters
and all that matters has its place.

ART by Wayan Chan



AN INTIMATE EXPERIENCE by A.

PHOTOGRAPHY by Manuel Schiavi

A Good Time For
Killing Demons

by Tarun Gidwani

I II

In late 1945, India is on the cusp of her Liminal spaces refer to areas between one
independence from Britain’s grip. Air is filled destination and the next. ‘Between’ is the key
with debates on the kind of nation she’d go word here. Major transformations occur in these
on to become. Amidst this, the man who, for spaces. But, because they are tucked in between
good or worse, became the face of the Indian here and there, they’re often imperceptible.
independence struggle was disagreeing with the
man who would go on to become India’s first Soon after the 1989 fall of the Berlin wall,
prime minister. Gandhi and Nehru argued through political scientist Francis Fukuyama announced
a series of letters. “the End of History”. There was nothing left to
debate. Liberal democracy and market capitalism
Nehru wanted India to embark on a path to had won. Country and country would soon align
Western modernity through rapid industrialisation, themselves to this way of life. We’d all travel
urbanization and mass production. Too much together to the promised land.
time, he thought, has already been wasted.
Gandhi thought otherwise. He dreamt of an India III
primarily made of small, self-sustaining village-
communes. In a letter to Nehru, Gandhi says: During liminal periods, continuities become
uncertain. The temporal dimension of liminality
It may be that India too will go that way [the can refer to moments, weeks, months, years or
way of the West] and like the proverbial moth centuries.
burn itself eventually in the flame around
which it dances more and more furiously. But IV
it is my burden to protect India and through
India the entire world from such a doom. In 2003, the car manufacturing giant Tata
(October 5, 1945) Nano Singur proposed the construction of an
automobile factory in West Bengal, India. The
In his reply, Nehru resists. factory would displace millions of small farmers
and petty producers away from their lands, to
I do not think it is possible for India to be the cities. They protested vehemently. “England
really independent unless she is a technically went through its pain to create its Londons and
advanced country. (October 9, 1945) Manchesters, India will have to do so too”— this
is how Amartya Sen reminds us of Akeel Bilgrami
It was inevitable, Nehru and his contemporaries powerful analysis of post-colonial order. Bilgrami
thought, that India’s road to happiness was the suggested that if India wished for prosperity, it
one that was mapped in the West. would have to displace populations to the cities
as the West did.
In 1945, India was just about to shrug off a
long colonial spell. She sat in the waiting room The economist Prabhat Patnaik points out, that
choosing her next train. For Gandhi, this was when Londons and Manchesters were being
the time to make a choice: should we go down made, the displaced British had places to go to
the way the West led? Or, should we define a — the colonies. More than 50 million people, in
radically new and Indian kind of modernity? For the nineteenth century, migrated to the colonial
his political peers, this was an appealing vision, world; including Canada, India, Australia and
but not something actually possible

West Indies. Displaced Indians move to crowded India is not a dustbin of history. Rural India
Indian cities where they become cheap labour for is a land of opportunities, and key to our
big capital. national future.

V Perhaps, India isn’t haunted by the ghost of what
happened in Europe.
During a rite's liminal stage, participants stand on
the threshold, between a previous way of life and VII
a new way.
Twilight is sacred in Hinduism. Many rituals are
VI performed at when the night, or the day, is just
about to fade. Eating, amog other activities, is not
From 9th August 2020 until 11 December 2021, advised during this time.
for 1 year, 4 months and 2 days over two million
farmers in India led a movement against three VIII
laws the Indian government had passed. Over
700 farmers died as a result. The government’s The Guardian. 24th May 2021: The EU is to
response to the protests included beating, introduce sweeping reforms of farming subsidies
leaving COVID-19 to do it’s job, and a relentless this week to try to halt the decline of small
misinformation campaign. farms and protect them from the intensification
of agriculture fostered by decades of previous
In the end, the farmers won. policies. Janusz Wojciechowski, the EU
agriculture commissioner, said: “My intention
The laws would have enabled unconstrained is that this process of disappearing small farms
profiteering by big capital, at the expense of small should be stopped. The European food sector in
and medium farmers. They would have to hand the past was based on small farms, and it should
over already precarious Indian agriculture at the be in the future as well”.
mercy of the markets.
The Guardian. 23rd May 2021:
Liberal economists, both in India and the West
(and of course, the IMF), explained to the farmers The Prince of Wales has called for small
how the laws are good for the nation. Just like family farmers in the UK and across the world
in the West, it was important that India reduced to come together in a cooperative movement
the proportion of the population dependent using sustainable farming methods, and for
on agriculture. The industries in cities needed their plight to be at the centre of environmental
cheap labour where these farmers could migrate action.
to; thereby bringing India to European levels of
prosperity and bliss. There is no other way. IX

The farmers refused this. Farmer-activist One of the incarnations of the Hindu god Vishnu,
Yogendra Yadav summarizes this refusal: Narasimha, was born to kill the daemonic king
Hiranakashipa. The demon had a boon, thatw
[The farmers showed that] Indian agriculture he could not be killed during the night or day,
will follow an Indian path. Indian farmers are by a human or animal, neither inside the house
not vestiges of the past. They are here to stay. nor outside. Lord Vishnu, as Narasimha appears
Agriculture can and will provide a dignified in a half-man half-lion form and kills the demon
livelihood to a substantial population, many during twilight kills the demon during twilight
times more than it does in Europe or North sitting on the frame of a door.
America. Indian farmers are a repository of
relevant knowledge and technology. Village Liminal times are good times for killing demons.

PHOTOGRAPHY by Manuel Schiavi





ART by Andrea Koll

SECOND STAGE

by Francesca Caselli

It was Fiona’s last therapy session. Presumably for a few days. They lived next to the Salvation
forever. As she went in, a sequence of Army and would never tell each other ‘I love you’,
appropriately unambiguous feelings overwhelmed even though they meant to. Fiona had moved out
her: relief, serenity, a blossom of excitement. The for unrelated reasons, and wasn’t talking to her
sessions followed a recurring path. Her therapist anymore. The silence - she meant that too.
would close the door and they both would sit in
their usual chairs. Legs delicately crossed, jackets An old roommate getting in an uber to take a
still on regardless of the temperature. flight to another country. Presumably forever. He
had texted Fiona at every step of the way: ‘at the
Her therapist was a surprisingly self-centered and airport’, ‘on the plane’, ‘just landed’. She had
exceedingly talkative woman, and, even worse, never opened the chat again.
she was nine-months pregnant. She had decided
not to go on maternity leave until the very last Normally, at this point, Fiona would stall: she’d
minute because, as she put it, she could. Fiona pretend to be pondering while the question
suspected it was because she refused to hand over scrapes the bottom of her small brain in an attempt
the spotlight to someone else. But why have a baby to locate a trapdoor to her Id. See? I know about
then? She had often wondered why her therapist psychology too. This time, she actually thought of
wasn’t a writer, or a director, or a musician - or something.
anything, literally anything, that would let her talk
instead of having to listen. Over time, Fiona had Her mother on a bus, crying and waving goodbye.
realized that she was far too lovely - and loved - to Fiona had only started crying once she had been
ever be a writer. out of sight. She had never understood those
who anticipate pain – experience it when you
Her therapist would ask Fiona how she was (fine), experience it, for fuck’s sake. A young woman
whether something significant had happened carrying a stroller had stopped by to ask if she was
to her in the last week (no, what the fuck does ok. ‘No’, she wanted to say, ‘my mom just left me
significant mean?), and if she had any thoughts or here and now I am alone for the first time and I
feelings she wanted to share (not really). feel like I can’t do anything except sit somewhere
Because this was her last time, she offered a and wait for death to save me’. But the woman,
parting gift. who existed, really existed for sure, had blurted
‘I’ve been thinking about this idea all week - the out the closest thing to helpful advice Fiona
idea that “the whole of life becomes an act of had ever heard. ‘Don’t trust anyone beside your
letting go”’. mother and never lend money’. Trust, money,
That wasn’t a lie. That sentence had been popping they never return it.
up in her head at various times throughout the
past week. It would come in like a small wave ‘Fiona? Acts of letting—’
washing her feet on the shore, and her mind ‘You know Kant once said “nobody can compel
would suddenly become unburdened. She didn’t me to be happy in their own way”’.
know why; did I come up with that or did I read For some reason, Fiona thought it best to present
it somewhere? A quick Google search would have this as Kant’s idea rather than her own.
revealed the truth, but she didn’t care about the ‘Oh, I didn’t know. That’s a strong feeling right
truth. She didn’t want to know. Not wanting to there.’
know. She held onto that. It’s not a feeling, it’s a statement. A statement of
‘That’s interesting. What is, to you, an act of self-determination. Idiot.
letting go?’ She didn’t say anything.
‘Who are they?’
Her best friend pulling away from a hug – a ‘What?’
hug she had initiated! – because, despite living ‘Those who can’t compel you to be happy in their
together at the time, they had not seen each other own way. Who are they?’

A gorgeous girl – long skinny legs, voluminous mass in front of her. Fiona could not see her eyes,
blonde hair, blue or green eyes (never brown, God or who the arms around her shoulders belonged
forbid), razorblade cheekbones – riding a horse to. Adrian had a great job, a rewarding job, and
through a lillies-filled field. Fiona had always he could afford it. They could afford it. Birthday
wanted to go horseback riding as a child; she even girl liked riding horses; she had started as a child.
lived next to a riding school and her third word, It doesn’t matter how I know. On the other hand,
right after ‘mama’ and ‘no’, had been ‘horse’. But Fiona had started clenching and grinding her teeth
her parents were sure she would have fallen and as a child, bruxism can lead to disrupted sleep (for
cracked her head open. Blood gushing out of her you and your partner) — well, that’s not gonna
skull, as the gorgeous girl makes the horse jump be a problem anymore. By the age of 21, she had
over her dead body. One fluid movement, one dislocated her jaw twice.
liquid stream.
Over the past week, Fiona, who always sits
An old guy, revealing to a handful of uncomfortable with her legs crossed, had only been to one job
relatives that he has started writing his first novel interview and they had not called her back. She
– ‘it’s about ancient Rome!’ – and that he is, had also texted Adrian almost every day, and,
officially, a writer, an artist, an intellectual, the finally, he had seen her, exclusively out of pity.
last pillar of culture and civilization in the face of He had made that much clear. The whole time,
lazy, barbarous, deteriorating modern-day youth. he had looked as if he couldn’t wait for it to be
His selfless endeavor has resulted in his cheeks over, as if he had somewhere else, somewhere
becoming slightly fuller than Fiona’s, but, aside better to be. Is this significant? After an hour or
from that, their resemblance is uncanny. She sits so, he had told her that it was time for him to head
quietly and wonders whether she is the first person back. Back where? Where did you come from?
in the world to look older than her own father. That he was very busy, because of his rewarding
The self-published book will go on to sell 33 job and his eyeless birthday girl and their horse,
copies – ‘a very significant number, Jesus died and he wouldn’t have been able to see her in the
at 33’ – and nearly throw a whole family into upcoming weeks. Remember when I had eyes
bankruptcy and economic despair. and you would stare right into them? She wanted
Adrian stretching his arm out. Not towards her, to ask. But she knew he didn’t remember. That
no. Never. Towards a waitress, in an attempt to memory was hers, alone. I think what I have here
give her his credit card. To pay for Fiona’s beer. is a dead horse. But he wouldn’t get the reference,
Because her card was declined twice. Adrian is and he never laughed with her.
smiling smugly, but that’s just because he can tell
she’s upset. What does he want? What do they ‘The first round of interviews went well. They
want? Who are they? said the second stage should be soon and then
they’ll make a final decision.’
‘Fiona?… By the way, I was wondering, how’s ‘That’s great, Fiona. You know, I was a little
the job hunt going? Remember when you told me worried. I didn’t wanna go on maternity leave
you had a couple of interviews in the upcoming with unresolved business.’
weeks? I think, correct me if I am wrong, we Her therapist was cradling her baby bump, as
should be in the upcoming weeks’ if scared it would fall off. Bloody skin, tissue,
intestines and a human being, not yet fully formed,
A few days ago, Fiona saw an Instagram story of together on the floor.
a document confirming that Adrian had officially An act of letting go, I think, is anything that makes
become the proud owner of a horse. The photo was you a little less you, and a little more them.
staged so that a lot of the key information in the But she didn’t say that. She wished her therapist
document was not visible, so she had to fill in the good luck with the delivery and for her baby to
gaps. The horse had probably cost a lot, probably come out strong and healthy.
came from a long line of racing champions. It Strong and healthy: birth’s the last time he has a
was probably a birthday gift to someone as the good shot at being that.
next story featured a cake with candles on it. In
the background of the cake story, a thin blonde Then she left the room, on her way to a second
woman looked elegantly small compared to the stage.

DANDELION

by Maria M. Guasch

luminous and absent face
entrails puckered with silk thread
a thousand muses,
a secret violence
grip
your wrapped lances,
shining vertigos,
quiet and circular notes
sublime dandelion
your dream body is the air
your eternal desire
to be elsewhere
you ask me to blow you away
so the whole of you can faint
you ask me to blow you away
so your void glows fluid.

ART by Antonis

The Gothic Origins
of Anti-Blackness

Moral Panics, Whiteness and its Fictions
An Interview with Professor Maisha L. Wester

by Antonia Kattos

Dr. Maisha L. Wester, professor of American It’s a social phenomenon we see all the time. The
Gothic Literature at the University of Sheffield best example is this game called the ‘knockout
is trying to uncover how the Gothic genre, in both game’, about these idiot children in New York
its vocabulary and plotlines, turns Black subjects knocking strangers over the head just for fun. You
into monsters. She specialises in American Gothic saw another iteration with the panic over video
Literature, Black Gothic Literature and Horror games and violence in video games, where the real
Film Studies. issue had to do with proper parenting instead of the
actual video games themselves. So various cultures
According to Dr. Wester, the rhetoric used to and societies would seize on these small events and
describe Black subjects and people of colour have a huge freak-out about it, but in the midst of
more generally, has contributed to narratives of the freak out, they tend to name a particular portion
White supremacy, and the rise of harmful, racist of the population as the culprit.
nationalisms across the globe, which she hopes
to illustrate as figments through her innovative So the guy that originally coined this idea, Steven
virtual experience project exploring the process of Cowen, focused on a late sixties early seventies
racialisation, as well as through her monograph. phenomenon here in Britain, “The Mods and the
Rockers”, essentially, early punks.
At Phi we believe it is absolutely crucial that
we share Dr. Wester’s work with the world, as it What I am arguing happens is that, if you look at
illustrates the very real ways liminality can be a the ‘folk devil’ and the things attributed to him, or
form of political resistance in racist society. her, alongside the moral panic, you get a better idea
about what society is really concerned about, which
Dr. Wester spoke to Phi about how cultural abjection is usually something to do with the positionality of
traps people in racial stereotypes and how blurring the person or the population they name the ‘folk
racial boundaries are experienced as horrifying devil’. And concern about society’s own instability,
by those benefinitting from the status quo. The be it economic, be it cultural.
sociopolitical liminality of mixed-race individuals
specifically is a source of profound cultural It’s basically finding someone to blame. Quite
anxiety in the nineteenth century since it implied often, when you look at those narratives, what helps
the perceived degeneration of Whiteness – a loss maintain the folk panic and really makes it popular
of purity, of privilege, a sociopolitical defilement. is the language, because the panic relies on fear -
However, Dr. Wester does not only identify the the language of fear is a Gothic language. So when
problem, she suggests a solution. A solution that lies you look at the way ‘folk devils’ are described, they
precisely in embracing our intersecting identities assume Gothic tones - they use Gothic tropes.
and positionalities: the ambiguities within which
we all so uncomfortably exist. In your work you describe Whiteness’constant need for
confirmation of itself as a form of neurosis. Why is that?
The following interview is in reference to her Whiteness seems to be the moral panic that monstrous
forthcoming paper titled ‘The Gothic Origins of bodies or ‘folk devils’are made to articulate. Would you
Anti-Blackness: Genre Tropes in Nineteenth- like to elaborate on the why, how etc.?
Century Moral Panics and Folk Devils’, to be
published in the journal Gothic Studies. So the moment the Gothic arises, in the history
of the world, it’s not long after we’ve moved
What are Moral Panics? How does the Gothic tie from a religious focus on the construction of
into this concept? Man to a secular construction. With that secular



construction came this different idea of difference. Again, there’s this long system of villenage in
Prior to the secularisation of the world, the notion England as well, where you have surfs that are
of difference was constructed primarily along the pretty much slaves. But, they’re still men. So even
lines of Christian versus Heathen - not necessarily when we have the introduction of the Atlantic slave
in terms of race. It’s also important to remember, trade , it’s not that Africans were seen as not men,
as much as there is what seems this long history they were still understood as men, it’s just that
of anti-blackness in Britain, that’s not the case. I what we see is them turning into these ‘other’ men.
mean, Miranda Kauffman has shown us that there So they recognised sameness - a shared humanity -
were Black Tudors that were well respected. David across differences, even in enslavement.
Olusoga goes back even further to Roman conquest
where Africans were intermarrying Britons, The push for Abolition… That’s when you see the
because they were part of the Roman invaders– shift starting to happen in terms of the language of
as the Romans were known to incorporate their racial difference and the insistence on subhumanity.
Because now you get to the 18th century and
colonised people into their military–that came people are starting to say, ‘um, so maybe this whole
and settled here. So it’s not like they did not Atlantic slave trade thing isn’t a good idea’. It’s
know Black people. not just immoral but deadly, because they keep
having uprisings on ships, on plantations; it’s not
This starts to shift with the secular definition working out the way we thought so maybe we
of Man. Which is a notion that exists not shouldn’t kidnap and enslave these folk. And then
just in terms of civility, but also in terms of people start to think about the (im)morality of the
property ownership. So, to be Man means to trade as well.

be - where it was previously Christian, now Slavery starts to need this justification for why it
is nationality and, thanks to the emphasis has to be. Ultimately the reason it has to be is the
economy - but they can't just say that, so they have
on the right to property ownership, to justify it by presenting the other as monstrous
race. To be Man is to be able to and dangerous - less than Man. Whereas before the
own property. So other men African slave was Man but brutish heathen, now
become property - and it’s not he stops being even Man, and just becomes this
new! monstrous savage.

The same time this is happening the Gothic is born.
And the Gothic starts to use some of the language
that’s preexistent, but really also blows it up even
more, into these huge, terrifying plots. So now it’s
not just a question of saying ‘savage’. Savage starts
to connote very specific threats to the White body.
‘Savage’ starts to mean not just a different kind of
man, but a subhuman that needs taming. It’s that
Gothic plot that starts to load the terminology even
further.

You spoke about the mixed-race body being a
‘phobic object’. How does that work?

The mixed race body starts to reveal the lie of
the new biological ‘science’ of race - which
is that Blacks and Whites are completely
different species. In some ways the move
to secularisation stepped us back a lot
because beforehand there was this notion
of monogenesis, that we all came from
the same origin. And then it becomes,
they–Black folk–came from monkeys, we–
white folk–came from Adam! So there’s this

notion that the two can’t breed but obviously it
happens. Even the term ‘Mulatto’ is a signifier of

this notion. The word originates from Spanish and What’s offensive isn’t the term so much as the fact
Portuguese terms for mule. Like a mule, mulattoes that such spaces exist at all and how we treat the
were an ‘unnatural’ creation of two different residents forced to live there. Focusing just on the
species breeding, producing an offspring that’s language is a band-aid which enables some folk to
stubborn and weird and can’t reproduce. overlook the much larger issue.

What the mixed-race child does is illustrate White If you look at the history of terminology for African
degeneration. It’s proof of White willingness to Americans it’s a painful illustration of this. So we
descend to the level of the bestial by engaging in went from being ‘Coloured’ -a painful reminder
what they would have considered literal bestiality. of Jim Crow–to ‘Negro’ to ‘Black’ to African-
And of course, the fact that mixed-race people can American. ‘Black’ reduced us back to just colour,
reproduce revealed the lie of their ‘science’. so that was chucked for a while, but I’m more
American than African; I haven’t ever actually
Yet you have pro-slavery advocates saying slavery been to Africa and more importantly most of us are
is necessary because white western Europeans, mixed-race if you go back far enough so even that
as the advanced human race, have to nurture this hyphen is inadequate. So we keep circling; what
subhuman race and teach them to be civil. Once are we going to be this time, right? And it’s because
you open the door revealing the commonality we’re still caught within this overall ideology of
of mixed-race progeny descended from slave race, that essentialises difference and tries to reduce
masters, questions start coming in, like: (how) us down to just one element. And worst of all, we
are we civilising them? That’s a lot of whipping keep changing terms but it doesn’t stop white
you’re doing there, that’s a lot of raping, a lot of supremacists from killing us.
really ingenious tortures that you seem to be taking
a little too much pleasure in. Who is the civilised Interestingly, now, if we look at some government
person, who is the savage here? The presence of and institutional forms, there is an introduction
the mixed race body in society provokes questions. of the category ‘mixed-race’ that might help us
H.L. Malchow has a pretty good chapter on this sufficiently force a rethinking. If more of us use
at the end of his book Gothic Images of Race in that box, it might force a conversation about the
Nineteenth Century Britain, where he talks about fiction of biological race while also acknowledging
the half-breed as a sign of Moral Panic. the painful history of racial oppression-given the
horrors mixed-raced people have endured. Maybe
How do minorities self-define then? Do minorities we can start embracing liminality and rethink
create images of themselves in contrast to identity.
Whiteness? Or does Whiteness delineate where
those identities begin and end for them? The problem is that we keep trying to come back
to a unidimensional world; so when forms say
It’s a very difficult thing to do, because we’re so ‘mixed-race’ they mean immediately. Still, why not
entrenched within the dualisms; we are always use it to shake stuff up?
already in this Western lexicon and framework
that insists on binarism, that has preexisted But to just be able to say just, ‘look, every person if
constructions of race. I mean, ideally we could you look far enough, there’s a little something else
get to a point where we rewind back to like the in them’. Afterall, science has rejected polygenesis
fourteenth century before the current idea of race so obviously the notion of inherent biological racial
starts rearing its ugly head… But, like Pandora's difference is a fiction; thanks to colonialism, even
box, we can't just neatly tuck the evil back in the the relatively ‘recent’ (given the age of the earth)
box. One recurrent solution is people of colour racially divergent populations are fairly muddied.
keep trying to change terminology. But the thing To use a now cliched example, even Hitler’s pursuit
is, if you focus on just changing the terminology, of full-on Aryanism was ultimately grasping at
even if you try to change some of the attributes, fiction given Hitler himself had Jewish ancestry–
you are still playing the same game. For example, talk about abjection–who knows about the heritage
I had a recent exchange on twitter about using of his perfect Blondes! Also Hitler is the extreme
the term ‘ghetto’ in a CFP for a conference I’m example of abjection’s endgame; if you really let
co-organizing in the Fall. The viewer said it was yourself be completely consumed by and construct
an offensive, politically weighted term and we your identity through abjection, it leads to profound
should call such spaces something else. But she violence. It starts with the self but it doesn’t stay
was missing the point. Call it what you will– there; as we saw, in powerful hands it resulted in a
’ghetto’ ‘inner city’ ‘urban’ — folks still treat those World War and horrifyingly unspeakable atrocities
locations and their populations the same way. deemed purifying ‘Cleansings’.

So, if we could just accept that we’re all really
complicated muddled beings and just be fine with it,
accept that we are messy creatures instead of trying to
define and fit into rigid categories, then things might
get better. And it’s hard for both sides; this isn’t just a
problem in terms of White domination, it’s a problem
for those of us who have been subjugated as well. It’s
hard to be like yeah, you’re part of me as well, because
you want to say ‘you son of a bitch’, you did this to
me/ my ancestors, you are the oppressor, not me!’ and
definitely not part of me! Yet I too participate in you
oppressing others; worse, as the oppressed, I too can
and have oppressed. That’s hard to sit with but we must
find a way if we’re ever going to progress, to be fully
human.

It’s one of the reasons I’m so irritated we didn’t have
time in class for Octavia Butler’s Kindred. It’s a hard
novel; the basic premise is this Black woman who is
in an interracial marriage in the 1970s–not an easy
time to be in an interracial relationship– keeps getting
dragged randomly back to the era of slavery, to the
plantation where her anscestors lived, one of whom is
a slave owner and the other is the enslaved. It turns
out she has to help her slave owning ancestor rape the
enslaved anscestor. She has to enable it to exist herself.
And that’s the horrible thing about reckoning with the
truth of ancestry. Many of us have a foot on both sides
of the oppression game. The whole point of the novel
is you have to know this and embrace that that history
was necessary for you to be, but it’s painful– how do
you know that and go on? How do you know that and
go on without losing part of yourself?

But it’s important to acknowledge it, reconciling
with the fact that our existences are uncomfortable
and ambiguous, always. If you talk about systems
of oppression again we want to say it’s a one way
system - if you look at, for instance oppression within
oppressed groups, you look at African American
culture:, historically it was extremely patriarchal,
highly homophobic, classist, and sometimes colourist!
We perpetuated oppression amongst ourselves even
as we decried oppression. Recognising your role on
both sides means being able to say that I am going to
try and be better than the oppressor by not continuing
this pattern. But this also means, admitting that the
oppressor is human and fallible too, and can be forgiven
and can be taught and redeemed; and that’s really
fucking hard, especially right now. But this why I love
Alice Walker; she doesn’t say she’s feminist, she says
she’s womanist which is ultimately, a female-centered
form of humanism. She really espouses forgiveness
and love even for the most monstrous of people. So
if you read The Color Purple Mr. is the most awful
character, but even at the end he too shows signs of
redemption, because everyone can change, everyone
can be better.

PHOTOGRAPHY by Çağrı Ertem

THREE-FACED GIANO by Filippo Cortese

Prisoner

by Tadhg Kwasi

Prisoner in this oil tainted shell
I can’t seem to slip out of;

Even when the bell tolls
Will I be free of these scars?

Can’t help but shed a tear
For those distant relatives
I wonder if they died in fear;

Seared skin, battered bones, no wonder they took refuge in scripture tomes

The simple words that bear 400 years of weight

Forever hit like shives.

Divided post the civilities
All Power to the Blacks who lack the patience to turn the other cheek
And meek is not the one who does;

The pain still lingers
And who am I to point fingers on who’s delivering justice?

The trigger still gets pulled either way
Assassination present day and after the fact
They reenact the racist revisions
Then sanitise Martin’s exact medicine with sin

Proclaim his greatness then maim his people
The same old power stealing and burying history
Native Americans obliterated
However the bones remain, haunting,
teaching the unforgettable horrors.



Jesus in Spokane
International

by Victoria Comstock-Kershaw

Airports are unsacred spaces - designed only "Government Mister Fauci can suck my
to exist, to store. You read stories of men cock."
who live in them, abandoned by whatever mudhut The man chuckles and raises his head. His mask
shithole they were escaping, rejected by whatever too is pulled down, resting beneath his nose. He
Western oasis they hoped to reach. This space is looks Arab, maybe Jewish – that is, if the size of
neither Western nor Global, Heaven nor Earth, but the nose in question is anything to go by. I don't
it seems rich to call it Purgatory. I do not think get nervous around Jews in airports.
that religion never accounted for the existence
of airports. Even before the virus there was "You do not believe?" His voice is kind, his accent
something unholy about the way people moved is barely noticeable, but it is there, hidden in
through these terminals, chasing God amongst the dragged-out consonants and clipped vowels.
wailing children and the lumbering strides of their Not from America, not quite, but he's found a
obese mothers. But now there is nobody; only home here. Nobody else speaks to strangers like
me and a dozen other disciples dotted around this an American: we speak to itinerants as if we're
miserable hellscape. entitled to their time and attention and as if we're
blessing them by giving them some of our own.
I can barely see them; they are seated too far Christ, his nose is big.
away and my vision is too blurred. The closest is
slumbering opposite me, head bowed in prayer "In what?" I reply, already knowing the answer
over an iPad. I have already reached the bottom before shrugging. "Sure, sure, I believe. I’ve read
of my shampoo bottle, filled carefully to the brim the literature. It’s real, probably. I just need to
with hotel minibar whisky before I set off on my breathe a little. You can sit somewhere else if it
crusade. I briefly consider buying another, before bothers you. Plenny a’ space."
remembering that nothing is on sale here. I squint
at the departure board: Spokane to Los Angeles. He shrugs and puts down his iPad. "No skin off my
60 minutes...to Seattle... 38... to Babylon and nose." He says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. I
back... 45... One hellhole to another. My head stare. "Where are you heading?" he asks.
spasms and falls back onto the plastic cusp of the
bench, neck set against the Americana white gold "LA." I reply. "Flight's in an hour." I don't like to
as if straw for the pilgrims weary head. Behind the tell people where I am going because I don't know
shop-shuttered grates, neon strips still illuminate myself half of the time. I'm hoping this is the end
the rows of perfume, of booze, of toilet-paper of the conversation. The man continues.
books. Nobody mans the counters these days. I
huff and pull down my mask. My breath stinks "I see. You like it there?"
of booze.
"Sure. It's alright. I got a work thing in town.
"They say you should be doubling up." The figure Won't stay longer than I need to." Los Angeles is
across from me mutters, neck still bent towards a particular kind of evil, I want to say, there's sin
the electronic altar in his hands. I see only the in those streets that nothing can sanitize. The man
shimmering crown of his head, his hair is dark and nods as if he knows this, slides his iPad into his
long but he is starting to bald. briefcase. Leather, well-cared for, no brand. Ugly
thing.
“What?” I huff.
“The masks. They’re saying you should put "Show business?"
two on at once.” "I'm a writer."
"Who's they?" "A good one?"
"Government Mister Fauci." "Sure."
"Government Mister Fauci?" "I see. There are many good writers in Los
"The very same." Angeles."

ART by Johan Gamper

I can’t tell if it's a statement or a question but I "I have friends all over." He shrugs a
answer anyway. "God, no. Americans can't write. set of slim shoulders. "My oldest friends, they're
We try, we try. The next great American novel, dead, or they've forgotten me. But some younger
it'll be a Mexican who writes it, or a woman. But ones, newer ones, they've reached out recently.
the women can't write." I can still smell my own Asked me to come back. The virus has been kind
dogshit breath. to me in a way; old friends have remembered, new
"No?" friends have discovered."
"No. They try, they try. They all think "Sure, sure. Pandemic's made us all flip
they're Plath, they're gonzo, they're nothing. through the ol' phone book. Shit, I doubt I would
Always imitating. They read too much of the be going to LA if the Solomons up there weren't
European stuff, they think metaphors are God's gift so fucking bored of their usual guys."
to earth. So clever, clever, why yes guns are just A silence settles between us. We have
like sexism… Racism is like religion… Whatever. said the thing, spoken the unholy words. The
They try. My money is on the Mexican." I lean virus. Verbotten. For a moment we are silent as a
forward to rummage in my carry-on for a pack of tinned voice echoes out across the deserted lounge,
gum. announcing that the 5:14AM to Jordan was ready
"And so you go to Los Angeles to write?" to embark… All passengers are reminded to wear
he asks. their masks at all times… You will not be admitted
"Sure, sure. They wanna turn my book onto the flight without a negative PCR test less
into a film, but it's all taking a while 'cause a’, than 24 hours old or proof of vaccination… Will
well, y'know," I wave my hands at the shuttered Joshua the Anointed come to the gates... Are there
storefronts, the hand sanitiser stations, the sinister any non-vaccinated passengers for flight KJV
six-feet slogans slapped onto the shiny linoleum, 5:14-16…. are there any sick among you… let
"I'm just fucking around until Fauci says hi." him call for the elders of the church; and let them
"So you do work in show business!" The pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name
man claps his hands, strangely delighted. of the Lord: And the prayer of faith shall save the
"Sure. Everyone in LA does." I pop a sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he
piece of gum in my mouth, offer the pack. He has committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.…
raises his hands as if in apology, long brown came the tannoy voice.
fingers spreading through the air. Two dark scars Jordan? I wonder through my drunken haze. Who
on his palms. No wedding ring. the fuck is going to Jordan? I listen again. Ah, of
"Not for me, my friend." he says. The course not. Salt Lake City. I must have misheard.
yellow-white cloth over his mouth crumples and Utah. What a shithole. Nothing good ever came
moves as he speaks, for a moment a wave of from a state starting with a vowel.
intense sorrow passes over me. "It's not all bad, America, these days."
"So, what about you? Been in America I say eventually. A fat mother waddles past us,
long?" I throw the question out haphazardly, dragging a dribbling child. No father, no son; Salt
trying to make it clear that I knew he wasn't from Lake City's finest, no doubt. "There are pretty
the great US of A but that it didn't bother me. No places, down South, once you get past the goo-
siree, not me. I'm sure mudhuts can be nice too. goo-ga-ga Jesus freaks and the racists. Most cities
"Ah, not for a while." He says are ugly, but there are good people in them."
thoughtfully. "I left some time ago. But I've made "I've never fared well in the cities here,"
my way back." speaks my new companion softly. "Too loud, too
"Picked a hell of a time." I snort. "What loud. I am easily overwhelmed."
changed? Was it Trump, the travel ban? You came "LA?"
back ‘cause he left?" "LA was the reason I left."
There is suddenly anger in his eyes, real I spit out my gum, tuck it into a tissue,
anger, the sort of fury you see in animals when throw it at a bin. It misses and I don't move.
their young are in danger, the kind you see in "Funny that you should come back
strippers and talk show hosts and 7-11 cashiers. now." I say again. "Where are you settling? Not
"Politics have nothing to do with it." He snaps. I that I blame you for skipping Spokane." His slim
smile. shoulders rise and fall again like a lazy empire.
"Sure, sure," I say, "they never do." "I have some old acquaintances in Arizona. Goo-
He bows his head again and his voice is goo-ga-gas, as you say." he says.
soft. "There is no politician in America that could This surprises me, truly and genuinely.
make me leave or stay." he mutters. "I returned for "Wouldn't have you figured as a friend of the
my friends." LDS." I say and he laughs as he replies,
"You’ve got friends in Spokane?" I try "These days, my friend, we cannot pick and
not to sound surprised. choose who we rub shoulders with. Especially

from six feet apart. But I have other places to visit
before then."
“America is good to the Jews.” It came
out as a statement rather than a question, mostly
accidentally. He furthers my surprise by letting
out a laugh that sounds like a bark, clapping his
hands once more with that strange delight. The
dark scars on his palms flash under the miserable
neon lights again.
“America is good to everyone, my
friend.” He grins, and finally he pulls down his
mask. His teeth are yellow like myrrh. “Is she not
good to you?”
“America’s been fine to me, sure.”
I reply. I can’t stop staring at his teeth. Jesus,
they’re like little nuggets of gold.
“America is a young country.” he says
softly.
For some reason this offends me. I
instinctively reach for the shampoo bottle but it
has been empty for hours. “America is big.” It’s
my only defense. The man nods.
“Very big.” he muses. “ He has reached
into his briefcase and is holding a giant gold
goblet. Ugly neon reflections sparkle in the dark
liquid that swims in its center. “Too large for so
many people, I think,” he continues. “Would you
like some?”
“You were born here?” I ask, suddenly
unsure. I eye the chalice. Nobody speaks to
strangers like an American.
“I came here by boat,” he says, “a
long time ago. They carried me in little flags
and handkerchiefs, encrusted in gold onto the
necklaces of pilgrims. Much like yourself. Were
you born here?”
I nod and reach across the aisle for the peace
offering, sipping at the sweet wine. I suddenly
understand who he is and hand the grail back.
“Sure. I’m as American as they come.”
“America is a young country.” He says
again.
The female voice groans across the
wasteland again. My flight is ready. I grimace as
I pull my mask up once more, stale booze-breath
only barely covered by fresh mint.
"I wish you all the luck in Los Angeles."
Says my new friend. "I do not think you will find
me there."
I stare long and hard at him and know
that he is right. This man did not belong in that
God-forsaken town, no more than he belonged in
Spokane, no more than he belonged in virus-ridden
airport lounges or on the static of daytime TV or
between the lovingly hand-stitched monograms
on the backs of Confederate flags.
"I don't think people like me find you
anywhere in America." I say softly. He nods, and I
follow the white-gold linoleum towards the holy gates.

Details from ART by Deborah Pearse

ART by Antonis