Issuu

ROUX Student Magazine EST 2022 Issue 7, 21st September 2023 Luxembourg Print run: 500 copies Chief Editor: ADHDean Poniatowski

Contents 2

I’m a Student in Belval.

University Associations

A Fortnight at the Movies

Do You Know A Place To

Help!

and Clubs

No rights reserved

Bury Strangers?

Belval cheat sheet

OSL Interview

to Epic Games

Asking for a friend…

The Birdhouse Variations

Centrefold Poster

The Right Place

“Is It Still Not Over?”

Locked inside your

Sanest ROUX reader

Short story

Essay on film duration

bird-shaped box…

Die Kunst des

A Recipe

We Shall

Autumnal Equinox

Swimming

Scheiterns

for Madeleines

Meet Again

Poem

with Cheese

Short story

Or time-travelling

Short story

Hidden track

tools? Team: Eleni MOUZAKITI – writer; social media Jacopo MOGLIA – writer; chief contemplative officer José FERNANDES MAIA – poster child; Mr. inker upper Jo Yi HOON – writer; coastal elegiac granddaughter Kasra KARAMI – cage builder Kristina SHATOKHINA – woman of vision; high priestess Sofia MILLER – metal pipes sounds enjoyer Valère GAUBE – homme à tout faire et n’importe quoi Zoltan TAJTI – Eastern machinations Oskar BAN BREJC – guest writer; Slovenian connection

Unless otherwise noted, all images in the magazine are public domain as described in the Creative Commons CC0-1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication licence, and fall under no copyright obligations. Direct all copyright claims to: roux.newspaper@gmail. com

We are thankful to: Office of Student Life, Veerle Waterplas, Sonja Di Renzo, Antonio Tavan, Repro Team, Espace Cultures, Anouk Wies, Karin Langumier, Bianca Pirelli, Andy Adams of the Alumni Network, Véronique Heitz and Rotondes, Student Lounge Belval and all children of SAUL, Dalmat CoffeeHouse, Julie Toussaint, LLC, Julie Jephos, Inès Planchenault, and Silvia from Café Saga.

Join us! We are always looking for graphic designers, writers, artists, photographers, reporters and all sorts of sailors willing to man the good ship ROUX.

ROUX is thrilled to announce its partnership with RTL Today Radio.

Find us at: campus buildings (reception areas, magazine stands), Student Lounges, chill-out-zones, Dalmat CoffeeHouse, and LLC.

Full contact: roux.newspaper@gmail.com Binary: https://issuu.com/rouxmagazine Instagram: @roux.magazine Cover and poster p. 14–15 hand-drawn by José Fernandes Maia

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A New Year, a Greeting and a Drum Call Hommes de l’avenir souvenez-vous de moi Je vivais à l’époque où finissaient les rois Apollinaire What you are holding in your hands is the latest number of ROUX, the student magazine at the University of Luxembourg – made by and for the students. You can expect one of these every month. The magazine started last year, courtesy of the dedicated efforts of one mad Magyar and a mob of merry misfits, whose ambition was to provide a platform for the studentry to let its voice be heard and its creative outings be seen. We also wanted to make the different campi livelier places and brought to this end, as a humble student club, our humble contribution. The magazine is the spice we offer to life around here. For the past year, this is what ROUX has strived and succeeded to be. Its tightly-knit group of regular collaborators has brought to Belval, the Kirchberg and Limpertsberg an eye-catching blend of articles on local issues, interviews, essays, film reviews, reports on cultural events, short stories, poems, games and even kitchen recipes – and in three languages, no less! The magazine is an agora of sorts, welcoming anyone willing to drop by and leave just as fast; but it also requires some dedicated work to keep going. This is where you, fellow student, come into play. We ask you to join ROUX. Whether you can design or draw, whether you are a photographer or a reporter, whether you have a gift for writing or a knack for organising, we stretch our hand out to you. If you have skills that you would like to offer to a student magazine for a time, contact us on Instagram and visit us at our meetings, where we would be pleased to show you the ropes. This is a chance to contribute to campus life and enjoy the perks that come with it. And since I began this page by placing it under the auspices of Apollinaire, is it not fitting that I end it by quoting him again, as I warmly encourage you, newcomer, to become a member of the ROUX cast and travel alongside it with lays of lace befitting queens, the plaint of all our years gone lost, some slave hymns cast at moray eels, the romance of the ill-belov’d, and such songs as the sirens keen… by Valère Gaube

B E L V A L C HE A T S H E E T

You are a new student at the University of Luxembourg and have just arrived in this tiny little country and the doubly fun–sized Belval. A truly unique combination of iconic architecture, consisting of university buildings, multinational companies and… fields with cows right next to the French border – truly a mystery to be explored!

For much of your time during your years in this university, Belval will be the place to be, buzzing with multiple student activities and events. But, you may ask what can you do in this place.The size and calmness may mystify you, but fear not new friend, we have got you covered. For starters, prepare to encounter every dark corridor of the MSA building, this is where the magic happens.

Or undoubtedly where you will get lost almost every day in search of the SEVE offices or your lecture’s auditorium. You may as well embrace the experience with open arms and enjoy it. The cafeteria on the first floor will be your new favourite spot. Seriously, it’s the only place you can successfully complete a group project, unless you decide to hijack an empty classroom.

by Eleni Mouzakiti

However, if independent studies are your thing, then search no more – the Learning Center will be your second home. Every exam season will be marked by the long hours spent inside the Center, and the excitement of securing the most comfortable and loved seats early in the morning will be your new source of caffeine. A little tip from my experience: do check out that vending machine on the -1 floor, you’ll thank me later.

And what about socializing, you may ask? This campus often seems quiet, and that’s true. But, there will be plenty of opportunities to meet new people and join future events and groups. The student lounge, located just in front of the MSH building, is a good place to start, where you’ll find comfortable sofas, table football and good vibes. Grab a cup of coffee or tea (it’s for free!),enjoy some nice conversation or a fun game. Thanks to the SAUL association, the student lounge operat several hours per day so make sure to pass by.

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But, if coffee places are more your style, then Dalmat is the place for you. Certainly, a favourite of students and professors, the coffee, tea and snack options is a little heaven on our campus. Grab something to go or stay to chat with a friend to enjoy their beautiful and industrial-inspired interior (you will soon realize everything is industrial related on this campus…). Also, did you know you can also find copies of our magazines on their first floor? Be sure to check them out!

Nevertheless, there is no need to limit yourself to one association or club! Nowadays the University offers a variety of clubs for every hobby or interest you might have, including yours truly, our ROUX magazine! Come and join us in one of our meetings and learn how you can contribute to the process of getting a new amazing issue out every month. From writing and designing to proofreading and general craziness, there is a place for everyone on this boat!

However, if meeting people and engaging yourself in more creative activities is your goal, be sure to learn more about all the clubs and associations at the University of Luxembourg. The Erasmus Student Network (ESN) is a great way to meet new people, even if you are not an exchange student. They organize several events or trips throughout the year, offering great opportunities to socialize and beat the loneliness of the first days in a new university and country.

So, take it from a veteran (aka, an alumni) and know there are more possibilities, with many fun adventures waiting for you on this campus! One thing is guaranteed, this place will hold a special place in your memories as you look back on all the lovely times spent here, the people you meet and all the things you learned.

O S L I N TERVIEW

Ways to engage with our university

An interview with Ramona Ventimiglia and Sarah Cavelius from the Office of Student Life First and foremost: What exactly is OSL? What do you do and how is it of interest to students at the university? R: I would describe OSL as an energetic and fun team of five/six people, who aim to help students. We want to give them the possibility to have fun outside and after their academic classes, make friends and simply participate in activities on and outside the campus. The OSL would be of interest to students because we want to help them engage with one another, which is extremely important. Our major objective is to appeal to most, if not all, people’s interest in the offered activities. We want to allow the students an opportunity to make friends and the freedom to create

clubs. These can be beneficial on a personal and professional level because they can learn a lot of organisational skills this way – how to set up an event, how to plan accordingly etc. We are always there to support them or help them on their career path. S: It can also give them the necessary competencies to develop soft skills; this is a big advantage for their future prospects! R: Agreed! It would also help to increase the student’s chance of employment! S: And it’s something that looks great on their CV when a student is or was an active member in a club or association. R: The CampusLife classes can be valuable for individual students

but also the entire community – on a mental and physical level. We try to balance sports, art and wellbeing classes, which can be helpful for people during exams. Therefore we also have a specific Exam Care Package; this includes several workshops on how to manage stress and anxiety during the exam period. Bet of all, they’re completely free! Is there something specific you wish to achieve with the classes? R: We are all aware of the benefits , sports, art and wellbeing classes can have a positive impact on your mental health, how one navigates the world around us. When engaging in physical activity, you can cope better with what’s going on in your life. The aim here is

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to have as many people involved as possible. We also hope to extend the sports programme so that students can also play in teams, compete and participate — this can increase the feeling of belonging to the university. For instance, if you win a competition as a team and receive a reward on behalf of the university, this would strengthen the bond between the students and the university. S: Exactly, it’s like a worklife-balance for professionals! R: The university experience teaches you so much; especially in these situations , where you’re confronted daily with huge cultural differences. These confrontations help you navigate throughout life, as you have to communicate and familiarise yourself with new and unfamiliar cultures. S: It takes a lot of courage to meet new people or join a club especially as a

student in a foreign country. However, for sure it would help students to have a fulfilling social life. R: Yes, it enhances the social connection – it is our goal to help students to work towards friendships and inclusion, for them to feel part of this university community. What do students have to look forward to in the upcoming academic year? R: We will organise a Students in Action Day on the 22nd of September! This is an occasion where all the associations and clubs will be able to introduce themselves for the whole day in the MAE. We invite all incoming students to join – there will be games, music, and, of course, something to eat, which is always convincing! *laughs* On the 2nd of October, the new CampusLife programme is going to be launched. Our programme is based on the

feedback from our students, we listen to them and try as much as possible to act on that feedback. It’s best to stay tuned, as the associations and clubs are very creative when it comes to events! You can also always take a look at our social media or the student calendar to be up to date about events and activities in 2023/2024! by Sofia Miller osl.uni.lu

OfficeofStudentLife

Student Calendar

We are very excited to get a sneak peek into the new CampusLife programme in the next ROUX issue – make sure to grab a copy then!

M O V I E FE S T I V A L

Do you like movies, but also hate being happy? Boy do I have just the thing for you: coming early next month, beginning on the 5th of October, is the 16th edition of Luxembourg’s own Central and Eastern European film festival, commonly known as Cineast. View films from across Poland, Hungary, the Balkans, and even Ukraine, with a selection of both works of fiction and documentaries. Though the programme was unconfirmed at the time of writing, you should now be able to view the full selection of screenings for all your wants and needs, assuming your wants and needs consist primarily of piling on a constant sense of soul–grinding depression. But, like, in a good way.

Maybe you think that, on balance, dark and sombre documentaries and dramas about depression and alcoholism, or comedies about the hijinks of depressed alcoholics, are not quite your cup of tea. Maybe you prefer a night out on the town having fun with friends to losing your faith in humanity for the umpteenth time. In that case, Cineast has you covered also: the opening and closing parties of the festival, held at Melusina in the Grund, are never any less than fantastic, and for something closer to home for most students, the festival is also collaborating with the Rockhal to bring a Bosnian band to concert on the 13th of next month.

On top of new films from across the region, there are also special events dedicated to screening selections of short films and the Luxembourg-famous Cine–concert. This is where a screening of a silent film is accompanied by a live band playing music written with that movie in mind, which can be a truly incredible experience.

This festival is a staple of the Luxembourgish cultural scene, guaranteed to have a little bit of something that everyone could enjoy, so be sure not to miss out on this epic cultural experience.

by Jack Moller

For more information, visit https://www.cineast.lu/2023/

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A Fort-

night at the

Movies 7

C O N C E R T R E V I E W

DO YOU KNOW A PLACE

The announcement from the Rotondes event calendar said the “loudest band in the world” was to perform in Luxembourg. That’s right what I need, I thought, right what I need to exorcise the manic thoughts away, to deafen those intrusive voices that whisper all sorts of nonsense right when a midsummer catches you idle and perpetually heartbroken. – Do you know “A Place To Bury Strangers”? – A place to do w h a t ? – Ah, nevermind. Nevermind, I know nothing about the band either. I’m only here for the lights really, the flashes of neon lights and the darkness in between, and a special kind of trance only live heavy music can bring. The concert started on time. Quickly, silently – like shadows – the band members slipped onto the darkness-cloaked stage. From then on, it was an indefatigable onslaught of thundering bass lines, lean and mean drum grooves and a guitar that sounded like a spaceship taking off, augmented by terrific lighting. Projectors flickered, translating the band members’ moves into a demonic sequence

of stop-motion, loud aberration noise filling our ears and gradually our whole being, embracing in the way of a good old friend. That penetrating loudness felt strangely familiar, so comforting and kind… The drummer was really, really good. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Contrasting with the shoegazing slump of her band members, she looked childishly cheerful with her head held high, smiling in that glowing ecstasy that comes naturally when you’re madly in love with what you do. I watched her deliver the head banging crowd some tight drumming, with punkish energy and blistering fills – and thought to myself how there was something endearingly shamanic about her style. The sound grew louder and louder, radiating its enchantment onto the crowd until the lights suddenly came off and– This is when the real magic began. The band members left their assigned place on stage and infiltrated the unsuspecting crowd. A little earlier, I too had had to leave my spot right in front of the stage when a mosh pit spontaneously formed, and had found myself somewhat farther, deep into the crowd. How surprised I was to see an improvised setup right there, the band members a few metres from me, listeners surrounding them in something resembling a ritual circle…

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TO BURY STRANGERS? by Kristina Shatokhina

Oliver*, the guitarist, all but swallowed the microphone, drawing forth from himself a most primordial low-frequency howl – that howl was echoed by the distorted, eerie bellow of John's bass guitar. As he deep-throated the mic, he was twisting and turning the knobs on the console with the sole purpose of making as much noise as possible. The drummer Sandra continued with her rhythmical mantra and so, bewitched, we moved obediently to the rhythm, each one feeling themselves a part of some macabre reenactment that went on and on like a fever dream… As the concert ended and the band members came down to meet the audience, my eyes followed the sincere smiles on their exhausted yet so friendly faces, and I said to my friend: – You know, when they were down here with us, it felt really special, bonding even. I think this is what it means, “a place to bury strangers”. After the concert, after all the dancing and swaying and shaking in trance – us and them, we are not strangers anymore…

Some minutes later, when we finally got the courage to introduce ourselves and thank the band for the evening, the theory was confirmed. *** …All in all, hold it as a reminder from a well-wishing stranger – no matter how bad it gets, you can always get a ticket for a random local gig of some sexy band you hardly even know and do your best to dance your woes away.

Special thanks to Rotondes for making sure that A Place To Bury Strangers plays in Luxembourg, and for giving us a chance to share the experience! We strongly recommend checking out their website for all their upcoming fantastic events. *I found out the names of the members afterwards. For all my fellow fans of post-punk and shoegaze music who don’t yet know the band – you can find them on IG: @aptbs, their website is www.aplacetoburystrangers.com and their latest EP called Hologram is out on your favourite platforms x

photos © Loïc Warin

V E R Y S E R I O U S A R C H I T E C T U R E

THE BIRDHOUSE VARIATIONS Did you know that the university has an Architecture Students Association (ASA) and that you may join them, no matter your study field? Expect regular events and activities if you do. Last semester, for instance, they organised a workshop dedicated to building birdhouses meant to be hung around the Belval campus. ROUX attended, which inspired us the question: what would a birdhouse look like if certain famous architects designed it in their signature style? Enjoy, thus, this little panorama of anticipatory architecture fiction.

Le Corbusi er ( 1887 –1965)

Don’t look up his politics in the 30s. Let us begin with a conceptual analysis. A birdhouse is the encounter between a bird and a house. A house is a machine for living in. But what is a bird? A bird is a biped, and thus only differs from a human because it has feathers. Therefore, a birdhouse is, in essence, a human house, only with less need for isolation. The exactness of this deduction can be proven by the fact that the equation’s terms can be inverted without its truth being altered: a human house is a birdhouse. But that is because I take people to be pigeons. Start by chopping down the tree; it will not be needed. Branches and leaves serve no immediately discernible purpose and hinder access to light. Wood is, furthermore, an outdated material, as is everything reminiscent of nature, including nature itself. Seal the ground on which the tree used to stand with a layer of tar. We shall call this the plan Voiseau.

Build a reinforced concrete cube with a dimension of 8m3. Carve on each of its four lateral sides a number of holes, which will be so many dwellings for bird households. The optimal size for these habitacles was determined by making the inventory of a bird’s basic vital needs, casting aside everything that could not be neatly quantified, and multiplying what could by 0,85. There are no small profits! Heat will come from the scorching sun shining directly at the thing non-stop. This will incubate the eggs naturally, leaving both bird parents free to venture outside, maximising their time of activity. Indeed, by swallowing seeds and expelling them, birds play an essential part in the reproduction process of plants. A bird that stays in its roost is unproductive and neglects its duties as a denizen of nature. A more accurate name for these birdhouses, in fact, would be bird dormitories, with the caveat that they should not even be comfortable for that either, as they would otherwise encourage sleeping in… Multifunctional: on particularly hot days, can be used to make fried eggs.

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Ba ron Haussmann ( 1 80 9– 1 891 )

Thank or blame him for Paris’ iconic look . Before we begin, a slight adjustment in scope is necessary. The task here is not to build a birdhouse but to redraw an entire forest. Look at these trees, haphazardly scattered about, standing far too close to one another, competing for light, erm… made out of wood? Fire hazard! Unsanitary! How can such a place not turn into a den of vice and sedition? A dwelling fit only for beasts, I tell you... But the times are medieval no more, so grab a ruler, a chainsaw, and get ready to shine in this mess the holy light of reason. Begin by drawing, ruler in hand, a few main arteries, long and wide, emanating in a star-like fashion from a single, central point. (They call you the Attila of the straight line.) Connect these boulevards with further ones, narrower but no less straight. (They call you the Titan.) Rinse and repeat until a satisfying degree of meshing has been reached. (They call you the Athlete with a robust spine.) As you trace your avenues, make it a point of honour to raze everything in your path to the ground; let nothing stop you, neither secular oaks nor scruples or river beds, and concede a curve only when absolutely unavoidable; finally, disregard with sovereign indifference those puny little songbirds that will squeak: “The old Paris is gone (the shape of a city / Changes faster, alas! than the heart of a man)”[1]. One does not make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. (They call you the Boar.) When you are done, the forest should be far easier and safer to navigate, at the expense of half of its original appearance. Moreover, your newly created, uncluttered lines of sight will prove themselves perfect for birdwatching – or hunting. Stylistic homogeneity engenders aesthetic harmony. There will be, exactly, one template that will be shared by every birdhouse; but it will be a sumptuous and intelligently designed one (unlike Belval). On each side of your streets, align these multi-storeyed birdhouses. They will have the added benefit of enabling great woodland diversity: on the ground floor, hiving alcoves for crafty bees; the bel étage reserved for fat cuckoos and their bejewelled magpies; and the attic rooms to be occupied by all manner of unassuming or bohemian passer birds. 1 Baudelaire, Le Cygne.

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Fra nk L l oyd Wrig h t (1867–1959)

Providing James Bond villain lairs since 1924. When the three Wright brothers – Orville, Wilbur and Frank – realised the flying machine they had devised would not be able to carry three people aloft, they resorted to drawing straws, and Frank had to find himself a new hobby. So he turned to architecture, specifically bird housing. Because, in his mind, it seemed somewhat akin to building hangars for tiny, squishy aeroplanes. Integration into the local landscape is key. Conceiving the birdhouse as an entity separate from the tree is a flawed way to apprehend it: the birdhouse is the tree, the tree is the birdhouse. However, the man-made element should not achieve harmony with its given surroundings at the expense of its own particular character, i.e. by imitating nature to the point of being indistinguishable from it. Let nature be nature and artifice be artifice. Rather, the forms and textures found in nature and those that necessarily come from human hands should inform one another in a respectful dialogue – a lovely tension, if you will. Select a mighty tree, endowed with sturdy branches sprouting at a propitious angle. They shall become the foundation of your terracestyle birdhouse. The house will be built in the manner of an open space around a branch

– with the branch traversing it through and through – utilising its ramifications as so many perches for birds to roost as well as a natural way to partially segment its interior into rooms and floors. For the structure, use materials found on location, such as tree bark, leaves and moss, but also, to gently break the monotony, materials coming from the mineral realm

Leave nothing up to chance: think every detail through, design every element, adorn the walls with avian motives, carve them into the branches... Do not even let the birds come up with their own nest, but design it yourself by hand-crafting each individual twig that will make it up. Do not be lazy, do not rest; nothing is negligible; every nook and cranny, every speck of dust is an art piece worthy of your full, undivided attention. If you could, you would even design the birds. Finally, do find a way to make the tree hatchet-proof, maybe by stacking up sandbags at its base… We have had some unsavoury experiences in the past.

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Z a ha H a di d ( 1 9 50 –20 16)

Audacious. Abstrac t . Inevitable. Whose deed? Hadid! This is the motto that should preside at your every design decision; that should, moreover, force itself into the mind of every passerby glancing at your building. Therefore, even if your design is not bad-looking in itself, you ought to ensure that it sticks out in the landscape like a monumental sore thumb. Remember that your building is never as beautiful as when it looks like it should sink housing prices in its neighbourhood (but fret not: if you do it right, you should actually achieve stratospheric gentrification, that is, just high enough for the jet-set to never have to touch the ground). Spin the wheel of fancy words to find the concept behind your birdhouse: fragmentation… and celerity – again! First off, get rid of the tree. Then, create a form, ideally out of glass, espousing the supple strength and upward momentum of the tree you just removed (the tree lives on in the design… – it’s okay if you don’t get it). Concretely, it should look like a flattened spaghetto climbing in a spiralling motion around where the trunk used to be. Salt and pepper your structure with half a dozen mystifying pointy bits at astonishing angles. Put the entrance at the top of the structure to facilitate access for birds: this will allow you to check “functional design” off of your to-do list. An afterthought is a thought; your conscience is clean. Then, make the abovementioned entrance comically large, because you can. With the interior needlessly exiguous, you can now brag to your colleagues about your designs being inspired by the living (in this case, by the deepsea fish Eurypharynx pelecanoides, also known as pelican eel and umbrella-mouth gulper). Due to the birdhouse’s slanted nature, there is a nonnull risk of a bird’s egg rolling all the way down the spiral to the ground. But that is quite alright because, as we have seen, practical concerns are for the poor. The rich can afford to be wasteful: that is how they recognise each other – and themselves.

… a n d f i n a l l y, your s tR O UXl y Our initial plan was to make a pirate ship. Halfway through, Kristina said she wanted a gothic cathedral. We tried to talk her out of it, but she threatened that she would cry. Voilà. by Kristina Shatokhina & Valère Gaube José, Kristina and Valère, ASA workshop, June 2023

S H O R T S T O R Y

Anticipated Stranger

by Kasra Karami

It feels like the train might not arrive at the station. I stare at the far end of the train track, vanishing into the dark, anticipating the light’s reflection seconds before the train emerges. However, there’s no reflection. I blink, alleviating my dry eyes. Weariness has clouded them, and drowsiness blankets my mind. I’m hesitant to surrender this warmth by sitting on the station’s chilly metal benches. The voyage is lengthy, and once aboard, I can finally grant my eyes relief for several hours.

the station, searching for the rain that’s probably not heavy enough to see. Without success, I turn to the girl who’s nearly reached me.

However, the exhaustion that settled into my knees has bested my resolve to stand. Placing my bag on the ground, I think of its contents, reassuring myself that nothing fragile is stashed within it, and I settle down, perching myself on the bag. Carefully, I ease the backpack off my shoulder, and position it between my legs. Retrieving the ticket from its front pocket, I examine it once more: 2:18 to Maastricht. The station’s clock displays 2:11, and its illuminant dial prevents me from keeping my eyes on the clock’s hands for more than a glimpse.

“Do you have a lighter?” I ask.

To facilitate igniting it, I tap the lighter against my palm a few times. Whether it’s a product of my imagination or a genuine technique, I’ve found that this motion helps when I forget to saturate the cotton with gasoline. Drawing the cigarette’s smoke into my lungs, I divert my attention from the clock, which I’d been checking repeatedly. Instead, my eyes move to the far end of platform number eighteen, where two or three individuals stand. The remaining platforms are desolate, making it evident that no trains are anticipated on them at this late hour. A girl approaches me, her hair damp. I glance along the tracks and outside

“Can I have a cigarette from you?” she asks. “Sure, here you go,” I reply. Before taking out the cigarette, the girl whispers, asking if there’s enough left in the pack for me. After confirming the contents by peering into the envelope, she takes one. Opening her bag, she rummages for something. “I left it somewhere over here.” I ignite my lighter and, as I hold the flame before her face and I consider whether I should’ve initiated the action without any questions. From her bag, she hands me two coins. It takes a moment for my brain to process this gesture, and then I respond with a “No, you don’t have to.” It’s as if within the space between leaving and resolving the inconvenience she might have caused, and facing the awkwardness of briefly interacting in return for the cigarette she took, she grapples with herself. Finally, she opens her mouth and speaks: “Are you going on a trip?” “No, I’m returning from this one. How about you?”, I reply. I didn’t want to prolong the imagined discomfort of hers. I provide her an opening to depart with a few words and a wish for a good trip. Yet, when she continues asking whether I enjoyed my time in the city and mentions that she’s going back to her family, I observe her nervousness gradually

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fading, replaced by a growing sense of self-assurance. “Very much. You live in a lovely city. I enjoyed it as much as I could. I tried a few cafes and restaurants around the canal. Cycling in the city centre was very fun. I also experienced boating several times in different directions... I could spend hours talking about this trip. And now it’s time to return to everyday life.” Something didn’t quite fit in. The girl’s look was fixed on my face, yet it felt like her eyes pierced through to the back of my head, a few metres away. Curiosity overtook my sense of propriety. I shared that in my hometown, I typically spent time with fellows every day. After that introduction, I inquired about her plans in her own hometown. Perhaps by doing so, I could inch closer to understanding the reason for her absence. “...my brother died in a car accident last year, and I’ll be rejoining my family on the anniversary of his death.” I extended my condolences, contemplating how vastly different her journey and mine were. It made me ponder whether I should feel guilty for the happiness I’d been relishing until moments ago. A train pulled into the station, its front board displaying the word “Venlo.” The girl extinguished her cigarette on the ground with her hand and swung the second strap of her backpack onto her shoulder. Fixated on the train’s door, which hadn’t yet fully stopped, she dashed towards it. It’s a startling tradition to gather people after someone’s passing. I faintly recall reading somewhere that when someone dies unexpectedly, the community surrounding them fractures, resembling a wounded body that begins to bleed. The act of gathering serves to mend this wound, not in mourning for the lost loved one, as grieving varies uniquely from person to person and often takes place in solitude. The primary purpose of this assembly is the reshaping of their collective unity. The girl’s family comes together to affirm their shared continuation of life. The mourning

ceremony she hurried to attend is, in reality, a celebration of existence, for death has yet to visit them. Perhaps this was the sentiment I perceived in her eyes before inquiring about her journey. It wasn’t sorrow or suffering, but the tranquillity that follows death. Memories of elementary school flood back to me, the moments when the teacher would begin questioning us about prior lessons. A wave of calmness would follow the initial anxiety, after the teacher had selected two or three victims to answer and had carried on with the lesson. My attention shifts to my bag, and suddenly, a spark ignites in my mind, propelling me to the other end of my thoughts. It’s as if I’m a fragment of another entity, one that’s been dismembered. Perhaps my journeys aren’t solely for the sake of happiness, but rather to mourn the sadness of separation. Sitting in canal-side cafes and strolling along sandy beaches feels like a solitary rehearsal of past actions I once undertook with friends, as though I’m interring old memories beneath new ones. The equation in my mind shifts. It dawns on me that I’m the one who travelled to grieve, not the girl who conversed with me just moments ago. I revisit a memory from my journey. I was strolling along the sandy beach, the damp sand sliding under my feet with each wave. The shallow waters at the wave’s edge receded, revealing glistening wet shells underneath, illuminated by the sun. The sweetness of that scene starts to fade from my mind. Every few steps, I sense the crunch of shells beneath my feet. The shells are in reality the skeletons of sea creatures, and I peer out at the North Sea, pondering the multitude of washed-up skeletons in this expansive cemetery. The sound of the approaching train interrupts my train of thought. I glance at the windows, observing a pair of unoccupied seats facing each other, inviting me to sit. The realization strikes me again that I’m on this journey alone. I move toward the nearest train door,

E S S A Y O N EFSISLAMY D U R A T I O N

“IS IT STILL NOT OVER?” The Duration

Somewhere in the middle of Moonage Daydream (Brett Morgen, 2022), I start to get bored. Twice now, I had thought that the sequence I was watching would be the final one. But the film didn’t end. Now, in the middle of a packed theatre, I am trying to somehow calculate the time that has already passed. The narrative’s rhythmic shifts make it impossible to accurately stay aware of the time passed – and this is what I am now trying to figure out, to bring to mind the advancing line that pops up when you touch the touchpad in Youtube or VLC Media Player.

of Films by Oskar Ban Brejc

The film has a problem: it does not require the duration it occupies. It has neither the interesting information nor the sublime images to warrant such length. Being frustrated by the film, my thoughts no longer follow it; and suddenly I think: what if the film is right to be too long? What if the boring duration – duration ungrounded in content – is not only a mistake? What if the film’s length is not guided only by the completeness of its story – with nothing redundant and nothing left to be added? Moonage Daydream wants to be a magnificent film, an official biography, and an epic portrait. There is no doubt that the film is too long for what it has to say or show, but this is not all: the duration of the film is in fact grounded – in its very duration.

Brett Morgen, the film’s director, was allowed exclusive access to the Bowie archives – what would he be saying if he were rushing out of the archive in under two hours? A film – insofar as it aims to become a true portrait of Bowie – can be no less than epic; it is, after all, about Bowie, the larger-thanlife persona if there ever was one.

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The film becomes epic because of its length, setting it apart from those one-hour TV documentaries shown after the evening news. People will watch those and still catch their bedtime effortlessly. Moonage Daydream, on the other hand, demands the viewer to visit the cinema and to tailor their evening’s plan around the film, and not the opposite. The film like those thick paperback biographies of famous people that could almost be measured in inches – seems to associate the physical expansiveness of the biography with the importance of the person. This does not at all mean that one should forgive the film its being-too-long. Of course not, it only attempts to show that the film’s duration isn’t something inert. Rather, it subtly gives a film certain meanings. Perhaps even before we see it, it indicates the type of attention the film will invite from us. Perhaps most important here is the phrase “time investment”. There is something neoliberal to the phrase – one’s time is invested, of course. Time is needed for any action, and if time is something to be invested, then no action can be anything but an investment. Resting means investing in greater efficiency at some later time, watching a film means investing in a conversation starter that will allow you to better network. But let’s not bemoan neoliberalism: the point is that the film’s duration is its connection to the outside world – it is the very same time that can be ‘invested’ in a film that can also be invested in walking and reading. A film’s duration is measured in minutes (or hours), the same as bus rides and school lessons – the film’s

length is a reality that can never be completely subsumed into the narrative. And yet the duration is not some bland reality completely void of fiction; how is it possible that 150 minutes of a Lars von Trier film are nothing like the 150 minutes of a Mission Impossible or a James Bond film? The duration of the former is probably understood as authorial vision (or pretentiousness), whereas the duration of the latter is the duration of spectacularity. It is noteworthy that such “spectacular duration” can (in terms of its minutes) be connected to football or basketball spectacles. The most important football and basketball games can last for two hours and a half or longer. Extra time in tied football matches and timeouts in basketball prolong the game. Tennis finals can be even longer, as if one could not hope for anything else but for them to just last. What might be better than watching the athletes longer than we usually can? Is it not in some way the same with blockbusters? Who wouldn’t want to watch Tom Cruise or Daniel Craig for a half hour longer than we are used to? The blockbuster seems to ask. If their battle is really so important if we are to believe that the fate of the whole world depends on it – how could this be resolved in such a short time? A film’s duration binds it to reality, it is a reality at the fiction’s core that can never completely disappear, and yet it is this very reality that cannot but permeate into the narrative. Although this text wants to be longer, to demand more time from its reader, and in such a way achieve a semblance of thoroughness and depth, it nevertheless has to end right here.

S H O R T S T O R Y

Die Kunst des Scheiterns Eines Abends, als der alte Philetas sich dem Meer in gewohnter Weise näherte, um den baldigen Sonnenuntergang zu beobachten, vernahm er ein leises Klagen in der Ferne. Einem Winseln ähnlich, konnte Philetas diesen Gesang keinem ihm bekannten Vogel zuordnen. Das Geräusch schien seinen Ursprung hinter hohen Felsen, die entlang dem breiten Meeresgestade aus dem Sand sprossen, zu haben. Mit Mühe erreichte er die kleine, in weißem Sand gehüllte Bucht, die sich ihm auf der anderen Seite der steilen Gesteinsinsel darbot, um seine Neugier zu stillen. Die Wellen waren hier friedlicher, und so hörte man neben dem leisen Geplätscher der niedrigen Wogen nur noch das leise Gewimmer einer kleinen Menschengestalt am Strandufer. Philetas erkannte den jungen Ziegenhirten Daphnis in der düsteren Figur, die nach vorne gekrümmt sein Gesicht in Händen hielt. Daphnis weinte allein. Sein Blick war fest auf die kleinen Wellen gerichtet, als wolle er sie aufmerksam zählen, doch die gebrochene Syrinx am Boden ließ Philetas bereits das verborgene Unheil erahnen. Vorsichtig trat er näher. Obgleich von diesem Anblick übermannt, sprach er fast schon heiter zu seinem jungen Freund: „Weshalb versalzt du mit deinen Tränen die sanften Wogen zu deinen Füßen? Es scheint, als würdest du selbst, mit deinem Weinen, die Flut des heutigen Abends bezwecken. Welcher Quelle entstammen diese zwei bitteren Rinnsale, die über deine Wangen stürzen?“

Aus diesen Worten ertönte die freundschaftliche Nähe zu seinem Schützling, doch es waren auch die Worte eines Mannes, der durchaus helfen wollte, doch bereits in seiner Ansprache zeigte, dass ihm jegliche Mittel dafür fehlten. Gespannt hörte Philetas in die Stille hinein, denn Daphnis bewegte sich nicht und wandte sich auch nicht seinem Freund zu. Nur noch das verkrampfte Schluchzen Daphnis` war zu hören, bis folgende Sätze das Dunkel durchschnitten: „Der geflügelte Eros hat mir die Pfeile, die er einst auch in meine schöne Chloe stieß, aus dem Leib gerissen.“ Daphnis sammelte sich und setzte fort: „Zuerst war es nur Chloe, die dieses Ereignis bemerkte. Damals entzog sich mir der Blick, den ich unentwegt aufsuchte. Die Hand, die ich immerzu halten wollte, schreckte bei der kleinsten Berührung meinerseits zurück. Chloe wurde stumm und mochte kein Wort mit mir wechseln. Die Tage und Nächte wurden von da an getrennt verlebt und zu einer dauerhaften Qual für mich. Genau wie du mir einst den Eros als geflügelten Räuber beschreiben musstest, da er den Menschen so vollkommen von seinem gewohnten Leben zu entreißen und ihn damit auf tiefste Weise zu verstören weiß, so muss ich ihn dir nun als Räuber seiner eigenen Gabe darstellen, denn sowohl Chloe als auch ich stehen nicht mehr unter dem Schutz seiner Fittiche.“

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Philetas glaubte, von tiefster Trauer erfasst, dem Gesang eines toten Vogels gelauscht zu haben. Wie das Blöken eines verlorenen Schafes, das sich hirtenlos auf unbekanntem Feld vorfindet, halten die Worte Daphnis` noch lange in der einsetzenden Ruhe nach. Der älteste unter den Göttern hatte seine beiden Findelkinder wieder zu Waisen gemacht, denn einst beflügelte er ihre kleinen Seelen und mästete sie mit Glauben an immerwährendes Glück. Philetas wusste nicht, wie er auf diesen Ausbruch antworten sollte, doch Daphnis fuhr fort: „Mein guter Freund, wie du mir damals, als zwischen Chloe und mir der verzehrende Schmerz der Zweisamkeit aufflammte, unseren Krankheitszustand beim Namen zu nennen wusstest, so erkläre mir welches neue Gebrechen mich nun heimsucht.“

Mit dieser Bitte blickte Daphnis ein erstes Mal an diesem Abend mit seinen von Tränen verquollenen Augen auf Philetas. Wie einer, der beim Betrachten eines Kranken unvermeidlich auch über den eigenen Verfall und einer möglichen Teilhabe am fremden Leiden nachdenkt; so war Philetas plötzlich in seine Jugend zurückversetzt. Der salzige Geruch der Algenhaufen, die feucht auf dem weichen Sandstrand verstreut in der untergehenden Sonne brühten, lockte den Alten in vergessene Pfade der Erinnerung. Bei diesen Gedanken vergangener Verirrungen der Gefühle wurde der Algengeruch modrig und fischig; die Welt verlor ihren Glanz und das Elend des Sitzenden drängte den Greisen wie peitschende Wellen in sein Allerinnerstes zurück. Diese Krankheit war unser aller Leiden, denn die bloße Gischt dieser wild erregten Brandung

vermochte den Dichter zu überwältigen. In völliger Ermattung schwankend wollte er allem entfliehen, doch pflichtbewusst war er dem armen Daphnis noch eine Erklärung schuldig: „Ich bin der Bilder überdrüssig. Hören sollst du die einsamen Worte eines Freundes, der seine Leidenschaft zu zügeln weiß. Dafür bedarf es auch keiner sprachlichen Kunstgriffe, die seit Anbeginn der poetischen Tradition unsere tägliche Existenz mithilfe von Schein- und Trugbildern verzerren, um sie dem schwächlichen Geist verdaulich, wie auch überhaupt erträglich zu machen.“ Daphnis horchte auf. „Keine Weisheiten über deine jetzige Gefühlslage weiß ich dir mitzuteilen. Du leidest, weil du leiden musst und sollst. Du warst ein einfacher Gast am Gastmahl des Eros, doch seine Gastfreundschaft hat in eurem Fall leider ein jähes Ende gefunden. Gegen deinen Zustand gibt es kein Heilmittel, weder Getränk noch Speise, außer Zeit, Hoffnung und Verständnis.“

Der Mond spiegelte sich in den durchtränkten Wangen Daphnis`. Die im Alter ungleichen, aber in Gemüt vollends ebenbürtigen Freunde schwiegen gemeinsam, doch Philetas musste den im Weinen erstarrten Daphnis verlassen. Er flüchtete in einen nahegelegenen Wald und weinte selbst bitterlich.

R E C I P E

Budget-Friendly Madeleines, Madeleines, the spongy cake traditionally baked in a shell-shaped tray. They are exceptionally light and reminiscent of a past time. Ahh Proust, how often has your name been mentioned when speaking of Madeleines? In my experience as a novice baker, they are a joy to bake and eat. They additionally contain the power to transport us to a different era. Whether that era is happier or not is beyond our hands, thus our fate rests with the Madeleine. We have become so enamoured with Madeleines to the degree of worship. I adore them because they can serve as a portable time machine. Others may see a blue Victorian phone booth or a tanning booth as a time-travelling tool; for me, the Madeleine is that. I suggest pairing it with a cup of tea, although the thought of devouring them right out of the oven is genuinely a significant pleasure.

*baked and swiftly devoured by me btw

I made sure these Madeleines were affordable, but do not skimp on the butter or substitute it with margarine, olive oil spread, or anything similar. If a Madeleine tray is unavailable, a regular 12-hole muffin pan can do just well. The Madeleine is a significant piece of literature and food, both historically and personally. I pictured myself indulging in these with a lover, after an unfulfilled love affair, or simply being grievously cut off. Find your time machine and savour these Madeleines filled with unending happiness, I say. Feel free to tag us @roux.magazine on Instagram with your Madeleines, we would love to hear from you!

serving suggestion (inviting your besties to spill the tea is optional but strongly advised)

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or Time-Travelling Tools Ingredients: 90g unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing 2 medium eggs 60g caster or brown sugar ¼ teaspoon of salt 3 teaspoons of honey 90g plain flour plus extra for the baking tray ½ teaspoon of baking powder

1. Melt the butter in a warm saucepan

over medium heat until it is melted. Remove from the heat and allow to cool completely. 2. Whisk the eggs in a large bowl with the sugar and salt until it has doubled in volume and turned a light golden pale. It is recommended to use an electric hand whisk if that is available. If not, a good old-fashioned metal balloon whisk and some elbow grease will work, but this will take several long minutes. The results, I assure you, are worth it. 3. Gently beat in the honey to the egg mixture, followed by the melted butter mixture.

6. Chill the mixture for at least 30 minutes and overnight if your patience is great. 7. When you are prepared to bake them, preheat the oven to 180°C and place your baking tray into the oven to heat it, ensuring your butter and flour will stick nicely to your tray. The recipe will produce approximately 16 Madeleines. 8. Once the baking tray is warm, remove it from the oven and generously brush it with melted butter. Quickly take your madeleine mixture from the fridge, fill each hole with about a tablespoonful of mixture and pop it into the oven to bake for 9-10 minutes, keeping a close eye on them until they turn golden on the top, indicating they are ready to be taken out of the oven.

4. Sieve the flour and baking powder together first to ensure the baking powder is equally distributed. 9. Allow them to cool briefly before prising the cakes from the tray onto a 5. Once the flour and baking powder cooling rack, or a cool clean plate. Give mixture has been sieved, fold the sieved them some minutes to cool before tossing flour gently into the egg mixture to ensure them in some extra sugar, giving them a there are no flour pockets. nice angelic crunch. Now enjoy your little time-travelling delights. By Jo Yi Hoon

S H O R T S T O R Y

We Shall Meet Again by Kristina Shatokhina

On the day I met her, our old almond tree first blossomed. It must have been as old as the house itself. Crooked, twisted branches on which I used to climb as a child – as my father and his father and the father of his father used to do before me – were stretched out in a most peculiar manner: a pitiful, bloomless, hopeless reach for that nourishing light of the sun they never managed to grasp. The almond blossoms looked like snow, and the snow fell on our cheeks when we kissed. “She’s the most precious thing I’ve ever held”, I thought as I kissed away her tears, tracing them down – down to her lips, to her chin, to her neck, the lace on her dress. On the second day, she told me she must flee, and that I am not to follow. —I wish I could stay and love you ‘till we’re both dust, yet we must part. Can’t you see? Our love is a double-edged sword… I thought it would be easier for me to breathe in your arms – I was mistaken. It’s as suffocating as everything else… I’d rather be my own death than make you be the death of me. — Please don’t go. I love you. — Not for long. For months and months, I have been searching for her – in darkness, in hope, in vain. When

I begin to forget her face, she comes to haunt me at night – my love, my ghost, my curse. I roam dusty villages, solemn town halls, empty churches, damp graveyards and sterile priest houses; I write to newspapers and morgues and I’ve yet found nothing. Was she ever just a dream, a fathom, a vision? I must hold her once again or cease to be. Today I’ve reached the very north of the island – a lonely pilgrim in this withering village that fades afore the terrific void of the sea. The place is famous for nothing but fish and the ruins of the ancient abbey on the top of the cliff, which I’ve been climbing for the past hour… Here, on the top of this dark edge of the world, the salty air smells of death. Beneath me, the gigantic black cliffs sink into the wild waves and, as I look down, hypnotised by their ravenous hum, I think of the sirens’ fatal weapon – a still more fatal weapon than their song – their silence. Carried by the violent wind, for centuries the sea salt has been eroding those fishermen’s faces, their damp stone shacks – their tombstones too. I breathe it in as I continue making my way to the abbey, passing a few tiny freshly dug graves – another child riddled with consumption, another unborn and unblessed soul… No trace of her.

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I give up. I give up, I give up, I give up. I shall never see her again. Up by the abbey I notice a feminine figure. I freeze. I am not alone here. Who are you? The wind tears the stranger’s veil in a cruel caress and its impudence elicits a gentle sigh, so very familiar. Now, could it be… Undoubtedly it’s her! It’s her or I’ve gone mad – damn it, I am mad and it is her! I can’t believe my eyes. I devour her dazed glance hungrily. Her quiet step, her ghost-like figure, a mere apparition wandering amongst the abbey ruins, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff… – I’ve found you! – You’ve found me!— she smiles.—Isn’t that so? Then, my love, then, on the other side you’ll find me again. Farewell, my love. Farewell! You see, I could never learn to breathe, because I simply was not meant to. I yearn to take hold of her once and forever, yet I let go, and when she steps off the cliff into the depth of the cold sea – ever so lightly – I can see her veil setting free and floating there for a moment. That is her soul, pure, featherlight, a soul that was not meant for this world. I see her becoming one with the sea, and I become stone, a ruin — ever wise, ever present, ever dying. Same as these ancient remains, I have seen things that turned my heart black. We are one now; I let the abbey walls disintegrate me into primordial cosmic dust. At last, her veil ascends further and further, disappearing high above the white clouds. I’ve never seen daylight so violent. We shall meet again, my love, where the water breaks the cliffs, where silver seafoam radiates its poisonous glow in the moonlight, where agony ends and Death begins…

Where Death births anew, we shall meet again.

P O E M

Autumnal Equinox By Jo Yi Hoon

Parting away From sensuous delights Knowing it could get better Let us pacify Under the autumnal leaves Comforting, woeful colours Saturating the leaves Burgundy Maroon Gold O, what a pretty entity! Floating eerily In the lake of summer memories Autumn advances To discern and kiss Gooey butter cake Praying for this to be real

But I must ask this Would I be gladsome When the earth turns towards the departed And meets the moon? Snooze Dipping into the truth Together You and I Bringing in a new dawn Hello, Autumn.

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H I D D E N T R A C K

S wi mming w i t h C h e e s e Cheese... fermented and compressed to be bouncy like rubber – tissue sucked out of another living being, secreted not as a result of pure love or governmental subsidies, but out of biological automatism and necessity, blind function of preparation and certainty. Will governs the suckling, though, allegedly free will. Mould – will fly through the air, close relative of the one eating away grain in giving bread, it sticks to sugar embraced by fat, it procreates in cellars and natural caves alike. It destroys and vomits, too, and preserves by decay. I eat. I take it slow – and so do you – consuming fuel that is stored in soil, extracted, travelling through furnaces of scaffolding and flesh, both standing up and lying down as they please. “What to do next?” I asked, wine and cheese on the table, locking eyes with him, curd reflecting pure love, akin to us geographically void of subsidies. “I’ll cut this one with this small knife” he said, and he did, slowly, on the wooden chopping board placed on the wooden table, a set of flat Matryoshkas of practicality and motherly insanity (“Don’t cut the cheese on the counter!”), breadcrumbs everywhere and leading nowhere – a Cézanne still life, this one akin to motherly instructions. We were naked, layered on top of each other like the chopping board’s wooden surface and the table, nested in each others’ parental dolls. Accordingly, our faces were painted in gloss and pigments, hardened around our eyes and on our mouths, chewing on our own tongues – bouncy bouncy little rubber. “Give me the other piece” I said to him, and I put the white lump with a hole of

blue mould in my mouth. The paint cracked open, and the sludge started breaking back into the sugars it once originated from. A similarity, this is, with cheese and wine: stomach breaks them back into the same constituents they began at, at an arbitrary point of the Earth’s energy storing cycle. And so it goes on, in our own hollowness. Rotting, alas, begins as usual. “Do you know Casu Martzu?” I asked him. Maggots liquidise the cheese; you gotta eat it fast, before toxins appear in the bound structure. You gotta eat the maggots, too: you are what you eat, you shit what you eat, and so the syllogism ends. “Never heard of it” he replied, and so I explained, opening up the outermost doll, the maternal skin, the thickest of all. *** With pure love, entwined with itself endlessly in its own repetitive cycles we sat up, looking at the wall. The wallpaper had a pattern I’d never noticed before; it looked like water, waves upon waves, from top to bottom.The apartment was his, nonneutral grounds for both of us. I bought the cheese. I quarrelled at the market, bargained maniacally for the cause, and according to him – in this we disagreed – I placed wood on wood to facilitate hedonism. We undressed, we were always undressed. In fact we are always undressed, once behind closed doors; we only leave make-up on. So we eat, and so we drink. So we swim in the water, Present Simple, afloat like the board and the table would be, made of the same material, all halves of the dolls sealed tight. Else we’d drown, and by god, we never, ever manage to drown. So we sat, heads on each others’ shoulders, looking at nothing, really. BY ZOLTAN TAJTI

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I bought the cheese. I quarrelled at the market, bargained maniacally for the cause, and according to him – in this we disagreed – I placed wood on wood to facilitate hedonism. We undressed, we were always undressed. In fact we are always undressed, once behind closed doors; we only leave make-up on. So we eat, and so we drink. So we swim in the water, Present Simple, afloat like the board and the table would be, made of the same material, all halves of the dolls sealed tight. Else we’d drown, and by god, we never, ever manage to drown. So we sat, heads on each others’ shoulders, looking at nothing, really.

INA

K BY AGE L L CO

H TOK SHA A TIN RIS