They say that Medea murdered her own children, purposefully, all to revenge herself against a killer and his new princess. But they did not say this until Euripides made it fashionable, as stunning as a dress of white lace turned to flames in an instant. Before this, Medea was as dark as her arts, folding in and out of Jason’s story, bits and pieces here and there, so that no one text can encompass her entirety. Riding upon her dragons, she cannot commit to one space, one pure and simple truth, but instead finds herself ten years in the past, beating at her breasts because she is not the daughter she thought she was. The important part of Medea’s life depends on whom you ask, and whether or not you want to sympathize with a wronged but foolish girl, or point your finger at the madness and changeability of women— worse than loose cannons, which is why they are never allowed on ships at sea. Or you see her as I do, the sorceress of time, refusing to tremble in her presence but maintaining a respectable closeness, grasping at her black veils and golden coronets, searching in vain for her nexus. Her power lies in keeping you guessing, never letting you know if the true story is the first one you heard, later spiraling out of control and into sensation, or the last, finally putting the puzzle together to form the complete picture, or none of the above. None of the above. I never hung a poster of Medea over my bed. What does she even look like? I can see her in my mind, but not on the whiteness of the ceiling. I can see her in my mother’s wet tears, and my own longing to fly over the sea in a plane with scales down its back.I endeavor to be like Medea, but instead of murdering my children, I drowned my mother. I drowned my mother for a man, and isn’t that always the way of it? No, that’s not the whole truth. I drowned my mother, in jealousy, in a rage, in sadness, in the rain and the river where I was born, in complete consciousness of my actions. Or none of the above. I drowned my mother two days ago and tomorrow I will ask her about the waves and the moon, about her bruises and my father’s fists. I drowned my mother so that she could remember the feel of her breath passing from her lungs to mine and back again. If you are looking for truth, in all of its confusions and contradictions, its backs and forths, its mutability and static popping, then you have not come to the right space. The right space is two retellings ahead. Go there now.