Lovely love
There’s a wonderfully sassy poem by Langston Hughes called “Advice.” It goes like this:
Folks, I’m telling you
birthing is hard
and dying is mean—
so get yourself
a little loving
in between.
We couldn’t agree more. What’s better than love? It explodes grey worlds into technicolour, it pushes us to be the versions of ourselves we always hoped we could be, it teaches us the power of vulnerability, patience, and connectedness. This Valentine’s Day, we’re sharing meditations on love from the archive.
Well in Love by Roland Campbell
My love for you is a well that reaches deep into an aquifer
Drawing up and flowing over with old water that has never been tasted
It rises up around my body
Making me squirm as it passes over my groin
It holds me
Drawing shivers from my spine
Wrapping around my ribs and chest
Encouraging my lungs to inhale
Gasping ever so slightly
Before I dunk my head below its surface
To share kisses
To be in you and beside you
Feels so familiar
Feels so utterly electric
That I forget that it is new
But our bodies knew
With glancing hands
And dancing eyes
That this sense of understanding and home
Rested inside of us
Walking aquifers
Networks of electro-chemical magic
Two particles that have come into contact
And are hence entangled with one another
I feel you when you are not with me
I feel your pain when you struggle from afar
My heart reaches across space to find you
And love you
And care for you
As it would itself
And so
I take a last breath
Before I submerge myself in the well water of your love
Swimming down deep
Toward its bottom
Reaching for its depth
Your depth
Without knowing what will come
Fox & Granny by Miranda Newman
It happens in seconds, not minutes.
They’re eating dinner in the living room, a lazy Sunday ritual. Potatoes, meatloaf, carrots, and Brussels sprouts. For fifty years, she’s always made sure he eats his Brussels. Two every night.
“Alida,” there’s an unusual worried edge in his voice. “I’m not feeling well.”
Geoff pushes away his plate, tries to stand, but falls. She calls his name, tries to shake him, get him up, but only the television answers.
The ambulance sirens splash their bungalow red and blue. The EMT’s boots leave puddles of melted snow on her hardwood floors. She knows it’s too late when the acrid smell hits her nose—he’s soiled his pants.
Geoff lives with the help of dissonant machines and plastic tubes for another ten days in the Intensive Care Unit. Their children and grandchildren rotate through his hospital room, helping her watch him, strapped into a strange bed, do nothing more than breathe.
One afternoon while she’s watching, her throbbing panic lulled by the almost musical nature of the hospital’s rhythmic ventilators, percussed by an occasional moan or cough, the woman in the next room dies. The beeping of the woman’s heart monitor slows and then just stops, jarring Alida out of her trance.
The day they turn off his life support, she holds his soft hand. Beatles songs crackle out of the speakers of her kids’ cell phones. He shrugs and shudders, sometimes, but he doesn’t open his eyes. His breath rattles its way out of his body, but he doesn’t speak anymore. An arrow of belated geese flies through the swirling snow outside of his window.
Her eldest granddaughter, Lynn, the one with the unending supply of tears, brings his favourite McDonald’s breakfast sandwich: “A smell he likes,” she explains. It sits on his bedside table all day. When night comes, and his chest stops rising and falling, there’s nothing to do but throw the congealed egg and sausage away.
After he retired, Geoff started spending more time on their back terrace. He loved it out there. When they decided on the golf course community, they had paid extra to get a house with a better view of the lush sloping fairways.
He’d wait patiently, all winter, for the snow to melt, the air to warm, and the sun to stay up past 5:00 p.m. On the first nice night of each year, he’d gather up whatever book he was reading and insist they take advantage of the weather.
Last spring, when it was finally pleasant enough to take their wine (his: white, hers: red) onto the back patio to watch the sun set over the 14th hole, a light breeze carried the smell of apple blossoms in waves, while she gossiped about a couple she had been golfing with that morning.
“Helen and Glen are getting married. Can you believe that? At their age? He must be pushing ninety.”
“He is. I guess as long as they’re happy… I say, let the old buggers get married!” Geoff laughed, swatted a mosquito away, and leaned over to light a citronella candle.
“I think it’s just ridiculous. I mean, really,” she took a sip of her wine. “They’re running around acting like teenagers in love. It’s not as if their dusty old parts even work anymore.”
A duck in a nearby water hazard honked in agreement. Geoff smiled.
“And, besides,” she continued. “How many good years do they have left together before she becomes a widow again?”
“Now, dear. There’s no harm in companionship,” he reached across the table, took her freckled hand, and squeezed. “Where would I be without you? Probably wandering around in my housecoat all day and eating toast for every meal.”
She clucked her tongue and waved off the comment. “Do they really need to flaunt it? What’s wrong with some propriety? Just live together instead of making a whole production out of the relationship. It’s not their first marriage. There’s a way you’re supposed to do things.”
“Are you telling me, that you don’t want to catch the bouquet?” he grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows over the top of his glasses.
She rolled her eyes, smacked his hand away, gently, and then kissed him right on the top of his shiny bald head. They stayed outside drinking, listening to the odd poorly aimed golf ball plunk into the pond, while the sky burned orange and the sun moved farther behind the hills in the distance.
Just as the sun had almost completely disappeared over the tops of distant evergreens, a gaggle of geese made a noisy descent into the pond.
“Here we go again. You know, we pay enough in maintenance fees that the condo board really should be doing something about this goose problem,” her voice grows more rapid and stern. “They do nothing but leave a mess, and disrupt our enjoyment of our property—”
“They don’t know they’re causing a nuisance,” he replied. “At any rate, I’ll talk to the condo association. There’s no need to get all worked up over some geese. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said over the honking. “I think it’s time to go in.”
As she gathered their glasses to get ready to go in for the evening news, Geoff stared at her, his elbows on the table, hands clasped around his faced like an awed wrinkled child.
“What is it?” she said. “Is there a bug on me?”
His faced cracked into a cheeky grin. “You know, you still have a fantastic ass.”
“Come on inside, dear,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”
The ground at the grave site is hard and cold when he’s buried. He shares a resting place with her father, having agreed to join her family plot over his own. Her kids and grandkids, with their clattering voices, clicking black heels, sniffles and tears, float through her house in shifts in the months that follow.
But, as winter dies away for another year, the visits get a little less frequent. She spends more time alone in his study going over the lists of bills she needs to cancel, investments that have to be simplified, and properties she must sell, listing them all on his old company’s letterhead written with his favourite ballpoint pen.
She’s at it again, working away, when the phone rings around lunch time: an anxious phone call from Lynn, who is wondering if she’s left the house lately.
“I’ve been busy,” she replies. “There’s no end to the paperwork that needs to be done after, you know…”
“Let us help,” says Lynn. “Please. I’m worried about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Alida tells the quivering voice on the phone. “Death is a part of life. Just have to keep getting up every morning and stay busy.”
“Well, I really think you should talk to someone about it. About how you’re feeling.”
Alida laughs at the suggestion. Lynn with her soft life and her regular therapy can’t understand that she comes from a place and time where people dealt with their problems on their own.
“Listen, I know you can handle a lot but everyone needs help from time to time,” says Lynn. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be a professional. Just someone—a friend, a neighbour, or me. It’s not good to keep your grief—”
“Shit,” she says. “The geese are back.”
“What, Granny? What are you talking about?”
“Can’t you hear them screeching through the phone?” She wrenches down the window in the study and heads to the living room to do the same. “Some national animal—they’re just noisy pooping machines.”
“Granny, I—”
“I’ve got to go, Lynn. This window’s stuck and I need both hands.”
Even with all the windows closed, the geese taunt her in bed that night. She’s had trouble sleeping since Geoff passed. He never snored, but a lifetime spent listening to his scratchy nighttime breath next to her, constant like waves lapping up on a shore, has left a stillness almost as deafening as the cacophony out back.
Her sleeping pill and glass of wine have failed her. Instead of exhaustion, a dull rage throbs in her head, especially when she thinks about another day spent yawning.
Her head is heavy as she pulls on his tattered old slippers. It keeps swimming as she pushes aside canvas bags and leather shoes to find the safe where he keeps the pellet gun. Condo association, be damned. She’s getting a good night’s sleep tonight.
The full moon shivers in the half-melted pond and the big evergreen in front of it bristles as she slams the back door into its frame. The geese squawk at her interruption. Her lawn chair squeals as she pulls it across the patio. Two doors over, a neighbour’s porch light flicks on.
She sits down, aims the gun the way Geoff taught her when they were teenagers shooting tin cans, just over the heads of some of those feathered bastards milling around the ladies’ tees. Her finger is on the trigger when one of the rose bushes that flank the patio starts to dance.
The crickets’ song mimics the pulse racing in her ears when she sees a flash of animal fur in the moonlight. A dark slender paw pokes out between tight green buds.
“Hello?”
A fox clambers out from the shrubbery. Its ear twitches in her direction and it flashes her a grin.
“Easy now.”
She aims at the patch of fur between its eyes, but it stays very still.
“My, my. You’re a brave fellow.”
The fox’s fur is thin and patchy, with a long dark strip of it missing on its back hip. Its pointed black nose twitches when the wind rustles the pine trees and makes ripples on the pond.
“Are you here to help me with my goose problem?” she asks the creature.
It pants twice and settles low on the soggy grass, its white-tipped tail twitching just beyond the bottom step, while it watches the geese argue below.
“Not much of a hunter. Sitting on the job,” she says. “Have these old farts on the golf course been feeding you?”
She rests the gun across her knees, which sends goosebumps racing each other up and down her body beneath her velour housecoat. “Alright. You may stay as we might just have a common enemy.”
Someone must be feeding it, she figured. How would it have survived the winter they just had? And be so comfortable around her? Still, it does seem sickly. Could the creature take on a full-grown goose?
“You know, you really shouldn’t be so friendly to humans,” its ears perk up when she speaks to it. “What if someone calls animal control on you, huh? You definitely wouldn’t like that.”
It seems to sigh, and then creeps forward a bit on its belly.
“I’m sorry. I know. I can be a bit… I’m just saying. It’s dangerous to start relying on one person as a food source. It’s important to know how to survive on your own.”
It lets out a gentle yip and turns, lips drawn back and teeth slightly bared, to chew at some invisible bug on its leg that she can’t see. An owl lends its hoot to the chorus below.
“I know it can be hard out there on your own. But, you’re better off. Probably…”
She sighs and rubs her face. She suddenly feels limp and heavy all over. Her voice is creaky and small.
“I don’t know… I miss him.”
The little fox rises and slinks across her lawn. When it reaches the hill just above the geese, it breaks into a trot. Seconds later, an eruption of flapping wings and throaty warnings. The fox manages to grab a mouthful of dark feathers before the flock takes off and it follows. She laughs triumphantly, and watches the moon climb a bit higher in the sky.
leafy green
AFTERNOON is so lucky to have contributors from all over the globe: we’ve told stories from Australia, to Spain, to Thailand and Myanmar. Even our editors live on opposite coasts—Alex spends his time in sunny Los Angeles while I deal with Toronto’s harsh winters. Speaking of, winter is currently underway and I’m tired of staring out my window to see nothing but brown and white. Since I don’t plan on travelling out of the country any time soon (COVID-19 rates are on the rise where I live), I’ve compiled some of our leafiest and greenest content to help me through winter’s long nights.
cover art by katrina cervoni
Photo by Katrina Cervoni.
We love Katrina Cervoni’s compelling and unique portrait photography; however, her nature photography has us dreaming of those delicate spring days when the first blooms appear in newly green fields.
Paper Studies by sarah ritz
When it comes to carefully considering colour and shape, there’s no one quite like Sarah Ritz. Her vibrant collages are guaranteed to bring a pop of colour into even the dreariest of days.
Saguaro cactus by alex Sheriff
A lone Saguaro cactus stood for thousands of days and nights, enjoying the incremental changes in view as it grew. If there had been anything else around to notice it, it would have been noticed right away. Where everything was beige and brown, the Saguaro was green, and where everything sloped around rather gradually, the Saguaro was an awaited blip.
The Saguaro was content with observing the sky, shadows, and slow wind erosion on rocks. Nothing ever happened twice, and memories of its first night were as clear as memories from when it was four feet tall, which is the exact height it had achieved at this point.
Until now, the Saguaro had been satisfied in the passing of time, and the minute environmental changes that came with it. At exactly four feet tall and roughly fifty years of age; however, there was a change in its attitude.
It noticed something new. This new thing was not subtle. To the Saguaro’s knowledge, the new thing carried itself differently than every other thing in the desert. It was brown-beige, like most things, but it was suspended and flapping. It moved in the air not only because of wind, but because it was flapping around on its own volition. This was a new concept to the cactus. It had never moved on its own.
The only moving the cactus had done was the completely involuntary act of growing. While the cactus was confined to creep slowly upward, the new thing moved in shapes that look like the outlines of continents or the right type of cloud. It moved, and then rested, and then moved again. Resting meant landing on the ground or a rock, being very still for a few moments. When this happened the cactus wondered with an aching concern if the thing had lost its ability of free willed motion. Of course it hadn’t, and it repeated this rest/play dance for the rest of its life.
Only one minute into this dance, the cactus decided this was the most excited it had ever been (or ever would be). The Saguaro invented the first word it knew; a name for the suspended flapping thing, but also the feeling it brought. It was moth. Next, the Saguaro came to the conclusion that it wanted to hold this moth. To keep it. In order to do so, the Saguaro cactus, of course, would need to grow an arm. It decided to look away from the moth until it was sure it would be able to hold it. The cactus wouldn’t be able to bear watching the moth flap away while it was armless and helpless.
The moth flew away about five minutes later, and thirty years went by. The Saguaro had grown two feet taller and its first arm. It had been, without pause, replaying its one minute with the moth during this entire time. It turned to the place where the moth had last been with an unprecedented excitement, and was met with nothing.
At six feet and 80 years, this was the first time that the Saguaro felt loss. It spent decades mourning the loss of the moth. The cactus spent a lot of time sleeping.
When the Saguaro was roughly a century old, and about ten feet tall, a new moth landed on its arm. The cactus was deeply asleep and unaware. By the time it woke the moth had left. A curious tingle on its arm remained, however. It had never felt this before, and the more the cactus thought on it, the more the tingle turned into a little annoyance, and then finally an itch. This new itch was a distraction from the moth, and the cactus decided it needed another arm to scratch the itch on the first.
Fortunately, its body was already involuntarily growing one. The itch remained for twenty-five years, until, finally, the cactus scratched it with a new arm. It had moved on its own volition. The itch was relieved. The Saguaro cactus lived the next hundred or so years, involuntarily growing taller and gaining more arms, enjoying views and memories, never again needing to act against its stationary nature until it quietly died.
Mental health matters
If there’s one positive that’s emerged from the global pandemic, it’s that mental wellbeing is finally starting to enter the public consciousness as a necessity. Promoting and destigmatizing mental wellness has been a priority of AFTERNOON (one of our co-editors is, after all, a certified lunatic) since our very first issue. Below, we’ve compiled a selection of stories that focus on mental health and treatment. In, “Cut Budget, Cut Life,” Vengsang Thong and Paw Htoh Keet Wah illuminate the lack of mental health supports available to refugees living on the border of Thailand and Myanmar through a photo essay. Co-editor Miranda Newman shares an allegory about her experience with psychiatric institutionalization, and Vol. 3 contributor Gabrielle P. Leith gives readers a delicate and heartfelt look at what it’s like to live with a loved one who suffers from mental illness.
cut budget, cut life by vengsang thong & paw htoh Keet Wah
Most people care about visible physical illnesses, but a different silent killer is threatening this refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border. A few weeks ago, Naw May Kher’s husband committed suicide in their house, hanging himself on the bamboo she is pointing at (pictured above). She says, “My husband was an alcoholic and never helped me to earn money.”
She feels like her husband was useless for her, and her situation is the same regardless of his fate. From 2017 to early 2018, 19 people in this refugee camp attempted suicide and seven succeeded. Most of them used rope, consumed poison, or used a weapon to commit suicide. In 2017, the International Organization of Migration released a report showing that the suicide rate in another camp on the Thai-Myanmar border, Mae La camp, was more than three times the global suicide rate. The effect of an uncertain future, lack of freedom, and decreasing support from the international community is causing this crisis. Since the support was cut, psychosocial workers in this refugee camp have not been able to increase suicide prevention awareness effectively.
In this refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border, the amount of suicide cases is increasing because of a lack of prevention activities; the leprous patients are housebound without hope of a cure; and leukemia patients are not getting effective treatment. These are the consequences of the UNHCR reducing its budget for social services. The refugees who deal with these diseases have been suffering and searching for the way out of their illness. However, some are still struggling and some made their own solutions, such as committing suicide. The UNHCR should give full financial support for social services. Camp residents can use the money for a hospital, medicine for patients, and to employ skillful doctors so all patients will get better treatment. Moreover, if the leprous patients are in a safe house with caring social workers, they will not feel lonely. The social service workers could also carry out more activities for treating mental illness. Should these cases be addressed urgently or will the UNHCR just watch and record people getting stuck in these situations?
orangutans doing yoga by miranda Newman
Illustration by Lucy Nordlinger
Two orangutans sit on the cement floor of their habitat; just beyond the motionless tire swing. The concrete is flecked with twigs and crumpled leaves. Shit’s smeared on plaster walls designed to look like large grey stones. Their legs are wide open, shot out like darts. The Female orangutan breathes deeply, bends her wrinkled nose over her right knee, and wraps her hairy fingers around the sole of her foot. The Male orangutan watches her head lower and copies.
“Focus on your breathing,” her knee muffles her voice. “In and out. Deep and slow.”
The Female’s eyes are closed. The Male watches a tiny tumbleweed of dust and straw bounce by his leg, and forgets to breathe in his pose.
With your next exhale, walk your hands back to the centre,” she says. “And slowly roll up with your inhale, bringing your head up last.”
The orangutans have matching plastic yellow tags pierced through their ears. Hers is tucked between reddish orange furs, while his shines like a speck of sunshine against his dark ear. When she unfolds, he follows a second later. “How’s your back feeling?”
“A little better. The stretching helps the knots.”
“Are they giving you any painkillers or physio for it?”
“Are you kidding?” He says. “They can barely keep our meds straight.”
“I know you’re frustrated, but be thankful you’re here.” she says. “I’ve stayed in a lot worse places.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” he stands, grabs his big toe, and lifts it to a low flung tree branch. “I was minding my own business—getting ready to call it a night. It was one of those nights so dark it seemed like the hills were cradling me, folding me into the jungle, the mango trees, the plodding beetles. Then...”
He trails off, sighs, and picks at a bug on his leg.
“I know,” she stays seated, brings her feet together, and lowers her head to them so her voice is once again muffled like the blurry faces banging on the glass where the floor comes to a rude stop. “You can’t fight it. The sooner you accept your surroundings, the easier it will be. Play by their rules. Eventually, you’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it,” He drops his foot and swings to the next highest branch. “If I play by their rules, will they let me go home?”
She keeps her head lowered as the branch moans under his weight. When she finally looks up, she’s smiling, but won’t meet his gaze.
The Two-Headed Monster by gabrielle p. leith
Here is where they bring you when you are sadder than sad, I think to myself as we pull up and try to find parking. My mom has been driving erratically the entire way, which is saying a lot because my mom can’t drive even on a good day. My brother and I brace ourselves in the backseat as she goes through two red lights. When we tell her about them later, when things feel slightly calmer, she looks genuinely confused. “Really?” She says, with a sort of exhausted laugh. The whole drive up she’s not making much sense. She keeps talking about soul mates; how my brother and I have found ours, but her soul mate slips further and further from grasp with each hospitalization. I have never in my life heard my mom use a word like soul mate. She’s not exactly a sentimental woman in that way so, for a minute, that unsettles me more than our destination. As we pull up, my mom makes sure to get one of the best parking spots, close to the entrance. Even in times of crisis, she’s competitive about parking. “This is a very, very good spot,” she tells us several times as we make our way to the hospital elevators. Before getting in, she notices a painting up for auction. “This is a very nice piece of Indigenous art and we could get it for a good price.” It’s an eerie painting at first glance—lots of blood reds and dark figures ghosting around the canvas as though they’re dripping off the page. I see her quickly scribble down $300 on the next open line. Who the hell wants a memento from today, I think to myself, but never mind. We get in the elevator and click number seven for the psychiatric ward.
Once we get upstairs, we find my dad in his room. Sometimes his illness brings him to such anxiety-filled places that he cannot move or speak. On this particular day, he can’t do either. He looks like a little kid in these moments; sitting in his pajamas, hands balled up on his lap, wholly helpless from himself. We sit there in silence for a long time together as tears stream down his face, his body completely still.
The next day, when we come back, I notice the other patients in the ward. Many of them seem to be somewhere else when you look into their eyes, like the body they’re inhabiting is just a decoy and they have left long ago for somewhere else. Some look like psychiatric patients cast for the movies, while others walk the halls as if they are in a supermarket and nothing out of the ordinary is going on.
When we get to my dad’s room, he is more verbal and mobile. He’s still in his pajamas, his hands folded on his lap. One thing you need to understand about my dad’s hands is that they are incredibly soft. They are very gentle and smooth—just like my grandmother’s were. They also look like they’ve never seen a day of hard labour. This is sort of true—my dad’s work is stationary and he’s never exactly been a handyman. As a kid, I always thought about how my dad’s hands encompassed the gentleness of his spirit. It is not surprising then, that one of the first things I notice when I arrive that day, are the silver and gold sparkles crusted under his fingernails. He catches me looking at them, and I see the hint of a smile flash across his face. He then produces a page of a colouring book where a turtle with big eyes looks helplessly at the viewer. He’s coloured it in with various greens and browns, and even finessed certain spots with splotches of gold and silver sparkly paint. “I think mine was one of the best,” he says.
With that, his new roommate enters. He’s immediately apologetic, but we tell him to not be silly and to come in. This man is a spitting image of Owen Wilson—he’s got sandy blonde hair and the same California surfer way of speaking. He confirms he and my dad had, by far, the best two drawings at art class that morning. They share a laugh that is ripe with so many underlying feelings I don’t know how to access it. Owen Wilson lives up north by himself and describes his admissions as “tune-ups” every so often to get back on track. We learn he’s from a very wealthy Toronto family, but has distanced himself from them. He has no visitors during his stay, so I assume his family doesn’t know he is here. He and my dad share a self-deprecating humour about their situation that seems to make them feel human again. I feel eternally grateful that this is who chance has bunked him with, and I can see their friendship slowly giving my dad life. My dad asks Owen if, once they are out, he’d like to come to a performance of a play he has written. Owen doesn’t end up coming to the performance that takes place a few weeks later, but I like the idea of these two men meeting again on the other side. The other side, this time, being a 50-plus community theatre production.
Months later, I am at my parents’ house for dinner. I’m in the living room and notice a newly hung painting that looks instantly familiar. It’s the painting from the auction. I’m acquainted again with the red and black figures that haunt the space between the frame. When I get close enough, I can see the piece is titled, “The Two-Headed Monster.” Just like the duality of my father’s bipolar illness and its looming presence over him, as though his illness is the ghostly figures in the painting. I think about the helpless bystanders it has made each of us.
“We won,” my mom says as she sees me looking at the painting. She boasts about the price she got it for, and how she really does have a good eye for art. I tell her, in this light, it is more beautiful than I remember it being and, for a moment, this feels true.
Explore the Underworld
The season of spook is upon us and AFTERNOON is taking you straight to the depths of hell. From Dante’s Inferno, to Milton’s Paradise Lost, to Giotto’s The Last Judgement, writers and artists have long explored the eternal destination through frightening, maddening, absurd, and moving depictions of the home of dead souls and demons. Below, find the work of two talented AFTERNOON contributors as they consider their own relationship to the underworld and the artistic legacy it inspires.
Satan by katie morton
I have a friend that I’ve known for many years who, by all accounts, should know me. We reunited in my studio space a year ago and, upon seeing this piece, I could feel her body tense up. She asked me in a very serious tone, “Katie, are you worshiping Satan?”
I laughed because she must have been joking.
However, I realized quickly that she was not.
She was afraid. I had forgotten what it was like to have that tangible fear of a boogeyman.
Satan was a very real concept to me in the first part of my life, but as I began to shed Mormonism from my system, I was able to shed “Satan” from my mind. I was able to discover that there is no evil monster coercing me to sin.
It’s just me here and my human brain.
The religiously programmed voices fell away, and now, for me, there is no longer a Satan.
Concepts like these are supposed to be powerful and “sacred,” so I continue to free myself from these previously untouchable concepts by putting them into my art and touching them all over.
Because of this friend, I decided to name the piece “Satan.”
WHERE IN HELL is Hieronymus? BY WESTON FRAZOR
Within his lifetime, Hieronymus Bosch’s work was widely collected and copied, especially his macabre and nightmarish depictions of hell. Bosch’s hellscapes often incorporate iconographical conventions, yet Bosch describes hell not as a fantastical place, but as a realistic world containing elements from day-to-day life. He depicts a world in which humankind has succumbed to the temptations of evil and are reaping eternal damnation. His works are generally regarded as enigmatic, leading some to speculate that their content refers to contemporaneous esoteric knowledge since lost to history. See if you can find where in hell Hieronymus hides.
Recipe Round-up
Are you looking to spice up your routine? Add a little variety to your diet? Be more considerate and contemplative about what you consume? AFTERNOON has you covered. We’ve compiled our favourite recipes from issues past and present. Bon appétit!
Pork Slivers with Chive Flowers by Wendy Zeng
From Vol. 4, chef Wendy Zeng shared a delicious pork sliver dish (that can be modified for vegetarians), alongside a reflection about the recipe’s relevance in Chinese households during the post-war Communist Revolution era.
Ingredients:
¼ cup canola oil
3 cloves garlic
½ lb pork (leg meat if possible)
*vegetarians can use smoked and spiced bean curd (firm pressed tofu) or mushrooms
½ lb Chinese chive flower (aka garlic chives)
*feel free to use any vegetable you’d like such as celery, long beans,
peppers, bamboo, root vegetables like daikon or carrots. You can also use a combination of vegetables
Meat marinade:
½ tbsp grated ginger
1 tsp soy sauce
1 tsp shaoxing wine
½ tsp white pepper
2 tsp water or stock
1 tbsp tapioca starch, can substitute with potato starch
Finishing Sauce:
1 tsp sesame oil
½ tsp salt
½ tsp tapioca starch, can sub for potato starch
½ tsp msg, optional
2 tbsp water or stock
Cut the pork, against the grain, into thin slices and then into very thin slivers (~2mm thick). Mix well in a bowl with marinade ingredients.
Cut chive flowers into 2-inch long segments. If using other vegetable(s), slice into thin slivers. It’s important that items in a stir fry have shape harmony for better taste, mouthfeel, and aesthetics. If using chunky vegetables, stir fry them first for 30 sec-1min to break down the rawness.
Peel and slice garlic. Combine finishing sauce ingredients.
Heat oil in a wok or sauté pan over high heat until almost smoking. Add pork slivers and quickly stir to separate. Add garlic and chive flowers and stir fry for 30 seconds or until they are hot. Stir finishing sauce ingredients as starch may have settled at the bottom and pour into the pan. Stir until sauce thickens. Quickly remove from the pan. Serve over rice.
DIY HERBAL INFUSION BY FIORELLA MORZI
Like everything we share in the pages of AFTERNOON, our recipe contributors elevate cooking to an art form. In Vol 2, Fiorella Morzi wrote a beautiful piece on the relationship between chamomile and her family, and guides her readers to create their own relationships with plants.
Herbal infusions are a lot like teas, and they are a wonderful way to enter a relationship with plants. Unlike teas; however, herbal infusions require larger amounts of loose herb to make and steep for much longer, at least four hours or overnight. This makes them stronger in flavour and things like vitamins and oils. I like to prepare herbal infusions before I go to bed, then wake up and strain. Sip throughout the day, or save in the fridge for a couple of days (you can drink the infusion warm or chilled). This recipe uses the folk method (ie. inexact, feel-it-out method) of herbal infusions.
What you will need:
- Glass jar with lid (ie. quart)
- Boiling water
- Big handfuls of chamomile
Steps:
- Toss chamomile into glass jar
- Fill the jar to the top with boiling water
- Seal the jar with lid (alternatively you can use a small plate to cover)
- Let sit for at least four hours or overnight
- Strain and enjoy!
Part of the Daisy/Sunflower family: Chamomile’s many benefits often include help with stress, digestion, and sleep. Plants are also more than their uses and actions. Notice what comes up for you while making and drinking. Have fun!
VEGAN CHEESE BY MARY ELIZABETH
We love the innovative and creative way contributor Mary Elizabeth presents her healthy and vegan-friendly recipes in Vol. 2 of AFTERNOON. True to the spirit of zine culture, Mary’s illustrated recipes are easy to follow and, like Fiorella’s, utilize the “feel it out” method commonly found in folk cooking.
Virtual CANZINE 2021
AFTERNOON is back for another year of Broken Pencil’s annual Canzine, a festival of zines and independent print culture. From October 22 to 25, 2021, AFTERNOON will be holding down a spot in Sweet Weirdoughs land.
In addition to a ton of sick zines and indie presses to check out, Canzine has a full weekend of programming lined up including the BP Zine Awards Short List Reveal on October 22 at 7 p.m. ET (we’ve entered—keep your fingers crossed for us), zine readings throughout the festival, and a Cormorant Press showcase that includes author Richard Scarsbrook, author and one-time instructor of one of our co-editors.
Stay tuned to the AFTERNOON Instagram for more details. We hope to see you there!
Open Submission Calls
We’re making it easier for writer and artists to find open submission calls! Head on over to our Instagram and check out our profile.
Do more than apologize
the editors of afternoon stand in solidarity with the indigenous community in not celebrating colonialism, land theft, and genocide. as settlers, we acknowledge we need to do much better for the original caretakers of this land.
THE EDITORS OF AFTERNOON NOW LIVE, WORK, AND PLAY ON THE RESPECTIVE TERRITORIES OF TREATY 13, LANDS SUBJECT to THE DISH WITH ONE SPOON WAMPUM BELT COVENANT—A TREATY BETWEEN the Anishinaabe, Mississaugas, and Haudenosaunee that bound them to share the territory and protect the land; AND THE UNCEDED TERRITORY OF THE Tongva, chumash, and kizh peoples.
we’ve attempted to compile a starting point of resources below for settlers who want to do more than just apologize on july 1.
EDUCATE
Learn about whose land you live on. Visit native-land.ca for an interactive map. *
Research your homeland’s Indigenous People who were the land’s original caretakers. *
Read the 94 Calls to Action recommended in the Truth and Reconciliation report. **
Read the MMIWG2S+ Calls to Justice. **
Enroll in the Indigenous Canada course offered by the University of Alberta’s Faculty of Native Studies.
*Thanks to the On Canada Project for these ideas
**Thanks to Kluane Adamek’s Open Letter for these ideas
donate
Below, you’ll find links to Indigenous charities you can donate to this July 1. This is only a small collection of the many Indigenous charities operating in Canada and North America. We encourage settlers to also do their own research to find Indigenous initiatives in their own communities to support. Please note: AFTERNOON is not affiliated with the organizations listed below.
Advocate
Connect with your local elected official and ask them what they are doing to make changes that take action on the TRC recommendations.
Be vocal about your solidarity with Indigenous Peoples.
Amplify Indigenous voices and initiatives.
This July 1, wear orange, forgo celebrating with fireworks, and join a rally or event in your community, like Idle No More’s #CancelCanadaDay rallies.
Support is available for anyone affected by their experience at residential schools and those who are triggered by the latest reports.
A national Indian Residential School Crisis Line has been set up to provide support for former students and those affected. People can access emotional and crisis referral services by calling the 24-hour national crisis line: 1-866-925-4419.
The Hope for Wellness Help Line offers 24/7 support to Indigenous People across the country. Call 1-855-242-3310 or visit hopeforwellness.ca.
2021: A place odyssey
Join AFTERNOON on Wed, January 27th, 2021 at 8:00pm EST for an evening exploration of what place and our relationship to it means in the age of lockdowns, inspired by the theme for its upcoming issue. Featuring Rajesh Sankat reading, "Brown Kids Belong in the Outdoors," Kristofferson San Pablo leading a creative workshop, and Miranda Newman and Alex Sheriff guiding an intimate discussion of the evening's film offerings. This event will be taking place in Bramble — a new platform for virtual gatherings powered by Artery that offers a more natural way to connect online.
CANZINE 2020
AFTERNOON is coming to Canzine 2020—the first virtual event in its history. Find us in Cut n’ Paste City!
We Rely on Trees
Based on Baw Reh and Vijit's photo essay from AFTERNOON Vol. 1, We Rely on Trees is a look at daily life in a refugee camp on the Thai-Myanmar border.
Original story by: Baw Reh and Vijit
Produced and written by: Alex Sheriff and Miranda Newman
Associate producer: James MacMillan
Created in partnership with: Ricepaper Magazine
