Editor’s Letter
“The path to paradise begins in hell.”
- Dante
Opal Age Tribune was born in hell.
Our editor’s letter from our first edition, Chariot, provides more context for Opal Age’s genesis -- which was not always opalescent. But I don’t think that we could’ve created Opal Age any other way. Taking time to work on something creative that was unlike anything we’d done before was a welcomed break from a perpetual feeling of hopelessness that comes from uncertainty.
As a Capricorn, I was deeply irritated when I discovered that the corresponding tarot card for my sign was the Devil, which has obvious negative connotations. But there are no bad cards in the tarot, and that’s true even for the Devil. It just points to things we need to overcome.
Creating Opal Age replaced the void of inspiration we needed to overcome to move forward. Feeling trapped by the push for productivity makes relaxation feel indulgent. So does taking the time to work on a creative project -- at least to me, when it feels like there are so many other things to do. But there is no such thing as too indulgent in our realm. Let the Devil out.
xoxo,
Your editors,
Katie, Claude, & Peter
This is when we would kiss
by Teddy Webb
Our marriage is a quiet one.
I am lucky
to go about my cooking unwatched
and if you were to gaze
it would fall gossamer-soft on my ribs.
Time moves like silk here
and between your clocks and mine
it has been years since we woke up together.
My friends all love you.
They wonder aloud how I can sit
satiated to watch your rings
make light work of guitar strings
without starving
and I admit I think of it
but I do not admit just how I think of it,
how the tremble of your cleft
conjures a myriad of girls gone by,
each one wrapped in conversation with pillows of hay
divining new ways to say
if we were normal
this
is when we would kiss.
Every now and then
I lie in our garden,
hiding my shoulders and regrets under the willow tree
as the Sun glares down
with his father
and I think
I could survive it with you.
You could call me Brigid,
maybe Danu
(if you want to).
You could call me Aine
and I think that I would let you.
I think you could kneel for me and say
gorgeous thing,
cosmic so you are
I daren’t think I am to know you
but to see you,
fuck
it’s somethin’
and I could reach down
maypole my bitten fingertips through your hair
and perhaps give the solace
of palms upon your wretched cheeks
but we would never kiss
you understand
it is too mortal,
too earthly.
What if there’s no magic in it?
What if our lips are destined for jazz
but only ever its standards?
What then,
I wonder, picturing the rise of your calves
the flicker of tongues like flames of Beltane
to what future then
can I fasten my hands?
Cliff Drifter
by Maeve Faolan
they/them
older than the rings of Saturn
I bear the wand and the hammer
lost one follow me
to the paths end
desire sings loud
to the rhythm
of heartbeat and breath in darkness
once beast and rider
a destiny to become each other
vanishing twin
red eyes aglow
merging of my souls
child of the tamed
you forget the truth
to bare one's teeth is
a gift as treasured
as a smile to Cliff Drifters like me
forging lifetimes
earthside paradise
my wand the barren branch before spring my hammer the mountains lowered by time divinity the wild winds of one's mind
An Ode to Glorious Change
by Peter Rogers
he/him
How tried and true the fated cycles of change,
Our most reliable companion,
Reflected at every turn and cast in every shadow;
The spectacular high of the first fresh fruit at the start of the season
And the sweet,
Aching anguish of the rotted and underfoot at the end of the next.
Each moment relying on the breath before and only hoping for the next exhalation.
As leaves bud, bloom, and drink up the sweet ichors that turn them from
Young to bold greens,
So do they turn fiery and gilded, dried and brittle, gracefully dancing into their next purpose,
Their being already knows the path.
Journeys peak and valley,
Their twists and turns are only as faithful as the promise of death in life,
The promise of change;
As the tides rise and fall, as the sun rises and sets, and as growth turns to rest.
Turn, turn, turn with the earth below and the sky above, we brave all of its seasons.
The dry and the wet, the bountiful and the barren, the horrors and the awesome.
Change to the grip of our hands is nothing to the eyes of history, is nothing to the view of the stars.
Each has their own wisdom to offer;
The stars, the land and our hands.
Lives spent toiling towards the long arc, the liberation of all hands and all lands, are lives in service of the stars
In our duty to change, it will take ways and time we do not want,
It will take and take, wholly consume whatever it pleases
Some things will be gone from us forever,
And in some of those things we will have been freed, we will have found justice, we will have arrived at the return of our toil.
And in some of those lost we will be reminded of, in little ways, everyday;
We will see them in the sweetness of the first fruit,
We will remember them in the turn of the seasons,
We will find them in our next breath, and hold them near.
Until hands move our own to the land, until the stars burn their brightest,
And change leads us down another path that we know.
Disconnected
by Ashlyn Bell
she/her
Coming in and out of full clarity
Realizing moments, memories and an indistinguishable time has passed.
Seeing and feeling, is anything truly real?
I feel the wind but hear no one's voice
I see the sun, feel the warmth on my face, but don't remember the last time I felt hopeful.
The moon shines through the clouds and I’ve never felt more understood.
I’m living but not experiencing.
I love but it feels helpless.
I do not know who I am. I do not know where to find myself.
The endless paths of options are overwhelming. Providing no support
The end is a void of shadow and uncertainty.
I feel everything and nothing at once; which is worse?
What is my purpose?
How am I meant to live and exist in this world?
What are the answers to questions I’m too frightened to speak aloud?
My spirit yearns for the natural world and solidarity
The forest, a welcoming and warm friend
The mountains and streams offer indescribable comfort
The wind carries away the burden of constant anxiety and worry
There, I am free.
But I love this place
and the ones who make living bearable.
How do I find balance and clarity amongst the constant ruckus and voices of doubt within
Why do I find comfort in my sadness but resent it upon its inevitable arrival?
Facing the Devils
by Billie Jane
she/they
This is not the piece that I intended for this issue of Opal Age Tribune
The piece that I intended to create was a 2-part exploration of faces: a written prose piece expanding on my own likeness to others and the shock that I have found (and often still find) in noticing the likeness of my fathers face in strangers; and a collage containing all of the features that might make-up a face, floating in semi-appropriate positions in front of a spacey background to create a crude version of my father’s face as I might see it on others.
I worked on this piece for three weeks. It is still unfinished.
Today, I made a list of tasks to complete—mostly menial chores and self-care items, but all underneath “Finish Devil Submission.”
I geared-up, several beverages and laptop in-hand to face the Devil, and then I felt a weight on my lap: a single paw, followed by three more, circling the space on the tops on my thighs. My large, dumb cat did as I believe all cats do when their parents are determined to get work done: he made a home on my lap. He is still there as I write this.
This subtle act of defiance—whether he actually knows it as such or not—of putting comfort over production, of insisting on rest where tasks would otherwise demand completion, startled in me a revelation: the foolhardy seeks-out the Devil with the weapons they have at-hand, whereas the wise may prolong meeting the Devil until they are ready.
I have spent three weeks on a still-unfinished piece. I wanted to badly to face my Devil, to look into the eyes that too-closely resemble my own and demand catharsis, the ability to see its face for what it is, for the unimpressive and ordinary parts that serve to make-up a whole which is ultimately so banal as to be repeated ad nauseam in the faces of people whom I’ve never met.
Then a big, stupid, adorable cat started purring in my lap.
Today is not the day I face my Devil.
Sometimes, one must face Devils to regain what one has lost, or gain that which one has never had. Sometimes the facing of one’s Devils is tantamount to one’s own survival. Other times, facing the Devil pales in importance to sitting with a cup of coffee, petting a cat, and folding the laundry.
The Devil can wait. The cat demands rest.
Father Cunt
by Caitlin Errington
she/her
Perhaps by watching you avoid the mirror at all costs, I'm learning to kiss it
The thing with mum is that I'd lose her
But you
You fucking hide
Dose yourself up with flammable liquids and threaten to burn us all down with you
There was a poet inside you once
A kind voice on parchment
You drowned him
Only the worst of you survived
Gasping for breath
I would stifle you if I could
My father is dead
And now we must dance
The bottle and I
Dancing with Dogman
by Maeve Faolan
they/them
Exuro
by Katie Pip
she/her
