Editor’s Letter
by Claude Joven (C) & Katie Harrison (K)
Claude: Have you looked at yourself in the mirror to seek your existential twinkle lately? Oh, no? Me either… Totally. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, we know,
We miss you too.
To be honest, the Lovers edition has a lot of weight for bearing the lightness of Gemini’s feathery pen.
Opal Age was born to the world last year with our first edition Chariot, enticing a small few of you to indulge in dreamy Cancerian themes, thus attaching us to the mould of both the quick-moving zodiac and their corresponding major arcana tarot cards.
We bonded ourselves to both the heavens and the arcane, no pressure, right? We have reached our final stop and esoteric lesson presenting to you Gemini’s Lovers. This isn’t the end, rather our visionary foundation. The beauty that is our opalescent naissance.
This is the profound, at times “woo-woo” wisdom we hoped to encompass with our queer publication. An Eau de eternity if you will. We sought out to put permanence to our optimism for our present and future selves. To concentrate queer joy of our times into a sickeningly sweet syrup to be enjoyed for generations to come.
In a time where our queerness is faced with the existential threat of far-right extermination, we needed the vitality of our Opal Age to ripple hope for the future into our community.
As the year passed and the astrological clock ticked, the digital sphere became darker and darker and our vision more intense. We started as a queer creative literary magazine born into a year of even more tumult than we were already used to. (Didn’t know that was possible, tbh)
From October 7th forward, our digital (and physical landscape for Gazans) has been that of genocide, destruction, and violent ethno-cultural cleansing. The Congo has been facing a genocide to satiate our unquenchable thirst for technology. And Sudan is facing one of the most intense humanitarian crises of our time. All before our eyes.
The task of looking out for one another has never felt so grand, at least for our editor’s generation. (z-illennial that is) It has always been apparent that our global liberation is interconnected. It has never been more important to keep ourselves alive and vibrant in the face of incomprehensible evils. To ensure a viable source of fruitful futures. To create as fervently as oppressors destroy. We sought to define an Opalescent creative optimism to hold onto through our publication and to keep us connected with those keeping art alive in the most heinous of circumstances.
Our task transformed from sharing our favorite James Baldwin analyses to enacting his visions of a more just, loving world through global solidarity and anti-zionism. As situations change in Palestine, we remain fluid too.
Currently (and through our hiatus) our goal is to help keep artists of Gaza alive in any way they see fit. Art and culture are the spirit of a people, and we will never let that legacy die. Please check our digital “Olive Branches” and donate or share artists campaigns if you have enjoyed Opal Age during our first year with you.
It took us some time to hash out our theoretical foundation to keep the queer creative spirit alive and thriving too. Our approaches were a mirror reflection of ourselves for the public to gaze into that hasn’t slowed since we started. A kind of crystal ball into our creative process and vision for the world. We couldn’t stand to only see the destruction and displacement of our communities with anti-LGBT bills being passed constantly in the US and global fascism rising everywhere. So we sought the oracle knowledge surrounding us…
Katie: A few months ago, I was listening to Julia Cameron’s famous (or assumed to be famous by me, according to one Youtube video and a couple of TikToks) book, The Artist’s Way. She talks about buying a new horse to re-instill her creative spark; a long-awaited indulgence as it had been nearly a decade since purchasing her last one.
This stuck with me more than any of her advice, though admittedly some of it was a bit helpful – like the encouragement that anyone can be creative and everyone should pursue art, something we stand by. And maybe I was only bitter because I’d transferred money from savings to checking to buy laundry detergent that day. But it sure would help if we all had vacation homes in New Mexico to escape to when we don’t have great ideas.
But I think what Julia Cameron was talking about here is a bougier version of Keats’ idea of negative capability, of relaxing and letting ideas just flow to you. In our first edition, Chariot, published OVER a year ago (wow), I wrote about this idea and how sometimes I felt like I really had to force the ideas out of me. Keats explained that the idea is about “when a man is capable of being in uncertainties,” and leaning into the doubts and mysteries that come along with it as creative inspiration.
In times of instability, be it financial or otherwise (like dealing with the soul-crushing weight of the world and the things you cannot control), finding creativity not despite but because of uncertainties can feel near impossible. But how else will we find a way to carry on?
C: Following Chariot, we delved into the surprisingly difficult concept of self-celebration in Sun for Leo Season. I wrote a Manifesto (in true leftist fashion with an unnecessarily long explanatory title) on Creative Community Opulence in praise of Kendrick Lamar and Tyler, the Creator’s creative self-liberatory practices.
This was a practice in becoming self-assured – turns out publishing a magazine is kind of a daunting reflection of what you believe your own abilities to be. At times, it was hard to convince myself that after years of on-the-ground-only political activism solely, that pursuing community creativity meant anything to our movements at all. Working through the manifesto glued to my headphones, Lamar and Okonma led me to the answers I needed to continue and embrace creativity as the most valuable endeavor towards community optimism and opulence which we all have infinite access to.
K: So now, we are leaning into doubts and mysteries as we escape the zodiac calendar we’ve been strictly and sometimes not-so-strictly (like this edition) been following for the past year. Releasing 12 editions in 12-and-a-half months, building a website then switching platforms and building another, contributing poetry, essays, and letters, and managing social media with a team of three was ambitious, to say the least. Every second has been worth it – each late-night global Google Meet, time spent on a failed podcast (due to technical errors and a surprising case of stage fright), and hours spent writing, even if it only ever meets our own bleary eyes.
C: As we glisten into the future and continue to reimagine the world and our luminous publication, we lean into the Erotic wisdom imparted unto us by Audre Lorde. Lorde is basically Opal’s Patron Saint at this point. Throughout Lovers, you will learn alongside us how to access and honor the wonder that is our sacred erotic impulse to chaos and creation against that of the [crumbling] colonial-patriarchal goliath hellscape we are faced with.
Lovers ran on her own timeline, and so will we in the coming months during our hiatus. That being said, Lovers was tenderly created during an especially difficult pride month. We haven’t [and never will] take down our pride flags and hope you enjoy learning about the queer literature and legacies we have compiled for you.
K: The clock has struck twelve and it’s time to go home because we’re turning into pumpkins. Here’s Lovers. We hope you’ll keep being ours.
Until next time, the future is yours for the creating. Use your creative magic wisely, kindly, and endlessly. For us. <3
signed with the brilliance of stars and the boundless hope of a child,
The Editors of Opal Age Tribune
claude joven, katie harrison, and peter rogers
Brown Glass Hexagonal Jar
by Charlie Probus
they/them
I cried at the museum, standing by myself
Not at anything beautiful, just a jug,
Mass-produced in a different century and world
But it felt like it was mine.
I could feel it’s weight in my hands,
Like it was a part of my life, Or maybe just the life of something I’d written.
Atoms can never be destroyed.
Have some of mine held this jug once?
Maybe the remnants of a previous form
Are reaching through the glass,
Their memories echoing through my skin
To touch what was once theirs.
I have been around since the beginning,
At least, part of me has.
Maybe I’ve never written anything,
Maybe my stories are just atoms, whispering through me,
Little reminders of where and what we’ve been.
My imagination is an inbox for time and space.
I share the path that I took and will take
Though it feels like it is brand new.
I have been around since the beginning,
At least, part of me has.
Maybe this is why I am drawn to creation:
To make art, to write stories, to transmute
The world around me, even my own body.
I have no problem shaping myself.
These atoms know they have been formed
A thousand times over and will be again.
I have been around since the beginning,
At least, part of me has,
But right now I just want to hold my jug.
A/S/L
by Katie
she/her
There’s a mess of CDs next to the old Dell desktop: PutPut Saves the World, Pajama Sam, and later Zoo Tycoon and Zoo Tycoon: Marine Mania and Dinosaur Digs Expansion Pack. I didn’t wear glasses as a kid, but I do now, and maybe it’s because my retinas are all burnt up from hours trying to build a financially stable zoo, only to close the gates and wreak havoc with 100 dinosaurs when I was finally ready to move onto something new. You’d think I would’ve been into the Sims, but I didn’t get access until I was 11, and only at my friend’s house. She didn’t trust me with the mouse. But I could watch her build the most lavish mansions you’ve ever seen with an astronaut and a comedian’s salary.
Later I had accounts for Webkinz and Neopets (before they were sold to scientologists), making sure to log in at least once a day to get a slice of a giant virtual omelette for my pets. I don’t know where all of the hours went, I don’t know how I had all that time.
My favorite internet addictions were Runescape, Tumblr, and Omegle; though these three don’t have much of anything in common – except for that they let you interact with people you never would’ve met otherwise, for better or for worse. As a kid, I was shy in real life, but I loved being a menace on the internet. A digital footprint meant nothing to me. But I only had goofy intentions, and fortunately by some insane miracle, I was spared from anything nefarious. I’ve been fortunate to never come across anything wildly disturbing, through text or video. I’m one in a million, though, because childish curiosity paired with internet access is now a vulnerability shared by the entire world.
in 2022 Out of curiosity, I signed onto Omegle for the first time in a decade. It was like a digital time capsule, it looked the exact same. I was bored and alone and no one was answering my FaceTime calls. I wanted someone to talk to while I was knitting, TV wasn’t appealing. The first stranger I connected to had a blank screen greeting me with the language of old internet:
stranger: a/s/l?
you: 100/demon/hell
They sign off. I do, too. And then Omegle itself does as well, shutting down for good (and for good) in 2024. the old internet is fading. club penguin was eradicated. my 2015 laptop (still in use) was made without a disc drive, leaving my virtual zoos unattended. and god knows what happened to twitter. fascination turned into exhaustion. it just feels too real and too necessary now. i dream of flip phones and clocking out of facebook forever. but no matter how things change, though, i know the sims is always just a download away.
Finding God in His Eyes
by Allie Nadeau
she/her
He is not of this world
not born of a thing so tangible
as planet Earth
I did not pluck him from the grass.
You can’t find a thing of immeasurable beauty
laying among anthills, old bandaids
and empty liquor bottles
though he is the only bandage I’ll ever want
stealing the hairs from my arms as I tear it away
He is the gravel in my knees
the pleading in my stomach
in this bed constructed of lockjaw slumber,
he is the only warmth I’ll ever find.
I have never wanted to be closer to someone.
ignore the vulgarity, see only the purity
when I say that his are the only hands
I want on this broken body
See only the purity.
his limbs are the eels
that swim in the bottom of me
I’d kill to have what he has.
that torturous smile
vicious eyes that laser through
all seven layers of my skin.
painfully stunning body
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
darling boy
He knows nothing of it.
an entire forest of wood-nymphs
falls short of ethereal
once I trace his licorice knuckles
He shakes like a cold dog
each time he’s immersed in any sort of solitude
lights a cigarette, stubs it out.
he graces the grainy Book of Shadows
with the manifestation of an emotion
you couldn’t find the words for;
he’s burning bibles and grasping at profundity
a man with a tender heart
has ink crawling up his arms
if you look closely,
somewhere in his eyes
I’ve seen the whole world on fire
Jamie.
you are the seven sacraments
grant me my Holy Communion
to be preceded by my Confession
absolve me.
I’ve been baptized against your body,
tell me all that brings you grace.
Jamie,
tell me all that brings you grace
Chloe
by Allie Nadeau
she/her
i knew you through a crystal ball
spoke to you once in a sort of letter
made of lithium and shoddy metal,
as if i'm an omniscient extra in your life
from the town over, the house over, listening
as we get older and sleepier
you were seventeen and two years his junior
waterfall black hair shielding your spine
with a vulnerable smile, every tooth showing,
each palm open.
and you christened your life with his initial
peeling away slowly every layer of your thighs;
his rotting kiwi wielding an x-acto blade
spoiling silently in the potholes of Syracuse
tattoo of the sun bled into your ribcage
and i watched as he forgot;
they'd ask you where he was each night
you no longer had an answer.
you were growing up in Indiana
with golden skin and an empty wrist
nipple piercings and white polish on acrylic nails
hauntingly lovely, arching your bare body in front of a foggy mirror
so he watched and i watched
as you got five years older and sharper,
you're still the miracle in angel numbers;
eyes shifting 333 flickering around my crystal sphere
with whispers of 2018, quietly singing that we haven't moved at all,
suspended shivering in the muddy snow
that collects on those dying streets running like veins through Syracuse.
Celestial Beings
by Emma Paulini
she/they
Celestial beings lying,
Lovely bodies draped over opulent thrones.
The milky way a pillow
To these rulers
Of the night.
Diaphanous lace at the edge of the heavens
Coalesces into
Pearls
Or
Gemstones,
Crafted skillfully between their fingers,
Becoming crowns
To decorate godly heads.
Flicking at marbles as leisurely amusement
(Potential suns or
Pockmarked, stunted duds of planets):
What could have been possibility,
Here, mere game.
Pointing at scattered populous orbs,
Guiding them,
Bending to desire.
Or perhaps peeking
Through the shimmering souls
Of young stars to
Eternity,
Life beyond.
Lying in repose;
Spinning on galaxies
And in idyll,
Doing all
As well as
Nothing;
For time here
Neither slows
Nor winks away.
Instead, it reflects,
Looking forward.
Opposites equal here on Libra’s scale.
Always here.
Always now.
Simply being.
Under the Midnight Sun
by Ashlyn Bell
she/her
There’s something so lustful about this time of year. All these gorgeous people and friends of mine are crawling out of our lowly rooms and houses. Breathing in the new Spring air and feeling the sun's light and warmth reignite that spark of hope. We’re eager to be around each other again, relishing in the new life and possibilities; in these moments, anything feels possible. We talk of lying in open fields and exploring the mountains. Sleeping beneath the stars and leaving what we know behind for a few days to rewild ourselves. Splashing through the cold water of the rivers full of glacial melt. Staying up later and later because the sun never sets, and building bonfires so big and bright you could see them from space.
Reminiscing, I don’t think I’m imagining a reciprocation in this certain yearning to be close to others, a pull to feel them close to me and lie with them. Connecting to the Earth while simultaneously connecting with another soul is something so raw and pure. These moments are full of a love I hope to give and receive. As much as I hold onto memories and nostalgia for a moment in time at a specific place, I think the Earth holds onto all these memories too. We often forget that we’re all connected, and the sun and moon shine down on us like they have for every living thing for thousands of years. The Earth continues to provide unwavering support for us. Though we are greedy and short to be grateful, the food, water and shelter are always there for us. It is a selfless love. What else can we call it?
Moments of love are more often than not made when I’m out in nature. Being pulled down to lie in a field of flowers. Watching one of the most incredible sunsets I’ve ever seen with loving arms wrapped around me; fingers entangled and their breath on my neck. Knowing that all the suffering in the world is worth it for moments like these. A raw and most human moment shared together.
I remember showing this boy I once liked one of my favorite spots when an elderly couple approaches and takes a picture of us seated on the bench by the lake “how I love young love” they say, as they walk away. Or the boy that after all these years and a letter still means so much to you showing you around his hometown. So ecstatic about these parts of his life and these people he’s grown up with that you cannot help the feeling of your heart exploding. You cannot help but feel overwhelmed by the graciousness he provides as you recount some of the worst parts of your life, the first one to listen so intently and earnestly, you feel you don’t deserve it. Kisses on the cheek and a hand to always hold, because he can tell when no one else can that you’re starting to lose your grip.
This is what it’s like to love
under the midnight sun.
Sing About Me Forever: Honoring Our Queer Ancestors, LGBTQ+ Readings in History
by claude joven
he/they
Lovers,
As your humble editor of Opal Age and resident “popular historian,” allow me to show you how I find us everywhere.
We were held in asylums so that we may express ourselves without pathology. We were tricked by the law on the streets so that we may work and love freely. We were the thinkers of tomorrows’ today.
We’re poets and we’ve ruled empires.
We have always been here, and we will never cease to exist. I find us both in the archives and in the hope of tomorrow that exists in the twinkle of your eyes.
live on with us forever
1. Elagabalus d. 222, Trans Roman Empress
2. Catalina De Erauso: Read Lieutenant Nun: Memoir of a Basque Transvestite in the New World
3. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz: Read Poems, protest, and a dream
4. Mary Jones b. 1803, Black Trans Sex Worker
5.Herculine Barbin: Read Herculine Barbin - Being the Recently Discovered Memoirs of a Nineteenth Century French Hermaphrodite
6. Audre Lorde: Read Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power
7. Judith Butler: Read Gender Trouble
8. Miss Major Griffin-Gracy: Read Miss Major Speaks: Conversations with a Black Trans Revolutionary
Further Reading
We Are Everywhere: Protest, Power, and Pride in the History of Queer Liberation by Matthew Riemer and Leighton Brown
Ladies Almanack by Djuna Barnes
Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity by C. Riley Snorton
Trans/Love: Radical Sex, Love & Relationships Beyond the Gender Binary edited by Morty Diamond
Help Mohand leave Gaza to continue his musical career
Mohand is a Palestinian Oud Artist hailing from the Maghazi refugee camp. He is a musical producer and community member who helps bring hope to children and adults alike during their darkest times.
Mohand and his family are suffering from displacement and injuries from Israeli airstrikes. They lack essential life necessities such as water, food, and health care.
It is his wish to leave Gaza to recover from his injuries and continue his music career when possible.
Please follow Mohand’s GoFundMe Link in our bio (or his) to donate to his survival, and by extension the musical spirit of Gaza.
Note: donations are being collected in NOK with a goal of kr85,000 (about $8,000 USD.)
111 NOK equals $10.40 USD
