AFTERNOON Vol. 3 by AFTERNOON

AFTERNOON

Welcome to bangkok by Kristofferson San Pablo

Kristofferson San Pablo is a Filipinx-American artist and educator who received his masters of fine arts from Art Center College for Design. He has exhibited work locally and internationally at such spaces as Park Life, MOCA Tokyo, Slow Culture and Culver Center for the Arts, and more. San Pablo is also the co-founder and art director for Vacancy Projects, an artist-run design studio that specializes in design, self publishing, and other artist-made goods. Some of their clients include Nike, Adidas, Sony, and Coachella. He currently lives and works in Los Angeles.

ere 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.

Gabrielle P Leith is the co-producer of the podcast Soft Chew and the creator of a Toronto film series called Supper Club Cinema. She is currently the manager of the film office at the Toronto International Film Festival. softchew.podbean.com

Paper studies art by Sarah Ritz

Sarah Ritz is a multidisciplinary visual artist from Fort Myers, Florida, living in Los Angeles. She often works in ceramics and paper, and much of her work is characterized by a use of vibrant color. Her collages are an exploration of improvised and stream of consciousness assembly. Choosing color, shape, and form as the work progresses, her only deliberate decision is when the work is deemed finished. The final work is an homage to its process. freundeskreisgoods.com

When you hear hoofbeats, THINK OF HORSES NOT ZEBRAS text by Cameron McIntyre illustration by Alex Sheriff

ife is a pain. You spend all this time learning about parametric distributions and assuming that they somehow define the world. Can’t you remember all of your statistics, economics, math, and econometrics courses? That pesky ANOVA class they made all the psychology and nursing students take? Everything was assumed to be normally distributed. What was the point of teaching that? Statistics break these assumptions all the time, and these results are more or less irrelevant to a primary care provider. Oh well, breadth requirements must be met. Though this leads to some mathematically nice results (by nice, I mean literally the most beautiful results that I can understand), it is, in fact, lacking in its ability to predict the future. There are alternatives, we will discuss this eventually. Though we might seek a unified law or theory of statistics, this really doesn’t help us. Here’s the problem: as soon as we have a large enough data set, we immediately start to split it into little fiefdoms that we might think are relevant to our cause. In marketing, we might split our data up into age by gender, or employment class. Suddenly our grandiose and heavy-handed statistics defining our overall population are significantly different in our subgroups. Largely, what we are interested in doing when we collect statistics is making predictions about the future or testing different responses in different groups. Think practically about this—would the average amount spent on investment be the same in the lowest decile compared to the top decile? I would argue, definitely not. Now, if I were trying to create policy or products in a relevant industry, knowing these differences in the population are terribly important. Enter Reverend Thomas Bayes. Bayes thought about probability a bit differently. See, usually when people think about probability, they observe an experiment multiple times and report how many times it happens. For example, let’s say you wanted to see if a die was fair. For your experiment, you would roll the dice 600 times and hope to see each side of the die land face up 100

times. Maybe you would roll a two 103 times, and a four 97 times. As long as it was around 100, you would be happily convinced that the die was fair. This experiment would be boring and tedious, but we would be fairly certain the die was fair. When Bayes started to describe probability, he thought that we should use what we already know and update our knowledge as we learn more. An example of this could not have been put more bluntly than in the aphorism coined by Dr. Theodore Woodward when he instructed his medical interns, “When you hear hoofbeats, think of horses not zebras.” Woodward’s hospital was in Maryland—where zebras don’t really roam free. Woodward’s aphorism was trying to push his interns to treat the most likely cause of their patient’s ailment. He was alluding to the fact that, oftentimes, in the presence of too much information we lose our grip on what the most obvious outcome really is. If you hear hoofbeats in Maryland, being as it is a state on the Atlantic side of the USA, it is not commonly zebra “stompin’ ground.” This shows up in our lives in a very different way. We are shown exceptionally rare events on the news, in our social media feed, and so on. This is usually quite gripping and affects us on an emotional level. Exceptionally rare and deadly diseases or plane crashes come to mind. In our head, after being exposed to these moving pieces of information, we start to attempt to connect it in our daily lives. For instance, after listening to a Joe Rogan podcast, where he spoke of how terrible chimpanzee attacks are (they are, don’t Google it, trust me), I was honestly staring periodically at treetops in Southwark Park in London looking for any type of primate. Being as there were no primates there, I was asking myself, “If I was a primate, where would I hide?” The rabbit hole goes deep. This is in no way restricted to negative events. Ever imagined winning the lottery? You’re just as guilty as I am. Incredibly rare events can shape our psyche in quite an unhelpful way. Pangs of fear and anxiety after a thriller or horror movie? Welcome, my friend. These emotions short circuit

our better faculties. As a card-carrying member of the human race, I don’t like to admit to being wrong or slightly incorrect. This is especially true when analyzing my own decision-making processes. I wish all I said and did was bulletproof. But, as a card-carrying human, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that is the case. We are guilty of thinking in a Bayesian-esque way, and also letting our emotions figure too strongly into our thought process. Sometimes, I look for chimpanzees instead of horses. I must be satisfied with a paltry consolation prize of at least knowing when and how a thought process can go wrong. A framework I can use, when I have the time, patience, and judgement to do so, is looking at things through a Bayesian lens. This is precisely what I am trying to do as I check in for my flight to Italy tomorrow whilst simultaneously Googling the status of the Boeing 737 Max planes. Are they still grounded? Is their software used elsewhere? I don’t know. I will think bayesian-ly and remember the odds of expiring in an aviation event is one in 5.3 million or .000000018%. I’ll take those odds.

Cameron McIntyre currently works in financial technology in the Square Mile of London. A Canadian native, Cameron graduated from McGill University with an interdisciplinary degree in mathematics and economics. Passionate about using data to make the best decision, Cameron is pursuing a masters of liberal arts at Harvard University in data science. You are likely to find Cameron on a plane exploring Europe, or assembling YouTube playlists he probably will never watch.

Call me by an adjective

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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 it’s 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.

Alex Sheriff is an artist and co-editor of AFTERNOON. His work has been published by Vice and Air Canada’s En Route, among others. He has exhibited work in Canada and the United States. He is based in Los Angeles. alexsheriff.com

Grampa Joe text by Miranda Newman

close my eyes on the plane ride home, to picture what my Grampa Joe’s typical day must be like. I see him lying in his cool dark room, slowly being painted a morning blue with the rising sun. He didn’t sleep, despite being tired, instead spending his night in a suspended consciousness—similar to the one I’m in now. He feels his mattress sigh and tug with the weight of his rising wife. As he contemplates tackling another day, I feel the hollow beating pain in his shoulder blade, the tightening scar tissue in his throat. He sighs through an opening that seems no bigger than the mouth of a straw. He rises from his bed, and looks down at his shrinking full-moon belly. He winces at the scar from where a tube used to protrude, winding its way into his lungs, so it could be drained by the nurse who visits the apartment. He pads his way into the living room, on puffy swollen feet. He retains water the same way I did when I was pregnant. It’s as though you’re swimming in your body, or you’re a frog, left to bloat, dying in a family pool. He sinks onto the couch, the spot from which he watches most of his days pass by. “Tea, Joe?” My Grandma Kath asks. He grimaces, and grumbles out a gruff yes. Gratitude swells in his heart for everything his wife has done to care for him—the endless hospital visits, home appointments, hours spent

researching—but her voice is a mere whine over the pain. His breath is laboured. The kettle gurgles in the background. She places a steaming porcelain cup in front of him, and reminds him it’s time for his pills. He grunts in reply.

y Sicilian street-wise Grampa seems like a man life would never fuck with. His nickname is “Subito”—after his sister’s grumpy old mutt. It’s fitting—he seems to bark at everything. He’s not afraid to give his opinion, nor shy about swearing (it’s almost as if he were raised by sailors and not Catholics). Even in his seventies, he looks like a greying Kenickie from Grease, or when he wears a suit, Marlon Brando straight out of the Godfather. He’s also one of two men in the entire world I trust to protect me. The other, my maternal Grampa, was taken from me too soon when the brain he used to keep me safe burst on him. Grampa Joe used his brawn, his image, his reputation to fight for my protection. Growing up, my younger brother and I spent most weekends with Grampa Joe and Grandma Kath. During one such weekend, he and my Grandma were tucking me into bed. When they brought up that I would be going home the next day, home to my stepdad, their son, I started to

tremble, terrified. The tears came, and I begged them to just let me stay with them. It took a lot of poking and prodding, but they finally dragged out the reason I didn’t want to go home. “He’s hurting me,” I said between childish, heaving sobs. “I’m scared.” My Grampa Joe told me it was going to be okay. That my stepdad would never hit, push, shake, or throw me again. I couldn’t imagine his son, the monster I lived with, being intimidated by anything or anyone. Grampa Joe kept his word though and, while I’ll never know what he said or did to his son, my stepdad never laid a hand on me again.

he searing tea doesn’t go down easy. Swallowing is tight and difficult, and marred by coughing attacks. He puts his cup down, and stares out the sliding door. He watches the smoke from his wife’s cigarette curl up over the balcony railing. His eyes are heavy. He’s exhausted, but the pain, the lack of breath, makes rest impossible. He runs a hand through his white hair—a little fluffier but still abundant despite the countless rounds of chemo and radiation. He reaches for the TV remote and channel surfs. Nothing’s on this early in the day. He leaves it on CP24, closes his eyes, and listens to more bad news. The sliding door breathes open and shut. “Tired, Joe?” His wife asks. “No, you idiot. I’m trying to count the veins inside my eyelids,” he growls. “Now, now,” she tuts.

y Grampa seems to spare only me from his gruffness. His family, his friends, have all grown used to his occasional verbal assaults. It’s just the way he is. As the cancer creeps through his lymph nodes, though, some of his sourness has started to fade. He was always a reliable partner when it came to my grim interpretation of people, society, the world. Not so much anymore. During the holidays last month, I made a remark about how human beings are inherently evil. He told me I shouldn’t see the world in such a dark light. It startled me, but I listened. That night, he thought he accidentally threw out his painkillers. He paced and swore, rustling through drawers and cabinets, convinced they were in the trash. “Let’s go look for them,” I suggested. My brother, grandfather, and I marched wordlessly toward the dumpsters at the back of their apartment building. It was an unseasonably warm Christmas Eve—we left our jackets inside. With a flashlight, my Grampa and brother

identified the trash that could be theirs as I, with long limbs and traces of a gymnast’s muscle memory, balanced my pelvis on the lip of the dumpster, and snatched up the bags they pointed to. Grampa Joe ripped into each one, unafraid of the grime. “Make sure you wash your hands,” my brother reminded him. “The last thing we need is you getting sick.” “This one’s definitely ours,” Grampa Joe replied fishing out a needle from beneath a pile of coffee grounds. “But no pills.” Though we were elbow deep in trash, we stayed positive, despite our typical cynical and surly dispositions. His pills weren’t even there— my Grandma Kath found them in the house—but, between the smell of old diapers, rotten food, and spoiled milk, we still managed a few laughs.

he TV talks to itself, as his wife gets breakfast started. Pots and pans clang against the counter, bacon pops and sizzles, the sink hisses and sputters. The apartment fills with the delectable scent of grease. His grown grandson emerges from his room. “Breakfast ready?” His grandson asks. “Just about,” his wife calls. “Joe you want to come to the table?” “Sure, Kath.” Pain shoots into his shoulder as he rises. He leaves the TV on. In front of his grandson, his wife places a plate stacked with sunny side-up eggs, strips of bacon, and golden toast. In front of him, she places a grey-beige bowl of porridge dusted with cinnamon and sugar—all he can manage these days. The landing announcement interrupts my reverie—the flight was quick—leaving me squinting against the pools of guilt forming in my chest in knowing that, despite the accuracy of my imagination, Grampa Joe is dying, and, though I’m closer than before the flight started, I’m still miles away from him.

Miranda Newman is a writer and co-editor of AFTERNOON. Her work has been published in The Literary Review of Canada, Broadview Magazine, The Walrus, and more. She also writes a mental health newsletter, Life as a Lunatic. She is based in Toronto. mirandanewman.com

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