2022.Volume III.Eternal Remedy. THE UNDERGROUND
THE UNDERGROUND ETERNAL REMEDY PRESENTS VOLUME III. « Way down we go » – Kaleo ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 3
ETERNAL REMEDY IS A CREATIVE COMMUNITY THAT PROMOTES THE PSYCHOLOGICAL BENEFITS OF SELF-AWARENESS. WE BELIEVE THAT ART AND LITERATURE SERVE AS POWERFUL VEHICLES FOR FINDING MEANING AND DISCOVERING HOW TO LIVE OUR LIVES WELL. WE ENGAGE OUR SUBSCRIBERS IN THIS EXISTENTIAL JOURNEY THROUGH OUR MAGAZINE AND BOOKS, CULTURAL EVENTS, AND PROGRAMS. PROLOGUEPROLOGUE Eternal Remedy ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 4 5
BEING
Being welcomed into psychologically safe spaces that promote values of curiosity and living creatively. Engaging in deep conversations exploring topics like freedom and authenticity. Creating your own blueprints for embodied living.
It is said that good art starts from curiosity. If that is to be true, then asking the right questions is a step necessary for creation. Maybe the most critical question of all is where does this all come from anyhow? The Underground Magazine is our attempt to unearth what lies beneath surface appearances and examine their roots. What we realized is there is indeed a source, and it is often hidden and/or beneath, until, of course, one brings it to light. Therefore, to get a sense of what things are, we looked at what’s underneath them. We hope to bring you along with us into the deep through this compilation of visual and literary moments. But how low can you go? « I am not going to bow and scrape before you. I have the underground » – Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground
ETERNAL REMEDY. 6 Volume III. 7
PROLOGUE Eternal Remedy MEMBERA of our COMMUNITYMEANS:
SevenStorm JUHASZIMRUS ETERNAL REMEDY PRESENTS THE UNDERGROUND. VOLUME III. 5 Prologue 12 Contributors 16 Editor's Note, Stephan Ledain STATIONS 22 The Trip Home, Ashley Foy 29 Rising, Stephan Ledain 34 Cozmic Cat for the Underground 37 After the Day of Rest, Kat Lopez 43 The Pursuit of Chiaroscuro, Shannon Chen See 46 Motion 48 Culture 50 Growth 52 An Interview with DJ Cosmicat 62 Rituals for Raising the Dead, Sarah 'Sam' Saltiel 9 Volume III.ETERNAL REMEDY. 8
The Trip Home Rising Cozmic Cat After the Day ofTheRestPursuit of Chiaroscuro Motion GrowthCulture DJ CosmicatRitualsfor Raising the Dead The Underground Map SOUNDTRACK for your ride ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 10 11
LIST of CONTRIBUTORS STEPHAN LEDAIN Director @sledain stephan@eternalremedy.com@sledain SARAH 'SAM' SALTIEL Contributing Writer @s_saltiel www.sarahsamsaltiel.com/webstore@SaltielSarah KAT LOPEZ Creative Lead @eyeindite katherineloulopez@gmail.com@eyeindite ASHLEY FOY Contributing Writer ashfoy@gmail.com@ashley_foy_ MARK HUTCHINSON Editor mark@eternalremedy.com EMILY ZEAFLA Editor COZMIC CAT Interviewed Artist @cozmiccatofficial @djcozmic www.djcozmic.com SHAUNA CURRAN Art Direction & Editorial Design www.shaunacurran.com DJ COSMICAT Interviewed Artist www.cosmicatx.com@cosmicatx SHANNON CHEN SEE Contributing Writer @watchensee watchensee@gmail.com@watchensee ETERNAL REMEDY. 12 13 Volume III.
BasileMatteoJasonBriscoe Volume III.ETERNAL REMEDY.
During a Sunday afternoon on a trip to the Whitney Museum in New York, we stopped in front of a painting called “Pittsburgh”. The picture wasn’t colourful nor alluring, but the feel ings it unearthed were novel and felt important. The steel mill depicted was dark, smokey, and reminiscent of the industrial boom of the early 20th cen tury. Industrialization, at its essence, was a response to wealth, growth, and prosperity. A need grew to manufacture goods at scale to service the desires of a thriving economy. As new informa tion revealed itself, we saw the dark cloud of environmental destruction, consumerism, and a burdened (often silenced) labor force come with an industrialized society, which felt cap tured within the painting. Its somber hues carried a human story. We realized that what we cherish in our contemporary worlds has a direct relationship with the darkness that lies beneath them. “Pittsburgh” left us the inspira tion for The Underground Magazine, the light to see the tragic beauty that exists in the dark. Defining what “the underground’ meant to us brought us on a literal journey under the ground. The concepts offered themselves in ideas as much as they did in physical space. In space, we experienced soil, the subway system, and a network of tunnels, for example, and the damp textures, the musty smells, and the hanging darkness that accompanied them. The ideas presented themselves as dualities of main stream and underground cultures, the living and the dead, safety and danger, ignorance and knowledge–dichotomies real and imagined.
ETERNAL REMEDY. 16 17 Volume III.
EDITOR'SNOTE
STEPHAN LEDAIN
Combing through the contradictions, though, Mike Marrah
THE ANDOFTHEOFESSENTIALREALIZESUNDERGROUNDANQUALITYOURHUMANITY,EXPERIENCECONTRADICTIONAMBIVALENCE.
showed us that not only are these realities we hold at different points in our lives, but they become real because of their opposites. The voyage through The Underground realizes an essential quality of our humanity, the expe rience of contradiction and ambivalence. What’s more, these tensions are the very ones that hold the fabric of society together. During the Covid-19 Pandemic, we arrived face-to-face with our shared depravity. We saw the quick unraveling of our social systems built through and rooted in disparity. A world that draws lines between the haves and have-nots at its best leaves everyone vulnerable and, at its worst, destroys itself. There is a profound cost for every one when the same honour and dignity we find the mainstream commands are not present in the experiences of those who live underground, those that live within the margins of society. Social stratification has well-defined categories. We found these within both the elaborate macro structures and the micro everyday encounters of ordinary people like you and me. For exam ple, we relegate queer-identifying, indigenous, or non-conventional communities to “sub-cul ture” labels. As if they must answer to or exist underneath a “mainstream”. More concretely, our lives are beholden to mining fossil fuels and agricultural practices that are not sustain able and cause lasting environmental damage, and whose spoils are not distributed equitably. It appears we have a penchant for both exploiting and ignoring The Underground. We come to understand here, as always, that protecting the sta tus quo maintains these dichotomies, and when we dare to zoom out of the differences, the core qualities of the human condition are all that remain. We hope then The Underground, our third magazine, takes you on a simi lar journey. In this piece, we navigate through the tunnels of a metaphori cal subways system. Through this ride, you’ll look at The Underground through movement and motion, what it means to transverse life below the surface and to rise. You’ll then see The Underground through the lens of surface appearance, hidden thoughts, and emotions. Finally, we find ourselves in underground cul ture in its many contours and vectors. We hope that the intentional arrange ment of moments in this piece empow ers you to see that your Darkside is the very foundation of the light in your life.
ETERNAL REMEDY. 18 Volume III. 19
Alex Nicolopoulos ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III.
Arriving at Castle Frank, Castle Frank Station
The man stands and strolls to the door, suddenly snapped out of his thoughts. He was almost home. It was Friday. Soon his wife would greet him in her leop ard print pajamas with a kiss. Having worried all night about him out in the snow, his arrival meant she could finally sleep. He walks down the stairs inside the three-story 1950s co-op building. He smells his wife’s cigarettes in the hallway to the apartment. She must’ve been nervous about him working tonight. Yet, peo ple had to get their food delivered and he needed every paycheque he could get. Kelvin Moquete
The midnight subway is a glimpse into the weary yet resilient soul of the city. The scattered amount of people spread out in just one car paints a picture. Collectively we are the backbone of the nightlife scene, on-call and shift work, health care, and cleaning crews. Up above we worked or played with a smile plastered on our secretly tired faces but now, on the train ride home, we begin to rest. A man with worn jeans and greying hair reclines at the back of the car with a cloth bag between his feet. Inside are his Dollarama lunch bag and the Christmas delivery routes he only finished at half-past eleven. Today was long but okay. He was biding his time for retirement now, so it didn’t bother him so much when his route took forever in the snow. Those spinning tires and blinding snow squalls just reminded him of what he was work ing toward. Rest. He never thought he could retire since he had no savings, but he had to admit his age was catching up with him. Sometimes his mind slipped to worrying about how he’d get by once he stopped working. He’d worked since he was fourteen and it was all he knew. He had to admit, however, that he just can’t do a young man’s job forever.
THE TRIP HOME by FOYASHLEY
Volume III. 23 ETERNAL REMEDY. 22
ETERNAL REMEDY. 24 25
His daughter is awake of course, watching her vampire shows and snacking on flaming hot Cheetos. She pauses the show while he tells her about a little girl he met on his route today. Charlotte, I think her name was. The girl had wild, curly hair as his daughter had as a tod dler. She lived in a grand old house on The Beach with a wraparound porch. She’d given him a little Christmas ornament as a present since her mommy told her he wouldn’t be back to deliver food for a while. Charlotte’s mom even gave him a twenty-dollar tip, which he planned to spend on beer. His daughter lovingly examines the ornament, a tiny blue angel with sparkly wings and a serene smile. So cute. She carefully hangs it on their small tree so it catches the light just right. He never cared about the vampire shows, but they watch the rest of it together before he heads to bed. As he finally falls asleep beside his wife, his last thoughts are that he’s happy to be home. Happy to be so warm. Arriving at Pape, Pape Station A young woman sits with her hands neatly folded in her lap, eyes on her phone screen. She has no internet connection down here but doesn’t want to risk making eye contact with anyone. She scrolls through her photo gallery, looking at pictures that make her happy. She and her grandma were on her last trip to the Philippines, her chunky old cat lying in a sunbeam, she and her friend were at a concert. She looks up and yawns, accidentally looking at an older man casually glanc ing around the car. He averts his eyes and stares at an ad about botox. The shift she worked tonight at Tim Hortons felt longer than usual. For one thing, she’d always hated that it was underground in the PATH. You had no sense of time passing when you didn’t have a window to look out. It was always the same slightly flickering white light, a time less glare, that illuminated the shops down there. It was relatively empty tonight for a Friday but, then again, it was snowing. She’d chatted with her politely boring co-worker in the break room for a while but the flo rescent lighting in that tiny room gave her a dull headache. The smell of coffee and the sight of those four suffocating walls didn’t help. No. Remember. She stopped herself from feeling sorry for herself and thought about why she was working this job. Savings. For col lege. Her dream was to pursue a career in Public Relations and one day have her condo by the waterfront. She could grow a little herb garden on her balcony and play her music whenever she wanted. It was all there, her One Day Life, alive and beautiful in her mind. She almost had enough savings for a certificate program. Her par ents would be proud they’d sacrificed for her. She guaranteed it.
OngZacMizushima;EutahPieters;Leronebottom:toTop
Next Stop A young couple holds hands after a night out. She loves him, but she hasn’t told him yet. Her head rests sleepily on his shoulder and she’s grateful to be able to feel safe with him. She didn’t think she could find that with anyone. Next The subway clunks along the tracks every night. Different people come and go, all of them with a story and a destination. When you look around the train it’s nice to remem ber we’re not alone down here. We often keep to ourselves and look away from each other, but we share this time and this train and this car. Before we go back up into the city and resume our lives, this is the place we wait. We’re all together on the trip home.
Kristina Akopova
Next Stop is On the dimly lit platform, a man waits for his son. Checks his watch. Since it was Friday he promised to drive Matt home after his shift at the hospital. His son greets him as he steps off the train and they stroll to the elevator, talking about football. It was a long and brutal shift ending with a patient dying, but Matt didn’t want to talk about that. Or think about that. He’d leave those thoughts on the train with yesterday’s paper that he’d been unable to focus on. They start debating whether the Bills’ offense is good enough to make the playoffs this year as they ride the escalator up. No way, they’re cursed! Superbowl, calling it now!
ETERNAL REMEDY. 26 27 Volume III.
Next stop is Woodbine, Woodbine Station She gathered her bags and walked to the door. When she stepped onto the platform and walked up the stairs she felt better already. She inhaled the frigid night air and decided to walk the rest of the way. She’d had enough of being underground for one day. The wind cut into her cheeks and whistled down her coat as she trudged along un-shov eled sidewalks. On the walk home, she thought about her cat and wished she could trade lives with him for just one day. All he did was lie in sunbeams and get fed. Chunky lit tle thing, she smiled. As she climbed the steps into her parents’ 1970’s townhouse she saw a light on. She entered the modest entryway into glowing yellow light. Her mom had stayed up and made her a late dinner, which smelled delicious. They ate together and laughed about soap operas and finally she warmed up from the walk home. Next Stop is Main, A tall man in disheveled clothing plays violin for the remaining passen gers. He strolls the car hoping to earn a few dollars and maybe make some one smile. So many people don’t look up. An old woman seems to like the little ditty he plays, and she smiles serenely as he nears, tapping her fingers on her long wool skirt. She drops a toonie into the tip jar he fashioned around his waist with duct tape and he makes a show of bowing grandly before her. Madame.
My dad’s last words to my mother before he left her in Jamaica at 18 years old were, “I’m coming back for you, to get you out.”
What I think my dad meant to say was I’ll get you “up”, up out of this place. It wasn’t Kingston, Jamaica he was referring to. I don’t think, any how. Kingston was cool even then. It was more so the struggle my mother was in, in that house, where there was no love. That place appeared to him as the author and publisher of my mother’s impending ruin. At the point of birth, my mother’s mother abandoned her, and then her father abandoned her again a short time after. Her father left her with a stepmother, a former lover of his who bore him no children. My mother’s stepmother transmuted the pain of her former lover’s abandonment and what she then quickly recognized as the bur den of raising his child from another woman. A role she took on because her love remained, although my grandfa ther had gone. By the end, everyone felt abandoned and in pain, including my grandfather, who endured a more com plex and nagging sort of negligence, the one where you leave yourself behind. My dad became an orphan at a young age, the second last child of seven. He grew up with holes in his shoes and handme-down pants that made him look like he was in costume or going to skydive off a moving plane. Some nights he went to bed early to keep his hunger at bay or store pieces of food from dinner because there was no guarantee there would be any available the next day. “There were usually a few pieces of meat in the pot and when you were called for din ner, you had to make sure you arrived early to claim one. But even then, my older brothers would likely trick or beat me up so they could take it. What it left me with was just fla voured water or rice,” he said.
Dollar Gill ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 28 29
RISING by LEDAINSTEPHAN
Brian Lundquist
ETERNAL REMEDY. 30 31 Volume III.
His childhood bore in him a sharpened sense of survival and an insatiable hun ger to ascend out of poverty. Although there was joy, companionship, and sup port within the close-knit community he grew up in, he often wandered into a restless reverie, imagining what life beyond that place in that time could be. My dad felt himself growing past the limitations of Port-au-Prince, Haiti, into opportunity, security, and socioeco nomic mobility. He left Haiti to pursue studies in Jamaica. He was going to rise. After a couple of years in Jamaica, my dad continued north. He wanted to realize his dream of making it to America. The visa process proved an obstacle, however, and although he wasn’t successful in acquiring one, there was no way he was going to go back, or maybe what he might describe as “down” to Haiti. My father knew of a Haitian diaspora based in Montreal, Canada, and had a childhood friend living in a small, studio apartment there. Montreal was to be a tempo rary pit stop on his way up to the top. While there, he found a community of Hungarian churchgoers who took him in, even tually gave him a way to remain in the coun try and treated him like a son. On a mission to rise, he found a home. He decided instead of saving money for his eventual trip to the United States, he would purchase a one-way ticket to Canada for my mother back in Jamaica to join him in building the foundations of his home. She obliged and remained there in the foreign country as an undocumented immigrant, in a land where she could not speak the language and lived with two others in a cramped studio apartment. She, too, wanted to build a home. I left home at 18 years old on a mission to raise myself. I wanted out of the purposelessness that haunted me in the evening time and the nihil ism that coloured my daytime occupations. At all points of the clock, it reminded me of the nothing I would become in the nowhere I was situated. I was too smart and not rich enough to buy into the American Dream, that “the world was mine”, “I can be whoever I want to be ‘’ stuff. I was young, black, and familiar with drugs and senseless violence. Distinctions that felt meaningless. Sometimes I stole so that I could have expensive things or sell them to buy other nice things. I would leave my house to “stunt” and “flex”, then I return home and remember where I was. Through all of that, I still wanted my family to feel as though they were “getting up”, we were rising. I promised my dad we were going to travel across Europe and see live soccer matches, and he would own and drive his dream car, a Land Rover.
Volume III. 33 ETERNAL REMEDY. 32
This sense of purpose came a rumble in the pit of my stomach and a rumble in the surrounding air. I could not see then that storms were brewing above me as I was rising. What I did not know then, and can only appreciate now, was that rising is categorically an act of being removed from the level from which you came. The very place where my family, friends, favou rite foods, and fears all came from and remained. When I left home, I would look back at the life I left behind and remind myself that it was only by grace I could leave, and through grace, I would someday return. The alarm clock would wake me up at 6 AM to put in the extra hours of work that seeped deep into the night. Decorum and discipline coloured my conduct. I showed up to life as if I was fighting for it. I was relent less. Rest and idle time were luxuries I would purchase when I had risen. I adopted a nonchalance and a light ness about spending money, imaginations that were once unfathomable to me, and are still unattainable to my parents. In pursuit of security, as defined by a world of power and pride, I did not rid myself of my fears, I instead, became more closely acquainted with them. On a trip home from studies in London, the tension, the “clouds” hovering above my head, became clear and visceral. Overseas, I learned a new language to diminish the things that I was once familiar with at home. My mother’s cooking became laden with sat urated fat, my dad’s syntax was poor, and the dia logue I had with my friends was elementary. On every subsequent trip, the idea I had of myself, the one I formed at home, became pixilated and foreign. As the crowded plane had risen into the sky and my phone lost its connection on my flight back to London after that trip, I felt very alone and low. There is a precise sort of expe rience of loss when you find your head in the clouds and no longer want to rise. A sim ilar loss to that of my grand father. In two generations of rising, we had gone nowhere at all. Sometimes when you need something and you grab something and you let go of yourself, and sometimes you find yourself lost in the world. You leave yourself behind. Frank Ocean’s “Futura Free” has lyrics that read, Roots run deep / family tree / throw a big shadow. Maybe it’s cliche to say that healthy growth is a direct function of a sound foundation, but my ascent into the world has taught me that growing from your roots is not enough. It’s not possible for me to feel as though I am rising without paying respect to where I came from in the spaces I arrive. The differ ence here is honouring my history by carrying it up with me. Said differently, rising occurs when you see all parts of you, even those that remain underground, rise with you.
IN ATNOWHEREWEOFGENERATIONSTWORISING,HADGONEALL.
Volume III.
REMEDY.
COZMIC CAT for UNDERGROUNDTHE
I THINK UNDERGROUNDTHE IS PROBABLY THE MOST AUTHENTIC THAT MANY OF US CAN BE. AND IT'S THE FEARLESSNESS.
Nancy Kim ETERNAL 34 35
EVERYBODY WANTS THAT FEARLESSNESS WHEN IT COMES TO THEIR ART AND TO JUST DEEPLY NOT CARE IF PEOPLE HATE IT OR PRAISE IT. AND I THINK THAT IS HOW I USE THE FUEL FROM THE UNDERGROUND IN MY WORK, BECAUSE I WANT THAT, THAT RAW FEARLESSNESS, LIKE BOOM IS JUST THERE, THE EMOTION CAME OUT. AND NOW IT'S ART... I TAP INTO THE UNDERGROUND IN EVERY ASPECT OF THE WORK. EVEN IF IT'S LIKE A CORPORATE EVENT. I STILL WANT TO TRY THAT RISKY THING. I FIGURE LIKE MOST PEOPLE, I HAVE LOTS OF IDENTITIES, AND I COULD GO INTO EACH ONE OF THEM. BUT THE ONE THAT'S SO VALUABLE TO ME THAT MUSIC HAS SHOWN ME OR KEEPS ME TIED TO, IS IT JUST THE GENERAL HUMAN IDENTITY OF BEING A HUMAN BEING LIVING A HUMAN EXPERIENCE ON THIS PLANET, SOMETHING THAT SUPERSEDES LIKE RACE, GENDER, SEXUAL IDENTITY, THE WAY YOU LOOK PHYSICALLY, OR WHAT NATIONALITY YOU ARE FROM, LIKE, WHAT LANGUAGE YOU SPEAK.
The trip had ended, bags had been packed. The smell of samosas I think, or rather the word for whatever the smell of anything deep-fried might be, passed through the west facing windows of the house. I sat on the lid of the toilet seat in my mother’s bathroom and looked out the window through the warped, cheap, blinds towards the restaurant just over the fence. The blinds were often open, to let in the little amount of sun that otherwise shone on the roof of the house for most of the day. The sunsets in that part of the world weren’t typically covered by clouds of overcast but were crisp on the pal ate – an apple from the fridge drawer, frozen dew like insulation on blades of grass.
Patrick Hendry
Around the bathroom were no signs of my father, not after almost ten years in his absence. There didn’t seem to be anything he’d left behind in a hurry, nothing he would have pre ferred someone else discarded, no remnants of anything I thought my mother might have wanted to keep. There was no indication he was ever alive. Searching for your father in a room he hadn’t been in in almost ten years is a particular kind of torture but to know when to stop, for the promise of reprieve doesn’t exist. I wondered why my mothers’ washing bowl was under the tap and covering the drain as if one of his leg hairs might regurgitate up through the holes. Almost everything in the bathroom was beige, and the more I began to think of why that might be I wondered if it was a way to conceal small deposits of error – for white is too bright. The dirt and the shit are too noticeable a reminder of what’s wrong when trying to tell yourself that things are good. Everything on a white surface shows. Beige, however, lets a little of whatever that is live on its sur face without anyone noticing for some time. I began to look around. The towels, the bathtub, the sink bowl. The towel rod, the shower curtain, the counter. Where was the vibrant life in the room? What did she do when she felt sad? Or at midday when the sun was above the roof? The tiles, the rug, the hamper. The floor tiles and door, door frame and blinds. The only thing in the room that was not beige was the bar of Irish Spring soap, little bits of dead skin stuck in between the etched letters. I asked my mother where my father was. Who?
37 Volume III.ETERNAL REMEDY. 36
AFTER THE DAY of REST by LOPEZKAT
There are stories told of what happens in the first weeks after someone dies. When my uncle died suddenly, my anxiety about what would be done with his body had moved its way into mine. My breathing had changed, my stomach was tense, mouth dry. He was a firefighter, but he didn’t die in the fire. He died from the chem icals that entered his lungs while responding to a hazardous materials incident, weeks later. On the day he died, I sat in a room with my sis ter and father - his oldest brother and 5 sisters – all of whom were either crying or praying. What would happen to him? But what would happen, had already happened. The insistent desperation to preserve his body was a clinging to keep the memories of him fixed, not only in my mind, but somewhere I could find them. That he would stay right where I remembered him to be, that nothing about him would change. The conversations about what to do with his belongings began. We, the immediate fam ily, walked through each of the three rooms of his house, beginning with the spare rooms. We began to sift through the racks of his drycleaned suits, still wrapped in thin sheets of plastic. We stuffed them into garbage bags. My sister held up his suit jacket and gently smiled reminiscently, speaking of his broad shoulders that fit so sturdily even without shoulder pads. We found DVDs, tools, car cleaning products, extra toothbrushes, old Nokia phones, and books generally titled How to be Financially Free or 10 steps to Paying off your Mortgage by 50. I can’t think of much that can be done in a mere 10 steps, save 10 steps alone. One by one we said our solemn goodbyes and left. We do all we can to conceal a body. It is rarely in sight when carried through the hospital corridors, save one’s feet – all is covered in a white sheet down to the morgue. It is taken down separate exists, through alternate entrances. The question of whether the bodies will be burned and then kept an eyes distance away is one of many depending on who you are and where you’ve come from. It may be buried and then revisited. Some people sprin kle the burned bodies on aerial roots of trees, into rivers or on the tops of mountains, closer to God. What hap pens when God goes on break? Do they come back to us? So much depends on the questions we ask. I wanted to keep my uncle’s arm badges, as a reminder that although he had died, he was once alive. I didn’t sew them onto anything, but they are there, somewhere. I kept his thermal jacket, labelled FIRE at the back just above the small Canadian flag. Now the memories of him, almost 8 years later live not in my mind, but on my skin. And in their midst, is peace. My mother drove me to the airport. There was no need to pay for parking as we’d already said our big goodbyes. She pulled up to post number two of the drop off station and began to desper ately cry. I was her caregiver for most of my childhood – through intermit tent periods of cancer scares, surgeries – pivoting the rippling effects symp tomatic in the bodies’ effort to contain itself. That meant as I got older, health anxiety would become an uncomfort able reality in my life, and my default response to moments of anguish were often a mix of dismissal or reassurance. We hugged, and I hurried off toward the entrance with a long three hours to spare, but hurrying, nonetheless.
ETERNAL REMEDY. 38 39 Volume III.
I was not there the day my father left. I was living in New York and when I had returned, he’d gone. And so, almost a decade later I was yearning for a reservoir of memory. I could not find one, and when we cannot find things, we borrow others in its place until they show themselves. I had been carrying my father - covered in a linen shroud but looking for him everywhere. In my mother’s bathroom and in my uncle’s house. Next to my uncle’s grave, or at the church. As time passed and in recent years, my father began to send me a photo of himself on his Sabbath mornings, the day of rest. He faintly smiles in some, and just stares into the camera in others but sends them regardless. His messages are usually the same – a little message of encourage ment with no punctuation and a swift goodbye until the next week. Once I was sick with a bad cold and my father continued to call me until I picked up. When I finally answered, he said he had a few remedies that would make sure I didn’t suffer too bad. He told all his friends and had them send over recommenda tions and natural healing remedies to clear the mucus and stop the coughing. I could imagine his hands shaking on the other end of the phone, as Parkinson’s continues to catch up with his body. And although my father is dying, he is not dead. But I am dying too. He isn’t anywhere to be found in my mother’s bathroom because he’s got his own. He isn’t beside my uncle’s grave because that isn’t where we who are alive, go to rest. It was late Sunday night as I sat in the airport waiting for my flight to depart. I wanted to be only a short distance to the gate so as not to miss the boarding call or be forced to participate in any last-minute frenzy. I don’t typically have my phone on ring or vibrate. I check it when I feel impressed too, or if I’m in a sort of back-and-forth conversation on any of the many platforms. But on the day of one’s departure, you’re sometimes flooded with messages from family and friends saying their goodbyes and wish ing you safe travels. The texts interrupt my grief. And amongst a few, was a message from my father attached to a photo he’d taken of himself, not covered in a shroud but in a golf shirt on this the day after the day of rest. I was near the gate when my dying father had arrived, if only through a text, if only through words.
Matthew Henry ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III.
It’s been too many but not enough hours in Madrid’s Prado Museum and my eyes are drilling holes into Las Meninas, one of Diego Velazquez’s most famous paintings. Velazquez, like many of his contemporaries, had mastered the tech nique of chiaroscuro. Chiaroscuro (from Italian chiaro, “light,” and scuro, “dark”) is a visual arts technique that uses light and shadow to define three-dimensional objects. From the jagged dance of contrasts emerges raw, vulner able, and human forms. Opaque swashes of paint draw your eye to the protagonist of the composition, often a blindingly pale, hand some male in some form of heroic agony. In this case, the protagonist was five-year-old Margaret Theresa, Holy Roman Empress, but I was less concerned with Her Royal Highness and more concerned with the obscure shapes that lingered behind her: frames of unidentifiable artwork, minor characters in hushed conver sation, a stranger hovering by the doorway. I hesitated, then let my eyes go out of focus to probe the shadows of Velazquez’s mas terpiece. Who were those people Velazquez deemed unworthy of the spotlight? Why did he include these shadowy figures, and why was I so resistant to embracing them? My racing mind took me back to my childhood in the breezy mountains of Kingston, Jamaica. Like Velazquez, art has been integral to my being for as long as I can remember. My mother, an artist herself, encouraged my creative endeav ours by laying out large rolls of cheap, newsprint paper on our back patio and giving me hoards of paintbrushes and crayons to do whatever I wished. With time and trauma, that unbridled child like creativity melted away and a differ ent paintbrush began to dominate the canvas of my own life: perfectionism. It was then I realized in my life’s paint ing, I had neglected the shadows in pursuit of perfectionism. My can vas was milk-white, shining, and... vapidly two-dimensional. I jumped on a plane to Spain on a whim, hop ing to feel something, to find pur pose, to add volume to my magnum opus, only to discover I could not do so with the paintbrush I stubbornly clung to: perfectionism. For too long, I confidently gripped this paintbrush and whitewashed anything resem bling a shortcoming. It was the crutch I proudly wielded with broad brush Regina Victorica
THE PURSUIT CHIAROSCUROOF by CHENSHANNONSEE
Volume III. 43
“I’m learning how to do this”
strokes when others saw me as anything less than my shining, gold standard of perfection. My fixation with a checklist, cookie-cutter life resulted in a horrid paint-by-number with just one colour option. But a monochrome canvas means any speck of deemed imperfection is glaringly obvious. Unlike chiaroscuro, drops of shadows do not form human shapes, they create undesirable globs doomed to erasure. “I think you made a mistake here” “No, but...” “Can you make it tonight?” “Yes!”…” Hey, actually I can’t” “Either I do it right or not at all” Determined to maintain my image as a child of the light, I flew closer and closer to the sun. And like Icarus, I flew so closely to the sun it was to my detriment. I fell into the source of my pride and burnt out. And it was there in Madrid - 70,000 kilograms of jet fuel and 6,000 kilometers away from where I tenuously called home - that I realized I was exhausted. In my mind’s eye, I meandered through my childhood traumas, trying to think back to the first time I learned how to hold that paintbrush of perfectionism. Who taught me to paint with such conviction? To determine what deserved to belong on my canvas and what did not? Finger by finger, I began to loosen my grip around the paintbrush and asked myself: What if I conceived of darkness as more than just the absence of light? Turning sharply in my dusty, gum sole Reeboks, I strode out of the Prado Museum and resolved myself to the pursuit of chiaroscuro: the creation of voluminous, three-dimensional experiences through contrasts of light and dark. Light and dark are no longer at odds in a zero-sum duality, but in a messy, human union. Chiaroscuro signals the end of think ing in either/ors. Either I have achieved this standard, or I have not. Either I am good enough, or I am not. Either they like me, or they hate me. - The marriage of dark and light recognizes that life is too complex to be limited to a binary, a toggle, a light switch. It is a celebra tion of the grey zone, where nuances are expected and indeed, welcomed. But what does it actually look like to cultivate chiaroscuro? For me, it starts by stripping away per fectionism and the weight I gave to the light for so long. It means digging into the “why” behind my defensive ness at any feedback. It’s a constant effort to separate my work from my worth. It’s being realistic about my capacity, saying no, and not feeling guilty about drawing a boundary. But the next step in cultivation doesn’t come as naturally to me. It’s giv ing room to the insecurities I spent years squishing into the ground.
LIGHT AND DARK ARE NO LONGER AT ODDS IN A HUMANDUALITY,ZERO-SUMBUTINAMESSY,UNION.
“Thank you for that feedback; I’ll bear that in mind in the future” “No, sorry, I’m not avail able at that time”
If you peer intently into the shadows of Las Meninas, you will find the artist himself: Diego Velazquez. Was his intention not so much to draw focus to what was in the light, but to provide a distraction from what was in the dark? I wondered whether he too felt the internal conflict between the light and dark within him. Whether he chose to give in to the dark or to struggle towards the light in all its deceptive grandeur.
ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 44 45
I’d like to think he was also in pursuit of chiaroscuro, the technique of his hand, and that he too recognized this pursuit as never-ending, but full of grace.
Unlearning social scripts I was so accustomed to repeating that I started to believe them. It means reckon ing with my depravity and reclaim ing it as integral to my wholeness. Perhaps we are drawn to the light because it distracts us from what’s in the dark. But in this new dance, I am learning to embrace both the dark ness and the light, and all the imper fect uncertainty that comes with it.
MOTION ETERNAL REMEDY. 46 47 Volume III.
CULTURE ETERNAL REMEDY. 48 49 Volume III.
GROWTH ETERNAL REMEDY. 50 51 Volume III.
Lina
DJ COSMICAT
Note : we decided to preserve the integrity of DJ Cosmicat's original responses including stylistic elements. What underpins your creative process? i’m actually an introvert. i spend a lot of time observing my environment and listening very well to everything happen ing around me. i also spend a lot of time submerging myself in music and arts and discovering new sounds. All this sen sory feed accumulates in my head to spark new ideas that i try to apply to my music. I like watching anime, fantasy movies, and playing video games that inspire my aesthetic and sound.
An interview with Mo of DJ Cosmicat
| Courtesy
ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 52 53
Well, in my opinion, every great mainstream musician came from the underground scene, some artists prefer to remain there for all the freedom that it gives you as an artist to be experimental and edgy and really show your real unhinged self, i love that! Mainstream music also has its power, i think it takes some special skills to be able to reach out to mil lions with the music that you make. i love to mix these two flavors and use them strategically.
What do you make of the relationship between mainstream and underground music? For ex., how do they draw from each other?
What are some “underground” concepts you look to explore in your work? i started from the underground, and am still somehow lingering in the underground. the underground is the foundation that built me and all the great local musicians that inspired me. It became a part of me that i can’t separate from.
Watch DJ COSMICAT'S Boiler Room Bahrain Broadcast
CosmicatDJofcourtesyImages Volume III. 55
THE UNDERGROUND IS THE FOUNDATION THAT BUILT ME AND ALL THE GREAT LOCAL MUSICIANS THAT INSPIRED ME. CosmicatDJofCourtesy|HkayemÉLie Volume III. 57 ETERNAL REMEDY. 56
The light of my life is obviously my two precious kitty babies pooky and luz
How would you describe your relationship with failure? How has that relationship impacted your creative work? I don’t believe in failure, i believe in experience. Every time i mess up or have anything going off-plan it’s a les son to learn for me and an eye-opener to the future.
One of the things we've noticed is how well you explore a wide range of emotions during your sets, are there feelings you look to unearth when you're mixing? It’s just music that i personally love, coming from a background of pop, r&b, and hip hop, i’m naturally drawn to vocals. Having a human voice as an element strikes a lot of emotions very well more than any other instrument. Whenever i’m planning a show i design the experience as if it was to entertain myself and it brings me joy to find people who share these feelings with me on the spot.
. Additional thoughts : Meow I BELIEVE THAT A TRUE EXPRESSION OF EMOTIONS SHOULD ALWAYS BE RAW AND UNFILTERED ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 58 59
As a fixture in the underground music scene, what do you think would change about your work if it were to become more mainstream? What would you look to preserve? I feel like my music is a reflection of what’s going inside my head and that’s forever changing and evolving. I would never change my sound to be more mainstream, if that happened then…hmmm…i wouldn't mind, but it wouldn’t be something i would intentionally aim for.
What does tapping into your dark side look like and how is reflected in your work? What is light in your life? i express my dark side with techno mostly, even if i’m playing something else i like sounds that have borderline darkness in them, i believe that a true expression of emotions should always be raw and unfiltered, currently i’m channeling the darkness that i might have experienced in the past into writing and producing my new upcoming EP titled “ ascension” coming this year.
SERVICE DELAY ON LINE 1 ... PLEASE STAND BY This is when we all look at our phones... ! Volume III.ETERNAL REMEDY.
2. Look out your window, press flexed fingers into the sill coated with dust, you coatcoughyourself,upyoudust,died buried in it, in years past, every time you ached, you swallowed dust and died again, but you can rinse out your throat now, it’s okay.
RITUALS for RAISING THE DEAD by SARAH ‘SAM’ SALTIEL
4. Open up glass to taste what’s left of the world now that it’s ended, let the apocalypse settle into your hair, clothes, lungs, drink it in like your life depends on it—it does (with a bang or a whimper?).
7. The laces are broken and the rubber cracks, but they’ll keep you dry enough in the storm.
6. Follow the tips of your yellow rain boots out the door.
5. Leave this place where you have been for years, with your body rolled into cloth, face rolled into cloth, leave your coughs in your pillow like the imprint of your head.
3. Look out your window to see rain shattering the ground.
Roll from your bed
Carolina Tangassi ETERNAL REMEDY. 62 63 Volume III.
1. Don’t think about how long you have been there those thoughts won’t help you now.
3. Take her with you into the underground and she will turn the question back around on you, ask you what you will make of a life spent in transit, how you will remember the betweenness of homes breaths airports metro stops beds she will ask you why you did not stay.with her.
3. Bury and raise your dead.
1. Ask her what it feels like to be rid of herself, ask wideher,eyes searching eyes, if she or you or your father will ever be done with your family’s exodus.
4. Unlearn what it was like to be buried,becomeyouand unbecome, you will learn what it means to live a life, breathing through scartissue, and when you crowd up homes/breaths/airports/metro stops/beds (finally), you will know what it feels like to press scars against scars and feel the throbbing pulse of the afterlife. Carolina
Tangassi ETERNAL REMEDY. 64 65 Volume III.
5. Pause and realize you will never have a way to answer her, you are done with the questions you ask each other, and your stop is here, coming up on the left. Live forever//Live again
Call the parent whose calls you cannot answer
4. You could tell her that you no longer live between, or that there are ways to flee inside your own home. You could tell her…
1. Stop moving between rooms like a shadow. 2. Stop with the haunting, this is not a ghost story. It could be. It was. It changed. You changed.
2. Ask her about her new God and your Old Testament troubles.
UNLEARN WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO BE BURIED, YOU BECOME UNBECOME...AND Heloisa Vecchio ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III. 66 67
ForePatrickKozlovAlex ETERNAL REMEDY. Volume III.
SCAN FOR MORE ETERNAL REMEDY Image CREDITS COVER Mitchell Mccleary MOTION Pages 46-47 Valentin JoaoSteveJensPawelKatrinAustinZoeAugustineSaljaWongWadeHaufJaniakJohnssonJohnsonSantos CULTURE Pages 48-49 Brian NickPavelOlesyaL'odysséeJoshJanayTinasheLundquistMwanikiPetersGordonBelleYemetsPjatakovPage GROWTH Pages 50-51 Suhyeon EmilySirWilliamAustinKellyKostiantynCOBEmilianoChoiVittoriosiOAShiiLiSikkemaChanSantosManuelRichards Remaining credits on images. ETERNAL REMEDY. 70 Volume III.