orbicular

Note: I write the first version of this poem and put it up and afterwards feel happy. This does not feel right; the poem is too joyous, too friendly. I mean, I don't want to be a melodramatic buzzkill; that's why I edited the Art, Strike! submission guidelines so that they, as the poem says, "speak from a place of love and care / instead of a place of fear and shame." But something is not right about this poem; as I say elsewhere, "although we all deserve joy and care and pleasure, we do not all deserve free will, starting with those who have denied free will to others." I think the poem as originally written had too much free will, a free will I am trying to relinquish, not hold on to. I say all this because I take a five-minute nap a little while after writing it and have a terrible vision (referenced in this poem) that comes nowhere close to the intensity and horror of the third vision described in "Inca(r)n(t)ation," but is certainly a future I do not want to see come alive.

Immediately I start revising this poem and adding to it to clarify my intentions and ensure I am speaking from the heart and not from the excited butterflies in my stomach. The edits are good: they include adding lines like "and power," or "without perpetuating all the toxic shit / we've been told to internalize / and accept." But even still, something is off. As I reference in the poem, I write and edit often while I shower, and I realize while showering before coming back to the poem today, February 12, 2023, the morning after I wrote/improvised the poem, that I must add this note as a preface. This, of course, makes this poem a living document as well, which will change and grow as I change and grow, as Art, Strike!, as the poem discusses, rapidly, so rapidly, changes and grows, too.

Second note: Later, I realize what it is. The poem is not militant enough. All this talk of radical transparency and accountability is important and critical so we do not in our modern movements repeat the interpersonal abuses and violences that tore the movements of our ancestors apart. But it is, in many ways, simply talk. I am bitten quite aggressively by a dog who I know and love because he is going blind and mistakes my finger for a treat. The pain is, for a split-second, searing. I know that this happens because I must prepare for pain; in many ways, we must all always be preparing for pain. When I say that we who have been harmed must define accountability, that accountability may include violence against and pain for those who have harmed us. Hammurabi's "an eye for an eye" is inappropriate because, well, you may have taken my eye, but if you don't need or use your eyes, what good is you losing yours as accountability? "An eye for the appropriate equivalent of an eye" might have been a better way to phrase it. For the accountability work I have still to do, I am acutely aware that someone I have harmed may define accountability in a way that causes me (physical) pain, that requires me to be on the receiving end of violence. Let's not pretend this can't be just or justice. I have a history of being violent and abusive and whatever the people who I have harmed decide is the appropriate equivalent of an eye, I must not only allow them to take, but do so without fear or hesitation; I must embrace accountability. Otherwise, if they see fear in my eyes, if they sense my hesitation, they may opt for mercy, and this will be further violence I inflict upon them. The tax on the human soul for committing violence, or even considering it, even if it is the violence of justice, can only be mitigated if the violence is consensual. I must radically consent to the violence of justice, or else it is no justice at all. The unexpected bite of the dog is preparation for this. I must learn to embrace pain, because beyond the interpersonal work of accountability, there is and will be a need for enduring other kinds of pain. Nation-states and corporations and institutions relish distributing it, concentrating it, obliterating lives and communities with it. Abolition is neither neat nor comfortable for anyone involved. Our best chance at some kind of success is to learn to navigate pain as part of the violence of justice, so that when we are forced to navigate the violence of oppression as part of our battles against forces far more violent than we can ever be to one another, we do not fear or hesitate. We act; we do what is absolutely necessary to get from here to liberation.

Third note: Do I still fetishize pain? Do I still worship punishment? Do I still hate myself enough to invite violence upon myself, even if I dress my vicious, gnarly desire in the rhetoric of justice and liberation? Do I misunderstand militancy? Do I misunderstand abolition? Do I see like a state? Do I embody carcerality? Do I still hate? Do I still hate enough to hurt? Do I still hate enough to hurt the people who hurt me and call that justice and liberation? Do I know how to love? Do I know how to love myself? Do I know how to love myself enough to bear witness to my transformation into something completely unrecognizable, completely unfamiliar, soon completely unrecognizable and unfamiliar to everyone who has ever known me? Do I trust that this is happening? Do I trust that I am here right now? Do I believe that I am writing this? Do I deserve free will? Do I know what it's like to have it? Do I deserve anything? Do I know what it's like to have anything? Do I know what free will is? Do I know what it means to be human? Do I know who I am? Do I even want to? Do you?

Fourth note: I am not a good enough writer yet. Here is writing by someone who is. "The real distinction between carceral logic and liberatory accountability is that one process violently strips someone of their humanity and agency, while the other demands that people who do harm take full command of their humanity and agency to atone for that harm and become better members of the community in the process. The carceral system says: 'You are a criminal and you deserve to be subject to constant harm and control because of it.' Liberatory accountability says: 'You are a person who chose to do harm, we believe in your capacity to choose to face the consequences of that harm and do what you can to repair it.'" I don't know what I know but I know I will spend every second thinking and listening and reading and learning until maybe someday I do. Because I can, because I have to, because I want us both and all to can and have and want to.

Fifth note: Another day, another vision. Another note, this one short.

Abolish abuse, abolish power, which are two ways of saying the same thing. Make space for kindness, make space for care, make space for community and solidarity and accountability and justice, which are just a few of many ways of saying the same thing.

Sixth note: 2 march. is there such a thing as a waking vision? to see a vision and reality at the same time? is that what clairvoyance really is?

Seventh note: another play, another prison. pain sucks. is that really so hard to say?? is it hard to say because it isn't true?? is it hard to say because it is??

Eighth note: midnight, March third. Discern.

Ninth note: 2:45 AM, 19 March. No vision. (Well, visions since, just no vision right now.) Is it really so hard to say I hate myself? Is it really so hard to say I should? Is it hard to say because it requires sacrifice? Is it hard to say because it doesn't? Is it ableist to call my visions visions? Especially if the truth is that they have nothing to do with sight?

Tenth note: three hours after the ninth note, sometime in between for a split second i thought about writing an anti-theory anti-manifesto and then i realized i knew better. also why doesn't this piece have a content/trigger warning? why, doesn't this piece have a content/trigger warning?

orbicular

is the word

on the TV

at the gas station.

orbicular:

like or resembling

a sphere.

orbicular,

a word i don't know

taught to me by

an image on screen

for all of 20 seconds

on a TV

at the gas station.

i would have missed the definition

if i hadn't stayed in the car

after leaving my father's

in order to send some e-mails

regarding mistakes i made

in my role as an editor

for Art, Strike!

if i hadn't taken a moment to weep,

in part because i know the mistakes that i made

may have caused people harm,

but also because

i am feeling more capable

of seeing and addressing

the harm that i cause,

the mistakes that i make.

there is still fear,

there is always fear,

but not the fear that rhymes with fight-or-flight,

instead the fear that rhymes with just and right.

i would have missed the definition

if i hadn't stayed in the car

after pulling into the gas station

to make edits on the pages

on my personal website

to clarify my intentions,

to make our editing process more accessible,

to speak from a place of love and care

instead of a place of fear and shame.

i made these choices

in order to begin a process

of addressing the mistakes i have made,

and

in return,

i was given

the definition of the word

orbicular.

Art, Strike! is growing and changing

faster than i can even fathom.

just this weekend, suddenly

i am not "editor of Art, Strike!"

but "editor for Art, Strike!"

suddenly,

i am one of three

staff members,

at least three so far,

and

the other two members of Art, Strike!

are

two of the most incredible people

i have ever met.

i am going to make mistakes in my job,

they are going to make mistakes in their jobs,

our contributors are going to make mistakes in their jobs.

but what else can we do

but be open and honest

about our mistakes? open and honest

about how to address them? willing to make space

for those we have harmed to be open and honest

about their definitions of accountability? so that

maybe we can be a critical part

of the urgent work

of abolishing abuse,

and power,

and patriarchy,

and cisheterosexism,

and racial capitalism,

and settler colonialism,

and all the many other things

that desperately need abolishing?

the truth is there is no "perfect"

the truth is there is no Art, Strike!

there are only writers and artists

and editors and publishers

who don't know what to do,

don't know what to do,

don't know what to do.

i don't know what to do either,

but we all know that things cannot go on

as they have

for so long.

i write this poem in my head as i drive,

i write everything in my head as i drive

or shower

or cook

or eat

or edit.

i edit everything in my head as i drive

and shower

and cook

and eat

and write.

then all i need is to be in front of a keyboard for a few minutes,

or hours,

and i can write what i've technically already written.

i hear the phrase "performance novel" recently

and i think, well that's how i write:

like a performance,

like improvisation,

very much like jazz.

jazz and improvisation scare some musicians,

i think,

because how can they possibly know what to play next

if they don't have the sheet music dictating,

sitting right in front

of them?

jazz and improvisation

aren't about knowing what to play next.

jazz and improvisation

are about being so in sync with the people and world and music around you

that there is only one possible note you could play next.

it is not about making it up as you go,

it is about being so clairvoyant the next note comes to you

as though it were

a vision.

all of my writing is improvisational

and that is how i feel i can

keep it coming

from the heart,

messy and loving and strange and real.

Art, Strike! wants us all to have

the time and space and resources and support to be

messy and loving and strange and real

and to be able to make mistakes in the process

without perpetuating all the toxic shit

we've been told to internalize

and accept.

when a jazz musician makes a mistake in the process

of improvisation,

who can really tell?

well, the musician, of course,

and their fellow musicians,

and if you listen closely,

you can tell too

because your body will react

before your words do,

and if we can love our bodies enough

to hear completely

their pains and their pleasures,

we will always be able to see our mistakes,

and then hear ourselves play different and better notes

that bring the band back into

some kind of harmony.

i make several mistakes

in the course of writing this poem,

mistakes so bad

that when i close my eyes for a few minutes of sleep,

i have an awful vision

that must not come to pass.

i reopen this piece

for editing

and change, add, change,

until i feel it is

good for now.

good for now is not enough,

(it is not good forever, a good that cannot

be until we are so radically transparent with each other

that our flags lean into easy anything)

but then nothing is bad

forever. not as long as we can

still find time to be kind to ourselves

even when this feels impossible,

or to be cruel to ourselves,

as cruel as it takes,

or maybe cruel as in theatre of cruelty,

if that is what will wake us up

and make us all want to finally pursue

radical transparency,

or at least seek out the time and space and resources and support

that can allow us to be

radically transparent

with each other.

i make a mistake

not telling my father i am technically

taking something for my high blood pressure

but i call him once i get home,

after getting home from his,

and explain how grateful i am that

they understand why i made that mistake

and that if i can share about

my experiences,

good and bad,

regarding what he and his wife

have been considering.

they say yes and although

it is late and they are tired,

they want to hear,

and explain that, yes, it was heading toward egoism

but that they are so glad i have found people

with whom i do feel comfortable (and

who i can help with) sharing

about something so personal

like my health,

like the people in the old magazines

who know they're sisters and

pride themselves on

being good to their siblings.

there are infinite contradictions in this poem,

in this world,

in Art, Strike!,

in every edge and every curve

so that, technically,

nothing can ever be quite exactly

orbicular.

there are infinite contradictions because perhaps to be

at all

is to hold

two opposing ideas

in your head at the exact same time.

there is no Art, Strike!

there is only Art, Strike!

there are only writers and artists

and editors and publishers

who don't know what to do

there are only writers and artists

and editors and publishers

who know exactly what to do

i am a

fat

disabled

neurodivergent

queer

genderfluid

trans

obssessive

crazy

clairvoyant

new

asexual

marroncita

anarchist

woman

with a history of being violent and abusive

and a future that has yet to be written

though i will not allow it to include

any more violence

or abuse,

the cycle has to stop.

i am

a human,

being.

(after i finish improvising this poem in my head

and right before i sit down in front of a keyboard to type it,

for the first time

i walk up the three flights of stairs

to my apartment

by choice.

climbing stairs has been difficult for me

my entire life

because i walk on the tips of my toes,

yet another learned behavior

that keeps me small and quiet.

this time,

i distribute my weight

across the lengths of my feet,

and suddenly,

the climb isn't so difficult.)

suddenly,

the climb isn't so difficult.