length: 1,155 words

content/trigger warning: references to abuse, depression, sex toys, bodily fluids (urine, semen), drugs (psychiatric medication, amphetamines)

---

There's a lot I want to say but of course there's only so much that I can. So much that I should. They say that should's a bad word but sometimes it's protection. A defense. Art is war most of the time, probably always, but only because life is. War isn't the best word here. There's another word I should use but the time isn't right yet. Sometimes I think this is knowledge hoarding but it's not like I made up the word. It's not a word nobody knows. The word's out there, the concept's out there, all you'd have to do is apply it to this: art, writing, storytelling. The definition of art is recontextualization, you know? I don't know that that's step one but it's definitely oneof the steps. Maybe the only step. That seems reductive, but the definition of art is also reduction, you know? Recontextualization is reduction, but also expansion, so let's say the definition of art is contradiction too. Ooh, now we're getting somewhere. Or you could say, “now we're cooking,” and so the definition of art is also — well, I've probably said too much already.

Another idiom: “There's nothing new under the sun.” I don't know if that makes you feel bad but I know for me it's relief. It's just us. There's nothing but us. So of course there's nothing new. We're all there is, and we don't change too quickly, or at least not quickly enough to make new possible all that often. We also change extremely quickly (contradiction), so there's always something new (recontextualization), it just won't be recognized as new until it's old (reduction). You know?

Okay, by way of example: my best friend tells me I'm a good writer and that I gotta do something about that and a hundred years ago Arturo told me it's okay not to be a writer and I took his word for it and he wasn't wrong but he wasn't right either. It's okay not to be a writer but it's not okay not to dream. Imagine. Create. And if you stifle that impulse long enough all you get is nightmares instead. A year into the pandemic, I wanted to apply to a bunch of startup incubators and get a fuck ton of seed money to build, I don't know, Theranos for dogs. Lyft for trikes. One Medical for bees. Amazon for dildos. AirBnb for blue jeans. I don't know. Honestly, I was actually pretty good at it, but only because anyone would be. You're broke and you fall for a pyramid scheme and you'd come up with just about everything I did. VR for aliens. AI for sluts. Netflix for amphetamines. Juicero for cum. Or maybe piss. Whatever.

Anyways, my best friend is right so I start writing. Once upon a time, I was so depressed and so heavily loaded up with psychiatric medication, I couldn't write without using AI: I'd feed a line to GPT-2 (an oldie but a goodie) and it'd feed me something back and then I'd go from there. Most of what I wrote with it was okay. It was fine. 

So I thought about doing that again but then I looked out the window. 

I didn't see a park but there was a park down the street. Then I went to the bathroom and there was a book called The Hologram across from the toilet, between the toilet paper and the Q-tips. So I started writing a short story called “The Hologram” about someone who looks out a window and sees a park with a hologram at its center.

That's it. 

That's all.

Take everything you see seriously. Mash together whatever's around you. Then work until you're done. 

You can do it because it's what you already do every day except for someone else. Now do it for the reader. I was going to do it for a startup incubator. Now I do it for the reader.

Okay, but there's something missing, and I don't want to talk too much about the why, only the how. Just know that I hate bylines. (Bylines are fame is power is abuse; reduction, whatever, you understand.)

I came up with a system: a byline made up of two names, the names of people who already exist (real or fictional, it doesn't matter), and written with no spaces and all lowercase. Kind of like usernames. One of my short stories, “The Hologram,” is by georgewallace and londonbreed and it doesn't really matter whether you know who they are, you understand. Triangulation works because three data points determine a fourth; two intersecting lines don't really have a “center” unless you connect them by a third. The two names are the two lines; the title of the story is the third. Their center is the story.

More simply: if George Wallace and London Breed wrote a short story called “The Hologram,” what would it say? 

That's it; that's all.

Some examples:

“RIOT!” by jonathanlarson and pussyriot

“The Everything Girl” by ziwe and elizabethholmes

“The People vs. John F. Kennedy-North” by dorothyparker and northwest

“Cronenburg” by davidcronenberg and brandoncronenberg

“Ru Girl” by asiaohara and thevixen

“Please Don't Read This If You're White” by shaunking and racheldolezal

“Sim City” by willwright and janejacobs

“The Prompt” by chatgpt and dalle

“250 BPM” by janefonda and daftpunk

“6°” by kevinbacon and rolandemmerich

“Major War” by jillbiden and vladimirputin

“Station Twelve” by mirandacarroll and dondawest

“Station Thirteen” by frankchaudhary and idabwells

“Station Fourteen” by paulimurray and antoninartaud

I have another 30 or so of these somewhere, most I never wrote. Some I did. Some I wrote half, or more. “Platformer” [LINK] was originally by félixguattari and gillesdeleuze. “The Girls from Pasadena” was originally by — well, that one's self-explanatory.

Feel free, by the way, to write any of the stories above; they're prompts of sorts, I suppose. But, of course, you'll have better luck if you come up with them yourself.

There's a lot I want to say — to get you where you need to go (the end of a short story) — but still I fear I shouldn't. So if the definition of art is also transgression, then I should do something that I shouldn't (contradiction), so I'll tell you, finally, to think of this art as the art of mathematics. To write a story like you'd craft a proof. To tell a tale like you'd fashion an equation.

There's always an answer at the end. A solution. Resolve.

That's it. That's all. You understand. You understanding.

length: 2,430 words

#fiction

content/trigger warning: discussions of nationalism, capitalism, and imperialism, brief references to death and police/state violence

---

The game was simple: an endless series of platforms, moving up and down the screen at various speeds, in various directions.

You played as a little blue-green blob, trying to jump onto the platforms as they whizzed by, so you could get as high up as possible (a reason why was never given), sometimes falling off the platforms because the platforms were small and the physics of your body making you think you’d made a successful jump, only to slosh a little too hard towards one of the edges and fall off, usually onto another platform, probably moving in a direction you weren’t expecting and ruining your score.

Your score was determined by how many jumps you successfully landed (each successful landing removed 1 point from your score) and how high you got (little tick marks on the left and right sides of the screen indicated arbitrary units of altitude; each tick mark you passed also removed 1 point from your score).

Each day players would start with 100,000,000,000 points, the dozen-digit number floating near the top of the screen in bold, translucent type, counting down as your blob moved upwards, landing on platforms without falling off.

The platforms moved in mostly straightforward patterns—up and down, left, and right, diagonally—but not all, and not always. Some of their paths curved or formed loops; sometimes they accelerated and decelerated suddenly, the speed (or unexpected change in speed) of a platform often the reason why you did or didn't land a jump.

Sometimes the changes in acceleration followed a pattern you could learn if you remained on the platform long enough: the platforms were repeated along their paths and spaced evenly across them, looping as they ran into the sides of the screen, so that if you were on a platform and it moved off of the left side of the screen, you’d appear on a platform moving left from off the right side of the screen, on the same path as your platform’s neighbors, and vice versa.

But not all, and not always.

Success in the game required luck.

Your goal was to get as low a score as possible: the lower the score, the more successful your jumps and the higher you got before you gave up. The game didn’t end unless you gave up, so technically, you could just keep playing all day, trying to get your score as low as possible. The game paused when you exited the app too, so its initial Japanese player base could start playing and lowering their scores in the morning, keep lowering their scores over lunch or during breaks, and finally compete seriously in the evening, when most players were rapidly changing places at the top of the leaderboard, trying to get their score lower than everyone else’s by the time the game reset at 9:00 PM.

The game expanded internationally almost immediately, but kept its 9:00 PM reset time for all players, despite user outcry, as well as the proliferation of clones that offered different leaderboards for different time zones, usually resetting for those users around 9:00 PM local time, among other features like the ability to change the color and appearance of your blob, and of the platforms (the original had glossy white platforms against a purple-yellow starry sky, and, of course, your blob was only ever round and aquamarine).

But the original remained the most popular version, and its rabidly loyal fanbase, including users in, it seemed, every time zone, adapted quickly to the universal reset time and single global scoreboard. 9:00 PM was noon in UTC (Universal Time Coordination, an internationally recognized time-measurement standard), which the developers said was, in part, why they insisted the time stay fixed, though, as with many massively multiplayer online games, often the appeal was simply the idea that your time zone could become a strategic advantage; players in Hong Kong, for example, constantly bested players in Tokyo for the first few months after the game’s release, which users soon realized was because players in Hong Kong, who started playing after work, tended to play more aggressively, knowing they had an hour less to win than their Japanese competitors.

This became known to players outside east Asia after a strategy pioneered by some of those players went viral worldwide, in the many multilingual online communities that had sprung up devoted to the game. They’d discovered that lowering your score by sticking your landings was a distraction. There was no penalty if you fell off a platform after jumping; it wasn't like it added to your score, as was the case in some of the knock-offs. In fact, the players had discovered that by intentionally falling off the platforms—especially by quickly making many successive jumps, picking up speed and using the momentum to fall off of one platform onto another, and then another, and so on—you could move higher faster, and make up for not landing jumps with your increasingly rapid ascension.

Users were learning to do more with less.

Other strategies like this went viral in other time zones: where scores reset when most people were working (Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran), players went all in during their lunch breaks, discovering that simply mashing the jump button without stopping, though ineffective for besting international opponents, was an easy way to beat local players who spent their lunches talking or eating. Where scores reset midday (Spain, Algeria, Greece), players began waking earlier to maximize the amount of time they could play before work began. Where scores reset in the morning (Ecuador, Mexico, Cuba), players started going to sleep as soon as they got home from work, waking around midnight and staying up all night, past sunrise, to play and get their scores as low as possible before crashing for an hour or two, after the reset, then waking and going to work.

These strategies had stopped, at a certain point, being about gameplay, per se. They were more like strategies for successfully scheduling your life around the game.

For scheduling your life around being successful at the game.

The global scoreboard was anonymized, so no one could create an offensive username and ride it to the top out of hatred, or in an attempt to be edgy. Instead, you were represented by a randomized combination of letters and numbers, and by a little rounded version of your country’s flag. The game, while in beta, had assigned your country to you based on your IP address, but concerns over user privacy prior to the game’s official release led them to scrap this. Instead, players could select what country they were represented by, and you could change this once per play session, right before you started playing. The developers believed, and said so in interviews, that most people identified more with a country they didn’t live in than with the one in which they did, and that the game was perhaps so successful because it respected the diasporic nature of identity and migration (the game included Palestine, Taiwan, and Kosovo, among other countries with limited international recognition, as options for players) and that sometimes people want to play for the other team, so to speak, if only temporarily.

Of course, this meant that the gameplay, on a daily basis, revolved around keeping players who selected places like the United States and Israel (trolls making it public that they “obviously” weren’t from there) from topping the leaderboard, or selecting places like Palestine or Taiwan (activists making it known that they were doing so to increase the countries' visibility) in order to cover the leaderboard in their chosen flags. Teams formed in group chats or on Discord; each day brought a new country v. country battle. Some were obvious: one week saw the Top 1000 leaderboard almost exclusively comprised of users whose chosen flags were either Colombia's or Romania's, simply because they were nearly identical. Others were inexplicable: early on, for example, an unspoken enmity had begun between Swiss and Somali players, and never ended, such that every so often, totally unexpectedly, white crosses and white stars would flood the leaderboard for a few hours, then vanish almost entirely. Reportedly, neither a Swiss nor Somali player had yet to place a win with the country's flag (wins were, at that point, tracked on sites that aggregated content about the game, which were popular since they tended to report on which country vs. country match-offs were trending over the course of any given day) because influencers from other countries liked to score wins with either the Swiss or Somali flag in an attempt to go viral, which often worked.

It was obvious that nationalism was key to the game’s success. Knock-offs that allowed players to make up new countries or be represented by the flags of fictional places—Middle Earth, Westeros, Hogwarts—didn’t have the same allure. That you could only win as an existing country, but that this included countries without total sovereignty, was why its audience grew into the billions. At its peak, January 1 of its second year in existence, 2.5 billion people, a third of humanity, all played together at the exact same time between 11:00 AM and 12:00 PM UTC. (As many had predicted and moaned about, a player represented by the Canadian flag won that day, due to a months-long campaign run by Canadian players lobbying aggressively for the world’s best players to choose Canada on that first of January, which fell on the first Saturday after the scheduled release of a highly anticipated update that added a long-term leaderboard that ranked countries based on how many times players who had chosen them had won. Though Canada indeed became the first country to appear on that leaderboard, it quickly tumbled down the chart as resentment over the stunt ensured, that, for many months, players represented by the Canadian flag almost never won. The top of this new scoreboard, of course, centralized around a few countries that players generally preferred, either because of what their flags looked like or represented, or because they had obvious enemies to fuel match-ups. These included Macedonia, Palestine, Bhutan, and the United States.)

It was the Olympics democratized. It was international war fought with well-timed taps on a smartphone screen or keyboard. It was absolutely meaningless and yet dominated so much of so many people’s time. Worse, it remained on their minds, all the time, throughout every single day, like an irremovable stain, even when they weren’t playing.

Even if they didn’t play at all.

*

No one ever ended the day with no points before the game shut down, though someone did come close. It seemed impossible as it played out, even as accusations of cheating failed to quell players’ excitement: hundreds of millions, probably more, watched the player’s score continue to drop lower and lower over the course of the day — tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands, then, millions below its closest competitor. The lowest final score on record had been somewhere around 132 million, a triumph that had astounded fans and made the player who won that day, and who revealed herself publicly as the winner, a household name across the planet. No one else, in the full year since, had come anywhere close to dethroning her.

Now someone (a player who never made themselves known, even after winning) had gotten so much further. The speed at which this player’s score fell was so fast that it seemed certain they would “win,” whatever that meant; just a few minutes before noon UTC, their score was just over a million and plummeting.

But when the reset finally came, the score screeched to a halt a moment too soon. You could almost feel humanity let out a collective groan.

Still, the feat was unignorable. It left those who knew the game best speechless. 105? That was possible? Players, online, reeled with shock, dreaming up all kinds of new strategies that that day’s winner must've used to win, assuming they hadn't cheated.

Whatever the winner had done, it upset the developers. Though the pair wrote in a press release that the player hadn't cheated, and that they'd reached out to the player to allow them to verify this, and that they had indeed verified it, they also reported that the player did not wish to make their identity known, or even discuss the game further, and that their interactions with the player, and how close the player had come to the game’s seemingly unreachable endpoint, had made the developers decide to shut down the game. They said it was because any attempt to get a lower score would go against the game’s philosophy: once it had been made clear that the game could be beaten, there was no reason for anyone to play anymore.

Players rioted.

94 people were killed in demonstrations around the world, all beginning at 12:00 PM UTC the day after the record had been set, the first day the game was unavailable to play since its official launch. Almost 11 thousand people were arrested across 5 continents, many while draped in the flags of their (or their preferred) countries.

None of it mattered. The developers publicly called for peace and diplomacy, but the game and its knock-offs were banned overnight in every country in which they had been available.

Eventually, finally, former players stopped caring, and people moved on to the next viral app. Since then, no game has beat its record for highest number of global concurrent players. The way the game had ended had been so shocking (traumatic, even), it was doubtful that many people would ever embark, together, on any kind of similar experience again. The only way to beat the record set by the game itself, some theorized, would be to make a game that appealed to and involved absolutely everyone, amassing far more than 2.5 billion devotees, by going as far and as hard as the 1 (unknown) player who’d almost gotten to 0; by trying, even if quixotically, to get all (or nearly all) the people on the planet to do the exact same thing at the exact same time.

START

length: 628 words

content/trigger warning: discussion of technofascism

---

Sam says something like: genius attempts to democratize excellence, willfully ignorant to the consequences.

Genius is “move fast and break things.”

Easier in art than in other things. To break it is to point and cry, “Art!” (which anyone can do at any time).

Technofascism is not “move fast and break things.” They say it is. They say a lot of things, but technofascism is semblances. Appearances. Technofascism is all surface; it's sponcon; it's advertising. Technofascism epitomizes propaganda. Propaganda is not fast. Context is fast. If I know you and care about you, I will take whatever you tell me seriously even if I tell you and myself I do not. Propaganda is slow and ineffective (it only needs a single convert, after all).

Technofascists want to move fast and break things but they don't. Genius does. Stevie is the closest technofascists ever got to genius, though of course he didn't even come close. He got closer than any technofascist before him because he thought himself an artist (lol). But he did nearly destroy the planet and humanity in the process. Many technofascists lionize him; they'll even tell you this story. But they don't know how to read it. They only know semblances, appearances. They don't get the subtext.

(I'm skipping over a lot—an example of genius. I didn't come up with this up myself so don't credit me for it, but if I tell you I'm skipping over a lot and still claim you're reading an essay, that is almost genius. It threatens to democratize excellence: someone who reads this can then go write an essay and decide they want to skip over a lot, and say so, and it will still be an essay. When their essay is better than mine, and someone reads it, and writes an essay better than theirs, that essay will probably be excellent. Remember, I didn't come up with this; thank Joan, or maybe the strict word limits of magazines—to make room for the ads, of course.)

Sam says something like: the next genius will teach genius. Will be genius at teaching. I don't know about that. If art is inherently collaborative, teaching epitomizes collaboration, or maybe learning does, and anyways genius and collaboration are incompatible (hence my obsession with it; collaboration, I mean).

I think Sam's fibbing. Sam's genius is that of restraint; Sam could write every book ever written 100 times over, but chooses to write a few (dozen). This is the genius of restraint. I sense, in his formulation (buried in the middle of a book, at the end of a letter), the genius of restraint. There's something else he wants to say, maybe only: beware.

Sam says the consequences of attempting to democratize excellence are grim (you can't spell eugenics without genius). Excellence is indecipherable at first, which means interpretation leans on appearances. Soon all that's left is surface minus substance, expression minus meaning, warmth minus care. Genius attempts to democratize excellence, but always ultimately fails; oppression compels mimicry, and muddles comprehension, because no one has enough time. (The only one who benefits is Kath—because she has the time.)

You could know everything there is to know, if you only had the time.

(But you already know it; you live. This is what I mean when I say everyone is clairvoyant: everyone can be genius but everyone is already clairvoyant.)

None of this is new; it's all already out there. I found my way here through Sam; that's what I mean when I say learning is collaboration.

Collaboration is “move slow and heal things.”

Collaboration is time democratized. Or—fuck that fucking word—collaboration is timeshared. Time together. Time cherished.

Genius is incompatible with collaboration. Good.

length: 50 words

content/trigger warning: references to settler colonialism and suicidal ideation

---

Like sticky notes you might leave around the house:

“Move car by 11”

“Drs appt Wed 1pm”

“Beware the company u keep”

“Who told u martyrdom was it”

“Talent = colonial instrument”

It's good to have a trail of breadcrumbs to follow, to lead you home when you are lost.

length: 32 images

---

zoomed-in photo of a blue second-story window, stacks of books piled on the sill, taken through a lattice of branches and leaves. taken near the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023, on a bright, sunny day.

night shot of some street in robledo off of Highland Street, the street sign on the left edge of the frame. flash illuminates the asphalt in the foreground which darkens and yellows into the distance under scattered streetlights and silhouettes of palm trees. taken near the robledo art, strike headquarters, february 2023.

photo, top-down, of a wooden plank on which sits something sculpted, yellow and cross-hatched and curved, a green tear-shaped jewel encrusted at right, above a cutout reading, “(6) IDENTITY LABELS In war you should carry about with you your name and address clearly written. This should be on an envelope, card or luggage label, not on some odd piece of paper easily lost. In the case of children a label should be fastened, e.g. sewn, on to their clothes, in such a way that it will not readily become detached.” under the plank an assortment of zines and books. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters in february 2023.

photo of a wooden plank, curved at left, black disc off of the right. on the plank, yellow rectangle post-its reading (from top to bottom), “check all emails”, “TRIPLE CHECK NAMES!”, “MOM CLASS”, “CAR BY 11”, “invoice for alks”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of the middle of the spines of six books, the second reads “Was Your Plag”, the fourth reads “the new trans erotic EDITED BY T”, the fifth “oria Law and China Martens”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of pill bottles, a small bottle that reads “RESTORE CANNABIS WHOLE FLOW DOCTOR FORMULA 3:1 CBD-RICH Net Wt. 30 mL / 1.0 fl oz”, and in the background, a box that reads “Albuterol Sulfate HFA”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

photo of a black Rhodia notebook next to a stack of books, spines partially visible, the top one reading “AN ABOLITIONIST'S”, the second “Reinfurt A *New* Program”, the third “WARRIOR PRINCESSES STRIKE BACK”. AirPods Pro in the background beside a bag of binder clips. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of an open black glasses case with red Ray-Ban eyeglasses sitting inside, next to a bunch of crumpled Post-Its with writing on them, a few words legible: “to those in... out fold”, “Stripe”, “1. edit all in”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

photo of a bunch of pens, mechanical pencils, and a pink highlighter on a red tableclothed desk, across from a black desk atop which sits a box of #10 security envelopes. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of a yellow-orange surface, atop which sits a stack of ReadyPost 99-cent shipping labels and a baby blue sheet that reads “45TH IN A SERIES”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of stacks of paper wrapped in covering that reads, from top to bottom: “Premium Plus Photo Paper”, “PHOTO PAPER”, “cop”, “& print”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of the spines of ten books, most words on them visible, from top to bottom: “MOORCOCK THE END OF ALL SON”, “SIMPSON AS WE HAVE ALWAYS DONE”, “Now The Invisible Committee”, “To Our Friends The Invisible Committee”, “WILLIAMS BIZUP Style Lessons in Clarity and Grace Eleventh Editi”, “AN ALIEN HEAT Moorcock”, “HE HOLLOWS LANDS MOORCOCK”, “italo calvino If on a winter's night a traveler”, “The Modern Arabic Short Story Mohammad Shaheen Second Edition”, “The Norton Anthology of LITERATURE BY WOMEN ECOND EDITION andra M. Gilbert Susan Gubar”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

photo of a wall, sun flare at the top-right corner above a book with the spine reading “OSAMU”, a LED string light handing down the middle of the frame, plastic red flowers on brown branches at bottom-right, one of them reaching across the frame and leaning against a pink book that reads, on the back, at the top, “A Naked Singularity tells the story of Casi...”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of two black-and-white zines, one cover an illustration of two people sitting on a dock talking and smiling, one with a cap, the other with glasses and a flannel, the part of the title in frame reading, “LEA GOOD CO”, the other zine's cover three repeating frames of an illustrated bearded figure wearing suspenders and a bowtie falling after being hit with a starburst beside, the second and third starbursts with words inside: “FUCK ABUSE”, “KILL POWER”. taken at the robledo art, strike! headquarters, february 2023.

close-up photo of a stack of four books and a zine on a red tableclothed desk, the bottom one aquamarine with the spine reading “ARCHAIA”, the next one mint green, the next purple with a black dust jacket, on the spine a yellow canary, the letters “ALINE” visible, the top book with only a white-outlined su