Erica Rivera

length: 4,580 words

content/trigger warning: discussions of mental health, state/police violence, white supremacy, imperialism, transitioning, mass shooters, workplace harassment/abuse, transphobia, and the ethics of monetizing your trauma, reference to a teacher sexually harassing their students, use of a homophobic slur

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Name Last, First: 

Rivera, Erica

Preferred Name: 

Erica Rivera

E-mail Address: 

RiveraErica AT pm DOT me

Preferred Pronoun: 

she/her

Contact Phone Number: 

555-555-5555 (like in the movies)

Alternate Phone Number: 

n/a

Address: 

123 Anywhere Road, Anytown, USA

How long have you lived at this address? 

Whole life

What languages do you speak?

English, Spanish, Spanglish

What hobbies, skills or knowledge do you bring? 

My skill is I can turn anything into art; my hobby is turning everything into art; I don’t really have any knowledge, though

If you are under age 18, do you have a work permit? 

n/a

Position Desired: 

Any

Wage Requirements: 

None (I mean, pay me something, above minimum wage obviously, but like, whatever is fine, I just cannot keep working from home or I will literally implode)

Type of Employment desired: 

Full Time (30 hrs+)

Do you have any travel plans scheduled or tentatively planned for November or December? 

Yes

If yes, please elaborate: 

Seasonal Affective Disorder

Date available to start work: 

Today

Have you ever applied here before? 

No

When: 

n/a

Have you worked for our company before? 

If the difference between “here” in the preceding question and “our company” in this one is a series of shell corporations, then yes, I probably worked for a company that owns a company that owns a company that owns yours, or something, at some point

If yes, dates employed: 

Whole life

Supervisor: 

Everyone (no one?)

Are you related to anyone in our employ? 

I don’t know, I don’t talk to most of my family members

Name: 

Assume I’m related to everyone in your employ

Were you referred? 

No

If so, by whom: 

n/a

How many days of work did you miss last year, other than for an approved leave or vacation? 

365

Reasons (If absences were medical, please only indicate “medical reasons” or “sick days”. Do not provide specific medical conditions.): 

“Medical reasons”/“sick days”

Do you have experience working on a cash register? 

Yes, but only those digital ones that look like iPads

Why would you like to work here? What are your expectations of having a job here? 

I walked into your bookstore to buy any poetry book by makalani bandele or a compilation of works by Tennessee Williams and I promised myself I wouldn’t allow myself to buy anything else or spend any amount of time browsing because I only detoured and came here on a whim, and I am trying to learn to trust my whims more instead of talk myself out of them (I can talk myself out of—or into—anything, which I learned far too late is a very, very bad thing); for example, two days earlier I was driving past a library that I am pretty sure Octavia E. Butler used to frequent, and because I had checked out Customs by Solmaz Sharif—from another library that I am pretty sure Octavia E. Butler used to frequent—and because the copy of Customs had, inside it, a postcard with a collage/illustration on the front of the former library, and because I had never visited the latter library, and because I am trying to learn to trust my whims, and because I keep hoping I’ll find makalani bandele in a library (his work, I mean), I decide to stop and park and go inside. I don’t find any poetry at first except “the classics,” which I already read in high school and hate, so I loop around the library a dozen times before I realize the poetry I’m looking for is all mixed in with poetry targeted at children (Owed by Joshua Bennett, which I check out, for example, is next to a compilation of Shel Silverstein’s, which doesn’t make any Dewey Decimal sense, so I flip the latter—for many reasons—so that the binding is facing the wall and no one can tell that it’s there) and I grab a few that look interesting (South Flight by Jasmine Elizabeth Smith, which I read a single poem from that evening, and have to spend the entire rest of the night processing it, and The Animal Too Big to Kill by Shane McCrae, which has a striking, [sur/hyper]realistic cover that makes me scared to even open it, and Time is a Mother by Ocean Vuong, which I only get because I want to see what the hype is about and not because I think Ocean Vuong is particularly good or interesting, I hear him say in a YouTube video, “This was the book I had to write so I could write the rest,” and I turn the video off because I know the book he’s talking about and I’ve always felt it was tailor-made for white readers and if you want to tailor-make a book for white readers about your super sexily traumatic non-white life because you absolutely have to, then sure, write it, fine, but don’t fucking publish or promote it, I mean, c’mon) and then spot, on a shelf on my way out, A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, which I have never read but have been thinking about because the New York Times, which I am trying to divest from completely but always fail to, runs an article on their homepage one day called “A Streetcar Undesirable,” or something foolish like that, and I don’t even read the article (I rationalize my procrastination re:total divestment by saying, well, I’ll just skim the headlines to make sure nothing horrible’s about to happen except that something horrible is about to happen—and happens—every day, many, many horrible things—today, the release of the video of Tyre Nichols being assassinated, a few days ago the mass shooting ten miles from my former workplace and the day before that the mass shooting twelve miles south of where I am, and last week, [REDACTED] murdered for [REDACTED], and the week before, [REDACTED] murdered for being alive, although, of course, the New York Times does not cover [REDACTED]’s or [REDACTED]’s deaths, maybe if there were video footage, maybe if we could watch it happen, maybe if we could have seen it coming, why are murder and assassination and police/state violence only clickable when the Times says so, but then the people who need to know about the murders of [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] already know about them, and the people who still read the New York Times are not people who need to know, not people whose knowing would benefit anyone or anything, or effect any kind of meaningful change, and maybe I am still one of these people since I have yet to fully divest from their ugly, jingoistic rag, so, you know, don’t listen to me—and the difference is that now I have to know about it and I know this not sustainable for me, or anyone, which is why I wish we would all divest from the Times, but also journalism/news, generally) but I do think about Tennessee Williams, and when I see the copy of A Streetcar Named Desire, I think, well, per-fect, now I can see what the hype about him is about, and although I am far less skeptical of Williams than I am of Vuong, I am still very skeptical of Williams because any author popular enough to be part of a canon (any canon) I am always very skeptical of, but after I start reading it later that night, I understand the hype completely (I don’t even get more than five pages in before I understand the hype completely, and immediately put him squarely at the center of my own personal—ever-evolving—canon) and then I read him interview himself, a self-interview that makes the awful, disgusting, horrifyingly homophobic self-interview I read in James Franco’s book of bullshit the week prior (in a used bookstore, desafortunadamente for Solmaz Sharif, right next to a copy of her Look, which almost makes me cry; Look does, I mean, because my entire life I thought I was crazy because I would take random bits of detritus from life and the world, in print, and use them as a jumping off point for writing that weaves through everything hidden between the lines of the original work, or works, and I have only recently found a way to turn this into something productive when I start working in the medium of poetry/found art but now I realize, no, I’m not crazy, I’m just an artist/poet, and also trans) look like a pile of literal human feces, and not in a hot, fetish-y way, and I know that I want to read everything Tennessee Williams has ever written, especially the plays that no one’s ever heard of, perhaps only the plays that no one’s ever heard of. Then I read the timeline of his life and see he was institutionalized and I feel I need to read everything he’s ever written, especially the plays that no one’s ever heard of, definitely only the plays that no one’s ever heard of. I tell myself, for the dozenth time after walking into your bookstore, I will only buy any poetry book by makalani bandele or a compilation of works by Tennessee Williams because I do not want the fact that I have some spare change to allow me to treat the world as though I have some spare change and, desafortunadamente for me, there is no makalani bandele (his work, I mean) but there is a book on radical trans poetics and I’m not even sure what that means but I know I will buy it because, earlier that week, on a whim, I had clicked on a poem I see on a social media website despite the fact that the person posting it posts “CW” but doesn't actually say what content I am being warned about so I assume it means the content warning will be on the page I am being led to except it is not and I am slapped in the face with [the T-slur, plural] as the big bold title of the poem, and I’m not mad at the writer of the poem because the poem is incredible and a reclamation (the poem shares its title with a book, kind of: the book is called “[the T-slur, plural]” and the poem is called “[the T-slur, plural] by Larry Kramer”), a skewering of a text about trans people by someone who is, according to the poem, decidedly not trans, and the poem is written by Kay Gabriel and when I search for her on DuckDuckGo I find an ArtForum piece about her top ten (top ten what, I am never told) and either I love everything I see on her list after I check it out or I have already checked it out before and loved it and I think, Jesus, this is just like when I was 18 and discovered all my favorite authors as a child were gay except now I am twice that age and discovering that all my favorite art as an adolescent/adult has been trans as fuck, whatever that means; maybe it would more accurate to say that my favorite art as an adolescent/adult has some kind of particular appeal for trans people, examples on Kay Gabriel’s list that I already know and love include Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, the book (I have been working on an exegesis of the works of Samuel R. Delany, because his work is critical for understanding the ethics of art-making, as well as Octavia E. Butler’s, because I live in the city in which much of Parable of the Sower is set, and also Antonin Artaud’s, because I think he was trans and also because he was institutionalized, and finally, a trans writer’s whose name will not be in their exegesis, because I think their work is incredibly, maybe lethally, dangerous) and Dog Day Afternoon, the movie, and Candy Darling, the person, and Gossip Girl, the show—a book I reference as similar in the pitch for my first book before I delete it (the pitch, I mean; the book I “had to write so I could write the rest” but after I am done writing and editing it I destroy it multiple times, i.e., I delete all digital copies and drafts, among other things, until the only copies left are on paper, loose and scrawled all over, and in a bag I take with me almost everywhere I go because I have this whim that I will need it someday for something even though I know I will never publish it or show it to anyone, and I am trying to learn to trust my whims) is Charlie Markbreiter’s Gossip Girl Fanfiction Novella, which when I find out about it I don’t have enough money to buy it but its mere existence almost makes me cry, because my entire life I thought I was crazy because I would take random bits of detritus from life and the world, in print, and turn them into fanfictional fabulations and queered/transed reclamations, and I have only recently found a way to turn this into something productive when I start working in the medium of hybrid/autofiction but now I realize, no, I’m not crazy, I’m just an artist/poet, and also trans, and that, of course, I learn this in my 30's as I am transitioning instead of as an adolescent/adult, when I wish I had had the language and resources to transition, or as a child, when I really wish I had had the language and resources to transition, and Kay Gabriel is one of the co-editors of the book on radical trans poetics so I buy it and when I take the book to the counter, ultra-paranoid about how I will be treated (I am already looking more femme than I have my entire life, and I notice later I am wearing a shirt that accentuates my breasts and highlights my nipples—I joke, over the last few years, that I get fat so that my boobs will get bigger, and later I realize this is not a joke at all—and I do not want to be hate-crimed at a fucking bookstore, this is how fucking ultra-paranoid I always am when I am in public—who am I kidding, I am equally ultra-paranoid at home, too—even though I still pass pretty hard as cis/male—albeit a faggy, mildly androgynous cis male—and the beard doesn’t help but when I try shaving it off I feel super dysphoric because I like my beard and I don’t want to lose it, though when I try shaving my arms—technically just the left one, to start with—I feel a flood of gender euphoria except that then I realize I can’t wear short-sleeves in front of the few family members I see regularly because they will ask questions and I am not ready for the questions they will be asking me oh-so-often, soon) the cashier not only doesn’t treat me weird but also they refer to me as “they” when they pass me off to another employee who can help me put in a special order for the collected works of Tennessee Williams and this is the most gender-affirming moment of my entire life thus far (even though technically I use she/her pronouns) and I almost cry right there in the bookstore (not really, I am still too nervous while in public interacting with strangers to feel any emotion except fear; I cry later, at home, reading Cam Awkward-Rich’s “Everywhere We Look, There We Are” because my entire life I thought I was crazy because I would take random bits of detritus from life and the world, in print, and chop them up and rearrange them like fucking anagrams and I have only recently found a way to turn this into something productive when I start working in the medium of collage/assemblage but now I realize, no, I’m not crazy, I’m just an artist/poet, and also trans, and also not really re:the crying because I don’t cry at this point either but I know I’m going to cry about it, I am waiting to cry about it, I want bigger breasts and a vagina and I think I will probably cry after I get those things—are those even “things” that one really “gets,” words often fail me here, and by “words,” I mean colonial conceptions of gender/identity—and I mean, if that can’t make a girl cry then call me Ariana Grande because apparently I too have no tears left to cry) and that is why I want to work at your bookstore. My expectations are that I will come in and do what you tell me and get paid for it.

On a scale of 1-10 with 10 being the luckiest, how lucky do you consider yourself to be in life? 

10. 10. Tens across the board.

What is the most important thing you look for in a job? 

For in-person work, a workplace that a mass shooter is not likely to target, and with enough entrances and exits to allow for easy escape, or enough good hiding places so that everyone inside at any given time can find a good hiding place so no one has to die (can you imagine a mass shooter walking into a place and everyone hiding so well that they literally just walk around and then leave because they, like, assume everyone’s on break or something, lol, lol, please for the love of God fucking lol with me before we both start crying)

How do you handle conflict? Describe a recent experience that was negative. How did you deal with that situation? What would you do differently? 

[REDACTED]. I deal with it very badly. Nevertheless, please do not pity the sad, confused trans writer re:[REDACTED]; please do not pity me for anything on this application. Job applications, like works of art, are not for exploiting or profiting off of one’s (sob) story. Trans people are quite capable of hurting others—“We’re just like them!”—and it is not—it is never—that I hurt someone “when I was cis,” I have always been trans and when I hurt people in the past I was trans when I hurt them even if I didn’t know I was trans yet. What I would do differently is [REDACTED], or [REDACTED], either would be better than how things played out.

What are some of the things your last employer could have done to be more successful? 

Not have used racial slurs. Not have embarked on racist rants. Not have been an alt-right troll with a Stanford degree and enough marginalizations to guarantee no one in his inner circle would ever question him. Not have made people cry by yelling at them.

What are some of the things your last employer could have done to keep you? 

See previous answer

What three adjectives would your past employers use to describe you? 

Trouble (sorry, I know that’s a noun, but you see what I mean???), thoughtful, creative

What was the last book you read? What books or other products we carry would you recommend? 

The last book I read from cover to cover was Heroes by Franco Berardi although it has been, like, five years since I’ve read a book from cover to cover and even Heroes I think I technically skipped at least one or two chapters of (I didn’t read it in order, I read like a few pages or a chapter every few months for, like, five years, because it is so fucking intense of a book, although I do read the last few pages, like, fifty times over the course of those five years). No one should ever feel obligated to read a book cover to cover, or really to read books at all. Books I would recommend include [REDACTED] by [REDACTED] (also referred to, sometimes, I think, as [REDACTED]), but technically that’s a zine, [REDACTED] by [REDACTED] (or anything directed by [REDACTED], I think), but technically that’s a movie, and the titular track on the [REDACTED] soundtrack by [REDACTED] that is mostly just [REDACTED] saying some of the lines from the show, although technically that’s a song slash spoken word track. Any of these are better than any book or novel I’ve ever read or encountered. Other products you carry that I would recommend include the overpriced blueberry mocktail I have to buy in order to be allowed to sit in the bar in the bookstore when I go there to write, which I only do twice, which is, like, $20 I could have spent on books, so, like, maybe rethink the whole “replacing the space that used to be public seating, for customers to sit in and read, with a bar with lots of seating that no one is allowed to sit in except for the, like, three hours a day every other day that the bar is actively staffed” situation.

What kind of work environment do you thrive in? What kind of work environment are you uncomfortable with? 

Thrive: one where I am paid. Uncomfortable: one with (cis) white people who don’t know when to not to try to befriend non-cis/non-white people.

What would you do if you witnessed a fellow employee stealing? 

If it was more than ten dollars, I would tell them to be more careful, or offer to spot them next time and/or actively distract our supervisor(s), especially if they are after something significantly more valuable. Also, the inclusion of this question on the application (for a fucking bookstore, I mean, c’mon, you should be begging people to steal, at least it would mean people are fucking reading) is why I decide to turn this into a story (or poem, or hybrid, or creative nonfiction, or whatever) instead of actually applying, so, like, maybe another thing to rethink, but then obviously what the fuck do I know.

High school: 

[REDACTED]

School City, State: 

[REDACTED]

Did you graduate: 

Yes

Grade Point Average: 

3.6

Last Year Completed: 

12

Courses you liked best: 

Intro to Film Studies, Intro to Videotechnology, DNA Science I, Intro to Computer Science, Intro to Psychology, Intro to Photography—my teacher was a gross pervy skeeze but it was the class in which I learned how to compose a photograph, which is probably the most useful thing artists can learn how to do, other than go to therapy, or honestly assess the power(s) they have and take, and the damage(s) they probably relatedly do

Extra Activities/Honors: 

[REDACTED AF]

College: 

[REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED]

Full Time/Part Time: 

Depends on which [REDACTED] you’re asking about

School City, State: 

[REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED], [REDACTED]

Degree Received: 

None

Grade Point Average: 

3.6

Last Year Completed: 

SR

Major/Minor Courses: 

History, Economics, Political Science, Political Economy, Sociology, Psychology, Ethnic Studies, Gender and Women’s Studies, LGBTQ Studies, Middle Eastern Studies, Eastern European Studies, African American Studies, Chicano/Chicana Studies (I imagine they use Chicanx now, but who knows, I’ve always liked Xicanx, but, like, you know, “Chicanismo” is a real hot mess, or whatever, so who cares), Mexican/Latin American Studies (I imagine they use Latinx now, but who knows, I’ve always liked Latine, but, like, you know, “Latinidad” is a real hot mess, or whatever, so who cares), Asian American Studies, Native American Studies, Computer Science, Math, Biology, Physics, Cognitive Science, Journalism, Media Studies, Film Studies, Theatre/Performance Studies, English, Russian, French, Spanish, Rhetoric, Comparative Literature, Studio Art, Science, Technology, and Society (STS) Studies, Peace and Conflict Studies, Environmental Studies, Geography, Urban Studies, Architecture, Legal Studies, Business, Music

Extra Activities/Honors: 

I signed an NDA, sorry

What plans do you have for continuing your education? 

Making more art, looking at more art, more therapy, lots more therapy, pretty much all the therapy I can find/afford

Employment History: 

[A bunch of questions for which the answers are all n/a]

In the early days, before your home is broken, you hardly notice me. It was better to not be noticed. It is better to not be noticed. (You do know me from somewhere.) If you’re noticed, then you’re known, and soon then you’ll be loved. To be loved is a calamity for someone with my job. I have work to do. Work. Work makes love impossible. Work will try to see the words before it’s finished.

What is your job (work will ask it)?

And you will ask:

“What is my job?”

References: 

n/a

Hours of Availability: 

Literally any day, any time

In connection with your Application for Employment, or if hired, at any time during your employment, we may conduct an investigation seeking information about you and your background.

Okay.

I certify that answers given herein are true and complete to the best of my knowledge. I authorize investigation of all my statements contained within this application for employment as may be necessary in arriving at an employment decision. I hereby understand and acknowledge that, any employment relationship with this organization is of an “at will” nature, which means the Employee may resign at any time and the Employer may discharge Employee at any time with or without cause. It is further understood that this “at will” employment relationship may not be changed by any written document or by conduct. Only the President of this organization has the authority to enter into an agreement for employment for any specified period of time which is binding only if it is in writing and signed by the President (President??? President of what?! Oh, fucking, like, President of “this organization,” I see that above now, sorry, I’m, like, skimming the shit out of this part). In the event of employment, I understand that false or misleading information given in my application or interview may result in discharge. I also understand that I am required to abide by all rules and regulations of the employer.

Fine.

Signature: 

Erica Rivera

Date: 

January 28, 2023

This company reserves the right to conduct pre-employment and employment drug testing for illegal drugs. Qualified applicants receive consideration for employment without discrimination based on age, disability, genetic information, sexual orientation, national origin, pregnancy, race, ancestry, perceived pregnancy, color, marital status, medical condition, religion, gender, gender identity, citizenship, breastfeeding, medical conditions related to breastfeeding, or any other characteristic protected by state or federal law.

Sure.

length: ? words

content/trigger warning: discussion of mental illness, ableism, and mainstream poetry, depiction of psychosis and the capital-nation-state's monopoly on violence

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is

a co-optationononopeoplen

sopsychosis
depepsychosisded

that'bads   

poetrpoetryy is

so 

their so
whocopsychosisuldnt'be
becauonssof
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dpenwhywhyded if 

it

length: 48 words

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a dandelion dropping

petals until all there is

is core.

a sunflower spinning

so fast its petals

rise and fall like snow.

a forest rushed with wind,

a tornado made of

pines.

a planet always spins:

turns, but no

returns.

a song that repeats.

a song

that repeats.

length: 4 images

This piece was published in Issue 3 of manywor(l)ds in February 2024.

content/trigger warning: depiction of psychosis from the perspective of someone who is always experiencing psychosis, just like you do

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self-portrait

colors stream across a brown background streaked with vertical white; fire at top-right, fenced by black lines. at top: text, “would you endure.” at bottom: sideways cut-out of a text on surviving nuclear war.

river

blues, greens, purples, flow out of and into red suns. black lines like a bar graph across the bottom half.

essay

colors are meaningless. only words matter. many are cut off but one can read: “exposure,” “fallout,” “surface,” “earth,” “elements,” “beta,” “skin,” “X-rays,” “shields,” and “radioactivity.”

i don't who i am

the first image but upside-down. the black lines stacked like a kid's toy. text is meaningless. colors flow in different directions; to and from where is anybody's guess.

length: 28 words

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do you write from within a place?

you write from within a place.

you write from

with

in a place.

you write.

from within a place

you,

write.

length: 1,380 words

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?

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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, we are going to make mistakes in our jobs, our collaborators 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.

improvisation scares 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? improvisation isn’t about knowing what to play next. it’s about being so in sync with the people and world and music around, there's only one note you can possibly play next. it’s not about making it up as you go, it’s about being so clairvoyant the next note comes to you as though 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 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 their pains and their pleasures, we can notice the mistakes we inevitably make, and then hear ourselves play different and better notes, bringing the band back together 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 all up and make us 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 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 they explain that, yes, it was heading toward egoism but that they are so glad i have found people with whom i feel comfortable (and who i can help by) sharing about something so personal like my health, like the people in the old magazines who know that 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 obsessive 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 more and/or less (than) 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.

length: 2,014 words

#fiction

content warning/trigger warning: discussions of mental health, excessive usage of the words “crazy” and “insane”

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Darkness.

Soft lights fade up on stage. Bright spotlight turns on suddenly, center of the circular stage. Into the spotlight steps a masked woman, facing the audience. From a spot on the ground in front of her a small hole opens up and a microphone rises, slowly then more quickly, until it is just a few centimeters directly in front of her mouth. She speaks.

“One.”

Then:

“Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy insane. Insane. Insane. Insane. Crazy insane.”

She pauses, then says:

“Two.”

Then:

“Crazy. Crazy? Insane. Crazy. Crazy insane. Crazy insane. Crazy insane? Crazy crazy. Crazy crazy crazy. Insane. Insane.”

Quietly, she says:

“Crazy.”

Then at a louder volume:

“Crazy insane. Insane, crazy. Insane. Crazy insane crazy insane crazy insane.”

A beat, then:

“Crazy.”

Another pause, then she says:

“Three.”

Then:

“Insane. Unsane. Insane. Unsane. Crazy? Insane. Unsane. Crazy unsane. Crazy insane? Crazy insane.”

More quietly, almost a whisper:

“Insane. Crazy.”

Then, louder again:

“Crazy insane, crazy unsane, uncrazy and sane. Crazy. Insane. Unsane.”

Another pause, then:

“Four.”

And:

“Crazy insane.”

Quietly:

“Crazy insane?”

Loudly:

“Crazy insane. Crazy insane. Crazy insane.”

Beat, then:

“Five.”

And:

“Insane: crazy. Crazy? Insane. Insane. Insane! Crazy, crazy insane, crazy crazy insane. Crazy crazy crazy. In crazy? Insane crazy. In crazy insane. In crazy sane. In crazy sane. I’m crazy sane.

Crazy.”

Then:

“Six.”

Then:

“Crazy crazy craze. Insane craze. Crazy insane craze. Crazy insane crave. Craving crazy craze. Grazing crazy craze. Insane. Insane, crazy, crave. Craving craze. Crazy craving craze crazing crazies. Insane. Crazy. Crazy to crave. Crazy to graze. Crazy to grave. Grazing to craze. Creasing to craze. Insane. Crazy. Crazier craze to crave crazing when crazier crazes have grazed our graves far more crazily. Insane. Insane crazy. In some crazy. Insane; crazy.”

And:

“Seven.”

And:

“Crazy graze. Crazy grave. Grazy grays. Crazy crave. Crazy insane. Crazy insane. Crazy in grave. Crazy engraved. Crazy in graves, crazy in grays, crazy in gays. Crazy in gaze. Crazy I gave. Crazy I slayed. Crazy I spate. Crazy I saved. Crazy I say. Crazy I stay. Crazy insane. Crazy engrayed. Crazy engayed. Crazy and saved. Crazy in grains. Crazy in gray. Crazy in gay. Crazy in gape. Crazy in gains. Crazy insane. Crazy insane. Crazy instay.”

No beat, right to:

“Eight.”

And:

“Crazy insane is crazy to say. Crazy insane is crazy to say. Crazy to stay. Crazy too staid. Crazy too stained. Crazy too, say? Crazy crazy: crazy two,” then quietly: “Stay.” Then, “Crazy insane. Crazy insane. Crazy in spades. Crazy and spayed. Crazy in spates. Crazy in paints. Crazy in pain. Crazy in pain. Crazy in pain, crazy is pain, crazy insane. Crazy insane! Crazy insane. Crazy is safe. Crazy is saved. Crazy and straight. Crazy and gay. Crazy and slain. Crazy is pain. Crazy is pay. Crazy enpained. Crazy insane.”

Quicker:

“Nine.”

Quicker:

“Crazy enslained, crazy explained, crazy insane, crazy explained, crazy crazy crazy insane, crazy, explain, crazy, inplain, crazy is plain,” quieter but with no pause, “Crazy is plain,” then loud again, louder than even before, “Crazy is pain?! But crazy explains, and crazy ends pain, but crazy is pay, and payzy is crane, so crany is zane, crazy in zane, crazy is zane, cazey is rain, razey is crane, crazy insane, crazy in rain—kay, see? Insane. Creasy insane, greasy insane, grainy in grain, razor engrained, really quite crazy insane,” now she’s practically shouting, “Ten, crazy: explain! Crazy is sane, crazy in sane is crazy insane, crazy in crazy insane is in crazy sane crazy craze, crazy in crazy sane insane is in insane crazy sane craze! Sine?! Cosine! Crazy and signed! Crazy cosigned! Crazy cocaine, crazy insane, crazy go sane, crazy gets cane, crazy to crave insane crazy craze! Crazy crazy crazy insane!!!” almost screamed, and then a long inhale, and then, in a quiet whisper:

“Crazy explained.”

And:

“Crazy end pain.”

And she’s done.

Lights dim, rousing applause from the audience, and when the lights come up again the mic has disappeared back into the stage and the masked woman is modestly bowing.

“Wow, just… wow,” says the host who is walking onstage towards her now. “Let’s give it up for Erica Rivera, ladies and gentlemen!” And the crowd continues to go wild until almost all at once their applause disappears. “Breathtaking,” the host says, “takes my breath away every. Time.” And the masked woman, who is not allowed to talk anymore, nods quickly to indicate her emphatic approval.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give it up one more time for last season’s winner, your next great American artist, Erica Rivera!” And the applause comes in and goes out once again, more quickly this time. “Now for those at home who missed last season,” boos from the crowd, “ah, yes, I know, I know, back when we were on streaming-service-that-shall-not-be-named,” laughter from the crowd, “and we didn’t have asbig of an audience, many of you may not have had the privilege of seeing Erica’s incredible performance of ‘Crazy/Insane’—is it crazy slash insane or crazy comma insane, love?” and the masked woman holds up her right hand with one finger up to indicate the first. “Ah, yes, crazy slash insane, one of the most memorable moments of last season’s quarterfinals, when you crawled your way back from Exile Island with that heartrending performance… that you composed with only thirty fleeting minutes in your Artist’s Hourglass! Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Took me right back to filming that episode, truly one of the highlights of my job.” The masked woman nods so emphatically it looks like her mask might fall off. “Now, let’s hear from our judges… although I have a feeling I know what they might say…” and the host, a very tall blonde white woman, giggles a little, mischievously.

“Well, yes, you took the words right out my mouth,” says the first judge, almost annoyed, “and Erica, you took the words out of mine as well. I remember seeing you on Exile Island furiously scribbling down words on paper instead of, as your competitors did, choosing a genre more… adequate for the time limit, like dance or sculpture, and I thought, this girl’s writing her ticket home. And then you stood in front of us and bared your soul, and, my love, tonight you have done it again, proved to everyone here and everyone watching that you are the next great American artist. Bravo. Brava. Bravissimo,” and he makes a chef’s kiss gesture with his hand and puckered lips. Applause, applause, applause.

“And Marie?” asks the host coyly. “Did Erica do it for you tonight again?”

And the second judge nearly screams, “She!!! Sure!!! Damn!!! Did!!!” and, exaggeratedly, she stands up and gives the masked woman another, short round of applause, accompanied by a little celebratory jig. Sitting down, and more quietly, she continues: “She surely damn-diddle-dee did. I mean, wow. Erica. I remember that night like it was yesterday and, you know, I hate to agree with Jésus here,” light, brief ribbing between judge number one and judge number two, “but, yes, that night, I was sure you were going home, I mean, we could see what you and Dawn and Blu were doing and Blu, I mean, Blu is an incredible sculptor, and Dawn an incredible dancer, and we could see a little of what you were doing and I thought, ‘What is this girl thinking?!’ but then you came out and absolutely. Destroyed. That. Stage. With. Your. Words. I could not believe it. That—and those of you who want to compete next season, pay damn close attention—that, that! Is how you get off Exile Island. Soul-baring. Truly soul-baring. I love you, girl,” and another little bit of exaggerated applause from her.

“Thank you, Marie, we all love it when an artist does it for you,” and Marie, whose mic has been turned off, can nevertheless be heard screaming, “Do it for me, baby!!!” and the host laughs and the masked woman laughs (ostensibly, all we can see is her body shaking as though in laughter) and the judges laugh and then things get serious because the host says, “Now Yousef.”

“Yes,” the third judge says.

“Yousef, are you going to be nice tonight?” the host asks with a mock frown.

“Not. A. Chance,” and the audience boos, loudly. “Oh, yeah, boo me, boooooo me all you want, you’ll never be able to boo me harder than you booed me that night when I voted for Blu, who, by the way, just last month received a MacArthur ‘genius’ grant,” applause and whooping from the audience, “so I’d like to think my judgment isn’t too far off,” laughter from all involved, “but we’re here to talk about Erica, who, as you all know, I did vote for in the final vote during the finale, unlike, ahem, some people,” and Marie, again off-mic but still audible, screams, “Well, you wouldn’t have been able to vote for her in the finale if we hadn’t gotten her off of Exile Island!!!” and judges one and two share a laugh that the camera cuts to just for a moment, “but, well, I have to tell you, Erica, now that you are here again,” and he says this with complete sincerity: “Mea culpa. Mea culpa, my friend. You proved tonight, just as you did last season, why you are worthy of the title of the next great American artist and I couldn’t be more impressed,” and the camera cuts back to the masked woman and the host so the host can lead the masked woman off-stage and bring this season's remaining contestants up for the final group challenge, but judge number three wants to add something else so the camera cuts back to him so he can say:

“I just have to say something about that performance, because I didn’t get to say it last season, because I wouldn’t have known to say it last season. Erica, you and I have spoken several times since last season’s finale and you talked to me about the piece, and about the criticism I gave you the night of the quarterfinals, and I have to say this or I wouldn’t feel right… Erica, you were right. Can I talk a little about what you said to me,” and the masked woman, after the shortest beat, nods emphatically. “Now, you told me that the poem was inspired by an encounter you had, long before you even auditioned for the show, with, if I remember correctly, a sensitivity reader?” The masked woman nods again emphatically. “Well. Ladies and gentlemen, according to Erica, the sensitivity reader had told her, after reading the manuscript of her first novel, not to use the words ‘crazy’ or ‘insane’ because they were quote-unquote stigmatizing,” boos from the crowd, louder than any of the boos so far, “and you, Erica, as someone who struggles with her mental health, were inspired, in that moment, at the end of your rope with only thirty minutes in your Hourglass, to meet the theme of the quarterfinals, ‘Taboo,’ with a very personal, very intimate, very abstract exploration of what it means to struggle with mental health, and Erica, sweetheart, I need to say this: Congratulations, truly congratulations,” aww’s and applause from the crowd as judge number three begins to tear up, “I truly misunderstood you last season and I am so grateful and humbled to be in front of you again—for me to be in front of you—and get to tell you that you really are, to me, the next great American artist. You nailed it, you nailed me, you nailed that work to the wall with no apologies and that makes me want to be a better artist,” and, “Isn’t that what this show is all about, ladies and gentlemen?!” and big, long whoops—loud whooping cheers, and adoring screams, and loving shouts—and one more long round of applause from the crowd, from the host, from Jésus, Marie, and Yousef, applause, applause, applause—applause that feels, to the woman in the mask, like it will never fucking stop.

length: 3,349 words

content/trigger warnings: graphic depictions of violence, suicide, and the physiological effects of medically transitioning, discussions of violence, abuse, a parent being violent towards and abusing their child, forced detransition, suicide, torture, imprisonment, psychosis, murder, settler colonialism, and death, written from the perspective of someone with a history of being violent and abusive

note: there is a glitch with the footnotes. if you click the return arrows that follow each footnote (they look like this: ↩︎), or if you click the numbers in brackets that indicate a footnote, it will take you to the very first set of footnotes instead of where you're trying to go. i apologize, i will fix this asap. in the meantime, please avoid clicking the return arrows (↩︎) that follow each footnote, as well as the numbers in brackets that indicate footnotes.

Secondary note: I fear that writing this and making it public will be, in some strange and/or indirect way, the catalyst for the creation of the harm I describe below, rather than its antidote. If this turns out to be the case, however, I cannot consider it (wholly?) my fault (and, of course, this work describes some kind of plan around how to mitigate/address that). Let us be done with blaming ourselves for the decision-making and actions of people who violently abuse us and/or co-opt/distort our work. They, and they alone, must be held responsible for the harm they choose to perpetrate. Of course, institutions, structures, and systems (e.g., racial capitalism, cisheterosexism, patriarchy, settler colonialism) play a role in this. But you cannot hold an institution, structure, or system accountable. You can only—and must—destroy it.

Final note: I have replaced the word “evil” in this piece with the word “harm,” and I have replaced the word “righteous” with the word “just.” I do this after re-reading a discussion of these words/concepts in “learning good consent,” and I feel I am reading/understanding it for the first time. To speak in terms of evil and righteousness is, I think, part of the problem of pervasive violence and abuse, especially sexual violence and sexual abuse. I am disclaiming this here to make clear that, as with all that I write, this piece is also a living document that will grow and change as I grow and change.

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(I was wrong; now I know that art has a purpose, now I know what that purpose is.)

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Many people, throughout my life, tell me they think I am clairvoyant.

I laugh when they say this; I reply: “Hell, I wish.” Underneath the laughter, there is fear because I know that they are right.

My first vision comes when I am nine years old, shortly after the first time I try to commit suicide (with a fucking butter knife; I suppose I have always been melodramatic). I am in the backseat of my parents' car and all I can see is a man in a jail cell, and then a courtroom, saying the words I am speaking as a child to my parents. He is pleading insanity and convincing those around him to be lenient with their punishment by using his visions of my life (quite literally co-opting my life/story) as proof that he is too sick to be judged. I speak and in my vision he speaks what I speak too, and at that age I assume this is an older me, past and future entangled. I also believe it possible that I, a nine-year-old, am a hallucination, and that the man from the future is hallucinating me. That I am not real: I am merely his vision.

My second vision comes when I am in eleventh grade (16 years old). I am asked for the first time to write a short story for class, and I tell the story of a 16-year-old girl who has visions of the future because of the violence and abuse she endures at the hands of her father. At the end of the story, she shares her most recent vision: her own murder. She decides, while taking the SAT (during which, according to her vision, her murder will occur), to kill herself before she can be killed, so determined is she to change her fate, and she stabs herself in the eye with a No. 2 pencil until the graphite finds its way into the depths of her brain.

My teacher leaves a note at the top: “Please see me.” I see her and her concern and I assure her it is fiction. I suspect that it is not. I see the girl from the future as vividly as I saw the man from the future seven years prior, and I experience what she experiences just as vividly too. The story lingers in my mind for years after that, then just as quickly vanishes.

The third vision comes yesterday, and now I have had enough visions to understand, although a full day-and-a-half passes before I finally do. This third vision I experience completely firsthand: I have been kidnapped by an isolated sect of anarchists who torture me as punishment for doing Art, Strike! all wrong. The torture is endless; it involves, among other things, being confronted by those who I have hurt and facing how I hurt them. I try to escape too often, and the torture intensifies each time. I am allowed to wander around their compound freely, but I am a pariah: spat upon, ridiculed, kicked and beaten, often naked, always in pain.

The sect has something of a leader; no one calls her this, or even treats her like one, but you can tell that she is different. She exacts upon me the most brutal of the tortures; in fact, I am sure she is the one who designs it all. The place where I am being tortured is utopia, so everyone around me is full of life and love, except for her, who is always stoic. Even when she smiles, she is stoic. (I can, after I awaken from the vision, remember everyone's faces except hers, although I remember enough to know that it is different from mine. It is certainly not mine.)

Eventually, the torture culminates in brainwashing; they break my psyche down into bits and reassemble them as they see fit. Once more I am naked before them as they chant with just glee, with absolute hatred (what they chant I can barely process; this is how totally they have broken me).

My transformation is complete; they have purged the world of my harm.

This is the end of the vision: everyone chanting and cheerful I have been defeated. Except for the woman whose face I cannot fully see. She sits in a large armchair and simply stares. I think I see her smile. I do know her from somewhere. Then I wake up.

For some time (hours), I am terrified. This is the first vision of mine that I know is a vision; the others I always suspected were visions, but of this one I am certain. I am certain that this vision is my future. I am certain that there is something deeply wrong with Art, Strike! and that I am fated to be tortured for it. I am certain of this because I have already made mistakes and it has only been a week; I am certain because I am not allowed to make mistakes and yet nevertheless I have made them. Then those hours pass and I remain just as certain about all of this, but all at once my fear is gone. I accept my fate, even as I know I will struggle against it by ensuring there is not and never will be anything deeply wrong with Art, Strike!, even if I end up in the same place anyways.

What else could I possibly do?

I keep telling myself not to parse the vision further. I want to know why I am suddenly so certain it is a vision, why I am more sure than ever that I am clairvoyant; I have wanted my whole life to figure everything out, but this I think deserves more respect. Nevertheless, my mind races until I remember the other visions: the ones I suspected were visions, the ones which I know now were. And immediately I read the story they tell.

The main character in the short story is the man from the future's child, my grand-daughter; the man from the future is her father, my son. I cannot and will never have children so this is metaphorical. What I mean is I give birth to him, and he does the same for her.

How I give birth to him is this.

Art, Strike! has an endpoint and it is less than a year from now.[1] I have baked the end of Art, Strike! into the beginning (like a good novel; like a good play) because the only way to guarantee something never even begins to move towards becoming an industrial complex is to end it before it can start. We will look back in a year's time and ask, “What was Art, Strike!?” and we will put extra emphasis on the word “was.”

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1. I do not believe that anything in this paragraph, including this sentence, should be up to me. I don't think that anything about Art, Strike! should really be up to me, at least not me alone. I have many ideas about the future of Art, Strike! but I sense they may be the least interesting ideas about Art, Strike! currently in existence. I hope that, soon, the ideas of others about Art, Strike! become realities just as mine have, at least so far. Art, Strike! is not and never will be “mine.” It is, as much as this is possible, everybody else's. ↩︎

But fools believe in resurrection.

The man I give birth to is a man who I believe has yet to be born. His parents (right now, perhaps) are in the process of making the love that will spawn him. And he will grow and begin to have visions and they will be of me. You see, we are entangled. I do not know exactly why or how, but I have my theories. He will have visions of me and then find my work; he will uncover the history of Art, Strike! and the story of Erica Rivera and the similarities between his life and mine will lead him to think himself my metaphorical son and he will feel obligated to 1) transition and 2) resurrect Art, Strike!.

He will not, as I do, feel like he would rather be tortured for eternity than allow Art, Strike! to cause anyone harm. He will resurrect Art, Strike! and it will be at least half of the horsemen of the apocalypse. He will be jailed at some point for the violence he unleashes, perhaps for that which he unleashes on his child, the girl from the future.

I believed that my third vision was about me because the person being tortured is a man who is told he will never be allowed to transition in order to escape accountability, a man whose torturers forcibly detransition him, as part of their torture. [REDACTED].

But something nags at me as I examine this; one of the people he's harmed and forced to face in my vision says her grandfather unleashed violence upon her family members because of what the man did, because the man has brown hair and so do the family members her grandfather abuses and this is just how her grandfather's pain and violence manifest but that all of this is his fault.

And yet I do not have brown hair. (I suppose you could argue I have very, very dark brown hair, but the truth is that my hair is black.)

This single detail produces another, very brief, fourth and final vision: the man from the future imprisoned, being broken out, and for a moment believing himself free, until he realizes who his liberators are and how they have liberated him from his prison in order to hold him captive in their own.

And now I have the whole story.

There is a man who has likely not yet been born who will unleash terrible suffering upon the world. He will do this by resurrecting Art, Strike! many years, perhaps decades, after its endpoint. He will think himself good and just, although he will be a violent abuser, and he will justify his behavior by saying, “Well, Erica had a history of being violent and abusive.”

I have a history of being violent and abusive. I am not still a violent abuser.[1] I have the capacity to be violent and abusive, just as we all do. But the responsibility upon my shoulders is so heavy and so delicate that there is no room for mistakes, even as I make several in just my first week. These mistakes, I hope and believe, are not wholly irreversible, as my past mistakes always were. My mistakes are nevertheless always decisions I make, for which I must atone, and my recognition of them as mistakes, and my attempts to address their fallout, help ensure that I will not make a single mistake more, or else I will humbly sharpen the knives for those who wish to cut me into pieces.[2]

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1. I believe and understand this internally. I cannot and must not expect anyone else to believe or understand this until there is enough mutual trust between us for them to feel secure that this is true. It is possible that some may never believe or understand this; this, I accept and will always respect. ↩︎

2. This final sentence, to me, re-reading it a day after writing it, smacks too much of martyrdom. I will certainly make more mistakes, and as I know now that the pressure of perfection kills, I must not make yet another mistake by expecting that 1) I must never make another mistake again, and 2) I will never make another mistake again. Someone wise tells me mistakes are inevitable, and I want to resist this because it feels too generous, but that is the point: to be generous when it is impossible to be generous, to be kind when it is impossible to be kind. Mistakes are inevitable, and it is not my duty to sharpen knives or encourage violence against me; it is my duty to, as I say in the sentence preceding, recognize my mistakes as best I can, atone for them as best I can, and address their fallout as best I can. The word “humbly” comes into this as the humility of knowing that, even with these best of intentions, I may never be capable of understanding the size or scope or number of my mistakes, and this is something that I must recognize and atone for and address as well, in my every word and with my every action. ↩︎

But the man from the future will not understand this; he will read my words and understand only what he wants to.

All abuse is violent, but not all violence is abuse. The violence of self-defense is just; the violence of killing or maiming one's abuser is just; the violence of colonized against colonizer is just. Nevertheless, all violence has a price, a tax on the human soul. If there is room in utopia for people with a history of being violent, it is as accomplices to killers and maimers of abusers, as supporters of teachers of self-defense, as friends to those waging war on the people who refuse to relinquish power.[1]

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1. After an important conversation with someone I know and care about, I edit this sentence to add the words “accomplices to,” “supporters of,” and “friends to.” Without this nuance, this piece centers me and my desires and emotions too much (although I know, technically, it is “about” me). Nevertheless, I must make clear that it is not my job to kill or maim the abusers of others, for that may not be the justice those who have been harmed desire. Nor can anyone feel safe being taught self-defense, an intimate and sacred practice, by someone with a history of being violent and abusive. And, finally, I cannot lead or wage war on people who refuse to reliquish power because I still have and hold power and have not yet fully relinquished it. I work to do this every day, most recently by changing my profile on Chill Subs so that, instead of it saying I am “editor of Art, Strike!,” it now reads: “Erica Rivera (she/her) / editor for Art, Strike!” (emphasis added). ↩︎

It is as designers of torture for those who dare to resurrect the dead.

The woman from the future is me. I cannot see her face because I cannot yet see my own; estrogen will soon course through my body and change everything about me. My testicles will be removed and after that my penis; my breasts will swell with sweetness, my hips and thighs with fat. The tone of my voice will soften; the touch of my fingers too. Eventually, I will look like her, the stoic woman who is somewhat of a leader although she would be the first to call for the abolition of such ideas. She will be the first to say that everyone around her leads her, that she long ago relinquished free will because although everyone deserves joy and care and pleasure, not everyone deserves free will, starting with those who have histories of denying free will to others.[1] The woman from the future has a history of being violent and abusive but she has learned from that history and developed a particular set of skills, perhaps the kind that can lead to some kind of liberation, or at the very least, gesture at it. She has visions and they are mine. My vision requires me to endure from the perspective of the man in the future the torture she will exact upon him because this is the only way to ensure the torture she exacts is just.

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1. For updates on my thinking around this, please read my poem titled, “orbicular” at https://www.riveraerica.com/orbicular/ ↩︎

The truth is that everyone is clairvoyant. Those who already know this know also that its source is trauma; trauma is the catalyst for clairvoyance. This is because clairvoyance is the same as hyperempathy; a better word for it may be hypersensitivity. Clairvoyants are sensitive to everything: the tiniest twitches, the most invisible winds. If you allow yourself to feel enough, you will have visions too.

The man from the future has brown hair and a daughter, who will be the first person he harms. I can tell you more about him because the visions described here are not the only ones I have had. I have had hundreds, maybe thousands, of visions, almost all of which are chronicled in the art and writing I have produced since childhood, almost none of which is published or public. Much of it has been destroyed, but lives on in my head.

If I need to find him, I can. If I need to find him, I will. If I need to make his nightmares real, then they will be the realest.

The truth is that visions are never certain. They may come to pass, or they may not, and that is largely up to us. The truth is that art has one function: not to chronicle visions, but to change them, if that is needed. To make real different futures.

This is a work of art, a piece of writing. In creating it, I hope to change the futures in my visions before they come to pass. After all is said and done with Art, Strike!, this is the part of my contribution to it that I will ensure persists for all eternity.

This is a warning.

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(I was right; Joan of Arc, as I have always suspected, did not do what she did simply because she thought it just; she did it, as well, because she feared beyond words the angels who delivered her visions.)[1]

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1. I am not Joan of Arc, but I am adding her to the list of people I pray to before or during every meal. ↩︎

Beauty can be frightening, but it is nevertheless, still and always, beauty.

length: 42 words

content/trigger warning: discussion of death, afterlife

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everything in existence

is a collaboration

between those who are here

and those who are not.

this means that

everyone who has ever lived

(everything that has ever been,

everything that ever could be,

everything that ever could have been)

is here,

with us,

all of the time.

length: 2,026 words

#fiction

content/trigger warnings: discussions of death, grief, child trafficking, and adoption, written by someone who is not an adoptee

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The plot was, indeed, very ridiculous.

It did not make Erica laugh or smile, but it did let her wander into a silly fictional world where people got caught in terrifyingly perilous situations and then escaped like it was nothing—a decent enough recipe for fleeting, escapist popcorn. Watching it, at first, had felt like a chore, as she tried to unstick her mind from the walls around her, and drag it into the silly fictional world with its nonsensical rules and neat resolutions. But eventually, finally, she gave in and got lost in it—peeled her anxiety down like it had been stuck up with tape, let it fall in slow motion like a loose leaf fluttering down and away from its tree.

The movie was at about the halfway point: the main character was trying to escape a safehouse swarmed by armed mercenaries, sent by her employers to catch and/or kill her, while talking to her employers over a wireless communicator as they dropped hints that the conspiracy she was uncovering was real—that her employers, whom she had, since birth, believed were her parents, did not birth/raise her, but had instead taken her from those who had birthed/raised her, a group of enigmatic celebrity historians that she had been tasked with capturing at the beginning of the film, setting the rest of the events of the movie in motion.

(Indeed, very ridiculous.)

But everyone, Erica thought, at some point wonders if they’re adopted, and that was what had drawn her into the film: the idea that relationships between individuals in a family can exemplify (or clarify) how history makes itself felt in every present action and dynamic—that the past wasn’t even past, as someone whose name she couldn’t remember had written in a book she’d long ago skimmed.

But the revelation dawning on the main character—that the historians had been telling the truth when, shortly after she'd captured them (at a Hollywood premiere, because, of course, the main character’s public-facing identity was that of a cherished A-list movie star), they had cryptically intimated she was their blood kin, fated to become their new leader—crept towards Erica with tendrils that threatened to brush away her own thoughts and aggressively reweave them until they were the size and shape of the main character in the film.

Erica had never asked her parents if she was adopted, and she’d never really felt the need to look into it (her birth certificate seemed authentic, she had her mother’s nose, her father’s eyes, etc.) but she was so different from them in so many ways—in every way that was not physical, she'd always felt—that she too, like many, felt called out to by the questions that haunt a diasporic world. Who am I, really? How easy would it have been for everyone to have lied to me about it? How little did I care, to not have tried harder to find out? How much do I even care now? And what would answers really change—about anything, if anything?

Erica knew it was grief talking. Mostly her parents', but also her own, a little, sure—it wasn’t like she'd known her grandparents well; her parents had kept them at arm’s length, which had only bothered her as a child (back when everyone called her Eric, back when they thought she was a boy) because classmates would come back from summer breaks to regale their friend group with stories of weird houses and stinky foods, stories set in faraway places with bizarre customs and new smells and funny-looking people, and she’d talk about summer camp or cruise liners and she couldn’t help, even at that age, feeling like her stories weren’t up to par. But as she’d aged, she’d understood that her parents’ relationships with their parents were far more complicated than she dared try to understand: that there was an unspeakable universe of pain there that, she wondered, might have been what drew her father to her mother, and the reverse (i.e., shared trauma, one of the most perilous bonds two people can forge).

Erica’s parents had grown up only children, and they had always felt like only children. Sometimes she wondered if she’d even been conceived on purpose. There'd always been something in their voices—something far more perceptible after the deaths of their parents—that told her they pitied her: that they were glad they were only children because it meant there were no other children like them, and that they regretted, at least a little, that they had ended up echoing the same (restrained) ambition of their parents, instead of downsizing their bloodline over a generation from one child to zero.

Erica loved her parents; her parents had done a fine job of raising her, she’d always felt, especially when compared to the parents of her peers, and that this didn’t necessarily make them good parents, but that it also didn’t mean they had been badparents. Fine as opposed to perfect. Reserved; insular. Very internal. Very connected to each other but not much else. Not even her. They had never once complained about how often she spent her time away from them, how she'd rarely been home when she lived in their home and rarely was alone with them for longer than a meal and always pursued whatever she had been interested as passionately as she could even when that had taken time—so, so much time—away from them.

She had grown up feeling like an assignment, one lasting 18 years and that, afterwards, all there was for them to do was to die (and watch those around them do the same).

I have grown up
 an assignment: 18 years, timed. time's up, so pencils down, now please just rest in peace.

She had written the poem in college for an assignment about family, and rarely returned to the theme in her work since, though she recognized that that had been when her mind had first birthed the question of adoption—first as fear, then as fantasy—a fear, and then fantasy, that had vanished just as suddenly in a matter of months, around the time she’d started dating women.

In the movie, adoption for the main character was fear, not fantasy. After narrowly escaping the safehouse, she found refuge in what had once been a bustling movie theater, now hollowed out into living quarters for a few dozen people with nowhere else to go. Attempting to blend in as a drifter obviously failed; moments passed before she was recognized, and then moments more before she recognized the people recognizing her. The movie theater’s residents were mostly movie actors/actresses the main character had once reveled in seeing onscreen, the skillful way they'd controlled their bodies and emotions being part of why she had chosen—when given the choice by her parents/“parents”/employers at 16—her public-facing identity to be one of an actress. The actors/actresses explained the choice had not been a choice, as it had not been a choice for them, either: they too had been employed by her employers, raised by them as their children, and been told, just as she had, at 16, that they could give exactly half of themselves to any career of their choosing, and that—because of how their parents/“parents”/employers had taken them to movie after movie, weekend after weekend, and because these future actors/actresses had also reveled in seeing people skillfully control their bodies and emotions—they had, like her, chosen to live publicly as actors/actresses, until they'd aged out of A-list roles and their employers had discarded them as easily as the entertainment industry had. They'd been told that, were they ever to try to work again, they would be killed, and it was only then that the actors/actresses—each during different years, and under different circumstances, but always in the same way—had begun to suspect they had no idea where they really came from. They'd each felt that parents would not discard their children so easily, without remorse, as though their familial bond had been a simple financial transaction. And the main character shared her own story and their sympathetic reactions made her more sure than ever that the historians had been telling the truth.

The main character, through burning, infernal wails, vocalized her angst and anger about having captured and delivered so many targets to her employer as their agent (“their hunter, their wolf-dog,” the actress playing the main character whispered so bitterly the dialogue almost didn’t seem totally weird) without question. The truth obliterated everything she thought she knew about herself. Everything. Every act was suddenly poisoned. Every part of her wasn’t real.

After the ex-actors/ex-actresses finished comforting her, they told her their plan. They'd assembled a small army, and, later that evening, would be breaking into the city’s Hall of Records, in an attempt to, as they put it, “give everyone a clean slate,” by which they meant destroy the building, on a semi-suicide mission, and at this point, the plot of the movie had become so convoluted that Erica lowered the volume and opened the movie’s Wikipedia page (the movie kept playing in the bottom-left corner of her phone, picture-in-picture) to figure out who the hell had greenlit this movie and why.

Of course.

It was based on a video game.

And Erica read about the video game the movie was based on and found the plot was more or less the same, except with a few even more ridiculous missions/storylines, which had been (thankfully) cut from the film.

In the movie, the main character was agreeing to join the ex-actors and ex-actresses on their semi-suicide mission and then marching with their army towards the Hall of Records, their horde framed moodily by torrential rain from a nasty thunderstorm that—overwhelmingly melodramatically—included multiple lightning strikes landing near and around them, with not one of the tragic soldiers flinching even a little, so resolute in their mission they each seemed to be.

And the main character, too.

Erica considered turning the movie off at that point; there seemed, to her, to be power in that. She found it distasteful, of course, that the multibillion-dollar blockbuster was exploiting the trauma of adoption so grotesquely, centering a conventionally attractive light-skinned celebutante as though it were people who looked like her who had to navigate these questions in real life, and that, in order to make the conspiracy questionable but plausible, had made her parents/“parents”/employers a dark-skinned man and a light-skinned woman, and the cult of historians claiming her as their own a group of light-skinned, ethnically ambiguous characters played by a group of light-skinned, ethnically ambiguous actors/actresses, when the reality was that it was always lily-white parents/“parents” who felt most entitled to baskets of (light-skinned, ethnically ambiguous) children. Erica didn’t believe she was adopted so it wasn’t her struggle, per se, but she knew the movie was ridiculous in this way, too. She imagined the climax of the movie would be a confrontation between the main character’s parents/“parents”/employers and the cult of historians, and the main character would be forced to choose, and the decision would be torturous because it would involve accepting she'd been a victim of trafficking, and that she had almost delivered the people who had actually birthed/raised her to the people who had stolen/trafficked her.

It was just so fucking ridiculous. If Erica had been the main character, she would have left the narrative altogether and used her wealth to buy some really, really good therapy. (Maybe, like, some ketamine treatments, or something.)

But it was a movie and everything in movies gets resolved with violence and that was why Erica felt she was ready to turn the movie off.

Instead, she left the movie playing on her phone but turned her phone upside down and turned the volume down to the lowest possible setting without muting it altogether, and then turned herself upside down too, and quickly fell asleep.