THE ANA ISSUE #4 by The Ana

THE ANA \T͟ HƏ\·\ˈĀ-NƏ\ PRONOUNCED: AH-NUH (NOUN) 1. a collection of miscellaneous information about a particular subject, person, place, or thing. 2. The Ana is a quarterly arts magazine hell-bent on redefining art and literature. We act and publish in line with the notion that everyone’s life is literature and everyone deserves access to art.

While all rights revert to contributors, The Ana would like to be noted as the first place of publication.

Cover design by Hannah Keith Typesetting and design by Hannah Keith & London Pinkney Set in Georgia (Matthew Carter, 1993) and Futura (Paul Renner, 1927)

EDITOR’S NOTE Hello All,

We did. This is the final issue of the year and lord, what a year it’s been. Despite it all, it has been touching to see the way our community has rallied around one another. We have taken time to educate ourselves and others. And while we still have a lot of work to do, The editors and I are honored to be doing it alongside you all.

The work in this issue is reflective. Here we have a group of artists who explore the complexities of human interaction, despite our current lack of it. We have bodies, love, language, and identity examined in acutely tender ways. Thank you to the contributors for being strong enough to create and share your work with others during this time of grief and exhaustion. I want to thank the editors—Hannah, Carlos, Santos, Oli, and Tre—for your brilliance, compassion, and drive. I love y’all. And thank you to whoever is reading this for filling a slice of your time with art. Until the day we can safely meet again, I’m sending y’all love and peace from across the Interwebs.

Much Love, London Pinkney EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

THE ANA

ISSUE # 4 NOVEMBER 2020

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LONDON PINKNEY

MANAGING EDITOR HANNAH KEITH

FICTION EDITORS SANTOS ARTEAGA TREVAUGHN MALIK ROACH-CARTER

POETRY EDITORS OLI VILLESCAS CARLOS QUINTEROS III

FICTION 11 The Loveseat | NOREIA RAIN 19

My Papa Shakes and It’s All the Same to Me | ALYSIA GONZALES

When Writing a Greek Museum | SYDNEY CRUZ

36 Rose Knows | ZACH MURPHY 48

Asé | ANGEL’ANASTASIA WALTON

POETRY 8

Something Different | LARAE J. MAYS-HARDY

VISUAL ART 10

whatever you do, do not feed the ducks | CLAUD YASMIN

bubbles for boys | CLAUD YASMIN

Self-Portrait: Scream | NOREIA RAIN

Untitled | WYNN NGUYEN

Midnight | CYNTHIA LOPEZ

Franky | EMMA WAKEFIELD

Artist | EMMA WAKEFIELD

Myrtle | ANDREW JOHNSON

44 Self-Portrait: Open | NOREIA RAIN 47

Leaf Man | SHANE HILL

54 This Was Taken on March Tenth | FELIX BISHOP

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THE IMPACT OF NOTES: INTERVIEW WITH J. RASHAD SMALL by TREVAUGHN MALIK ROACH-CARTER

THE NEO-TRANSCENDENTALISTS: INTERVIEW WITH JADEA EDMONDS & B. ROCHA by LONDON PINKNEY

Something Different poetry by LARAE J. MAYS-HARDY 09.23.2020 I kept my promise. The raspy whisper pleading me to go to the beach at 8:37pm. The tugging at my small intestine dragging me to Ocean Beach past curfew. I kept the promise to myself. To meet the salt water healer. Commune with silence for the first time in weeks. Inflate these bones once again. I kept that promise, at least. I got lost on the way. Drove alongside my destination, and insanity, for an hour amidst the fog. Prayed my strength in navigation and license on the dashboard. I have trouble driving in the dark, although I know her better than anyone else. Parking lots capturing steering wheel regrets. Sand spilling over its bounds, drifting far from home. I couldn’t find the right place to be. I messaged my girlfriend. She’s not my girlfriend, but that’s all language gifted me with for description. Subjected myself to a chortle behind the screen. I asked someone for help. Baited my breath for heartside assistance. Brewing up the courage to find where we stand. I charged my iPhone 6 with carrying intentions across the bay. Got to the beach at 10 past too late Brought a tupperware for my thoughts Sat beneath the graffiti sun rays at the cusp of the stairs Removed my shoes in homage of this shoreline sanctuary A deep breath buoys the remains of my spirits Deep breath be gateway to stillness Breath to take advantage of Arrived here for the second mourning sunrise in a month Couldn’t help the writing paralysis from setting in

Thought this may be the final night vigil waveside Got to hold a moment before the sirens reset I checked my phone. Hoped the message drought was spawned by a service break. Noted her playful presence. I hadn’t seen her contact flash in a few days. Missing an outstretched word. Photographed a sequined vote sign to replace the longing. I wanted her to text me back. I didn’t get lost on the way back. Odometer clued me to the miles that weren’t returning. Buzzing engine signaling a falling action. I made it home in ten minutes. Jacked up my security blanket. Emergency breaking for the backsliding. I effortlessly found my apartment. I moved here for this. Relocated to the other side of the world. Braved deadly conditions and airline pleasantries. I moved clouded by a global crisis. For sandy bottom imprints at a makeshift altar. For uncomplicated drives to cook up my newest pieces. For upholding promises to my inner child. I moved here for something

different.

whatever you do, do not feed the ducks, CLAUD YASMIN

The Loveseat fiction by NOREIA RAIN West Elm blue velvet loveseat - perfect condition! - $250 (lower pac hts) Selling a lovely, plush blue velvet loveseat in perfect condition, originally from West Elm for $600. This loveseat has worked great for us but moving to NYC and won't have the room for it unfortunately! (Throw pillow not included.) There's an elevator in our building which makes for easy pick-up :D Thanks! Such a lovely, plush blue velvet loveseat. In perfect condition. Originally from West Elm. For $600. The West Elm in Emeryville, where I’d never been, where I pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of my hoodie as I followed you through the reflective glass front doors. You strode in, your short beard neat, your freshly washed hair, head held high, all calm smile, like you deserved to be there, of course you did, these employees were standing around holding their breath until you glided into their lives and they could help you find the exact loveseat you were looking for, the exact shade of blue, the softness of it like loving fingers tracing your skin. My skin. Your fingers. Our loveseat. I was leaving my room in the beer-stained, cigarette-burned, fast-angry-guitar-saturated Barrel House in Oakland to step into your Pacific Heights life, and some younger, pierced, Mohawked kid would fill the space I had occupied for the past two years, sleeping under my Sharpie sketches of moons and cats and skateboards on the off-white walls. West Elm Blue Velvet Loveseat, Perfect Condition. Where I’d lie curled up in my oversized nightgown in the chilly November mornings before work under your soft alpaca hair blanket, and you’d bring me a steaming clay mug of coffee and a plate of pancakes, whole wheat, with real maple syrup, the expensive kind, no high fructose corn syrup. And you’d brush my tangled hair from my forehead and place your lips there, right where my third eye was supposed to be, so soft like the bright golden maple leaves

I gathered outside and framed and hung up in your apartment. Our apartment. Then you’d lift my feet and sit beside me on the loveseat and place my legs over yours, and I should have seen it, I don’t understand how I couldn’t have seen it, couldn’t have felt it seeping from your fingers when you touched me. Why didn’t my skin prickle at your touch, why were there no alarm bells, sirens blaring, flashing red lights indicating that what I thought was real wasn’t? Maybe you kissed my third eye into blindness. This loveseat has worked great for us but moving to NYC and won't have the room for it unfortunately! Unfortunately. Unfortunately it has worked great for us. It was great and sturdy despite its size, like a tree not fully grown but strong enough to cradle you in its branches. It was great and soft and blue and firm, my back fitting into it, indenting it just slightly as you held yourself over me, your thin arms flexing, the intensity in your eyes as you pushed into me, some kind of far-off sadness, your eyes as deep, rich blue as the loveseat, bluer. I fell upwards into that blue and I never wanted to see anything else again. Unfortunately it worked great for you. And her. In our apartment. Your apartment. Her small ass indenting the cushions just slightly. Her legs stretched over your shoulders. Did your eyes look just as blue when you looked at her? Did she tumble upwards into that depth? Or were her eyes clenched tight the whole time as she thrust upwards, oblivious to your blue, while you looked over her shoulder to somewhere sad and far away? Moving to NYC. You are. You said I could keep the apartment. You’d talk to the landlord, she loved you, she’d put me on the lease. (Did she love you on the loveseat too?) You are moving to NYC, a place I’ve never been, a hazy collage of television memories of skyscrapers and hot dogs and art galleries and a long stretch of park where lovers hold hands and steaming cups of coffee on chilly November mornings, paper cups, not clay.

You bustle around the apartment filling boxes with our things, your things. Things you had before I whiskey-stumbled out of the pub and smack into your chest that first night last August when the heat sat thickly on our skin and later when you brought me home, your lips tasted of salt and lemon. I sit on the blue cushion and run my fingers over the velvet. I clutch your throw pillow to my chest and stare at the shadows from the maple outside the window dancing across the wall until I realize you have stopped walking and are looking at me and I search your eyes for that far-off sadness but a thickness has come over them, they are not as blue, they are staring from under lowered brows (I used to kiss) and I realize you are annoyed because you’ve packed everything but your throw pillow and so I surrender it and you lift up a box and walk out the door to the elevator and I fall on my side on the loveseat and stare and stare at the maple tree shadows. You are gone quickly. Your friend is outside with his truck, and there is an elevator in our building, which makes for easy pickup. You have taken your clay coffee mug and your alpaca hair blanket and the plates you piled pancakes onto, and your framed art and your collection of vinyl and three crates of books. You have left the framed maple leaves on the walls. You have left me the loveseat. Thanks.

Warmth poetry by SPENCER ROBINSON

I hate feeling so intricate in my skin unaware this is how Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m meant to feel

bubbles are for boys, CLAUD YASMIN

Cutting Outside the Lines poetry by R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON Cut down your stone temples Make room for the river to be seen beyond all the breaks. Your water flows from deep places like your belly. Nourish it. Cut down the vines that held you stuck in your thoughts of freedom. What it might feel like against your skin. Make room for the move, throw away everything you can't afford to carry. Cut loose the bitter edges of your tongue, because fear affects the deepness of this blade's folly & destruction. You are more than what you feel. Sight takes time to catch up to believing, especially in storms. Catch your breaths, Count them Sink into the motions of rising tides, ready yourself for elevation. For what you seek you must prepare room for, in every corner of your heart and home. Sweeping dilemmas cost nothing as long as you keep your pruning shears handy. Cut down & rest. Paint with your fingers in watercolors, the picture you want to live, now drown in its taste. It's a refreshing remedy to the headaches of heartbreak or denial. And still more to uncover in your cutting out the life you desire.

Bugalú (eso se baila así) poetry by SEN RUIZ Hustler cornered on 22nd and Bartlett headed toward the Transfer Night Club for transactions, main line home, line dances, lines of coke. Panas, pofis and prixis he got broders on the inside, the outside, the flipside. They come from largos caminos and viejos tiempos when the word resistance was a lyric in a song, a rhythm in a cry. Piks in fros they slide denim flairs to Héctor Lavoe, Willie Colón, Rubén Blades, Pete Rodriguez, Tito Puente, Joe Cuba— all Kings that just like them, had learned clave and congas before they learned their own names.

Self Portrait: Scream, NOREIA RAIN

My Papa Shakes and It’s All the Same to Me fiction by ALYSIA GONZALES

Hold his legs down. Put his head back. Restrain his arms. Watch the trembling. Wait for it to pass. Hope that he is not stronger than you, that he will not fall and split his skull open. Hope that the nurses hear you in time. Hear the strained vocal cords. Hear the gurgling saliva in the back of his throat. Don’t put your hands near his teeth. Don’t look at his eyes. Try not to vomit. Breathe. Breathe. The rumbling of the bed echoes through the floor and you can feel it in the soles of your feet. In this moment, you are reminded of the time when he stood at the foot of your bed when you were a child. Even though Ma would berate him for making you so hyper right before bedtime, he couldn’t help himself. When you would go to sleep, he would ask you, Are you ready for the earthquake?, and you would giggle yes, and he would lean his big, burly arms on the bed while you lay with the covers pulled up to your chin in anticipation, and he would shake the entire mattress with a force that you didn’t even think that a person could have. The springs would shake and creak underneath, Earthquake, earthquake!, he would holler, and you would laugh so hard that it hurt your lungs as you bounced on the mattress in the tiny bedroom. You come back to yourself. He has passed out now. The hospital lights cast a sickly yellow on his skin. The nurse says, It’s over, I’ll get him some water, and leaves the room. You sit back down, his body is limp, exhausted from the episode. You are tired, too. You haven’t showered in three days, you’ve been taking care of someone who has a team of professionals taking care of them, and for what? What do you do there? The woman at the cafeteria knows your name and your order for breakfast lunch and dinner, knows you must have someone in the hospital you’re staying for because you don’t have a lanyard, you have a sticker. She knows enough not to ask who. After taking your hands off his body, in this moment, you feel the crud between your toes, the grease in your hair, the itchy dandruff, and the film on the front of your teeth. You aren’t sure why you haven’t suffered the 24-minute bus ride home to shower, change

your clothes, recharge. Something holds you here. He would go almost a week without a shower when he was in the thick of a binge, he would come home in the middle of the night rank with must and sweat and the bottle. On these nights, you would pull the covers up to your chin in a different way. Ma would cry sounds from the kitchen and then all of a sudden, the sounds would stop. Silence in that house was like diving underwater. You’re hungry now, so while he’s out cold, you walk down to the cafeteria to pick up your usual. The woman working there nods in recognition, but thank god, she decides not to talk much. You don’t want to talk to anyone just now. Denise! someone yells from across the cafeteria. Denise, I thought that was you, how are you? Carla, your mouth says, what are you doing here? Oh, my sister had a baby, we’re visiting. What are you doing here? You look down at your tray, rub your thumb against the plastic wrapped apple and it makes a screeching sound. It’s my Dad, you say. You can’t remember the last time you used that word, and you can’t remember what you said to Carla next, but then, she was gone, probably after wishing you well and hoping everything works out. You're not quite sure what “working out” would even mean. Back upstairs, in the room, he sits there quietly in the bed. He’s so helpless there on the table.

The cafeteria food leaves its residue of slight indigestion in your

stomach, and you wonder if the food in the feeding tube tastes like anything.

He is

breathing steadily. His finger is twitching. He must be dreaming. You wonder what he dreams of. If you were younger, you might wish it was you and Ma dancing in his head, and fake earthquakes, but now, you know that his induced sleep probably produces no dreams, and for a moment you’re glad of it. Your hands are sweating and sooner or later, you’re going to have to go home and clean up, wash yourself, wipe away the dirt and grime and sweat and oil. Your hands are swelling with their dirtiness. Your hair has begun to clump. You can feel the crust in your eyes from the few hours of hospital sleep last night. But you will have to come back, he has no one else, and the guilt eats at you like a parasite, gnawing somewhere between your amygdala and your right supramarginal gyrus.

The last time you didn’t shower for this long was a week when you were nine years old. Your eczema had manifested in a fiery rash, starting in the crook of your elbow, and climbing up your arm, onto your shoulder, your clavicle, your armpit. The water and soap made it sting, and you hadn’t yet developed the discipline required to withhold your itching. It was the dead of summer, and you wore a sweatshirt every day to hide it from him and Ma. It was easy, they were so preoccupied with their screaming. When you would come back from camp, you were able to slip into your room under the loud music, the open doors begging the summer air to bless the house with a breeze, under the arms passing bottles of what he called “Maple Syrup”. One day he gave you some and you dry-heaved into the sink, but no one heard you. You were an inconvenience. You didn’t ask for this. In your room, you would switch your sweater, and after quickly going into the bathroom to wet your hair to make it seem as if you had showered, he would call from the kitchen “all clean?” and you would nod before disappearing into your room. You missed the earthquakes. And there you would stay, usually for the rest of the night except for a few moments where you would scrap together a dinner from the pantry. Then, back into the room, through the loud music, the hollering, then later, the broken bottles, the yelling, the thumps against a wall, the sound of items hitting the floor, sometimes he would burst into your room, asking nonsense questions, slurred words, he would grab your wrist just a little too hard, just a little bit of hurt so that you could think it was an accident, and he would storm outs, slam doors. Did your Mother get this tattoo for another man? Did you do drugs after school yesterday? Did you sleep with that boy? Did your mother sleep with your Uncle? The silence afterward, the kind that would envelop the house, then you could begin the process of falling asleep. It was a Monday, or a Thursday, or any day really. You had to wake up for camp or school or a game, and they would wonder why you were so tired, and you would shrug and say you had no idea. Ma finally caught a whiff of your unshowered body while you were walking past and forced you into the bathroom and when you took off your sweater, she gasped at the rash and took you to the hospital right away. They gave you medicine for the rash, steroids for your skin, and sent you right back home. You’re all better now, they said. Ma’am, you can go home, he’s gonna be asleep for a while, same as always. We can call you if he wakes up.

You nod and go back to your apartment and while you collapse on the bed almost instantly, you cannot fall asleep.

Upstairs, they must be watching a movie,

something with a lot of bass. You can feel it in the walls, in the floors. You think about knocking on their door, asking if they can keep it down, you can do that now, as an adult, but you don’t. You sit there, listening to the vibrations come up and through your body, you wish they would go through and exit out of your head, your skull, but they seem to be caught inside, amplifying somewhere near your rib cage, inside your solar plexus. *** Days go by and you still haven’t showered. You’ve eaten more than hospital cafeteria food, but you’re still in the same clothes. You can start to smell yourself and you know it’s getting to the point where it’s bad, it’s noticeable, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. To strip down, to let the water wash you. To feel that naked. You rearrange the fridge; you clean your entire apartment top to bottom. You do anything but shower. You get a call on your phone. He’s not awake yet, but he’s showing signs that he might be soon. No guarantees. If you want, you could come in today. You pack up a bag, you’re still in the same clothes, you put on some deodorant and shake out your jacket to mask the smell, and you head over to the hospital. He is still asleep by the time you arrive, and you sit in the same chair by the bed. The hospital continues on outside, comfortable clogs attached to the feet of nurses trod by, families either having the best or worst day of their lives walk back and forth. A young mother is wheeled around with her newborn. He makes a sound, you turn, and he is starting to shake. You realize that the sound you thought was from the bed was actually coming from him, from somewhere deep down at the bottom of his vocal cords. He is not awake, though his eyes are involuntarily open. You press the nurse’s button, but he is already going into the clonic stage of the seizure. You learned that word from the nurse. But there are no nurses here yet, so you do what you’ve been told to do. Hold his legs down. Put his head back. Restrain his arms. Watch the trembling. Wait for it to pass. Hope that he is not stronger than you, that he will not fall and split his skull open. Hope that the nurses hear you in time. Hear the strained vocal cords. Hear the gurgling saliva in the back of his throat. Don’t put your hands near

his teeth. Don’t look at his eyes. Try not to vomit. Breathe. Breathe. The rumbling of his voice, from the caverns of his chest, deep within his ribcage echoes through the floor. It would be so easy to let him eat himself alive, his brain is already doing it for you. Years of binging, of episode after episode, they think that’s why he’s here, why he’s like this. But it could happen to anybody, they say. It could be anything. And why do you care, what compels you to be here, you try to answer the question but his arms are shaking and his fists are clenched and it reminds you of the time he hit the picture frame by the door on his way out, it was two in the morning, and you stared at the shard of glass, still stuck in the frame, held up by so many spider web shatters, a drop of blood hanging on. The scar is still there, on his knuckle. For a moment you think about pulling his oxygen, you imagine the satisfying thunk of the plug releasing from the wall, you imagine his body slowly coming to stillness. But when you look at him, he looks frail and worn. The skin on his forearms is loose and peppered with age spots. Your fingers overlap around his delicate wrist. His arms could never bounce a mattress now, never again. He can hardly stand now, let alone work up the strength to hit a picture frame, to fracture the glass within. He is nothing now, he is a prison for old flesh and medical tubes, he is an echo of the force you knew him to be. It passes. The nurses tell you, Good job. You are tired, and you think that you could maybe sleep, maybe wash yourself. You’re not sure whether you will come back. You don’t have any obligation one way or the other, and this freedom suits you, and you think it might even make you more likely to return. You grab a plastic-wrapped muffin from the cafeteria, and even speak to the cashier this time. She is a nice woman; her children are cute. Before you leave the hospital, you go back to his room. You hold all the images of him in your mind, the one from your bed yelling earthquake!, the one who smelled of must and the bottle, and the one here on the hospital bed. You hold all the images together in your head, and you dance the impossible dance, you forget nothing.

Untitled, WYNN NGUYEN

glistening poetry by KITRA BAZILTON

it is bliss— seeing the golden clouds echoing across your cheeks in a rosy glow, brown eyes glistening like the lake in front of us. the stickiness of the shimmering pink gloss i messily applied minutes before leaving, that now sits glittering across your neck and lips.

You Aren’t Mexican poetry by SAM SOTOMAYOR You aren't Mexican The year is 1939, my great grandfather has become a United States citizen after crossing the border in 1918. You aren't Mexican The year is 1944, my great grandfather is being sent off to fight in Germany, a war that he was awarded a Bronze Star and Purple Heart for. You aren't Mexican The year is 1946, my great uncle walks into a segregated school. The town of Gilbert Arizona has decided to send all of the brown students to one school and all the white students to the other. You aren't Mexican The year is 1955, my grandfather watches as one of his classmates gets hit by their teacher for speaking Spanish. You aren't Mexican The year is 1969, my grandparents can't teach their two young children Spanish because they were never taught for their own safety. You aren't Mexican The year is 1973, my dad eats homemade tortillas made by my great grandmother on the same tortilla pan that now sits in my parent's cabinets. You aren't Mexican The year is 1997, my parents welcome their second child into the world, my dad will never be able to teach either of his children Spanish because he never learned himself.

You aren't Mexican The year is 2005, the children in my class asked me if I speak Spanish, when I say no, they tell me I am not Mexican. You aren't Mexican The year is 2009, Sonia Sotomayor is appointed a Supreme Court Justice, she is Puerto Rican, we share the same last name. You aren't Mexican The year is 2014, I listen to my grandfather tell me stories about my great grandparents, the only connection I have to my culture, I have grown up hearing these stories. You aren't Mexican The year is 2018, one of my coworkers tells me that I am not a real Mexican because I am mixed with white. You aren't Mexican The year is 2019, I am 22 years old, I am trying to navigate a world in which I do not feel like I belong to. I do not speak the language of those who have come before me, due to the fact that at one point it was not safe for my family to speak it. At the same time I am fair skinned and those who look down on Chicanos think they can say backhanded comments to me. It is not fair. I am 22 years old trying to regain the culture that my family was denied. I try to do my Duolingo lessons daily, learning how to say something as simple as “the woman,” la mujer. I make chorizo y eggs in the hopes that when I'm eating it, I feel a little bit more brown. You aren't Mexican It is today, whatever today's date is, however old I am, I am reclaiming my identity. Yo soy Mexicana.

loving and loving poetry by CLAUD YASMIN

A pot full of onions in oil. Heating, releasing the heavenly scent, and disappearing by the second

Midnight, CYNTHIA LOPEZ

When Writing a Greek Museum fiction by SYDNEY CRUZ I was struggling to create any generalized idea, a premise or skit, to be twisted and stretched into a college publication. A short story. These things come from an initial image, interaction, or issue. It begins with “A specific day in which social inhibition manifests as creativity.” An unfinished draft to an idea, barring a short story. I was parched, sweat droplets jettisoned onto my notepad from the tip of my pencil which let me fly. I lounged on a barstool in a corner of an empty living room, between rotting oak walls that heaved with the fiery gales. I sat still, hunched over like a Greek museum. I tried any unpoetic pencil scribbling. I wasn’t a poet. I didn’t hear the lyres of celestial gods, only their howling. Of mulchy clime which meant that the summer celestial was being a bitch. I’m in a ramshackle lodge, the last of their kind. A dusty valley built on pebbles and jagged rock, of brown clay and charcoal. This little sandcastle and its fences are carried by an army of golden banners, tabards, plumes, stacks of pancakes in butter cloaks— Grass. Grass I would sometimes have to tell myself. Dead withered grass of the golden steppe, lest those knights and man-at-arms prefer wearing rusty armor. The goldilocks crone had cooked them well. Purified, they wore the gold leaf like pages in a book. They marched to the back of the sandy lodge. They were on a siege. There the cement wall stood. Spears extend behind it with pieces of blended fabrics. Flags. Flags of whites arms on a red landscape that cried “Welcome,” “Open House,” or “Auction.” When one fell, another was raised. Before the wall were new sky-blue houses and green sod acres. We’re a ranch twisting on the symmetrical print of easy opulence, writhing like sea monsters on the corners of Victorian atlases.

I’ve held off tears when writing this, wanting to rewrite the same thing over and over. What was left on paper was: “A specific day in which social inhibition manifests as creativity” and my sweat. They added something too. Just not my tears. Some scribbles as well. Broken thoughts that seemed ‘on the fence’ in the open field. I hurt, hunched on the barstool’s edge. Artists live life, eschew of relieve, holding fast the creative principle of created things. As I write, I feel some of the common fighter have broken through the wall. Trails of mulch have taken ground on composite soil, either burrowing underneath the barrier or stood their ground. They had died for an egalitarian cause once, some unnamed and forgotten, others tortured, but most of all hated. The transmigration of souls. Reconciliation have come back to be cheatgrass, medusaheads, and witchgrass. They swayed like morning stars in the burning wind, danced the embers of their cause. One of them is William Tell, another Annemarie Schwarzenbach. There was Toussaint L'Ouverture and Sakine Cansiz. Before them was waste, their brethren beat back by chemicals, brown and black rocks doused in the teal fatigues of herbicide. I last saw my father anointing a baby goat with pale ale before blood stopped flowing into his heart. He wanted to name her, ‘Ann’ after the talk he had with my mother when naming myself. “She will have a good husband, good dowry, many children too,” went my mother without pause. “And…” my father asked. My mother went silent. “Nothing” my father ended. My mother had died from heart palpitations during a drinking game involving tarot cards. She died on The Lovers. My father often will say he died on The Hermit and did so with a swig before the ambulance came. I sometimes see him drinking with the kid. My father asked when I’ll be married. I told him it’ll only be for tax reasons. I have a persistent suitor whose asked my hand five times a year, for the last ten years. His name was Christian, I liked him enough. He’s a shift manager at some supermarket, I have my ranch. We grew up together in the dust, though now he drove to reach me. He came by last month in a green plaid sports jacket and green corduroys, as he did for every proposal. “Do you want to get married now,” Christian asked. The heartful embraces and romantic petitions died after the fifth year. But my response was still the same, “I still want my tax reductions over my property.”

I maintained a meditative form when writing with notepad on one hand and a pencil in the other, while balancing on a barstool. Writing only flourishes through willpower. One’s never the happiest outside its beginning. There’s a profit to be made in producing only adages, it seems. The struggle now is settling on the struggle. You complete your life’s work on a wandering thought. You wait, finding closure in vision rather than flesh and blood. Your diamond in the rough is a scrap, a pittance, Don Quixote written as a couplet. What little there is on paper is an ocean of gestalt consciousness. I’ve written enough. The sweat and scribble speak, then yell some more. “A specific day in which social inhibition manifests as creativity.” I’ve lost many friends, separated by time and distance that makes ourselves swear each other off forever. What I’m left with is their memory, I imagine having conversations with them, imagine how much they’ve changed. This is how I create characters. I don’t replace lost friends, I only create more through my writing. I find solace in the personifications, in the humanism, in the story of what it means to be human. I feel less lonely doing this, finding company in people again. I think back to Annemarie Schwarzenbach and William Tell, the fires of Toussaint L'Ouverture and Sakine Cansiz. The prevalence of anarchists and misfits made manifest in the wild grass, weeds, grassy weeds, and rocky soil. How they give fight to wind, rain, and man. Nothing else remains save for the teal fatigues, the galleon that stomps on all walks of life, giving birth to more flag-bearers. Servants. A spear wall of white arms on a red landscape, of real estate. The sky-blue adobes, these castles in the sky have become inbred, unable to reproduce, unable to hold back the mobs of withered grass, weeds, and eyesores in their gardens. They brake their spears against the fire. The golden steppe is good and the celestial bitch that raises it. These sons and daughters are too much like their caretaker: unshackled. I heard a comfy voice label them, “little arsonist grasses.” A phoenix-too-soon blew, and I sat still.

Franky, EMMA WAKEFIELD

La Perfection Je Crois Sans PitiÃ© poetry by JENNA MICHAELLA BAUTISTA

All The Sound The Water Makes poetry by ARIANA NEVAREZ The wind from the windows he opened All around us hangs just above us

light

As the touch of our fingertips. In his bed where we shift our legs lift and fall With the slight sweat stick of his skin on mine. I soak in the calm of his chest. His breathing is the rising And the falling that feels like

floating.

My mind floats while he sleeps to

sun

Sunk through the clear and blue To rest where sand stands still. Un

moved

By pulse that ebbs and flows with his chest. This body of water and mine entwined are All the sound the water makes.

Rose Knows fiction by ZACH MURPHY Every autumn day Rose passes by the hot air balloon field in Stillwater, wishing she had enough money in order to go up for just one ride. Last winter had not just taken a toll on Rose, it took nearly everything she had left. Now, she has a frostbitten toe and a frostbitten heart. Rose knows that even the happiest golden leaves grow weary when they catch the first gust of winter’s harsh might. Rose knows that if the sun ever decides to go away for good she’ll try to make it promise to come back. Rose knows that if she would have had her life together, her adopted boy Frankie would still talk to her. Across the air balloon field sits a pawn shop. A pawn shop is a depressing place when you’ve got nothing to pawn, nothing to sell, and not enough means to buy anything. A job application turns into a hopeless slate the moment you see “Three years of experience needed.” After staring at her weathered reflection in the pawn shop window, Rose turns around toward the field and observes an unattended hot air balloon. She crosses through the dewy green grass, looks around, and decides to hop into the balloon’s gondola. The balloon is much bigger than Rose thought it would be. Her eyes widen as she gazes up at the balloon’s bright rainbow colors. Suddenly, a pair of balloon tour guides run toward her, yelling “Stop!” Rose unravels the ropes from the ground, boosts the propane flame, and takes off into the sky. From this view, the falling leaves look like fluttering butterflies. Rose knows that when she comes down she’ll be in a lot of trouble. She squints up at the sun and gives the balloon some more power.

Artist, EMMA WAKEFIELD

Bacon poetry by LARAE J. MAYS-HARDY I love bacon No Really I love bacon Because We tell our stories in parallel I have known confinement Exhibition by plastic or platter Lived breath to breath with a mirror and still lost myself in translation Shaped holy only by curves I, too, Have laid Cradled By the charred limbs of ancestors Upheld By a field of their bodies Whole By the warmth of souls dipped in charcoal and griot Sacrificing the sweet sweat of brow to the promise of day break Forcing myself to dance anyhow I know the pop of whiteness on my back Bleeding juicy for consumption Outstretching my hands for grease to lay my edges palatable

I am sea salt memories When cushions of life scatters away I am crisp Crack Crunching my way to salivation Or Salvation Like hunger for consumption can be one degree away from God I know demand for white jaw on bones Pork or light skin substitute Don’t make a difference The way Wood cabin and Cement cell Speak Digestion and Agony Synonymous I know sizzle And burn Like I know death Hanging onto the branches of open mouth Gnashed by the whips of teeth Tree limbs on the climb to meet my brothers again

I know this spectacle still as glorious as the last The last breakfast The last supper The last four centuries I know that vegetarians exist Just like non-racists do Quiet some days and roaring others I know I will apologize at the end of this Like sorry was lacquered onto the pan before I was And I am sorry Sorry if you thought this poem was only going to be about bacon Next time, I’ll be sure to wash my aftertaste away

Myrtle, ANDREW JOHNSON

open poetry by NOREIA RAIN (25 September 2020)

this cinnamon-red darkness, this fire. my veins all aflame with a thousand pinpricks of yes. your arms like trees, the icescapes of your eyes.

lover, these days of molten longing. awake in the night,

winedrunk visions of your fingers like smooth red

stones on my hungry skin. not yet touched. untasted.

spices and smoke swirl in the coal-grey air like serpents. all of my being pulsates with this nighttime drum, the percussion drawing me out completely, turning bloodred petals toward a rose-red sky. open.

RATS poetry by SAM HERNANDEZ

mercurial is always cold like a star isn't a real planet but a celestial sociopath warm wrapped in life supporting bodies and a gravitational pull enough to fall into

Self Portrait: Open, NOREIA RAIN

Indigo Children poetry by R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON Kissed coals of the sun melanated magic bringers walking starlight Forrest fires on simmer These are the indigo children Stolen from their birth rights a kiln where Phoenixes rise from death Used for merchandise, Chattel. But the indigo children cry prayers filled with spilled blood of the lost, a journey held in their bone marrow. A truth kept close by their traumas. Skin black like the cool night's whispers. They are historic, survivors, Kings & Queens, majesty. You can't separate the jewel from the compounded escalation of minerals pressed into alchemy's womb. Indigo children are the greatest alloy of perseverance & theurgy alive.

Flooded Kitchen poetry by SPENCER ROBINSON

the storm has calmed rainclouds gently humming and I am still alone

Leaf Man, SHANE HILL

Asé fiction by ANGEL’ANASTASIA WALTON Dakarai. Dakarai. Dakarai. That day. That day. I– I can’t stop thinking about him. Where is he? Everything just keeps replaying from that day. Where am I? 5:11 A.M Tell her how I never did shit for you – tell her – tell her! That’s the last thing I remember my mother saying to me. In my head I called her a bitch as she laughed falling out of her friend’s arm onto the couch. I remember her smelling like piss and Hennessy. I remember it making my stomach twist, my blood boil. I watched from the hallway and ignored her friend who kept asking for help. Why would I help her? When her friend gave up and left out, I locked the door behind her and watched my mother stumble to the bathroom. The bathroom – right, the only reason I got up in the first place. I tried to wait until she stumbled out but that never happened. I heard snoring from the door. And that night I refused to wake her up and help her to bed, like all the other nights. I said fuck my bladder and laid down. I wanted her to wake up there so when she was sober, she would see how much of a disaster she was. I wanted her to hate herself, but if I could go back, I’d help her to her bed and lay with her.

10:08 A.M When I heard Dakarai wake up from above me, I wondered if he heard anything from that morning. But in a way it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t say shit. He never says shit. He knows he doesn’t have to with me. In way, it did matter though. Who knows how fucked up your head can get when you never let shit out. I don’t yell at him to speak like our mother though. I’ve always tried to learn him. If I learn him, he doesn’t have to say anything for me to understand what he needs. You still want to see Us? He had swung his head down and started nodding with a grin. Get dressed He jumped down at the same time the words left my mouth. I got up to go to the bathroom. It was empty but still reeked of piss and Hennessy. 12:18 P.M Askari? My name lingered on her tongue like a bad scent. I knew that voice even before I turned around in the concession line to see her face. It’s the type of voice that makes the hairs on your neck stand up and your palms instantly get sweaty. I didn’t know if it was fear or nerves, but I knew I didn’t like it. I’m so glad I ran into you! Now I have someone to hold my hand during the movie. She was pretty and anybody else in my shoes would probably would smile at those words, but they made me uneasy. They made me wish I had picked a later show. They made me question myself. Is it because she’s older? Is it because she never asked but

only commanded? Or maybe I am not the type of person who likes to hold a pretty hand? Either way I never said no. We sat in the back of the theater—Dakarai on my left, her on my right. When the movie started, a knot sat in my throat the instant she gripped my hand. The knot got bigger the second she caressed my fingers. I knew I couldn’t talk through the knot but it started to feel like I couldn’t breathe either. A broken spring in the chair poked my butt. I wanted to move. Dakarai was smacking on popcorn. I prayed he ran out and begged for more. I felt her move my hand to her chest. Then down her stomach. Then into her pants. My hand felt numb, like it wasn’t connected to me anymore. The movie theater went silent and I took my eyes off the ceiling to the screen. I saw a little girl dance out of the shadows. She spun in the light. Crashed into the walls. Crawled on the concrete. Rose her hands to God. Then spread her legs with life. I started crying because I never seen anyone ever dance that beautiful. 2:27 P.M When the screen went black and before the credits even appeared. I grabbed Dakarai’s hand and pulled him out of the theater. I didn’t speak to her. I didn’t even look at her. I just kept walking. I didn’t let go of his hand until we were far enough from the theatre. You hungry? We went into Chipotle. I couldn’t eat but I order for him then went to the bathroom. I washed my hand twelve times and it was still numb. The connection never came back. I dug in my pocket and pulled out my vape. Five clicks to turn on – eight clicks for the maximum heat. When I knew the THC was no longer sticky, I took five long drags and waited until she and the dancing girl left my mind, until my thoughts were blank and the only thing I could focus on was breathing. I came out of the bathroom and got us an Uber pool home. 2:58 P.M

I was squished between Dakarai and a random white lady. Her husband was injured in the front seat. Something about a race. The couple and the driver talked about it until we got to their stop. Once they got out the driver said something about his GPS tripping. Just give me the directions. I started telling him how to get to our house but his GPS kept playing other directions. My heart was beating fast and I thought about all the crazy Uber stories I ever heard. I wonder what would have happened if I wasn’t so paranoid, but the weed or my intuition made me say – You can just let us out right here. 3:17 P.M We were just walking. I knew Dakarai didn’t know the way home and I was too high to pay attention. So we just walked. Did you get the movie? I had asked him. He just shrugged. I think it was all about fighting. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. He nodded like he already knew what those type of battles felt like. 3:33 P.M I remember seeing a field of sour grass. All that yellow looked hella cool to me. Take my picture, D He snapped a few of me and we kept walking.

3:45 P.M We were walking up like 8th street I think. We was – was just about to cross the street when a police car turned the corner. It stopped traffic. We both froze, trying to see what was going on. Everything went so fast. There was a man, tall with long dreads and beautiful eyes. The type of eyes that are probably grey in the winter, but brown in the summer. The type of eyes I’m pretty sure angels would have. He ran around the corner holding his pants from falling. He was running straight in our direction. Stop! A police officer from behind him kept shouting. Then he drew his gun. I don’t know if he even seen us. The man saw us though. He was looking straight at me but straight through me too. I remember looking down to see if I was really standing there, when the police behind him let out three shots. One went into the back of his head. The other in his back. And the last one went through his oversized white tee. Escaping Time See this is the moment where everything gets blurry. I remember just standing there watching everything ... then next thing I’m on the ground. Dakarai was just screaming and I tried to ask him what’s wrong but I couldn’t. It felt like the inside of my mouth was rusting. The officer was yelling into his radio – I have two bodies down. And I remember I was looking for the second one but everything started to fade away. Then I remembered the man’s eyes and I started crying, because I never seen eyes that beautiful before.

Dakarai. Dakarai. Dakarai. That day. That day. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop thinking about him. Where is he? Where am I? Everything just keeps replaying from that day.

This Was Taken on March Tenth, FELIX BISHOP

Para los que sueñan (For the Dreamers) poetry by MITZY SALINAS Mothers crossing fences to meet their husbands on the other side, handing their babies to Coyotes, kissing them and hoping they make it safe. Sometimes, they don’t always find them. Fifteen years later, Their child grows to have ambitions. But we tell them to be wary about their goals, To watch their every move. Don’t fall into the wrong crowd, You’ll ruin everything. Not just for you, But for your mother and father too. No, you are not a criminal. No, you have the right to learn. After all, education is not a privilege, but a necessity for you to strive. I collect the tears you cry at night, When you think about the future and how they make it feel like an endless climb. All your struggles will fall into your favors, And when the time comes I’ll greet you with open arms, and congratulate you for all that you’ve done.

You’re always welcome here, do not forget.

THE IMPACT OF NOTES: INTERVIEW WITH J. RASHAD SMALL interview by TREVAUGHN MALIK ROACH-CARTER This interview was held on October 13th 2020.

TreVaughn Malik Roach-Carter: Who is J. Rashad Small?

J. Rashad Small: I’m a queer, Black man from the South with a whole lot of mouth and a big heart. I often tell folks that all I ever want to do is eat French fries, sip on an IPA, shake my ass in the streets on the weekends, and help make my communities just a little bit better. I don’t know if I should say this or not, but I am also a Gemini. I like to think I’m one of the fun, social Gemini folks who just wants to day drink while I frolic around the city and make positive memories. My friends may tell you otherwise because I do get a little hangry after a couple beers, lol.

TMRC: What sort of things do you draw inspiration from? JRS: At 30 years old I know I’ve lived a bit and I hope to share some of my experiences— often the counter narrative— with others. I think about the nights spent with friends around beer markets; packing up my life into three duffle bags and moving to San Francisco to chase a dream; falling in and out of love with tall hipsters who look like they haven’t showered in days; and of the relationships that I have with family, friends, casual partners, etc.

I also draw so much from those around me; I have some badass folks in my life. Folks who have started businesses, traveled the world, folks who just have done some things in life. I hope to share their stories too, with consent. TMRC: How might you describe Notes by Rashad to someone you’ve run into on the street? JRS: These are experiences that I break down into shorter notes, and sometimes extended notes, that I hope provokes a thought in others. Some of the stories are lighter in nature while others may be more developed for the reader to understand the full experience. For example, I

think of a lighter

story being the time I had this amazing stripper dared me to do splits in San Francisco for tequila shots in a bar. Home girl was surprised to see this 6’2” body drop into a full slip so fast. One of my

Courtesy of J. Rashad Smalls

favorite nights with friends in a very long time. From time to time, I also incorporate photos to help illustrate the experiences. Who doesn’t love a good photo, right? TMRC: What drove you to start writing these notes? JRS: I’ve wanted to do this for years because I wanted more stories that reflect those who look like me, who are like me, and those who are often left out of the conversations. I finally found the courage to just do it. If anything, the past year has reminded me of how short, fleeting our lives can be and to live in the moment. TMRC: Were you writing in any capacity before you made this blog?

JRS: Yes, many people don’t know that I entered college wanting to be a photojournalist. I had such an interest in meeting others and making friends. My mother always tells me that I was good to people, they noticed, and I built friendships with so many random folks. I started to explore those relationships more when I discovered creative writing and photography in my teenage years. I don’t think many folks know I went to college with intentions of being a photojournalist. I graduated with a photography degree but switched my minor to sociology from journalism. I hated each of those law courses I had to take as a journalism student and, to be honest, I hated those professors.

TMRC: Do you ever face any hesitation when you sit down to write Courtesy of J. Rashad Smalls

and post your thoughts for the world?

JRS: Of course. I’m sharing parts of myself that are vulnerable and, to put it simple, my truths. You can’t estimate how things will be received by others which can be intimidating. I chose to share because it helps me process and if my stories can positively impact one person, I’m good. TMRC: Who do you imagine your audience to be?

JRS: Millennials and Generation Z folks. What do we call you all now, Zoomers? I like to think specifically of BIPOC folks and queer folks, too. Those are my folks and I am sure some may relate to Notes. TMRC: What do you hope to provide this audience with through your writing? Was there ever something or someone that has provided that same thing for you? JRS: I hope people will connect to my writing and be able to take something from these stories. I honestly just like to talk too damn much;

it’s the attention seeking

Gemini in me. I talk, I write, and I share to connect. I didn’t feel like I had many stories that reflected my experiences growing up. The best I remember of a BIPOC queer man was Marco Del Rossi from Degrassi. I clung Courtesy of J. Rashad Smalls

to his story and that of another story of Bobby Griffith. They helped me navigate

through a lot but I still craved more, I craved Black experiences. TMRC: Is there a specific direction you hope or imagine Notes by Rashad going in the future? JRS: I’ll move into more visual content at some point. One of my upcoming posts will be about bromances I share with two men who are not like me in many ways but who have become so important to me. I told them to grab some beer or wine, sit down with me via Zoom, and talk candidly. I think I started one conversation by saying, “It’s about to get weird.” Those kinds of moments would be nice to share.

TMRC: The Ana is on a mission to redefine art and literature, with the idea that art is within everyone and art is for everyone. Do you think blogging could benefit from redefining? If so, what might you want that to look like? JRS: Hell yes. There is always a need, in my opinion, to center those voices that are left out of conversations. There are so many people doing amazing things in our communities and across the world. I think about queer, trans, and genderqueer folks in my life and BIPOC and women and disabled folks, so many folk. Let’s fuck this shit up and define our own spaces. Now if you want to know what that looks like I may talk you ear off. I think it could be anything and all things. Often queer and trans BIPOC are at the center of innovation and you never know what you will get. Wait, you never know what you’re going to get until folks pilfer culture and put it in a TikTok. You know what kind of people I am talking about, lol. TMRC: If Notes by Rashad was a food, Courtesy of J. Rashad Smalls

what would it be?

JRS: Definitely cheese pizza with pineapple and sun-dried tomatoes. It’s not for everyone but those with the taste for it will love it. I’ll have to tell you the story of how I discovered this pizza combination one day.

TMRC: If you were not doing Notes by Rashad, what other creative outlet might you be pursuing? JRS: Nature photography. I connect to this [stolen] land we’re on. I am a descendent of enslaved African people who, in the 1800s and 1900s, made a community for themselves with the land they had and birthed this amazing family I call mine. Being outdoors helps me to spiritually connect to nature as they once did as farmers, educators, and so much more. Love to all the Jacksons of coastal Georgia. J. RASHAD SMALL is based in LA. He is the creator of the new and refreshing blog, Notes By Rashad. You can read Notes by Rashad at https://www.notesbyrashad.com/ Instagram: @notesbyrashad Facebook: @notesbyrashad

THE NEO-TRANSCENDENTALISTS: INTERVIEW WITH JADEA EDMONDS AND B. ROCHA interview by LONDON PINKNEY

I sat down with Jadea Edmonds and B. Rocha to discuss poetry, climate anxiety, and what plants can teach us about being better humans. The interviews were held in Fall 2019 & Spring 2020.

JADEA EDMONDS London Pinkney: What drew you to nature imagery? Jadea Edmonds: It was my junior year at San Francisco State. A lot of people donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know this, but I battle depression. I wanted to find a way I can nurture myself and keep and eye on it. So I went to Trader Joes and bought my first plant. I knew I wanted a succulent, cuz succulents are easy to care for. I let the plant speak to me and I found plant that was kinda dying but had potential to grow, like me. So I took it home. And over the weeks I watched this plant grow and die at the same time. I saw that it mirrored my journey. I started writing about this journey and it got me sucked into the world of nature and plants. So in the short-form: nature allowed me to see my own growth, my own decaying. I started to take those metaphors and experiences and put it in my poems. LP: Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so beautiful! JE: Thank you! And after that I became a Plant Mom, too.

LP: How many plants do you have? JE: I have thirteen now. LP: Do you see a connection between being a Plant Mom and a poet? JE: Definitely do. I haven’t written much from the perspective of being a Plant Mom, maybe once or twice. It’s a totally different perceptive. As a Plant Mom I look at things from the plant’s perceptive rather than from my perspective, which is interesting and hard to do. I put myself in the pot and outside

Courtesy of Jadea Edmonds

of the pot— it’s like putting yourself inside of the world and outside of the world. When I write in the perspective of a Plant Mom I am more gloomy, I look more at the dying than the growing. But when I put myself in the perspective of my plants I feel like I’m more into the growing side. Like, I grew from this point to that point. And I new leaves! And although my soil isn’t great I’m still able to grow. I’d rather write in the perspective of my plants than from the perspective of a plant mom. LP: I love like the idea putting yourself in a pot. To take care of myself I’ve been thinking about we’re pretty much plants but with more complex emotions— we need water, we need sunlight, we need soil, and roots. If you identify with plants and write from that perspective, how has climate change affected both your plant side and your human side? JE: Now I’m not gonna lie, when I first got into this I didn’t care about being an environmentalist or care about the Earth. It wasn’t until six months ago that I realized I

should take care of the planet the way I take care of my plants. Whether or not I own the plants out there, I need to care for them. Like with my own plants, I got them a humidifier. I make my own natural bug spray. I am really cautious of how I secure their space, which means I have to be cautious about how I secure the rest of my home. That needs to translate to out there too. I can’t call myself a Plant Mom or a plant lover if I don’t love the rest of the Earth. It doesn’t make sense. So I stopped littering and took extra steps to care for the planet. Though it takes more effort to care out there I’m still trying to be better. I’m cautious about the products I buy, what spray in my hair— cuz whatever I do in here, eventually goes out there. And I spiritually own out there, too. We all need to care for the land and care for ourselves. I’m part of nature too. LP: Do you think this desire translates artistically? Because it’s the same with writing– whatever we put out there affects and is reflected in the world. Like, racist art. When you don’t know Black people beyond the stereotypes seen in movies or shows, that’s how we are to you. Sometimes Black artists become hyper-aware of the optics of the work we create. So in line with that, do you think your affinity for plants has shaped you into a different Courtesy of Jadea Edmonds

artist?

JE: I think so. It allows me to play more attention to detail and go beneath the surface. For example —and let’s use a plant metaphor— my leaves could be growing well but my soil is rotten. And I wouldn’t know that until it grew put to the surface. Knowing about all of plant’s intricacies makes me dig deeper in my writing. Like, I never knew different plants had different needs— one plant needs to be on the left side of the room, when another needs to be on the right. How you potion yourself needs to be strategic. As an

artist I ask myself how I want to be potion so that I can grow and thrive. I ask how can I thrive in bad soil, and what can I learn from bad soil and from trying to thrive in a place where I shouldn’t be. Artistically, I feel like I can shift where I need to shift. Like here, I’m all about nature poetry, but how can I shift and combine nature and racism, or nature and gender. And people have done that, I’ve seen B. [Rocha] do that beautifully. I also do visual art. When I submitted my artwork to [the magazine] Seen and Heard I felt like like I betrayed my identity. Then I asked myself, why can’t I be a poet who draws? Nature is all over the place and I can be all over the place too. LP: I hope this isn’t an odd question, but people like to invalidate caring about environmentalism, writing, and racism. How do you cope with juggling these big topics? JE: It’s not a struggle because I don’t need validation. I know exactly what I want to do and how I want to say it. You can look at the tattoos. People always ask me about them and judge me. Like, I have a lot of women on my body and I get questions about my sexuality and who these women are all the time. And I don’t have to explain anything to anyone. I just walk around not giving a fuck. You’re either gonna listen to me or you’re not. But I feel like as long as I have a strong voice people are going to follow me. When it comes to racism, even of we took the word away we would know

Courtesy of Jadea Edmonds

what it is because it makes us feel some type of way. Racism definitely makes me feel some type of way. Nature makes me feel some type of way too. So I don’t need to validate these things, my emotions tell me enough.

LP: Ok, work! I just called a therapist. I’m trying to get myself together and you just gave me all this wisdom. JE: Girl, right? Therapy is expensive. Buy yourself a plant and mediate. Our generation can’t afford therapy. I need cheaper ways to cope. I had to look in myself and realize I did not, do not need to be validated. As long as it sat right with Jadea, Jadea is fine. If I feel good when I go out there, I’m fine. If I feel racism, I’m gonna do something about it. It’s about feelings, you can sense things. LP: That approach is so nature-like. Nature’s gonna do what it does. If there’s a bus in the woods, nature’s gonna grow up and around that bus. It’s a force. And I think you’re an embodiment of nature. JE: Thank you! LP: Seeing that your art is tied to the environment and we have all kinds of folks destroying the plant, do you feel like there is an attack on your art? Straight up, I feel like this is a leading question but, your muse is being killed. I’m curious of how you feel? JE: I never thought about that— damn! Here’s the thing, we all create our own muse. So I think artist need to be aware of how to shift your focus. So let’s set, I’m writing about trees then all my trees burned down. To me, my muse isn’t dead, it’s just taken another form. So that dead tree still means something to me. So when you look at something you may see a completely different thing— you may not see anything at all. Let’s say that tree has disappeared, but I knew that tree was once there, that’s a new perspective I can write from. The loss is a presence and is as real as that tree. My muse is never dead, it’s just changed. No one can kill my muse. Anything becomes my muse through my eyes, so as long as I’m looking and creating, I will have muses. Even if I pull it from my imagination, my muse is alive. I know what nature felt like, so I can write about it until I’m gone.

Courtesy of Jadea Edmonds

LP: I know your poetry, it’s so uplifting. There’s lush imagery of vines taking over the body that manifest in sensual ways. And I feel like I’m on the other side of things cuz I’m writing prose about fire. We all about destruction overhere. I wonder how someone can write in such a growth-centric way as the world is on fire. I’m just in awe of you. Do you think your focus may shift if the planet gets worse? JE: I feel like the earth is starting to restore itself with quarantine. But I have’t really thought about how things will go back to normal when we are allowed to go back outside. We will need a new normal. And I think my creative process has shifted to exploring what this new normal will look like for plants and for our bodies. I often write about how nature is great but pandemics are part of the human side of nature, and this is not great. Nature will take its course, so I feel like if it’s threatened it’s gonna kill us. Maybe that’s what this pandemic is. Well, I know it’s not. We gotta ride it this out. We need to do our part to restore the Earth and restore our communities as we get deeper into this pandemic.

B. ROCHA London Pinkney: What began your fascination with nature poetry? B. Rocha: My fascination with nature poetry began in childhood. I actually grew up on a property with forty different oak trees, and I climbed all of them as a kid. And I helped my pops garden. I had an appreciation for botany, specifically the growth process. And once I started writing I realized how similar humans are to plants and how they grow in a similar way we do, in our life and in our body. So using that comparison was really helpful way to explore those topics. And obviously I’m obsessed with plant imagery, with flowers and everything. I have it tattooed on me. LP: What makes you so drawn to flowers that you’d want them permanently on you? BR: I love the permanency of my tattoos seeing that the flowers are now frozen in time on me. Cuz obviously, every single living thing dies. And while I love to find beauty in death, I appreciate having things on me that will not die, so to speak. Until I die. LP: So you’re interested in this idea of freezing what is living so it doesn’t die? BR: Yeah. I like to freeze it on the page in my writing. I allude to a lot of aspects of death– flowers wilting, willows falling. But when it comes to my relationship to botany and my relationship to the Earth I think that it’s frozen in time for me in general because it’s so close to my heart and so close to the way

I go about life. Something I always say, and I have it tattooed on my now is “Everything goes away and unfolds again the way it’s supposed to.” It’s very nice to have this mantra to live by. I know I’m not the first one to have said it, but its so near and dear to my heart because of my relationship to nature and botany. LP: I love your tattoos, they’re amazing. BR: I know! I really love the fern. I’ve been talking about how I want ferns at every event in my life. Wedding, funerals. Everything. LP: Why ferns? BR: My upbringing with my grandma and my pops. We always planted ferns around our property and I always wanted to bury a garden in ferns. Because they really do bury your garden! They’ll brush over everything and they really don’t have any rules. I like that. It really speaks to my poetry, now that I think about it. My poetry doesn’t have any rules to it. It grows where it grows. And sometimes it’s uprooted, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it has a pathway I want it to go in, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s just very nice that even in my craft I see a connection to nature. What’s on the page is just content, but what’s behind the page is just as important, too. I think all ties back to me using that organicness and my connection between humans and plants. It’s nice to think about. Talking about it makes me more enthusiastic about the concepts.

LP: Did you set out to write nature poetry, or is nature a reoccurring motif in your work? BR: It’s definitely a reoccurring motif. I did not set out to go in that direction. I started out writing stand-up comedy. But for the past six years I’ve been exploring what it means to be human. I look at humans through the metaphor of a flower or a plant or a tree. It’s interesting how I found that voice without trying. One instruction have been the big poets– Wordsworth, Plath, Poe. The problematic poets of history, basically. Their racism, sexism, and all that is there, but their work is so botanically-themed. I didn’t even do most of the readings in my classes, because how can you juggle everything we need to read and write and do? But something I always did read were those poets. If they mentioned nature, plant life, the green. The romanticism–I love romanticism, finding beauty in nature. One writer that I’ve met, who I love, who helped me carve out my botanical voice is Heather June Gibbons. You know her, we love her. LP: Shout out to Heather Gibbons! BR: She’s lovely. And she knows who the great poets are. Back in an intro class, sophomore year, she was like, there’s something in your poetry that’s there. I was writing short stories at the time and I was new to writing. I had just switched my major from Business to Creative Writing. But it was finding that botanical voice that made feel more confident in pursuing poetry. It felt more real.

LP: That’s beautiful, B. To shift gears, Environmental Anxiety was a term coined recently to describe the stress Millennials and Gen Z feel regarding the impending doom of climate change. BR: I like that term! I have the opposite of Environmental Anxiety. The most recent moment of this environmental panic is restaurants asking you if you’d like a straw. They ask if you want a lid, or whatever. It’s the big rigs in the ocean and global governments we need to go after. Besides petitions, voting, and changing our spending habits there’s not a lot we can do to change the government’s mind. In so many ways their mind has been made up. I think the best thing I’ve done is emotionally accept this impending doom while raging against it in deed. I’m composing, recycling, I’m treating every single natural thing with respect. I don’t pick flowers anymore. I don’t buy non-green items. And as fucked up as it may sound, we need to accept that all living things die and the Earth is a living thing. And as fucked up as it is to accept it, we need to accept that the Earth will be no more. We will be no more. It’s horrifying, devastating, everything in between, but its’ also beautiful. Something that’s been around for centuries is ending something. I’m not saying it’s gonna end soon, I believe we can push that date back if we and the government get it together. But I don’t have Environmental Anxiety because climate change is not preventing me from planning my future. It may speak to a privilege I have, and I try to keep educating myself, but I’m not cosmically worried. LP: For sure. While you aren’t a poet who writes to be remembered there is a chance that there will only be three generations who will know of your work if we parishes thanks to climate change. Because the Earth isn’t going to die, we are. Does that effect how you write and who you write for? BR: It makes me write more. I’ve seen people seek refuge in my writing. I go into a piece with the intention that I am creating a voice that needs to be heard, but also needs to be related to. I know that there is another trans-masculine that can read my work and relate to it— even if it has to do with fricking birds and trees–there’s some kind of

metaphor there that will give them a moment. I don’t think my work is gonna save anyone, but I know the power of a moment. A moment of clarity, a moment of calmness. It calms me to recognize that we are all living things that are going to die one day, and we grow in different ways, and at different speeds. And it’s clique but there’s not enough poetry that focuses on how natural our differences are. We need to relate to one another, support one another through our traumas and our marginalized bodies and voices. And we need to do that now. I don’t think about my readers as much as I do think about if my work was frozen in time will be beneficial to every generation. LP: Like a flower. BR: Exactly. And I love you for saying that. Botany is continuous, ageless. And the regenerative process of that is like the regenerative process of humans. I can picture someone in 1920 reading my work, I can picture someone in 10,000 BC reading my work. I can picture someone in 3000 reading it. Within reason, it will be relatable, and I write with this in mind. I want to write with a voice that you can enjoy timelessly, just as you can enjoy nature timelessly. The only thing I worry about when writing is making sure no one assumes my gender. I changed my name to just as letter. And this kind of gender expression something that is important to my writing because like nature, it’s genderless. It’s just as living.

LP: Finally, I’ve been speaking to you as if you’re a nature poet, but do you identify as one? BR: In Heather Gibbon’s class we learned about nature poetry and what it means to be a nature poet. We read Tommy Pico. They are a phenomenal poet. They are queer, Indigenous, and have a beautiful voice. And their poetry is the furthest fucking thing from poetry. But they titled their most recent collection is called Nature Poem. It explores being a queer, Indigenous person in a big city. It has nothing to do with nature in a romantic sense. But, at the end of the day it was nature poetry because it was about people, and people are part of nature. To me, it is nature poetry if you write about botany, a language, a land, people because they all exist in nature. So, yes I am a nature poet and I write about living things.

JADEA EDMONDS is poet who creates through the lens of her plants. The exploration of nature ins her outlet and a way of expression. Although most of the time she does not like to label her creative process, nature manifests in her being that then imprints on paper so organically. Instagram: @retrobeauty B. ROCHA is a deaf, trans-masculine, and eclectic writer who has been creating art, of all forms, since they were a simple but inspired child. Rocha discovered the gratifying process of writing early on and, over the years, they have molded a complex style of poetry emphasizing everyday botanical undertones. They use this nature poetry as a foundation for revealing the subtle constructs of ableism in society. Through this style they have produced and published many captivating pieces that play with the elements of craft through a more accessible lens. Instagram: @thebrocha Website: brocha.squarespace.com

CONTRIBUTORS

FELIX BISHOP (They/Them) is a graduate student in the Communication Studies program at San Francisco State University. They usually work in relation to LGBTQIA+ issues and themes. But sometimes, they just like to take cool photos. Their Instagram is: @felixbishop_wip JENNA MICHAELLA BAUTISTA is from South San Francisco, California. She grew up in the Bay as the daughter of immigrants from the Philippines. Her high school years were surrounded by the arts. She was a part of the dance class, the choir, the musical, the newspaper, and photography. She spent a lot of time writing and creating. She is a firstyear Creative Writing major hoping to expand her craft and tell the stories of marginalized groups and bring them to the spotlight. SYDNEY CRUZ is a student at SFSU, currently trying to enter as a Cinema major. He's published two short stories with another publication (Artifact Nouveau) by the creative writing club: Writers' Guild, of San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton. Under the pen name of Benjamin Stroop, the titles were "Written in Black" and "The Bandage Knight" in the Fall 2017 issue. ALYSIA GONZALES was born and raised in San Francisco, where she currently resides. She is in her final year of the MFA in Fiction program at San Francisco State University. When she's not writing or reading, she can be found hiking, sipping tea, watching film and TV, being curious, or playing with her dog. She is working on a short story collection about class and race's long reaching arms, and a novel about California mountains, climate change, indigenous cultures, and the persistence of history through cultural erasure (oh, and magic).

LARAE J. MAYS-HARDY (she/her) is a teaching artist, performer, writer, and activist based in San Francisco, CA. She earned her Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy with a certificate in Theater and Community Engagement at Temple University. LaRae's life and work focuses on Blackness, decolonization, grief, womanhood, love in all forms, and power. Beginning in the fall 2020, LaRae looks forward to starting her MFA journey in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. Check her out on Instagram @LaRae.J.MH SAM HERNANDEZ is a poet living in Brooklyn, NY. Her work was recently included in Endless Editionsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; SPRTS 2019 periodical. You can find her @ham_sammie on Instagram. SHANE HILL is a writer and artist based in Nova Scotia, Canada.Â Sometimes he publishes poetry in Open Heart Forgery. More of his art can be found on instagram @unusual_chair.

R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON is a native of the Eastbay. An award winning poet, playwright, spoken word artist, actor, educator and father of Wordsi2i.org. He is described as a vivid story-teller creatively framing and displaying some of the best and worst details of relationships, religion and sexuality. Instagram: @R_shawntezjackson ANDREW JOHNSON is a History Graduate Student at San Francisco State University who specializes in queer history. While that may be the career of his choice and a point of great passion for him, art and writing are also where he is able to channel his passion and energy. He mainly draws portraits of famous individuals he hopes to branch out into more digital mediums of artwork. CYNTHIA LOPEZ is a queer Mexican artist and visual designer who has recently started dipping her toes into the photography world. Born and raised in the San Francisco Bay

Area, she loves to spend her free time laughing with her loved ones, rewatching her favorite childhood TV shows, and bothering her pets with love. ZACH MURPHY is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Ghost City Review, Spelk Fiction, Door = Jar, Levitate, Yellow Medicine Review, Ellipsis Zine, Wilderness House Literary Review, Drunk Monkeys, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota. ARIANA NEVAREZ is from Berkeley, California. She graduated from Cal Poly, San Luis Obispo with a B.A. in English. She lives in Boulder Creek, California, happily surrounded by redwood trees. Aside from reading and writing, she enjoys laying down, watching movies, and eating spaghetti. She is a contributing reviewer for OmniVerse. Her poetry focuses on the beauty and many forms of human connection. WYNN NGUYEN is an artist who works in many mediums, from paint, sculpture, and embroidery to bookbinding and digital art. As a nonbinary Vietnamese-American, they draw much of their inspiration from their lived experience of existing constantly in between the intersections of race, gender, culture, and sexuality. Find more of their work and the occasional sick meme on instagram: @w.ynn. NOREIA RAIN is this heat like a cloak under this harvest moon. streets made of hills, the air tinged with salt and sea. these delicious days of poetry and wine and whispers, nights full of spice and magic, branches and shadows. learning how to come alive again. SPENCER ROBINSON is well-versed in the creative arts and often finds himself between projects in literature, art / animation, music, and more. He has been writing fictional stories and other nonfiction works for as long as he could read and is currently working on several novels and nonfiction books and a webcomic. Robinson takes inspiration from the many natural wonders of life, as well as an overwhelming desire to

do right and to always choose compassion in everything he does. The works of creators such as Studio Ghibli co-founder Hayao Miyazaki and musical composer Joe Hisaishi (among many other creators) inspire his views to focus not only on the bolder, unique aspects of storytelling but to remember to find solace and comfort in the small things in life. Robinson’s work can be found on social media here: [Instagram/@leroigrenouille, @wanderlust_comic, and Youtube/CrepesAhoy]. KITRA BAZILTON ROWE is a lover of writing, music, and the feline species. Growing up in Southern California and graduating from Los Angeles Mission College, they are now pursuing their BA in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. With every word they string together, they hope to make a lasting imprint on all those who read them. You can catch one of their occasional posts on Instagram @soundfreverie. SEN RUIZ was born and raised in San Francisco where she currently resides. She holds a Bachelor's Degree in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing and is currently in the Creative Writing MFA program at SFSU. She writes fiction, poetry, non-fiction and hybrids of the three, that often focus on culture, home and identity. Her work has been published in Transfer and Forum Magazines.

MITZY SALINAS is a Latinx writer/artist from Redwood City. She’s currently earning her B.A. in Creative Writing with a minor in German from San Francisco State University. In the future, she plans to publish books in multiple languages (Spanish, English, and German) while also teaching in Germany. She hopes that her work will inspire others, the way other artists/ writers have inspired her. SAM SOTOMAYOR exists. EMMA WAKEFIELD is currently living in San Francisco as an art student at San Francisco State University. She has self-published the children’s book Story of The Sea

and is also working on a young adult novel. Her work was shown at the Middletown Art Gallery Community Works - Restore Showing, (2018) and in the Lake County Bloom (2019-2020). Wakefield’s social media, Instagram: wildchairyie Using panting, drawing, and digital media techniques Emma Wakefield deals with the exploration of the unique and distinct parts of human nature and the items that reflect their owner’s touch and personality. After being heavily influenced by artist such as Norman Rockwell and Gabriel Picolo many of her pieces are portrait based or are objects which have some form of human influence. ANGEL’ANASTASIA WALTON is an Oakland Native and recent San Francisco State grad. At SFSU she studied Creative Writing with minors in Africana Studies and anthropology. She is currently continuing her education career at NYU’s Experimental Humanities & Social Engagement program, where her thesis is related to exposing the extermination of Black boys in America through 1955-2020. CLAUD YASMIN is a lover, a feeler, a writer, and an artist based in San Francisco. They hold a BA in studio art with double minors in comparative literature and Persian studies from San Francisco State University. Their heart is (always) bursting at its seams. Art is the only option: Create Create Create Create. You can find more of their work at claudyasmin.com.

THE ANA ISSUE #4

Articles inside

Asé | ANASTASIA WALTON

Indigo Children | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

open | NOREIA RAIN

Cutting Outside the Lines | R. SHAWNTEZ JACKSON

When Writing a Greek Museum | SYDNEY CRUZ

Rose Knows | ZACH MURPHY

You Aren’t Mexican | SAM SOTOMAYOR

My Papa Shakes and It’s All the Same to Me | ALYISA GONZALES

Something Different | LARAE J. MAYS-HARDY

All The Sound The Water Makes | ARIANA NEVAREZ

The Loveseat | NOREIA RAIN