We love artists at The Wild Word.
Our Artist-in-Residence page provides a space for artists to showcase their work and to spread their creative wings. In their month of residency, invited artists are encouraged to collaborate with other contributors within the magazine, to experiment and develop new projects, while giving us an insight into their creative process.
Our VENUS RISING Artist-in-Residence is musician, doula, and writer Ohrkid.
Ohrkid is a musician, doula, and writer based in Berlin. They released their debut album, PDA, in January.
“Ohrkid’s voice is moving, not because of its force but because of its ease. We’re meant to listen to them sing.” – Hysteria Magazine
“Have you been looking for a dreamy, erotic escape to shamelessly blast in your room this spring?…In just five songs, PDA sets a mood full of dreamy soundscapes painted with reflections of pleasure, disgust, lust, and longing.” – BasedBrat
Photos and video by Jo Eisley – www.visualsweat.com
The planet Venus looks like Earth, only burning with red, consuming heat. With world leaders like T***p in the driver’s seat, Earth could soon be burning like its twin. For many, it is more accurate to say it’s already on fire. Whether this reality is external, internal, or both, earthlings are responding to the ongoing reign of patriarchy with shaking fists, heads tossed back, barbaric yawps flung out from parched, insistent lungs. Hair burning, witches and muggles alike shiver with the intensity of what needs to change. The collective’s eyes are rolling in response to absurd abuses of power, and as our incensed gaze turns inward towards our third eyes, we’re seeing clearer than ever before visions of a new future.
Venus is benevolent co-creator of our new world, transformed (and transforming) by fire. Trans* folks, GNC people, women and men are realizing that Earth is literally our common ground. We all have equally vested interest in its healing; we all have equal power and responsibility to heal it. If we can be saved, it will require continually redefining power outside of white cis hetero maleness. With love, eroticism, connection, relationship, fairness, groundedness, steadfastness, and expansive inclusivity, the revolution burns. In us, and through us.
As a queer GNC artist, I use my voice, my words, my song, and my very dreams, to practice radical vulnerability and be the change I wish to see in the world. As Wild Word’s artist in residence, I allow myself to be visible, audible, legible, and felt, in a world where my community’s stories are often erased and forgotten. As Audre Lorde, legendary feminist* scholar wrote, “I feel, therefore I can be free.”
Note on the texts: the dream manuscripts I share are transcribed, except for small adjustments, exactly as they were written in my dream journal in the moments after dreaming.
DREAM: KILLER WHALE
swimming with the killer
whale. (black + white)
it immediately finds me
and is dancing with me.
I relax completely as the
thrill of fear runs through
it nips me a few times.
I fear it will eat me.
but I am so proud it
Dream: “Snake Dance River”
I want Andrés to kiss me. We’re journeying through a park. I’m building up to it in inadequate ways. It’s raining and flooding. The flood rivers are very muddy, full of debris. Andrés has made it over this bed, a big flower bed, (also deeply flooded with muddy water), and stands on the other side, beckoning me. I think to scramble across it fast and be on the other side with him. But when I place my hands on the soil, they are each (palms and fingers) filled with prickly pear needles or something similar—invisible plant piercers.
Someone else we’re with is very concerned—oh no! They’re going to panic, but I want them to be quiet so I can focus. As I wave my hands through the flood waters, (which I can reach without bending down), the prickly pear spines are being carried away by the current, dislodging from my hands.
I go around the block instead of over it.
Now the sun is coming out. Andrés points out a beautiful white screened-in wrap-around porch on the roof of one of the buildings. “Aw, beautiful,” I say. I tell him I’ve seen many similar things in cities like Paris and New York, but this place would be extra special to be in, because one would look over Berlin.
“And I love Berlin,” I say affectionately.
Next thing I remember we’re floating down a river close to the finish and we’ve drifted apart. There is a wet-looking green crocodile embedded in the sand at the bottom of the shallow flowing water (which is a bit sandy, but in general, much clearer than the muddy water before.) “Crocodile!” I say, and point him out (to Lauren?) Then, without much thinking, I propel myself over him. He doesn’t react. I am safe.
Now I’m on dry land. There is a crowd. People are watching fireworks. (A moment to explain these: while fireworks are normally launched from the earthly ground, and fly up into the sky, these fireworks are thrown from the top of a very high tower, and explode in the air before flying to the ground. It looks very dangerous.) I am watching and wondering how it’s done. I inch closer and closer to the sources during a pause. They boom and flash overhead again, and I want to be farther away. I’m afraid debris and fire will fall on me, and ash will get in my eyes.
Before I leave, I see, high up at the top of the tower from which the fireworks are launched, that people are also being thrown down off the tower. One girl’s body falls in silhouette. Like a soft, limp shadow doll, her silhouette is somehow upside down for someone falling; her hair hangs below her. I am horrified, thinking she must be landing on the concrete below and dying.
Now Libby and Tyson meet up with me father back. They think we need to pay for something. (Note: in the earthly world, we take out money from the bank when we need cash; in this world, we were putting it into the bank to get cash.) Tyson takes out a six hundred dollar bill and makes a big to-do about it being his last; we have to not overspend. He hands it to me, and I put it in my back pocket (it feels like I’m wearing corduroys with a belt). I look at him and Libby and say emphatically, ‘I live on this much per month.’ They are surprised.
I walk up to the bank teller while they sit on a couch behind her. (Note: this is an extremely fancy bank. It looks like a mansion in terms of extreme decoration. I think there is a candelabra near the teller.)
I take the cash out of my pocket and place it on the counter.
When I do, I feel an extremely strong sensation fill my back, tantalizing me, while two people behind me each play a recorder to the left or right side of my back, respectively.
The recorder music is enchanting at the very level of tissues. Movement is irresistible, and I’m not truly interested in resisting. As my back and arms unfold in sinuous, semi-orgasmic guided movement, I notice vaguely that I’m wearing a long-sleeved workout zip-up jacket and huge, round black sunglasses.
I dance, arms flowing, back waving.
Dream: “Spiritual Doorway”
The first part I remember, I am in an upstairs chamber with Annie D’Amato and Lauren Lougeé. Annie is guiding us through to some pathway/doorway of spiritual existence. She describes her own experience of getting there, and at first I have no idea what she’s talking about. She is describing how she tried to squeeze through many different ways—standing, squeezing her shoulder through, then feet first, until she describes basically going butt first (the image of which now reminds me of a breech baby). Apparently, she says this was the only way she fit. Then she could enter the next world, of which she tells stories, which seem important.
I feel challenged to try to go. Lauren is also trying. As soon as I lay down on the floor—(this whole place is wooden, like a cabin bunk house. Some blankets. Loft, wooden, dark bedroom kind of place, with no bed)—on my right side in the fetal position, already the world is tugging and pulling me in. It’s so intense. I think I feel what she means, about the entrance being slim and having to be smooshed through.
I am at once caught in the doorway, with a spiritual wind coursing/crashing through me, pulling me towards the next level, and still lying on the floor there, and inside the place. It’s like a maze. Of earthly tunnels.
On the floor, I am shaking, my teeth are chattering, and I am moaning, as the feelings course through me, pulling me in.
Somehow I get out, back to the place with Lauren and Annie. Annie is standing up, tall. She doesn’t seem to recognize what I’ve just been through.
I grab some (luscious, pastel-like) colored pencils and start to fill in a green and blue section on a giant mural that’s being made on a paper on the floor. The green is used to highlight the blue. I am coloring fiercely because it feels that an energy/force is moving my hand as I color in automatically, deepening the green sections. I am concerned it will look like lines rather than blended shading.
Now I take my own piece of paper and grab a pink pastel and draw myself. I am coloring in the eyelashes when Annie D grabs the paper from me and goes, “Do you think we could save the paper for Chris Fitzsimmons? He’s been doing a lot of amazing drawings, come look.” She shows me lots of very diverse drawings, and I agree they’re important, but I can see that there’s an entire huge pad of paper. I feel rejected, unused, and wonder why she’d take my paper away.
I am totally energetically drained now. I can hardly stand up. I start to ask for some chaga tea or kakao, but Annie D interrupts me to say, as if to discredit my exhaustion, “The first time, you’re mainly experiencing your fantasy of it”.