June 11, 11:03 p.m.
Dude, one of the things I should never do is not re-read.
I meant to say in the last update, "I suppose this is a perk of being
one of a handful of academics looking at race, gender, sexuality, and
multiple modes of (material and ideological) production IN DIGITAL SPACE
simultaneously, eh?" But I left out the digital space part, so now I
look like a jerk. Argh.
June 7, 2001, 4:23 p.m.
In a little over a week there'll be another plane, and another fourteen hours of flight time notched on my belt, to wing my way to the Sexualities, Medias, Technologies
conference at the University of Surrey in Guildford.
Any suggestions for things to do in London or
Guilford/Surrey would be greatly appreciated.
12:03 p.m.
re-reading: Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses
of Displacement, Caren Kaplan; Lisrael, Garth Nix
listening: Budget Girls, Huggy Bear, Detriot Cobras. X (Australia)
These last six months have been a whirlwind of airports and
layovers, restless naps snatched in uncomfortable chairs (vinyl and upholstered)
and far too many details (a rainbow of neon tubes above a moving
sidewalk, the empty chatter and cliched speech of businessmen, a
swell of academics glad-handing around the room). My battered
notebook is full of truncated notes, odd impressions and flashes of
danger: "Detroit Marriott mall-like food court -- Drinking Sweat in An Ash Age.
Atlanta airport
-- white rocking chairs along the concourse. Kansas -- there is
a NAZI on the plane with 'SS' belt buckle, rings, tats. Oh fuck." The
Midwest was a blur of long hours spent traveling on the 37 between
Indianapolis and Bloomington, driving across the urban sprawl for a bowl
of pho in a strip mall, and reading Diana Wynne Jones novels, full of
magical cats and curious English children. I saw my first subterranean show in a dank
basement (different than house shows, which I have been to in abundance)
but of course it was a band from the Mission, Shotwell, that I saw,
their van with California plates parked on the gravel driveway, the
pungent stink of unwashed punks smelling of a once-familiar sense of
home.
The constant movement is making me feel unsettled. I can't
write, can't think. There is nothing romantic about this, or the feeling
of displacement. All I can think of while in the air is the length
of my presentation or the duration of the flight or
the distance from one gate to the next.
In the days since our return I've helped to put
together 1200 records and 100 zines, many of which are now boxed,
labeled, and set aside in one half of the living room, what Mark calls,
"the mail center." Tomorrow I've got to board another plane at six a.m.
to make my way to wedding in Connecticut, but not before taking a train
to New York City, to visit with friends and to remember (if I can) why I
loved the subway.