Roses are tree-roots
Violets are too
But lines of becoming
Are becoming on you.
Happy Deleuzian Valentine’s Day!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
This rose/violent centrism
Is wrong from the start;
There’s a diverse economy
In the ways of my heart.
Happy Gibson-Grahamian Valentine’s Day!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
To say “roses are red”
Is to stop differánce;
Yet my One needs an Other:
A You to románce.
Happy Derridean Valentine’s Day!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
All these flowers and sugar
Obscure capital’s function;
Come, love, let’s go wrest back
The means of production.
Happy Marxist Valentine’s Day!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
There may be consent
For the red rose tradition
But with you, love, I much prefer
Wars of position.
Happy Gramscian Valentine’s Day!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
My dear bearer of structure,
Overdetermined dove,
May this red rose bear witness
To our teeth-grating love.
Happy Althusserian Valentine’s Day!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
There are Valentine’s tropes
In the discourse of flowers
But our love’s truth-effects
Have non-discursive powers.
Happy Foucaultian Valentine’s Day!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Saturday, July 17, 2010
meet us in the whirlwind: the first workshop, Day 2
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Detroit
Apple and crackers in the stomach to start the day. Woke up earlier than the rest and attempt to get my things in order. But soon it is all activity in the hotel room, as bodies groan to alertness and snippets of conversation get interrupted with brushing teeth and morning showers. Wi-fi in the hotel room is malfunctioning, stalling my prep for our first workshop today. Soon we are heading out; I carry a laptop, camera, phone, and a stack of book posters clutched in the crook of my elbow.
By the time we arrive at Cobo Hall it is astonishingly busy, packed with even more people than from yesterday; we soon learn that the numbers coming through keep growing each passing day. Parking is a pain, but thankfully not a repeat of the previous night's fiasco of trying to find our parked rental car in the wrong ramp. The moment we enter we head straight for the AK Press table to pick up books. I meet Kate for the first time, which again is strange - yet another person who I've only gotten to know as a voice on a conference call, or words issuing over an email, but still a living breathing human being who worked like hell with us to bring this book into being. After perfunctory greetings I rush off to the second floor and the Media Center, where Melissa from Radical Reference has surveys waiting for me. They're trying to get a sense of how activists get the info they use - a straightforward and useful form of research, so where better to deploy it than in workshops on research? I asked her a few days back how many completed surveys she hoped to received. "One-hundred would be great," she said. "Well," I replied, "in a space of 20,000 people, let's see how we do."
Walk over to the room for our workshop; to my great relief, there are no long lines waiting to get in, no massive logistical snafus that accompanied the first USSF three years ago. All the same, I'm glad to arrive half an hour early. Move through all the little tasks almost habitually, though in fact it is our first time doing this: setting up signs and posters, arranging chairs, writing up notes, preparing money envelopes and shorthand accounting systems for any books we sell. Through all this the panelists arrive: Chris, Harmony, Michal, and of course Craig. Through all this, still, attendees arrive, sit and wait patiently. For many minutes I work with a man in a wheelchair who is trying to find the right room where his friends are. Even as the stress amplifies, so too does the relief: you find the little things - all the panelists are here! we'll have a good crowd for the event! - that take an incredible weight off your back.
I slip into public speaking/event mode easily, welcoming the crowd, notifying them of start times, asking to keep the aisles clear, pointing out open seating, talking loudly and confidently, using choice humor here and there. As friends back in New Orleans used to say, "Professor Peace has taken the stage." I introduce the collective and what we do; I stump for the book; I set up the context for the notion of research in struggle, and get the panel started. All off-the-cuff, which is my favorite way of presenting, yet also not without its frustrations - the moment I stop talking and Chris opens up for the panelists, I immediately regret all the things I wish I had said but didn't, all the ways I could have framed things better but didn't. But this is ultimately not my show; all of us in Team Colors know that, one way or another, the success of our panels and workshops will come from collective wizardry.
As each panelist presents, I feel better and better about how it's going. Each speaker makes clear and powerful points; all of them are prepared and thoughtful. None of them seem at all ruffled by the ballooning crowd in the room which keeps growing and growing throughout. I recalled telling the others in the collective once, "I know we requested rooms for 25 to 30 people, but don't be surprised if we get 75, 100." They countered by reminding me that an obscure collective like ours couldn't possibly draw those numbers. Now, seeing all the chairs occupied, the floor space packed with sitters, the walls lined with standers, the place brimming well beyond what fire codes should allow, I feel no great sense of intimidation and/or pride. I'm still wearing my moderator hat: all I can think about is the comfort of the panelists and attendees. I note with dismay that some people are sitting down right next to the panelist table, getting prime view of their shoes; I note there are older folks in the back with hands cupped around their ears, straining to hear. That people can stay engaged and attentive in spite of their obvious discomfort is one of those human mysteries that I do not understand.
Michal finishes up and I move quickly into the facilitation role. I pass out 25 Radical Reference surveys to a crowd that tops 100. I call for questions and five people raise their hands. My first choice stands up, a large older man with a beard, staring inquisitively at the panelists. "My question is directed to you, the young man who spoke earlier..." and he proceeds to talk at length with nary a question in sight. It is also unclear which of the young men - Chris or Craig - he's referring to. He talks at length about various groups and people that have been providing answers "to the kind of questions you're asking," though what he's getting at remains unclear. I know I have to intervene at some point, but am unsure when. Craig - assuming that the man is talking to Chris - exits briefly to use the bathroom. He misses the point where the man mentions the Illuminati - my cue. As the man pauses mid-thought, I leap in: "So what is your question?" "My question is...won't you all please come down to the table we have downstairs and talk with us more about the work we're doing?" The crowd laughs - we find his question funny, but also that he was finally caught naked with nothing but a shameless plug. I'm actually surprised my intervention cut him short, until later we realize that his attention was devoted to Craig, not Chris, and once Craig left for his bathroom break in the middle of his yammering, it must have taken all the fire out of him. Craig laughs himself silly at his inadvertent but strategic snub.
Another more easily digestible yet equally shameless plug from an attendee has me worried; these first two questions have chewed up over ten minutes alone, and there is precious little time for discussion. Thankfully, the crowd brings the questions back to where we want them, and while it is so little in the end, the panelists make do the best they can. We learn, to our surprise, that the majority of the people in the room are engaged in some form of academic research, and it's clear they've been brooding on all the difficult questions of the academic industry, accountability, and trust.
We break right at noon and people swarm up to the table, excited. I immediately start taking money and getting books into people's hands. Strangers come up and thank me, thank the panelists; I strain to go through the room and find various friends and acquaintances. As the room begins to empty, I rush to the bathroom. My health problems have set in again, much to my dismay, and as always, with no obvious cause or catalyst. My latest theory is that it can all be traced to moments of intensive stress, which for the most part is of the negative kind for me. After our first successful workshop - one that greatly impressed Craig, which is a feat in and of itself - I decide it might be time to revise the theory to include positive stress. Either kind appears abundant at the USSF.
Still, I note that, even in the 10 minutes afterwards, as I return completed surveys to Melissa in the Media Center, Team Colors has managed to launch a feedback loop of support to counter the stress. As I wait in the Media Center, a woman I don't even recognize says, "Hey, I heard about your workshop and that it went really great. Thanks for doing all the work you're doing." I graciously thank her, assuming her comment is an anomaly. As we discover later on, it's one of many small currents that form out of resonance and encounter, and without fail, flow back to us.
Detroit
Apple and crackers in the stomach to start the day. Woke up earlier than the rest and attempt to get my things in order. But soon it is all activity in the hotel room, as bodies groan to alertness and snippets of conversation get interrupted with brushing teeth and morning showers. Wi-fi in the hotel room is malfunctioning, stalling my prep for our first workshop today. Soon we are heading out; I carry a laptop, camera, phone, and a stack of book posters clutched in the crook of my elbow.
By the time we arrive at Cobo Hall it is astonishingly busy, packed with even more people than from yesterday; we soon learn that the numbers coming through keep growing each passing day. Parking is a pain, but thankfully not a repeat of the previous night's fiasco of trying to find our parked rental car in the wrong ramp. The moment we enter we head straight for the AK Press table to pick up books. I meet Kate for the first time, which again is strange - yet another person who I've only gotten to know as a voice on a conference call, or words issuing over an email, but still a living breathing human being who worked like hell with us to bring this book into being. After perfunctory greetings I rush off to the second floor and the Media Center, where Melissa from Radical Reference has surveys waiting for me. They're trying to get a sense of how activists get the info they use - a straightforward and useful form of research, so where better to deploy it than in workshops on research? I asked her a few days back how many completed surveys she hoped to received. "One-hundred would be great," she said. "Well," I replied, "in a space of 20,000 people, let's see how we do."
Walk over to the room for our workshop; to my great relief, there are no long lines waiting to get in, no massive logistical snafus that accompanied the first USSF three years ago. All the same, I'm glad to arrive half an hour early. Move through all the little tasks almost habitually, though in fact it is our first time doing this: setting up signs and posters, arranging chairs, writing up notes, preparing money envelopes and shorthand accounting systems for any books we sell. Through all this the panelists arrive: Chris, Harmony, Michal, and of course Craig. Through all this, still, attendees arrive, sit and wait patiently. For many minutes I work with a man in a wheelchair who is trying to find the right room where his friends are. Even as the stress amplifies, so too does the relief: you find the little things - all the panelists are here! we'll have a good crowd for the event! - that take an incredible weight off your back.
I slip into public speaking/event mode easily, welcoming the crowd, notifying them of start times, asking to keep the aisles clear, pointing out open seating, talking loudly and confidently, using choice humor here and there. As friends back in New Orleans used to say, "Professor Peace has taken the stage." I introduce the collective and what we do; I stump for the book; I set up the context for the notion of research in struggle, and get the panel started. All off-the-cuff, which is my favorite way of presenting, yet also not without its frustrations - the moment I stop talking and Chris opens up for the panelists, I immediately regret all the things I wish I had said but didn't, all the ways I could have framed things better but didn't. But this is ultimately not my show; all of us in Team Colors know that, one way or another, the success of our panels and workshops will come from collective wizardry.
As each panelist presents, I feel better and better about how it's going. Each speaker makes clear and powerful points; all of them are prepared and thoughtful. None of them seem at all ruffled by the ballooning crowd in the room which keeps growing and growing throughout. I recalled telling the others in the collective once, "I know we requested rooms for 25 to 30 people, but don't be surprised if we get 75, 100." They countered by reminding me that an obscure collective like ours couldn't possibly draw those numbers. Now, seeing all the chairs occupied, the floor space packed with sitters, the walls lined with standers, the place brimming well beyond what fire codes should allow, I feel no great sense of intimidation and/or pride. I'm still wearing my moderator hat: all I can think about is the comfort of the panelists and attendees. I note with dismay that some people are sitting down right next to the panelist table, getting prime view of their shoes; I note there are older folks in the back with hands cupped around their ears, straining to hear. That people can stay engaged and attentive in spite of their obvious discomfort is one of those human mysteries that I do not understand.
Michal finishes up and I move quickly into the facilitation role. I pass out 25 Radical Reference surveys to a crowd that tops 100. I call for questions and five people raise their hands. My first choice stands up, a large older man with a beard, staring inquisitively at the panelists. "My question is directed to you, the young man who spoke earlier..." and he proceeds to talk at length with nary a question in sight. It is also unclear which of the young men - Chris or Craig - he's referring to. He talks at length about various groups and people that have been providing answers "to the kind of questions you're asking," though what he's getting at remains unclear. I know I have to intervene at some point, but am unsure when. Craig - assuming that the man is talking to Chris - exits briefly to use the bathroom. He misses the point where the man mentions the Illuminati - my cue. As the man pauses mid-thought, I leap in: "So what is your question?" "My question is...won't you all please come down to the table we have downstairs and talk with us more about the work we're doing?" The crowd laughs - we find his question funny, but also that he was finally caught naked with nothing but a shameless plug. I'm actually surprised my intervention cut him short, until later we realize that his attention was devoted to Craig, not Chris, and once Craig left for his bathroom break in the middle of his yammering, it must have taken all the fire out of him. Craig laughs himself silly at his inadvertent but strategic snub.
Another more easily digestible yet equally shameless plug from an attendee has me worried; these first two questions have chewed up over ten minutes alone, and there is precious little time for discussion. Thankfully, the crowd brings the questions back to where we want them, and while it is so little in the end, the panelists make do the best they can. We learn, to our surprise, that the majority of the people in the room are engaged in some form of academic research, and it's clear they've been brooding on all the difficult questions of the academic industry, accountability, and trust.
We break right at noon and people swarm up to the table, excited. I immediately start taking money and getting books into people's hands. Strangers come up and thank me, thank the panelists; I strain to go through the room and find various friends and acquaintances. As the room begins to empty, I rush to the bathroom. My health problems have set in again, much to my dismay, and as always, with no obvious cause or catalyst. My latest theory is that it can all be traced to moments of intensive stress, which for the most part is of the negative kind for me. After our first successful workshop - one that greatly impressed Craig, which is a feat in and of itself - I decide it might be time to revise the theory to include positive stress. Either kind appears abundant at the USSF.
Still, I note that, even in the 10 minutes afterwards, as I return completed surveys to Melissa in the Media Center, Team Colors has managed to launch a feedback loop of support to counter the stress. As I wait in the Media Center, a woman I don't even recognize says, "Hey, I heard about your workshop and that it went really great. Thanks for doing all the work you're doing." I graciously thank her, assuming her comment is an anomaly. As we discover later on, it's one of many small currents that form out of resonance and encounter, and without fail, flow back to us.
Monday, July 12, 2010
meet us in the whirlwind: convergence, Day 1
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Detroit
Aaron drops me and Linda off in front of Cobo Hall in the heart of downtown, then rushes off in the face of peeved policemen who yell at us for holding up traffic. In truth, they have a point. It's barely 10 in the morning but the center of US Social Forum activity is already swarming with people. To my relief, there's lots of open space still; to our annoyance, the line to register is long and doesn't appear to be moving. My health hasn't been great all last weekend and I have to rush to the bathroom a few times while we wait; to my surprise, it's barely occupied. The setting is still somewhat calm. Linda and I gaze at the others in line. Many have slogan-crossed T-shirts and flyers for events, assemblies, promotion for their particular organizations. So many groups I've never heard of. Aaron finds us in line. "This is pretty cool, actually," he says. "It's exciting to be here." To my surprise - sitting as I am at the wake of a 20,000-person convergence of absolutely exhausting activity over the course of 5 days - I feel the same way.
I'm here to promote Team Colors and the book, of course. It's easier than I expected. Everyone is friendly and asks what I'm up to, so I never feel awkward describing the Whirlwinds project. While waiting for about 10 minutes for my registration to go through, the flummoxed yet easy-going woman behind the laptop computer chats me up about the project. I ask her in turn about what it's like to volunteer. "I wasn't even planning this; they just needed people and I said, sure, why not. I just hope someone else steps in for me at some point, cuz I don't want to be doing this all day. The first two hours have been agonizing. Still - all the people you can meet in two hours!" There's a brightness in her eyes.
We head over to Avalon for lunch before the march begins. Craig and Ben finally reach me; they had some trouble getting out of the airport area, but they're finally in Detroit. I guide them to where we are. I spot them before they spot me. They park excruciatingly close to the street corner; the moment they get out and Craig says "Stevie! Great to meet you!" I respond "Nice almost-illegal parking job there." Seeing them both is awfully weird; I've been in talks with both of them for over two years now but am meeting them for the first time. For some reason, their voices don't match their appearances. It occurs to me that they could look like any old thing and I would still be befuddled; when all you know about a person is their voice, you almost feel like this is the only part of them that exists.
We drive to the Motor City Casino Hotel, where we'll be staying for the week. The irony of staying in a place that Grace Lee Boggs and many others have railed against for years is not lost on us. It's exceedingly gaudy; it's even worse, what with all the glittery lights and towering retro image, that all around it are deindustrialized buildings and foreclosed homes. It's the sort of place where security stands outside the elevator, and you have to flash your doorkey to go past them. Craig and I try very hard to hide our panic when they staff inform us that they have, in fact, booked for us a single bed instead of a double; they don't know that we secretly plan to have five people crash in this room. Our panic subsides when we see the room; it's so expansive and well-equipped (mini-bar, shower AND a separate bath) that we feel pampered. We had joked beforehand that Kevin, the last person to arrive at the USSF, would have to sleep in the bathtub; now, after seeing it, we decide that this really isn't a punishment.
Craig drives us to the march and is immediately alarmed at the security that the USSF has hired for the parade: extremely muscular and imposing men and women, donning black bulletproof vests, stoic looks on their faces in the midst of chanting and cheering. "This is fucking insane," he says over and over, as Ben and Linda and I gaze and wonder. We join in near the end of the march and slowly make our way up. We find the Macalester contingent, folks from the Catalyst Project, other familiar faces throughout. The march is a full one but less spirited than what I remember from the USSF in 2007. At one point we pass by large puppets of Martin Luther King, Cesar Chavez, Julian Bond. I prod Linda into getting the gumption to introduce ourselves to various API groups, including CAAAV, the CPA, Asian environmental justice groups, and National Domestic Workers Alliance. Someone hands me a sign at one point; I reluctantly wave it, than discreetly leave it next to a bench, having no idea what to do with it otherwise. My health problems remain annoying throughout, and the moment we reach Cobo Hall I sprint to a bathroom. We file into the main auditorium-like area for the opening ceremony. They say it will last an hour; it actually goes for three. By the time they reach the end, there are less than 15 people present. I complain to my friend Margie about the inability of organizers to organize. "Look, they've listed in the program right here that there'll be statements from Leonard Peltier and Mumia. So why the fuck are they at the very end, when everyone's already tired from marching and hungry and just can't stand sitting through all this other stuff? If I have Peltier and Mumia on my playbill, I'm putting them up first thing while everyone's still energized. Why is that so hard to figure?"
Sometime during the ceremony, Ben and I finally make it over to the Exhibition Hall and AK Press. Copies of Uses of a Whirlwind are holding down the fort at the very end of their table. I take a copy and page through it, not knowing what to think or feel, except for maybe relief. "What's it like, seeing your book after all this work on it?" Ben asks. "Anticlimactic," I shrug. "I've already seen the damn thing 40 or 50 times by now, just in different forms." Ben nods sympathetically, but also laughs, "You know, getting published is supposed to feel good."
After a dinner of Thai food, Craig and Ben and I head back to the hotel for an early night in. I stay up longer than I should, worrying about my how my health will hold up over the next several days in the midst of three workshops and panels, constant promotion, and a mess of people to meet. That's the thing about convergence, I think to myself. A resonance here and there with other bodies and minds and hearts is the stuff of an everyday life; multiply it a thousand-fold, and you end up moving in ways that - exhilirating or terrifying - are simply beyond your control.
Detroit
Aaron drops me and Linda off in front of Cobo Hall in the heart of downtown, then rushes off in the face of peeved policemen who yell at us for holding up traffic. In truth, they have a point. It's barely 10 in the morning but the center of US Social Forum activity is already swarming with people. To my relief, there's lots of open space still; to our annoyance, the line to register is long and doesn't appear to be moving. My health hasn't been great all last weekend and I have to rush to the bathroom a few times while we wait; to my surprise, it's barely occupied. The setting is still somewhat calm. Linda and I gaze at the others in line. Many have slogan-crossed T-shirts and flyers for events, assemblies, promotion for their particular organizations. So many groups I've never heard of. Aaron finds us in line. "This is pretty cool, actually," he says. "It's exciting to be here." To my surprise - sitting as I am at the wake of a 20,000-person convergence of absolutely exhausting activity over the course of 5 days - I feel the same way.
I'm here to promote Team Colors and the book, of course. It's easier than I expected. Everyone is friendly and asks what I'm up to, so I never feel awkward describing the Whirlwinds project. While waiting for about 10 minutes for my registration to go through, the flummoxed yet easy-going woman behind the laptop computer chats me up about the project. I ask her in turn about what it's like to volunteer. "I wasn't even planning this; they just needed people and I said, sure, why not. I just hope someone else steps in for me at some point, cuz I don't want to be doing this all day. The first two hours have been agonizing. Still - all the people you can meet in two hours!" There's a brightness in her eyes.
We head over to Avalon for lunch before the march begins. Craig and Ben finally reach me; they had some trouble getting out of the airport area, but they're finally in Detroit. I guide them to where we are. I spot them before they spot me. They park excruciatingly close to the street corner; the moment they get out and Craig says "Stevie! Great to meet you!" I respond "Nice almost-illegal parking job there." Seeing them both is awfully weird; I've been in talks with both of them for over two years now but am meeting them for the first time. For some reason, their voices don't match their appearances. It occurs to me that they could look like any old thing and I would still be befuddled; when all you know about a person is their voice, you almost feel like this is the only part of them that exists.
We drive to the Motor City Casino Hotel, where we'll be staying for the week. The irony of staying in a place that Grace Lee Boggs and many others have railed against for years is not lost on us. It's exceedingly gaudy; it's even worse, what with all the glittery lights and towering retro image, that all around it are deindustrialized buildings and foreclosed homes. It's the sort of place where security stands outside the elevator, and you have to flash your doorkey to go past them. Craig and I try very hard to hide our panic when they staff inform us that they have, in fact, booked for us a single bed instead of a double; they don't know that we secretly plan to have five people crash in this room. Our panic subsides when we see the room; it's so expansive and well-equipped (mini-bar, shower AND a separate bath) that we feel pampered. We had joked beforehand that Kevin, the last person to arrive at the USSF, would have to sleep in the bathtub; now, after seeing it, we decide that this really isn't a punishment.
Craig drives us to the march and is immediately alarmed at the security that the USSF has hired for the parade: extremely muscular and imposing men and women, donning black bulletproof vests, stoic looks on their faces in the midst of chanting and cheering. "This is fucking insane," he says over and over, as Ben and Linda and I gaze and wonder. We join in near the end of the march and slowly make our way up. We find the Macalester contingent, folks from the Catalyst Project, other familiar faces throughout. The march is a full one but less spirited than what I remember from the USSF in 2007. At one point we pass by large puppets of Martin Luther King, Cesar Chavez, Julian Bond. I prod Linda into getting the gumption to introduce ourselves to various API groups, including CAAAV, the CPA, Asian environmental justice groups, and National Domestic Workers Alliance. Someone hands me a sign at one point; I reluctantly wave it, than discreetly leave it next to a bench, having no idea what to do with it otherwise. My health problems remain annoying throughout, and the moment we reach Cobo Hall I sprint to a bathroom. We file into the main auditorium-like area for the opening ceremony. They say it will last an hour; it actually goes for three. By the time they reach the end, there are less than 15 people present. I complain to my friend Margie about the inability of organizers to organize. "Look, they've listed in the program right here that there'll be statements from Leonard Peltier and Mumia. So why the fuck are they at the very end, when everyone's already tired from marching and hungry and just can't stand sitting through all this other stuff? If I have Peltier and Mumia on my playbill, I'm putting them up first thing while everyone's still energized. Why is that so hard to figure?"
Sometime during the ceremony, Ben and I finally make it over to the Exhibition Hall and AK Press. Copies of Uses of a Whirlwind are holding down the fort at the very end of their table. I take a copy and page through it, not knowing what to think or feel, except for maybe relief. "What's it like, seeing your book after all this work on it?" Ben asks. "Anticlimactic," I shrug. "I've already seen the damn thing 40 or 50 times by now, just in different forms." Ben nods sympathetically, but also laughs, "You know, getting published is supposed to feel good."
After a dinner of Thai food, Craig and Ben and I head back to the hotel for an early night in. I stay up longer than I should, worrying about my how my health will hold up over the next several days in the midst of three workshops and panels, constant promotion, and a mess of people to meet. That's the thing about convergence, I think to myself. A resonance here and there with other bodies and minds and hearts is the stuff of an everyday life; multiply it a thousand-fold, and you end up moving in ways that - exhilirating or terrifying - are simply beyond your control.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
ten days in four sentences
July 1, 2010
7:00 pm
42 Degrees Latitude (restaurant and bar)
Chicago, IL
Craptastic. I can't believe it's been 10 days since I last wrote in this.
Since that time, I've been through an entire Social Forum, a patently ridiculous Friday night that fell to so many mistakes, screw-ups, and unfathomably bad luck that it turned seriously funny, the three most packed workshops I've ever been in, a disastrous event in Bloomington, a day of canoeing and swimming in amazingly warm water, and a social center in South Side Chicago that was practically euphoric.
I think I'm going to leave it at that.
7:00 pm
42 Degrees Latitude (restaurant and bar)
Chicago, IL
Craptastic. I can't believe it's been 10 days since I last wrote in this.
Since that time, I've been through an entire Social Forum, a patently ridiculous Friday night that fell to so many mistakes, screw-ups, and unfathomably bad luck that it turned seriously funny, the three most packed workshops I've ever been in, a disastrous event in Bloomington, a day of canoeing and swimming in amazingly warm water, and a social center in South Side Chicago that was practically euphoric.
I think I'm going to leave it at that.
Monday, June 21, 2010
when you don't want to sleep, do a cryptic crossword
June 21 2010
Very late night
Miki & Aaron's place
Ann Arbor
Everyone else has long gone to bed but I am determined to squeeze every last drop from my rest day. At midnight we were eating baked potatoes and Miki and I got very close to completing this cryptic crossword after struggling with it for over an hour:
Those in the know know that this shit ain't easy. When we're raised on word puzzles, we learn to master new schemes and schematics in just a short amount of time: word finds, jumbles, scrabbles, crosswords. But the cryptic crosswords are the kind of thing you really don't ever master, I've decided. Most of the time you just sit there baffled by the clues in front of you. If you ever DO complete one successfully, it's usually sheer luck you can thank and not your own hapless skills. Cryptic crossword mastery is an unattainable.
A few other diagrams to help draw the analogy out:
Dubliners -> A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man -> Ulysses
Unattainable: Finnegan's Wake
Teaching yourself drums -> marimba -> piano -> guitar
Unattainable: harp
If you have others to add, feel free to do so.
Today was a good day. Kept getting better health-wise, kept churning through my work and finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, kept finding spaces to grin in. Aaron's show, Exile & Utopia, was brilliant. The book posters came in today and look wonderful. I'm trying to wrap up all that positive energy and let it carry me through the day tomorrow, which will promise many errands, logistical hurdles, reunions, first meetings, a march, and a new place to stay in Detroit. And that's just the start of a very long 5-day expanse.
For now, though, it's far too late and I'm hitting the hay. Outside there's a lightning parade; inside, oscillating fan whir. Tuesday will bring with it a new sound, and I don't have any idea as to what it will be. I'm just going to listen.
Very late night
Miki & Aaron's place
Ann Arbor
Everyone else has long gone to bed but I am determined to squeeze every last drop from my rest day. At midnight we were eating baked potatoes and Miki and I got very close to completing this cryptic crossword after struggling with it for over an hour:
Those in the know know that this shit ain't easy. When we're raised on word puzzles, we learn to master new schemes and schematics in just a short amount of time: word finds, jumbles, scrabbles, crosswords. But the cryptic crosswords are the kind of thing you really don't ever master, I've decided. Most of the time you just sit there baffled by the clues in front of you. If you ever DO complete one successfully, it's usually sheer luck you can thank and not your own hapless skills. Cryptic crossword mastery is an unattainable.
A few other diagrams to help draw the analogy out:
Dubliners -> A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man -> Ulysses
Unattainable: Finnegan's Wake
Teaching yourself drums -> marimba -> piano -> guitar
Unattainable: harp
If you have others to add, feel free to do so.
Today was a good day. Kept getting better health-wise, kept churning through my work and finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, kept finding spaces to grin in. Aaron's show, Exile & Utopia, was brilliant. The book posters came in today and look wonderful. I'm trying to wrap up all that positive energy and let it carry me through the day tomorrow, which will promise many errands, logistical hurdles, reunions, first meetings, a march, and a new place to stay in Detroit. And that's just the start of a very long 5-day expanse.
For now, though, it's far too late and I'm hitting the hay. Outside there's a lightning parade; inside, oscillating fan whir. Tuesday will bring with it a new sound, and I don't have any idea as to what it will be. I'm just going to listen.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
time for a Sabbath Monday
June 20 2010
After midnight
Miki & Aaron's place
Ann Arbor
Allied Media Conference finished up today, and with that, Claudia is headed back home, staying in Chicago area with Miriam tonight. Times have been good so far, although I've had a relapse of my digestive troubles from 3 months ago which has tempered the good times quite a bit. I think I've spent several hours over the last three days in bathrooms. Still, it's been good having good company to keep me laughing and wresting joy out of everything.
Exciting news: I don't know how bodies do this, but they are very good at letting you know when something is wrong, even if you can't see it, and they are just as good at letting you know when your internal functioning is reasonably back to healthy. Just one example: I know when my digestive troubles have returned because my stomach stops growling. In almost no time, the other signs come forward, as certain muscles, organs, and nerves give off a not-rightness that, even though you cannot place it, is real all the same. You eat some food and something about the way it moves through you just seems off, and you know it. Now, after 30 hours of fasting and a few doses of metamucil, I’ve just tried eating again. And the stomach growls are back, and the muscles are doing what they need to, the organs are settling back into their roles, and food is now pleasing to eat, rather than something that gives me trepidation. It’s an amazing feeling, good health.
Despite health problems and difficulty concentrating because of work to finish up, I did enjoy the conference and was especially impressed by two workshops, one led by Climbing Poetree and another, led by several organizers, called “Safe in Our Skin,” which explored the ways we create and build communities of safety without the intervention of state and capital (and specifically the police and other elements of the prison-industrial complex). Lots of people there, filled up the room and then some, which was both heartening and affirming that everyday life experiences of harm and healing are some of the most common things we share and most important areas from which to consider organizing. Their topic is right up my alley, and the workshop had interactive and performative aspects to it as well, which I love. If there’s a dancing workshop at the USSF, I want to do it; these are the intangibles that keep me going.
Also watched a good 30-minute clip of the documentary “Land of Opportunity” in another workshop. The folks behind it are brilliant, not only in their filming style (they have no narration and almost no text, it’s all done through the stories and voices of the people they film) but also in the fact that they’ve been following the lives of six people in the Katrina aftermath for five years. Most docs about Katrina only account for the first year or two after, but as I’ve thought to myself so often, it’s what happens over the next 5-10 years in New Orleans and the rest of the Gulf Coast that will be the most telling. I appreciate their sticktoitiveness. Check them out.
Once things finished up today, Linda and I headed over to the Detroit Institute of Arts, at Aaron’s recommendation. They have, reputedly, the best Diego Rivera mural in the country, Detroit Industry, and it is stunning.
Monday the 21st is the day of rest, before the USSF launches on Tuesday. My only tasks are staying healthy, getting groceries, meeting up with someone from Radical Reference, and seeing Aaron’s gallery show and presentation of his master’s thesis. Then, after hopefully a good night’s sleep, I meet Craig and Ben for the first time, have lunch and a beer, check into the Motor City Casino Hotel, march with 15-20,000 others in the heart of Detroit, and hang out with the book for the first time.
Friday, June 18, 2010
the basics
June 18th 2010Midnight
Miki & Aaron's house
Ann Arbor
First day of the AMC done and resting. It appears I'm having a relapse of the intestinal troubles I had for two months earlier this year. Of course I'm worried that this is primarily being caused by stress rather than any dietary overstepping. The AMC folks claim that there's a relaxation room on the premises with acupuncturists on hand to do their magic. I'm gonna hunt them down tomorrow. This shit needs to end now or I'll be having two very miserable weeks.
Had a difficult time concentrating in the workshops I attended today. Mind is sifting through all the work I need to get done. I rested most of the afternoon and got to have a spontaneous hour-long chat with someone who had just arrived and was planning to stay in the crash space with her son for the next 10 days (with no place to shower, of course). That was probably the highlight. Claudia and Linda like the conference a lot, but all of us were more than eager to head back to Ann Arbor after the day's events. We missed a night of bowling and karaoke in D-Town, but then again, bowling and karaoke will always be there (I assume).
I figure this post would be good for explaining just exactly what I'm up to over the next two months, for those who've been confused; it is a lot of stuff and it doesn't exactly sync up either. Also, there's a slight chance that writing this all down will smooth my thoughts out a little and actually decrease my stress levels. We'll see.
- What I'm up to now is attending the Allied Media Conference in Detroit (June 18-20). Mostly I'm doing this cuz I attended last year, enjoyed it, and Claudia and Linda wanted to check it out and I decided it'd be fun to road-trip out there with them. It's a relatively short affair - just two and a half days - and about 200-300 people. It's very definitely a conference; there are workshops, activities, people tabling from all over the country, lots of mixing things up and learning going on. Perhaps what distinguishes it from other conferences - and this can be both intriguing and frustrating - is how much it avoids academia and academic jargon. No one presents papers, no one holds heavily theoretical presentations or discussions. It's meant to be very hands-on and relatable, generating tangible skills and tools for use in movements for media justice and intersections with other movements. Not to suggest that the theoretical heavy-lifters and trailblazers out there sit this one out: Critical Resistance, INCITE!, Grace Lee Boggs and the Boggs Center, all of them are out in droves. It's a genuinely inspiring convergence as well as a great introduction to current struggles in Detroit. I'm doing book promotion here but it's on the sly.
- A few days break, Claudia heads back on a solo road trip to the Twin Cities, and Linda and I stay for the United States Social Forum (June 22-26). The USSF is not a conference or a summit. "Forum" is not entirely accurate either. The best way I can describe it is as a 'space,' specifically a space developed and built over many years to encourage the maximum number of encounters, dialogues, connections, and amplifications possible in a short timeframe and small convergence area. Put another way, the USSF intends to catalyze and strengthen movement-building at a rate that is much faster than organizations and organizers are used to. This isn't to say there aren't workshops, activities, and plenaries like at any other conference (there are over 1000 workshops for this USSF). But what makes the USSF unique - and very unpredictable - is the fact that, in just a five-day span of time, there is a space so open and usable that people end up using it for all kinds of spontaneous, surprising, and powerful things. The last USSF was in 2007. I burnt out after just a day; I couldn't see any of the workshops because 10,000 other people were trying to see them too. But all around me was this vibrant activity that was definitely not listed in the program guide: ad hoc gatherings, spillover discussion groups, assemblies and alliances formed on the spot, creative ventures, direct actions, and levelled critiques of the whole process from start to finish. Oh yes, the shit is overwhelming. But it's unlike anything I've ever been to, and that's saying something. Uses of a Whirlwind will be released at the USSF, and there will be a big release party on Friday the 25th. Our collective is also organizing three workshops/panels, and I'll be presenting or facilitating for all of them. I'll be relocating to a hotel in Detroit with them. To top it off, I'll also be reuniting with my antiracist peeps from New Orleans, and exploring radical Asian America through several caucuses, assemblies, and gatherings for APIA folks. Somewhere in there I think I get to sleep.
- After all that, my collective, Team Colors, hits the road for a tour (June 26-August). We're a militant research collective that inquires into struggles and everyday resistance in the United States. We cast a wide net, but our general focus is on class struggle, class composition and decomposition, mechanisms of control and capture by state and capital, the commons and enclosures, precarious labor, social reproduction, and processes of 'becoming' in everyday life. A lot of people go "Huh?" at this stuff, but there's a certain significant contingent out there that loves this shit. We love it, I think, because we feel these inquiries are incredibly necessary in order to combat anti-intellectualism in movements, steer away from the fetishization of activist-identities and into radical community organizing, and centralize the political as found in the mundane, the everyday, the basic needs and practices of life and living in common. Our book is just the latest of many ventures we've been on, but since this is a great opportunity to inquire into more organizing around the country and spur important discussions, we'll be holding lots of events throughout the summer and fall. I for one will be working events in Bloomington Indiana, Chicago, Madison, the Twin Cities, New York, Philadelphia, Portland Oregon, San Francisco, Oakland, and Gainesville Florida. There will likely be other events in the South and Southeast that I'm trying to set up right now. Even more events will take place throughout the fall, but by that time...
- I'll be in grad school at UNC-Chapel Hill starting August 24th, for a doctorate in geography. Geography is not just about maps and capital cities; it's the intersection of many knowledges - history, politics, environment, society - that intends to understand and explore 'space' as it exists on the surface of the earth. It's also well-known for taking increasingly radical turns of late, due to its openness, its reckoning with its own very colonial history, and its challenges and critiques that problematize so much about the world we're in while also finding excitement in resistance and change, whether organized or unanticipated. I told them I want to study radical Asian America post-1965, but we'll have to see if that will hold.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)