


Unless it involves some kind of Chair-ship and, preferably, an actual gold-and-jewel-encrusted chair to sit on, I’m not interested in a regular academic job. I willingly and voluntarily left that quest a long time ago, preferring to fling myself into a very dangerous sort of precacity, so dangerous that I can’t even reveal all of its details.

Liberal feminism is, by and large, also a carceral feminism: wedded to the idea that the only way to protect and preserve the rights of women is to turn to the prison–industrial complex as the final enforcer of gender justice.


The way ahead for the left is not to cede both discourse and imagination, but to think about how to expand on both to make itself felt as a living, breathing, entity that offers several wild and fantastic possibilities, utopias even, in a frightened and frightening world.

Resign yourself to how horrible it will be.


“At the end of the day, I still maintain I am ungovernable no matter who is elected, and that my dreams will never fit into a ballot box.”

In too many cases, we have relatively young editors or desperate adjuncts eagerly hoping to have graduate careers in academia or find adjunct gigs, assigned to “edit” famous or powerful academics who might have the influence to advance (or end) their careers.

I’m fully aware that my requirement for an advance is not likely to be taken seriously by a number of publishers, and that’s fine with me because, well, the current system is doing me no favours.
