My friend Cathal Liam McFee, iconic coffeeshop patron and postmodern media cryptkeeper, is deeply entrenched in organizing a William S. Burroughs 100th Birthday Festival in Bloomington, Indiana which I am eager to assist and attend. However, because I'm a brat who works best oppositionally (even when the opposition's an ally), I've been doing some deep fantasizing about holding a counter-festival/sub-academic basement panel loosely indebted to Kathy Acker. It would showcase experimental transfeminist media applying the cut-up technique, unabashedly raiding Burroughs' icebox for what's relevant and leaving the rest to ferment.
I imagine it as analagous to Bart Simpson's treehouse casino-- siphoning guest speakers into my neighborhood through willful confusion, giving visiting scholars a ride on my bike handlebars, inviting Genesis P-Orridge to flop on my couch for the night.
Back in "reality," my brain is numb from hours of worthlessly combing internet grant writing materials. All I have to work with is the velocity of recent events' successes and loose structures provided by past radical events. I click on dead links from Pilot Fest in Chicago, 2004, reading ephemeral interviews with organizers in search of suggestions. My best-case-scenario free associative search engine blurbs (Sontag camp performance grant, Acker estate individual residency) turn up few useful results but keep the daydream rolling.