#MadLiterature
Available for pre order:

A Mad Turn
Edited by Phil Smith

Written by Mad scholars, A Mad Turn explores the field of Mad Studies in theory and practice, and what Mad Studies can bring to academia and to other social institutions. What does it mean to “do” Mad Studies? What are the field’s intersections with disability justice, Mad justice, and gender and queer studies? This book is a bold step toward the Mad Studies yet-to-come—a Mad Studies that Mad people will build, twisting and turning and singing and dancing, a new realm of thinking-being-doing-knowing. Step into it with us.

https://autonomous-press.myshopify.com/products/a-mad-turn

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The sand fleas were out in swarms and mosquitos were biting. The sounds of the water made it difficult for me to hear. Hear the voices in my head. The ones that told me to step left or right. Or watch out for a branch or sharp piece of coral.

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I got in the truck and drove. Away from the coastline and beaches. Out of the city. Away from the familiar. The streetlights ended and all I had was light from the headlights of the truck. The roads wound around the hilly terrain. Over the freeway. Across the marginal. No vehicles at the gas station and the lights were a dim glow. “Keep going,” she said. I drove for awhile then asked, “Where am I going?” She said, “you will know the turn when you see it.” I kept driving until I recognized something.

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I packed all the important things.
Sunglasses, 5 pair.
Notebooks, 7 empty.
Birkenstock sandals, 1 pair.
Time Machine backup hard drive and cords.
The internet modem and cords.
My case of daily supplements, half empty.
Airpods & corded headphones.
Phone charger.

I flipped the lid down over the disorganized pile of stuff and pulled the zipper all the way around. My carry on suitcase packed. The suitcase could hold more; but I wanted to travel light. And I was in a rush.

My drivers license and truck key were in hand. I took off. I didn’t have my phone, I didn’t need the GPS. I had the GPS in my head.

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The evening partying ended, as usual. The ice melted and empty bottles floated in the cold water. Local favorite, Medalla. Pizza boxes stacked on the table. No slices left just crumpled napkins and pieces of crust with perfectly formed bite marks. Porch light left on. Door unlocked. “Go in” she said, “They are waiting for you.” “This is strange,” I said. “Where are they if they are waiting for me?” “They fell asleep waiting,” she said, “go inside.” One suitcase in each hand I opened the door. Looked around. Kitchen. Living room. Three rooms with shut doors. One open door.

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