I've been following GIRLdrive, a road-trip blog written by Emma and Nona. They drive around the country looking to meet and talk with women their age and also various eminent feminists."We are interviewing and photographing young women across the country," they write, "asking them what they think and feel about feminism. We are talking to both self-proclaimed feminists and the 'I’m not a feminist but' contingent. We're also publishing a book upon our return, which will include photos, essays, interviews, and diary entries. The road trip, a staple of American culture that has always represented discovery and change, is our way of getting to know our peers. We also plan to chat with some influential feminists of our mothers’ generation and beyond.
Both of our mothers were deeply involved in Second Wave feminism, so we are closely connected to the movement’s history. But our roadtrip seeks to discover how other women our age grapple with this history of freedom, equality, joy, ambition, sex, and love."One of their southern Cal entries is titled "Los Angeles: MARJORIE," and this Marjorie turns out to be Marjorie Perloff. Marjorie and the two young travelers seem to disagree, and then there's "a true moment of generational exchange." Nona wrote this entry and here it is.
"I teach horizontally, meaning that while I might begin with a fixed idea of what I'm going to teach that day, I let it drift rhizomatically way off topic, often pulling it back when it gets too far. I rely on non-fixed materials to teach this way; the whole world is at my fingertips. Should I go off on a tangent about John and Rauschenberg and their love relationship as expressed in Rauschenberg's bed, an image of that bed is always a click away. From there, we can head anywhere into the non-fixed universe, be it film, text or sound. And of course, that always takes us elsewhere. As Cage says, 'We are getting nowhere fast.'" 
that anyone has yet got the imaginative measure of that terrifying day six years ago. Certainly our Tolstoy has not crawled out of the rubble. The closest we have, Don DeLillo, succeeded as an essayist-journalist ("In the Ruins of the Future: Reflections on Terror and Loss in the Shadow of September,” Harper’s, December 2001) but, to my mind, failed as a novelist ("Falling Man"). One reason, perhaps, is that the remembered emotion was instantly buried under a pile of cultural junk.' - Tod Gitlin in his review of Susan Faludi's The Terror Dream (written for 
