Every nonhuman living thing is held captive by our actions.
I was struck by the world I tasted—woods, Baja California granite, the winter of the grapes’ growth.
I know of nothing stronger than the laughter of these women.
I needed the concoctions F poured to quiet the things that grated and grew wilder each year—the confusion of being part white in an Arab country, part Arab in an expat world.
I look into the history; I circumnavigate—
A notebook on alchemy, memory, and sensation
NOTTHECRUSH tells me he has a crush on me.
Nepantla accomplishes the noteworthy goal of portraying a plurality of lives who’ve been here and who will continue to question why queer living matters right now.
Not an assumption; not a name you learned to remember, not a fleshy shape or a face you already recognized
How the blurring of a relationship may point to a more fertile ground lying between the lines, in which multiple desires can co-exist.
The majority of Palestinians live outside of the occupied territories, awake within a paradox: If it is a demand of land that tethers us, what do we make of those millions of us without a memory of the land to cling to?
We are our skins; we are our hides. But my skin, and the skin of others like me, has been torn. It is at the site of this gash that our identity coheres, that our identity is espied.
Having two eyes prevents us from simplifying things, from seeing everything around us two-dimensionally. I guess you could say that seeing through two eyes is what makes us human.
Animals are strangely perceptive—in their instinct to survive, they find a home
One person’s ancestor is another person’s ghost—it’s all a matter of perspective.
We don’t know what we need because we don’t know who we are. We don’t know who we are because we don’t remember who we were.
Before I could go back to the Philippines in real life, I did so on paper, through my first novel.
Remembering Agha Shahid Ali, 12 years after his passing
Rahul Mehta and new pathways for the hyphenated writer