Have you been at the feast of the heated hearts?
Stars, trees, lasers, lights, everything locking into nothing, everything together yet apart.
I was struck by the world I tasted—woods, Baja California granite, the winter of the grapes’ growth.
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—
These writers elegize and scrutinize the liminal spaces between taste, smell, and image, between individual truth and collective meaning-making
After Rebecca Lindenberg
Su Yu-Xin’s paintings and mixed media pieces
Locheequat, fruit of the non-doing.
She ambushes the sky, burns a brand on its hip
Translated from Hanja (Old Korean) to Hangul (modern Korean) and then English
I speak with the weight of / hours left on this side of the pacific
There is a waxing // for every waning.
I am only the height and width of a girl.
I know of nothing stronger than the laughter of these women.
A special folio on alchemy, memory, and sensation
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