Articles

  Headnote from the Editor-in-Chief     Headnote from Christopher Patton Consulting Editor and Artist       Asemia     May Bery           Lin Tarczynski Rosaire Appel   Sam Roxas-Chua Christopher Patton    

I’ve never watched the video of George Floyd being killed by a knee to the neck. I’m ashamed to admit that, but stills and short clips have been all I can take. I finished this short animation as the trial of his killer began. It isn’t about his death, or the historical injustices and systemic inequities that made it possible, but for me it’s adjacent to them.

I like to write on walls. I write small discreet asemic messages available only to those whose eyes wander. When the mind is not so severely preoccupied that the eyes have practically stopped working…

This is the land of asemia. Yet, as space reaches its saturation point, a gasp away from overdose—when all systems fail and meaning melts away—there is still air, some breathing room. Perhaps there, in the tiny gaps, even the tired eye might find a strange form of beauty.

by drea brown   1. on the eve of this new year, in the middle of a pandemic that brings daily surprise and death, i am safe. the only human in my house that needs to be fed, though the stout black cat nibbling my heels would say otherwise. tomorrow there will be plenty of …

by Gail Dottin   I only wanted one present from her for my birthday that year: teach me how to make them.  *** My parents coordinating picnic caravans with my fertile family and troops of replicating cousins, at least three weekends of each summer month. Club El Pacifico, the alumni association of Dad’s high school …

by Gail Dottin   2 lbs salted dried codfish (You can also use the pollock wanna-be-codfish which is cheaper) 6 eggs beaten  3 chopped scallions  1 small/med onion diced  1/2 cup o’ flour 1 tsp o’ baking powder 1 tsp o’ pepper sauce to taste 1/2 cup o’ veg/canola oil  * For the dried cod and pepper sauce, check …

I was told I was born at sunset, half-past the infusion hours of memory into turmeric. I was told I was born blue on the lips, my mother’s milk was nowhere to be found. No trace of white lights or rivers, no names to call to when time arrests flesh. No equal, no passport, no pebble, fish or guide.

When a pressure cooker whistles, it is urgent. Like an orgasm. I’m ready! Now! Shut me off before I overcook! It also thinks it can sing.

From March to June, I had erected in our dining room a remote learning station, helping three kids—a teenager and two preteens—figure out how to follow instructions, upload completed assignments on Google Classroom, and attend Zoom sessions. I too was teaching three courses online. It was a chaos that I managed, confident—as so many of us were—that it would soon be over.