Tāmaki Makaurau, Aotearoa New Zealand Vanessa is an artist and writer based in Tāmaki Makaurau. Her latest collection of poetry is available with AUP New Poets Volume 6. She loves making spreadsheets and collages.
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Chicago, USA Miyako Pleines is a Japanese and German American writer living in the suburbs of Chicago. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction writing from Northwestern University and her work has appeared in 1966: A Journal of Creative Nonfiction. She can be found on Instagram @greedy_little_savage.
Auckland, Aotearoa New Zealand stress eating, panic buying Almond milk, oat milk, plastic 2L jug 2 for $5 cow's milk. UHT shelf stable long life whole blue brick milk. Milk of magnesia, pink pepto bismol milk, Six kilos of impulse soybeans For the soymilk maker, the same make And model as my grandma's, With a big gaudy peony on the side As is only proper for a grandma's appliance. Mint chocolate soy protein shakes, caffeinated. Sunflower seeds in their shells, Sunflower seed shells splinter in my throat, My front teeth are beginning to take on The characteristic divot of the sunflower seed eater: My grandmother's teeth. Don't mention the bread, Or the cake, Or the sourdough starter. Don't mention the pancakes, the noodles, the dumplings, the failed attempts at ciabatta. Don't mention the oven, the kitchen, the desk, the bed, the yoga mat, the circles, the footpath driveway, the queue of joggers and dog walkers; the sheets the pillows the duvet, twice a day, three times, the PC like a light switch on and off and on and off and on and off and on More often than I check on the sourdough starter. The milky grey carpet is soft under my face, My back hurts. Sunny is a Chinese New Zealander and an enthusiast of food, plants, and poetry about food and/or plants. Their pandemic sourdough starter is named Mr Gherkins.
Hong Kong
I read about Olga Tokarczuk looking through her window: it is almost summer, garbage truck and neighbor’s yard, an old world seen differently. All I see is gray outside, a week of rain but not rain, mist maybe, thick, no tops for buildings opposite in vaporous April. Living in this city so high up (51/F, my god, if there’s ever a power outage) and so heavy with damp, I’ve never thought spring to be lush. A few years ago I wrote to my friend in Oslo that sometimes I could see the backs of eagles. That’s mad, he wrote back, mentioning a loop hike and a pocketful of fresh mushrooms. When evening falls and people switch on lights, their apartments become visible as tiny yellow compartments. Rows and rows, like apothecary cabinets. After my mother gets quarantined at home, we no longer eat separately at seven, nine, and eleven p.m. Sitting at the dining table, we plant our feet on top of other people’s ceilings, the way those living above would do with our fan and dusty shelves. Take away all these walls and there are so many people, have always been, isolated together. My mother geotags herself three times a day for a health officer. Our kitchen wafts with the unscientific smell of Chinese medicine, cassia twigs and licorice and ginger, when one of us feels the onset of a cold. We’ve been warned about these herbs. So superstitious. Stirring with one chopstick, we swallow the concoction whole. Jacqueline Leung is a writer and translator from Hong Kong. London, UK
Offerings On the 22nd anniversary of my ông ngoại’s death, 18th April 2020 Believe that a hand of bananas will snag only the purest omens on their tips. Believe in a powdery bean-moon wrapped in a cake; that when I unwind its banana leaf, I part the earth and return the moon to you. Believe that our burning papers will reach you as the finest silk. Believe that these mandarins are the blaring shade of wealth, that when peeled they will glow like the cupped flames we floated down the Perfume River. Believe that this pineapple was once a girl who wished for a thousand eyes, that it will detect anything that is lost. Believe that we have learned to split măng cụt with a meat cleaver, that their white hearts keep us tender. Believe that Bà Ngoại has not touched meat since the last time she saw you, that she still mutters in Hokkien although there is no one left who understands. Believe that we will find you at the end of this path of salt. Natalie Linh Bolderston is a Vietnamese-Chinese-British poet based in Hounslow. Her pamphlet, The Protection of Ghosts, is published with V. Press and she is now working towards her full collection. New York, USA
I’m regrowing two scallion ends in my mother’s shot glasses. When I asked if I could use them she replied, I don’t expect to be throwing back tequila anytime soon. When are you making dinner, huh? I dodge the frequent question using my student status as a defense. My days are spent in another time zone; time travel is facilitated by video conference. I left my laptop’s clock on the Pacific Coast: it’s more difficult to subtract three hours than to add. My grandmother was the first family member to test positive. For a week, the phones rang ceaselessly. An Anglophile, my mother set her ringtone as the Downton Abbey opening credits theme. Her footsteps vibrate through the house whenever it sounds. I used to think that the music was evocative of brisk country walks—fitting for a show set on an English estate. Its undercurrent of urgency also suits this moment, and will train us like Pavlovian dogs. Spareribs are my grandmother’s favorite dish, though the virus has altered her tastes and now she asks only for sherbet and fruit. On that side of the family, American Chinese is the most beloved cuisine. But my mother has Celiac; she can’t eat soy sauce, wheat, or malt, so we stopped ordering Chinese takeout fifteen years ago. Buying time until she insists that I cook, I tell her about looking up a recipe for gluten-free scallion pancakes. It’s as good a use for the home-cultivated alliums as any. Unfortunately, the most promising recipe is from the Goop website. Lily was born in south central China and raised in New York City. She is a dandelion tea drinker, sporadic essayist, and currently a graduate student in East Asian studies. London, United Kingdom
So last night a DJ sent me to sleep. I was in deep counting sheep when day brain kicked in with something I’d read earlier. Every night since lockdown Questlove’s public service to New Yorkers is spinning tunes live on his IG page, lifting spirits and providing a link to donate to Food Hub. I’d always wanted to listen but for the unsociable hour it begins in London. Finally insomnia reveals opportunity! I tuned in expecting a mellow trip down memory lane but this evening someone dear to him died from coronavirus and he did not feel like playing music. His partner joined him on set and listened to his grief and guilt and when she finally spoke her voice went down like well aged whisky. I started to drift off 20 minutes in, the opening strands of “Redemption Song” began soon after. The last thing I heard was Bob suggesting that I emancipate myself from mental slavery, which is pretty good advice to sleep on. While the coffee percolated today I got to thinking that last night was a confessional box of sorts. Shedding persona he asked what we’re all thinking, is feeling grief a sin? In simply listening, we channeled collective absolution: only if you keep it in, stops the music. What’s my confession then? What music needs to be heard? That it’s been 17 days since lockdown and the only thing I really miss is being able to just pop into the shops for baking ingredients. Rachel Ong is a Chinese Filipina Canadian Brit who enjoys pastries and playlisting. You can find her on Spotify where she will happily trade mix tapes; her curation April Awakalypse 2020 is twice as long as usual. Durham, United Kingdom
Friday 17, 2020. 08:46AM I dream of the washing line that hangs through the apartment. my cousins sit by the table cutting pak choi, a lengthy process that starts with a cross-legged unearthing – rooting off the base, and then separating the stalks. as they break them apart a chalky snap erupts from their throats. fill a bowl and rinse. they usher the stems back in, like swaddling a child and pour the water out. then the stems go in with the sambal paste and ketchup that has been negotiated out of tiny sachets, stored and hidden away over the years. ann gie on her tiptoes, leans over, smiles and points, as if to say, look how the leaves undress, until they are naked bodies, dark green and embarrassed in a pan. we serve with mushrooms and noodles, conched in the bowl as some kind of purpling sloth. everyone’s hands shake as they eat. when we are done we open the windows and empty the plastic tablecloth outside. here our flag, here peanuts and fish bones and toothpick wrappers. the dream does not last long enough for dessert, for the slip and struggle of my tong gung to catch a cube of jelly. Chloe Elliott is a British / Chinese Malaysian poet. She’s usually based in Durham, where she goes to uni and is currently trying to configure how to write a funny poem (and maybe a sestina). |
STAY HOME DIARYan online archive of diary entries by Asian artists and writers, recording our lives from March to April 2020. |