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  • She says, "I don't fucking care what you feel!" ' she' is my best

    The litany of sharp words flow in a river of berating cuts. I try
    to rise above the pain. I draw swords. I cut the little rabbit open. No
    blood. Hack! goes the cleaver as I separate the hind legs from the

    Each breath & gasp is a genuflection to the diminishing sureness of all
    things held permanent and dear.

    The skin is pale Pink with marbling of White. The kidneys rest
    inside an envelope of fat, they're round and Red like the lips of children,
    I pop them out and slice them into perfectly sliced bits for the kitties,
    the texture of thick silk, no emotion, they lie in a perfect pile, neatly in
    a White porcelain bowl, the Black cats pounce! purrs and whistles.

    " You make me sick" I can't stand being in the same room with you!" Lauren, my sous
    chef, throws this shrieking knife at me , I remain stunned.

    If I don't cook the Yellow potatoes right
    away they begin to turn Brown, I layer them carefully in the Black iron pan,
    staggering the shapes larger to smaller, brushing each layer with clarified
    butter and a drizzle of heavy cream, the White melts into the pale Yellow ,
    bits of cracked Black pepper , a scattering of Bronze fennel leaves, a few black olives.
    The hot
    hot oven collides with the butter and edges Blacken, silhouettes of herb
    look like the forest after a fire, stark contrasting shapes, delicate and

    "Honey, the shop is my new baby, I don't have time for you anymore, you're a
    big girl now. " I am 11 years old.

    The steak sears on the grill. The duck fat sizzles in the pan. I flip the
    leeks over in the hot olive oil. They burn Black if you don't flip them
    right away.

    I was never attached to my name, it has always felt like an anomoly, a
    spaceship, a crucifix. I have always felt that my given name had nothing to
    do with me. When I hear it spoken I am always surprised, my name to me is like
    margarine or polyester, it has kept me from the actualization of my soul's
    desire, my spirit's ease, if i changed it though, I might remove my history, I
    might remove those faded Sepia last breath images of my parents and family,
    although they now feel like a myth, as if they never happened, as if I
    was born of coyotes, raised by cabbages and abandoned to the nest of a
    cynical yet comedic band of feral ravens. I can't seen to find a place in
    this world that feels comfortable, no matter how much I cook, no matter how
    many layers of down I sleep in, no matter how many worn pairs of jeans I
    own, no matter how many pairs of shoes in my closet.
    I have this insatiable need to feed
    people, even if they don't want me too. I have people who want me to feed
    them, even whenI don't want to. I feel like I carry alot on me and I don't
    want it.

    Yet I did this, this restaurant, this husband who was rarely home, this
    barren womb, this tired voice, this kneeling acolyte, this resentful child,
    this battered princess, this parched artist.
    I ride a tightrope between acomplishment and submission (failure), though
    never in the history of my women has there been submission in over 100
    years. I find my matriarchy in the deep Green Tree Arm Pit, the place where
    I hide all my stress, under the limbs of her great strong arms, present.
    Silent. Resilant. Alone, not lonely, oppressed yet not victim, clear of
    karma, leeway to fuck up, Merrily i go.

    If I put ground Sumac berries in lemon juice the color becomes Magenta.
    If I put Saffron in White wine , the color becomesYellow.
    If I macerate chives, just cut from the garden, with olive oil, the color is
    I know the Cornucopia mushroom will turn Zinfandel Black.

    Jasmine blooms in a profusion of sweet scent at my door. I carry in me the
    myth of my hands washed in Cobalt, I carry in me an ability to heal.

    Within the Red rose or the White calla, the Lilac's elusive sweetness, a
    thrashing of manzanita blossoms scratches my skin, airborne acacia lemon
    Yellow covers me in fine dust. Here, I feel I can wander about unoticed. I
    feel as if I am at the other end of a funnel, with life pouring in bigger than it
    can come out. I feel in me the light , changing, pouring, diffusing.. I feel
    the universe finally colliding with all my pain and I finally feel alright.

    "You know, you are commiting a mortal sin! My father says, driving me down
    Pico Blvd, to my Confirmation. What?, "Yes, your mother was married before
    me and she divorced him, we were married in a civil court, and our marriage
    is not recognized by the Catholic Church, so , your birth is not
    acknowledged by the Catholic Church, which makes you a liar and a bastard!
    "Daddy, what is a bastard?" I am 12 years old.

    I look down at the cutting board and there are substances, some llike
    blood... beets.
    Some like sauce with Figs and Balsamic... Some like tears.
    The Ice Water Glass Spilled.
    Emotions fill up and flow over,rushed by an impatient tide.
    A Moon Thwarted. The phosporesence is postponed by an angry tourist.

    Mike brings me Blue and pale Turquoise eggs this morning, his Arcana hens
    must be especially fertile. Each egg I crack open on the edge of the maple cutting
    board is a deep Yellow. Yolk spills from the egg, almost Orange, round
    and supple, glistening in the halo of clear fluid, often a thread of
    Crimson blood lingers, chips of Blue shells floating. Suspended.. Amniotic.

    In Paris last fall , the leaves that flipped and danced along the Boulevard St . Michel
    were the
    color of these yolks, dry now, they become souveniers of the street, now taped to my
    window, with a ocean behind them. I have an ocean behind parts of me. I
    languish in emotion, like unpredictible tides, or moons given proxy of
    orbit to comets. I lanquish in emotion arriving as estranged relatives,
    skeletons and, or, even , apparitions. Exhaustion sets in.
    Wounds appear and disappear like old fruit, once ripe and perhaps even
    luscious, somehow, have vanished into A Perplexed Universe.
    I have a tendency to dwell on things. I say " I'm sorry" first, "Oh, it's ok,
    it dosen't really matter".

    "Are you alright?".

    The water is boiling now, and steam rises infusing the scents of bay leaves
    and lemon and Lampang peppercorns in to the air. I am wrestling with a 25
    pound octopus alone in my kitchen and it is longer than me, the long grey
    tentacles protruding from a head, a head bigger than mine and a strange bird
    like beak. Wise old eyes. Shaman Eyes. I grapple, clumsy and burdened and
    awkward and flop the creature into the pot, wherein it turns the most magnificent
    colors of Pink and Mauve and Purple and Blue Black and I know this octopus
    must not know what an enchanting color it has become, or can possibly see it's
    metamorphosis of shape and texture and essence, upon the aftermath of it's
    earthly transition.

    We don't think we can take this anymore, this kind of service.. we women who hold
    our forts between our legs.. we women who buck and buck and the horse still
    rides US , we women who long for the soft golden meadow......... a whisper of
    The place where feet don't ache, where the lower back doesn't ache, long gone from the
    place where the
    fort cuts into our inner thigh, a dent
    a red line
    a bruise mark
    a wince in the darkness.

    The sum of my existence is bathed in olive oil and lemon, perhaps a small
    crush of garlic added in the final toss...
    the long sleepy ride home, Yellow line buzzing hard on the Black snake road
    dead deer drunk rednecks that last table that sent the fish back the tears
    shed in the kitchen before anyone got there, the deep breath that sent me back
    into the arena. Those hungry lions, mean like Romans, capitalists, are ungrateful.

    We manifested this,we Goddess' so we could feel what it is like to be human.
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