A litany of sharp words flow in a berating river of cuts. My spirit tries
to soar above the pain. I draw swords. I cut the little rabbit open. no
blood. Hack! goes the cleaver as I seperate the hind legs from the
spine...She says, "I don't fucking care what you feel!"
these words spoken by my best
friend.
Each breath or gasp is a genuflection to the diminishing sureness of all
things held permanant and dear.
The skin is pale pink with marbeling of white, Delicate. 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 cries as I sit 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.. 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
vulnerable.
"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 the my given name had nothing to
do with me, when I hear it spoken I am astonished, my name to me is like
margerine or polyester, it has kept me from the actualization of my soul's
desire, my spirit's ease, if i changed it tho, I might remove my history, I
might remove those faded Sepia last breath images of my parents and family,
even though 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 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 if I 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 is 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 in my matriarchy, 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..
If I put ground Sumac berries in lemon juice the color is Magenta.
If I put saffron in white wine , the color is Yellow.
If I macerate chives, just cut from the garden, with olive oil, the color is
Green.
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, A Lilac's elusive sweetness,
thrashing of manzanita blossoms, scratches the 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, 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.
You look down at the cutting board and there are substances, some llike
blood... beets.
Some like shit...duck 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 postponed by a convoluted 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 a maple
board is a deep Yellow. Yolk spills from the egg, almost Orange it is round
and supple, glistening in the halo of clear fluid, often a marbeling of
Crimson blood lingers, chips of Blue shells floating. Suspended.. Amniotic.
In Paris last fall leaves brushing along the Boulevard St . Michel were the
color of these yolks, dry now they are souveniers of the street, 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, now somehow 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
ackward and flop the creature into the pot, it turns the most magnificant
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 even seen the
metamorpohsis of shape and texture and essence, upon the aftermath of it's
earthly transition.
We don't think we can take this anymore, this 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
wind.
The place where feet don't ache, where the lower back don't ache, where the
fort cuts into our inner thigh, a dent mark
a red line
a bruise mark
a wince in the darkness
The sum of my existance 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 one
into the arena. Hungry lions, mean like Romans, capitalists, ungrateful.. We
manifested this, we Goddesses so we could feel what it is like to be human.
11/17/99
