Chanting the Feminine Down (excerpt #2)

That night Colette dreamed that she was a robed warrior, a samurai; her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and a knife rested between her teeth. She steadied herself on this medieval stage holding up a mirror that Savonarola had not yet crushed, praising her own beauty and steadfastness, awaiting the emperor’s command.

The command came and the samurai was transformed into a roly-poly Michelin Man, wide-eyed, bouncy and looking around for a villain to subdue. The warrior found his mark, circled him like a snake, and as they rolled down a hill of heather, put him in a full nelson and leg scissors. Without as much as a how-do-you-do, the warrior slit the man’s throat with no obvious blood spatter or venous wounding. The chant the dreamer heard in the background was a guttural and primitive version of “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

Colette awoke to clean hands and the sense that she had participated in a highly stylized, murderous dance directed by forces outside her control. She felt a deep reverence for the archetypal forces that had stirred her up and banished other icons to the periphery of this pantomime. She looked for some sectarian language that would carry this blessed, watershed moment, but all she could find, parked in that special ether of her own making, was a fast food commercial, “We Have the Meats!” delivered in the deepest male voice-over belonging to an actor who had already left the room.

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