in the service of sushi

I keep sliding out of my chair and it’s pissing me off.  Oh god, it can’t be.  Is it?  Is that piss I smell?  It’s possible.  Upholstery absorbs.  And people with bad hygiene have definitely seeped here.  I stand up, turn around, touch the seat with my bare hand.  Monklike.  I am not at all Monklike.  What’s wrong with me?

I’m slipping again.

I’m riled up about a piece I saw on 60 Minutes — got the bluefin tuna tangled in my net this morning.

Why this piece dredged up so much gunk from my ocean floor I can hang on one word.


It’s a word.  I just looked it up.

Where to start.  I’m just sad about so many things this story has to tell.  Putting village fisherman out of business.  The end to the rich ceremonial mattanzas.  Fattening up tuna in farms.  Storing them at minus 75 degrees Fahrenheit.  Scraping and planing and sawing them into blocks.  The delicacy made commodity.  Idiots in a race to catch the last tuna.

Bringing the beautiful art of sushi to grocery stores to meet a huge consumer demand is extinguishing life.

Reverence, people.  Reverence.

Author: Julie Ann Stevens

My art flows from the patterns & paths of my lived experience which ⏤ like yours ⏤ are at once deeply personal and entirely universal.

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