I’m the naked chick wearing the octopus.

by goatlove

Now let me explain that.

The octopus – all spots and jelly head and rubber limbs – sits on top of a flat naked body.  Tentacles 1 thru 7 wave erratically in the empty air space of the water.  Each arm clutches a white bottle. 

Tentacle 8 drapes possessively over the figure’s face, covering it and suffocating the mouth, filling the mouth hole with a rubbery spotted sea sausage.

The figure, the naked body, stands erect with the hands relaxed next to the hips.  A cutaway of the chest shows a bottle resting brightly in the ribs. 

When I was in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago, my college buddy D read my cards for me.  The images on the tarot cards were beautiful and intricate, filled with scratchy black lines of ink and pools of color.  Drawn by a selection of artists and activists. 

The image of the octopus was imprinted on my memory.  I must think about it every day.  See it behind my eyes as I’m frying eggs, talking to family, watching a movie, flossing my teeth.

 The card was explained to me, but I only remember the gist of its meaning. 

I’m the figure with the octopus hat.  I have all these bottles, ideas, and they snake off in a thousand directions.  Shifting.  Changing.  But there’s one thing that just feels right.  I just can’t see what that is because I’m distracted by all these other cool bottles – Ooh!  Shiny!

So that bottle, the heart bottle, that might be Maine.  Maybe.  But right now, I realize, I’m trying to get drunk off of one of the tentacle bottles, the adventure bottle.

Or maybe I’ve got that all wrong and the heart bottle is an action instead of a place.  An action like… writing.

I don’t know.

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