I’m the naked chick wearing the octopus.
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.