Release The Kraken

As she types these words, here comes the déjà vu.  A dream had in the last year.  Maybe.  She couldn't decipher it at the time.  There was writing this, in this place, with these words, on this page.  It was shown to him, and he was expecting it.  But her friend was having the baby, the double fortune redhead that likes to suck on pickles and smile wider than any human being might know how to.  She wasn't here; it wasn't happening yet. 

She was writing this, in this dream, in her first bedroom as a child (but not a child when writing this) - pink, pink, 70's wallpaper, matching canopied bed with white posts, busy black and pink (goth babydoll) even then. Using the room as a place, with a laptop, not that one ever existed there for her (Strange to think of people living in that place, or any other she's lived in that her father built since then - 1986.  A quarter of a century and how many lives have gone on there since theirs.  It would probably make her cry horribly to see it dressed up in someone else's clothes). 

So the déjà vu, here it is, there it went, imagery, the feeling of dreaming being real and these words having taken place in the past, in the world with no second hand, and along tops of our hats.  Deep down to the ocean floor, the Kraken swings its be-laboured, heavy arms but not in frustration, but like an elephant swimming through the seas might seem (did you know elephants could swim?), a beast light as a feather, taking all of our woes with him, as we sail alongside, barefoot and drunk as ever.  And happy, dammit.  Despite all the woes, the lack of peace (chosen and recognized), Happy.  As long as she was in the childhood bedroom (she locked the door when she was ten and decided to tear down the matching bed canopy and unscrew the posts - it was not her anymore, and she made that first step to herself with no trouble at all), in the nettle of the waves, the imaginary pirate's ship she was forever on (never at the wheel; she was better outstretched and moist under the sun wrapped in her own hair, her own personal mermaid, at the helm - to warn the men of oncoming dangers), the dance floor of the waters two stepping with the creature, cupped sleeves leading the way and no straight lines to be found...always step right, turn toes out, step left, turn them out, v interactions and backwards genuflections and she imagined to herself, when finally getting down to write these words which had clearly written themselves years and dreams and eternities ago (if ago can even be applied to eternities or if there can even be more than, say, one) the thought that struck her more like a gut feeling - that these little treasures we keep in our brain cells, invisible other selves and the worlds which don't always show up in this one...that we don't even know how much we have.  If we stopped for a moment and sunk down, how we might begin to creep into it, slowly, like falling asleep in the sweaty grass, making weed and flower decorations and shapes on our thighs....

...Close your eyes and listen.  Hear the kraken tentacles following along with the elephant trunk show? Singing opera and swaying himself to the tune we created for him? Now, you see what she means.  Apparently, she's said it before.

M. Lucia