‘Me, & My Octopus Teacher, & Carl Jung’

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Me,  & My Octopus Teacher, & Carl Jung

I. Dream One A - Time 5:53 AM; Date July 18

Normally Callie felt better after her conversations with the octopus, but tonight they were just bumming her out.

“Don’t take advice from me; we die within a few months of mating,” he said, slowly widening his eerie rectangular pupils. Callie was entranced as she watched his eyes bulge out from his translucent purple-gray skin. 

“Is that true for the female octopuses, too?” 

“Octopi.”

“Come again?”

“The plural is octopi.”

“I sort of suck at spelling,” Callie said

“Isn’t that necessary to be a writer? At least a good one anyways.”

“Austen, Hemmingway, and Fitzgerald were all notoriously bad spellers,” she replied as the setting orange, and yellow, and pink sun met the aqua-blue sea. 

In this part of the dream, they were in Nafplio, a coastal town in the eastern Peloponnese. When she was eighteen, Callie had stayed there with her YiaYia, who had moved back to Greece after living in the States for thirty-some years. Even though her YiaYia didn’t speak English, and Callie only spoke a handful of Greek words, Callie loved her more than anyone.  And at the time, when Callie looked into her soft brown eyes and hugged her goodbye, they both knew this was the last time they’d see one another. Some years later, her YiaYia died. 

Callie watched the fishermen, with their tobacco-colored skin and wild, curly charcoal hair, beating dead octopuses against the sharp rocks that lined the sand. The men twirled the octopi over their heads and then brought them down against the rock with a thwap.  They looked like a line of sweaty, hairy dancers engaged in a choreographed murder dance. They were in complete synchronicity— TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-TRAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-

TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-

TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP-TWIRL-THAWP.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, pointing at the fishermen.

“Nope, they’re dead dead. First, they’ve had a nerve severed right between their eyes, where their central brain is located. Then, their entrails are scooped out. Those you see there being beaten are just slimy meat suits.”

Callie loved to eat grilled octopus. She knew that the fishermen were using the rocks to tenderize them. Otherwise, their meat would be chewy, like a rubber sole of a gym shoe. The simple Mediterranean preparation was the best – boiled for forty minutes, marinated in chopped garlic and olive oil, and rested for an hour. Once marinated, it is ready for grilling; char for four minutes; remove from heat and seasoned with more olive oil, chopped garlic, fresh lemon juice, salt, and pepper. She squeezed fresh lemon juice over it and paired it with either a buttery Chardonnay or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc.      

Obviously, she kept this from her friend, the octopus. She didn’t know their name. And even though she told them her deepest secrets, it seemed like a too personal question to ask.

“Recently, I saw an Instagram post instructing women to rub olive oil on their breasts.”

“For what purpose?” asked the octopus.

“To tenderize them? You should see the shit that pops up in my feed – tools to shave the peach fuzz off my face, creams to make my bat wings disappear, and herbs and potions to treat my hot flashes.”

“What are bat wings?”

“It’s the loose fleshy skin on the back of your upper arms,” Callie replied.

“Not on my arms,” they replied, lifting one of their legs and waving it like a flag. 

“Humans are curious.”

“How so?”

“Why would you allow this feed to tell you that you are a hairy, corpulent, sweaty female?” 

“I honestly don’t know.”

“As Carl Jung would say, ‘Dreams are the guiding words of the soul. Why should I henceforth not love my dreams and not make their riddling images into objects of my daily consideration?’’

II.  Dream One B - Time 4:44 AM; Date August 3

Now, Callie and the octopus were sitting on a small man-made hill in the park behind her childhood home. They were both covered in snow. And the octopus was wearing a knitted rainbow scarf. And Callie was wearing the wedding dress that she purchased for three hundred dollars–it was a knockoff of a dress that cost over a thousand dollars. She loved to brag about her discount dress.

When she looked down, the front was covered in blood. She could feel her uterus spasming; every few seconds, it would contract, then stop. On shaky legs, she stood up and lifted her dress. Laying in the snow was an embryo-shaped light, a kidney bean; it was cherry red and shiny like a gummy bear. Callie screamed.  The octopus, using one of their many legs, used their rows of suckers, picked it up, and tossed it into a toilet that was now sitting in between them. They flushed her miscarriage down into Lake Michigan before Callie could say stop.

She loved this park growing up. It wasn’t scenic or beautiful, but it was large, with two baseball fields, a tennis court, two sets of swing sets, a field house, and a hill for teenagers to make out on in the summer and for children to sled down in the winter, and a windy walking path. It was the only place she could go to escape her family. She would spend hours there roller skating in the summer and ice skating in the winter until the sunset. 

A quiet set in as the sky transitioned to a portentous gray, and the wind howled. The trees were shaking as a giant Red-Shouldered Hawk circled overhead.  Callie wondered if the hawk might try to capture and eat the octopus and whether or not she’d try to save them or let the hawk eat it.  

“I can’t believe he cheated on me again,” she admitted, adding another secret to the list of secrets they shared.

Her companion, the octopus, knew all about her whirlwind courtship with Ethan. They met shortly after he had finalized his divorce from Heather, his first wife. Callie told him everything – how Ethan told her he loved her soon after they met. It was all going so well. They were in love. She was dancing on a rainbow cloud with hearts in her eyes. She wrote and sent the following telegram to the heavens:

WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM

TO THE UNIVERSE AND TO ALL MY EX-BOYFRIENDS

THIS IS IT! I FOUND TRUE LOVE!!! ORDER THE FLOWERS. TIME TO GET A WEDDING DRESS. GET THE CHAMPAGNE ON ICE. 

STOP.

Then, she had a nightmare that Ethan had left her for another woman. She told Ethan about it in great detail. No sooner did Callie have this dream than did she receive a rambling email at work from Ethan informing her in no uncertain terms that he was leaving her for his ex-wife, Heather. 

The email stated, “No one understands this, but we do. We love each other. Please do not try to contact me. It’s over. Your dream was right.”

Callie’s boss sent her home that day, and she spent the weekend in a daze. Her nightmare had come true. 

How could this be? 

Dreams don’t come true. 

Dreams aren’t premonitions.   

Two days later,  ignoring Ethan’s request to leave him alone, she arrived at his apartment. She was shaking, fully aware that she could find Ethan and his ex-wife Heather naked in bed, smoking after-sex cigarettes and laughing at her for her audacity for showing up unannounced bright and early on a Sunday morning. But she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let him off with a shitty email. He had to look her in the eye and tell her it was over.

When she arrived at his apartment, Ethan wasn’t there. So she waited for him, fully aware that he would probably drive up with his Heather in the passenger’s seat, with two hot coffees and croissants from a local bakery, smiling and holding hands and singing love songs to one another. 

Finally, Ethan pulled into his parking spot, shattered and alone. 

“If you don’t want to be with me, fine,” Callie said. “But you can’t go back to her. She’s no good for you.”

Ethan crumbled. He loved Callie. He had made the biggest mistake of his life. He was just confused. Eventually, Heather showed up later that morning. But it was too late for Heather. Callie could still hear her voice crack with pain like a dog whining through the door when she asked, “What’s going on?”

Ethan pushed Callie out the back door and ushered Heather into the front to break the news to her face-to-face. And eight months later, Callie and Ethan were engaged to be married. 

And that was twenty-four years – eight funerals, five fad diets, four layoffs, three trips to Europe,  two cats, two dogs, two mortgages, two colonoscopies, one miscarriage, one MFA, and one gorgeous and amazing daughter – ago. 

Yet, Callie still had this recurring nightmare that Ethan was leaving her. And it wasn’t the first time she shared this dream with the octopus. 

“She was younger than you–of course?” the octopus hissed.

Callie nodded. 

“Thinner than you too?”

“He broke my heart.”

“Doesn’t he every time?”

“No, this time, it was for real. Every time I take a sharp breath, my heart thuds, and my stomach seizes. I looked it up online on WebMD—it’s called takotsubo cardiomyopathy.”

“A takotsubo, a clay pot used by Japanese fishermen to catch octopus. Did you know this?” the octopus asked, seemingly getting upset. Their bony beak flared so that she could see their humanlike molar-shaped teeth. “They caught my brother with one; he slithered into the narrow opening, all happy and content like he found a new cozy home, settling down into the round bottom of the pot. Then, some fisherman pulled it up outta the water before he could escape. I can still hear his screams at night when I close my eyes.”

At this, the octopus opened its mouth and wailed. The sound hit Callie in her solar plexus, and it felt like aluminum foil scraping against her teeth, making her ears ring and her eyesight blurry.

Callie was silent. She didn’t know what to say. Grief is like that – it comes out of nowhere, and, moreover,  it’s a shock to both parties – the one experiencing it and the one observing it. 

Octopus and Callie were sitting on the army green loveseat she bought after college. It was the first piece of grown-up furniture she bought for her apartment. The salesman was so charmed by her that he gave her a discount and gave her a box of Frango Mints. The couch had high arms and oversized cushions, which were perfect for sinking into to watch Friends or Ally McBeal. She loved that apartment. It had big windows and a back porch, and lovely neighbors. It followed her to two apartments; she left it in an apartment when she moved in with Ethan, 

“Did I ever tell you about the love spell I cast to find Ethan?” she asked in hopes that it would distract the octopus. She tightened the strings on the hospital gown she was wearing. Her feet were squishy and full of fluids – when she moved them, they were heavy and sloshy. 

The octopus had no neck, so nodding wasn’t really an option. It was more like a head bob. They adjusted themselves on the smooth white rock that sat on top of her couch cushion, each one of their eight tentacles splayed out. They released a sigh, letting Callie know that they were ready for her to continue. 

“Two months before I met Ethan for the second time, I cast a love spell. I found it in Bewitched: Titania’s Book of Love Spells, written by Titania Hardie.  The spell to conjure love instructed me to specifically describe my ideal love mate down to the very last detail – eyes, hair color, height, and, yes, penis size. I said medium-sized, not too long, not too short, not too wide, and not too narrow. 

“Penis size? Really? What kind of sicko tells an octopus about a human penis?”

“I once dated a man who not only had a pencil dick but was in love with another woman. It was bad news.”

“Aside from penis size – what else did you conjure?”

“I wrote a universal love want ad describing this ideal man. You know, someone who likes movies and concerts, likes to read, is interested in politics, loves animals, likes good food, and travels but doesn’t need to see everything. I can sit in a cafe and enjoy a cup of coffee and people watching. And yes, can make me laugh.”

“Callie, this sounds like you described yourself, except with a human penis.”

“I apologize for mentioning the penis. It’s just that women need to own their sexuality, too. Men are all about the boobs, and the butt, and the legs.”

“If I had fingers, I would snap them in agreement.”

The octopus took two of its tentacles and slapped them together. Each time they did this, a slimy, oily spray landed on Callie’s face. A bit landed in her mouth, a fishy spittle that made her gag. 

“I was required to set out a series of red candles then, light them,  and meditate on each of the loves of my life, thank them, forgive them, and then let them go. The final step was to light a white candle and meditate on the love I wanted to attract. I had made it about halfway through the white candle, the final step when I smelled burning hair.”

“You set your hair on fire? I thought this was an original story. I can take that you have the grammar skills of a first grader, but shoddy storytelling that even I can see a mile away – I can not, I will not abide.”

Callie raised her hands to silence the octopus and continued.

“I opened my eyes. The cat I was cat-sitting…his tail was on fire. I ran out of my apartment. I banged on my neighbor Terry’s door.  ‘The cat is on fire,’ I yelled. Without missing a beat, he runs into my apartment, takes the cat's tail, and slams it against the coffee table until the fire is out. 

Once the cat is safe, he sees the candles, ‘’Do I even want to know?’ He asks.

“Okay, that was a nice twist, but you still can’t stop this recurring dream about Ethan cheating on you. How long ago did he leave for two days for his ex-wife?”

“It was twenty-four years ago.”

“Maybe it is time to let it go,” replied the octopus.

“Then, in the dream, I called my mom.”

“You always call her.”

“630-889-1613 –it is the only phone number I can remember; this time, I remember that she was dead before the phone even rang. I am an orphan. I have no family to call for help.”

“Callie, even your dreams even make me sad.” 

“Oh, and our daughter, Helena, took his side too.”

“Please stop. I can’t hear any more of this dream.”

“Greeks say you aren’t truly an adult. You aren’t fully grown until no one on this earth can call you their child, Callie said.

“ According to Jung, ‘This is what the dreams are obviously saying, and what they are trying to bring nearer to consciousness through repetition.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Exactly,” replied the Octopus.

III.  Dream One C - Time 6:45 AM; Date September 21

 They sat in aluminum lawn chairs webbed plastic featuring the colors of the 70s’ which was a plaid designed with the colors of the 1970s - avocado greens, mustard yellows, and rust.  It was the backyard of the last house she lived in with both of her parents. It would be the last single-family home she would live in. Her adult life would be shared spaces in apartments and shared walls in condos. Her feet were in a baby pool filled with murky hose water that was now home to dead flies and leaves.

“Do the females die after they mate?” Callie asked as she reached down and felt her empty post-delivery stomach. The doctor assured her that her C-Section scar would be below her bikini line. After being thirteen days late, being induced, pushing, and then going into the OR, wearing a bikini was the last of her concerns. 

“No, they have to stick around and watch over their eggs. Sex for fun is a human thing. We have sex to procreate like the good lord intended.”

“So the mothers, they get to live then?”

“No, Callie, they die shortly after their eggs hatch.”

“Now, who’s being depressing,” Callie replied.

“I’m just telling you the facts. Nature is brutal.”

“It really is.”

“We do have three hearts.”

“So, you can love three times more than us humans.”

“Or we can pump blood to our gills.”

They sat in silence. Callie lit a cigarette, a Marlboro Light, and inhaled deeply. The nicotine made her dizzy, and the tobacco tasted stale, but holding it in her hand felt good.

“What about your heart, Callie?’

“My heart is so closed that it contracts and constricts so much so that I can’t breathe.”

“It’s stuck in a takotsubo. And you want to break the clay and free it?”

“Yes.”

“Even though humanity at best is indifferent and at worst cruel?”

“It is so deformed. I want to open all the closed-up parts and let them in.”

Callie looked at the octopus. They were the only one who truly knew her, who truly saw her, all her broken bits. He was the only one who knew the truth.

“Do you know what the number eight signifies?” they asked, lifting each one of their tentacles up one at a time like a fan.

Callie shook her head.

“On its side, it’s infinity; standing upright, it’s overcoming.”

The octopus reached one of their tentacles toward her and set it on her hand; before she could pull away, they applied pressure, and their suction cups stuck into her flesh. 

“The human heart beats over 100,000 times a day.”

“I think this pain left a permanent scar on my heart, like a break that never healed. It’s still there, lingering in my cells, and I can feel the heartache in this recurring dream. How do I fix it?”

“As Jung would say, ‘They (dreams) describe not just a lusus naturae (freak of nature), but the meaningful coincidence of an absolutely natural product with a human idea apparently independent of it.’”

“And what does that mean?”

“A dream is the way you process your trauma and try to bring closure to unfinished emotional baggage,” the octopus explained, rolling off the lawn chair and into the baby pool. She watched them sink into the water, the bubbles rising to the surface.

***

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

Callie rolls over and slams her hand on the alarm clock. She’s stuck in the dreamy in-between.  She places her hand on her chest. Her heart is beating hard and fast. Her back is clammy. She tries to pull at the pieces of her dream; she tries to remember. She rolls over again toward her husband and places her finger between Ethan’s eyes; gently, she traces the spot between his eyebrows – his third eye. She puts her hand on his heart. As she feels the slow pulse of his heartbeat, she notices small round purple bruises in the shape of the octopus’s suckers on her hand.

Amelia Estelle Dellos (she/her) is a lifelong Chicagoan, an award-winning writer, and a filmmaker. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia College Chicago and teaches writing and rhetoric at Roosevelt University. Recently, she became the managing editor of Unwoven Literary Magazine. Her work has appeared in Spilledwords, Street Lit, Big Shoulders Press, Allium: A Journal of Poetry & Prose, PBS, Amazon Prime, and Highly Sensitive Refuge.