That Which Has Not Yet Left Us

We step out of the dreamwalk and into my kitchen. Which of my kitchens? It’s the one from the big blue house on the Jung—that’s the Jungle Planet, Meezed-Zedbee II. The Green Jungle. The Big Nasty. This kitchen has seen better days.

I touch the wallpaper and tell you, mentally, This is the wallpaper from the other dream. And this, the dining room.

You look around and see it is a semi-open floor plan, with the kitchen adjoining the dining area, separated by the sink and wrapping counter, as well as hanging cabinets. The dining area also has a planter window, which is about a foot deep. Stairs run up to the next level from directly opposite the planter window. Next to the stairs is the way to the living room, and there is a half-bath right there on the left.

I walk into the pantry off the kitchen—what would be ‘behind’ the half-bath—and see a middle shelf absolutely teeming with roaches.

Dad hated this, I say to you telepathically. He would have gotten some insecticide and sprayed the hell outta them.

This makes me sad. If you are empathic, you can sense that. If not, I just seem suddenly quiet.

You might think to ask me about the wallpaper—either because you recall the other dream or because you don’t.

It talks to me, I think. The wallpaper has the wisdom of my ancestors in it, as well as everyone who has lived here and their ancestors, too.

I thought it was relatively new construction when your family moved in? you might say, if you’re a clever fox.

I will grin, and we move out of the pantry, then right and out the back door onto a screened-in porch. The screens are ruined, but the flexible field generator is still operable, I think as I check it.

We head left through a door and into the garage.

It has the smell of cut wood, metal, and cigarette smoke.

Was your dad a smoker? you ask.

No, it was all me, I think. I smoked out here a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Tons. See?

I gesture to a goblet overflowing with cigarette butts.

“In fact …” I say, then pull out a Yellow Kid and fire it up. “Ah, yeah. That’s the stuff.”

I sit down in a blue synthleather chair and gesture for you to sit in a brown captain’s chair. Or it can be the other way, if you want. Whatever is fine with me, babe.

“My mom is stressing me out. She has this thing to go to today, which is whatever, but then there’s the whole what to do with this place.” I gesture around.

“Hasn’t your family long since moved on from this house?” you ask.

“Well, yeah …” I say, my one hand flipping open as I take a drag from the other. “But these things are messy, bae. You move on from things and think they have left you. But they haven’t. As you can see.”

You make of that what you will.

“And Lila and the kids are coming over later. I guess we’re going to stay here for a bit.”

If you know what I’m talking about, then you do. If you don’t, then maybe you will one day.

“It’s all in here,” I say between pulls of smoke. “Everything we need to know. It’s all the things that we moved on from but haven’t left us yet. They’re all still in here, somewhere.”

Play procedures

• You may count this chapter toward the secrets of dreamwalking, telepathy, and empathic bonding, but only toward one of three.
• My first Jungle home can be a safe place, if you’d like. Write it on your sheet or in your journal. You can return here if you need a safe place to go.
• Think about where your repositories might be. Where are some places that you have moved on from but that still contain hidden meanings, forgotten histories, and abstruse clues for you? Write about one or more of them, or note them in your journal.