Often I think. The land is telling me something. I had once been obsessed with a woman’s occupation of reading plants movements- meaning where they move themselves on the land and where they replant themselves.
In practice, the idea of living inside a field of poison ivy seems horrendous, and yet. What I am realizing is, I don’t know what horrendous is. Theoretically plants moved to where they wanted, where they’re needed, where they’re fed. As a culture we have often planted things where we wanted, only to reak havoc on the environment.
And so.
In my travels I find myself in a wee cabin on a wee pond in the peculiar state of New Hampshire.
The rains have been torrential. The village has 7 bodies of water and some have been closed due to the rains. So who should arrive in this late summer days, when internal thoughts blossom and brew? The deliciously mysterious world of the mushroom.
Perhaps my disregard for the out house has brought me face to face with more then your average amount of mycelium theatrics or perhaps it’s my desire to walk barefoot and fearing hallucinations via my toes.
Being mushroom conscious takes the surreal to a new level. The first days, I watched, and within hours shapes morphed.
Change is ramped.
If I think through the cycle of attention, in parallel to my own psychosis- I have gone from fear to curiosity to godly respect. And perhaps back to fate.
Hunting mushrooms takes little effort with my iPhone and even less time then boiling an egg in these here parts to collect dozens.
Several years ago I listened obsessively to Mycophilia: Revelations from the Weird World of Mushrooms. By Eugenia Bone
Besides giving me a healthy respect for their peculiar capabilities. The book reinforced how little I could possible know.
Certainly hearing that mushrooms are more similar to animals then they are to plants gives good reason to wonder about their consciousness and motives.
The variety and reasoning for making themselves known when so much of their work is underground. They are the interstitial communicators of the earthly world. Using micro versions to chatter between trees and keeping the gossips happy.
So here in these August days I am watching as heads newly push through leaf layers. Carrying the weight of other’s decomposition on their head.
The game of seeing new ones, is often confused with seeing a reincarnation of the same body. And not stepping on poisonous ones is not helped by the books. The books we gathered to understand what we are looking at only reveals the end of the world from where I am squatting to release my self.
There is comedy. Sweet rocks that bulge through the sand to become mushrooms.
There is color distort with the glistening grey, vibrant yellow and pulsing reds.
All of which, seem to not translate into the camera, seemingly to dull as they sense they are being captured.
Arching stems, willowing stems scattered through, stems that are larger then their heads. Mushrooms breeding mushrooms from their cap. Mushrooms curling their lips, showing their underskirts, revealing their tendrils. All this, and oh yes more.
But I wonder. Are they each their own kingdom or are they each individual members of a greater army?
What is it that they want. Desire. Or need. What is the place of poison in the order of things? How is it that the most solid form can reform into a spherical bloom of webs and then slim with in hours.
We are all many things. I am slime. I am a blossoming orb. I am poison. I am food. I am circling you. I am still thinking while you might think I’m sleeping. I am changing my colors. I am moist and yet indigestible. I am doing work, you can’t imagine, because it is not yours. I am my own kind. I am not known to you even if you can see me. I follow different rules. I have many lives. When you can not see me I am still here. I am one of many. I am many. I am of the earth.
