Dirty South 2/3: A Return To Mushrooms

I've been working on my fear of mushrooms for a while now. I had some that I actually wanted to eat more of (yes, yes I did). My first time at Muss & Turner's, in July, is where I found them. Once I finally moved down here I went back.

It took me until October, I've been busy. They didn't have them on the seasonal menu (bravery went back in my pocket).That week I had taught found poetry in my classes. 

Don't teach what you don't do. So this is what I did: I made a found poem from my journal. I took one, random, word from each daily journal entry between when I was first there and when I went back. That's a sentence a day between July and now, more or less. I need to thank all of my students for putting this bug in my head.

(I had the cheese plate. They put together a goooood cheese plate. And kids, if you're reading, yes, that is a series of pictures of me drinking ONE cocktail. Do Not Drink and Drive and Do Not Dare think of drinking underage. Seriously.)

I had concerns about if I should tell my students what I had done to my journal. Still uncertain about that part. I hadn't done this before. My fears of mushrooms and public poetry--it's a two in one blog post! This poem is, obviously, called "Mushrooms." (full text at bottom)

Note: Muss and Turner's has not approved this poem. I, however, do approve them as my favorite restaurant here. Go eat all their foods. 

Mushrooms

Me again, me nested here with rose-tea

Dad’s drier books still out here

Transplant great chickpeas

Tiny hot cupid coupons

Serious story packages unpacked 

pretend world class dogfood jealousy

Fun hair Fun Success Fun Sunday definitely Fun

Good work neato pj times

Sleep office account 

peaceful place

grant it

Thankful tired day, relaxed thing stares 

Bullshit claustrophobic 

Acetaminophen week

Happy Snake Salad Week 

Out heartbroken hurt place

Comfort me well ug army

Name things that storm place, ledbelly

It helps me place detox tonight

Yes, even love again

Peaceful place, right time, beautiful rush

come back

Mushrooms

Me again, me nested here with rose-tea
Dad’s drier books still out here

Transplant great chickpeas
Tiny hot cupid coupons

Serious story packages unpacked
pretend world class dogfood jealousy

Fun hair Fun Success Fun Sunday definitely Fun
Good work neato pj times

Sleep office account
peaceful place
grant it

Thankful tired day, relaxed thing stares
Bullshit claustrophobic
Acetaminophen week

Happy Snake Salad Week
Out heartbroken hurt place
Comfort me well ug army

Name things that storm place, ledbelly
It helps me place detox tonight

Yes, even love again
Peaceful place, right time, beautiful rush

come back

Daffodil and the Mud Puddle (Narcissus poeticus)

Came to be used as the name for “daffodil,” but we are unclear on which came first—the man in the myth, or Narcissus poeticus. The narcissistic chicken or the egg-like bulby flowers.

This is what they had said. The same one—Pliny The Elder—to turn the phrase, “home is where the heart is,” says the flower is named for it’s scent: “I grow numb.” But not for the young hunter.

Imagine Daffodil at a mud puddle. Water cloudy with muddling, maybe Bacchus had come through in a dance. Daffodil stares at that water ignoring any footprints that had come in or out. Wonders (like flowers do).

Narcissus, that hunter, is said to be what we know well. Self-absorbed with his own beauty, disdained those that loved him. Led to the pool that led him to his death.

Get this, the “lead em to the pool” character is literally named Nemesis. Seriously. “Nemesis.” It’s a bit heavy handed, no?

Maybe more than Nemesis was to blame. Maybe not.

The rest is vain, and deadly, history. “I grow numb.” I stay here until I can’t care enough to leave.

Things (creatures) in the forest tried to reason with Daffodil. Snake, Beaver, Tiger, Spider. She apologized in tears and flitted past them. “I’m sorry you had to look at me, I’m sorry I was even here.”

“you’re a Narcissist: get over yourself” : “you’re a daffodil: get over yourself”

“you’re my Nemesis: you’re trying to destroy me” : “you brought me here: I chose to look.”

“The things didn’t match the terms. Why don't you see that?” Daffodil didn’t have a good answer to that. She did what she does. She wintered. She worried about Nemesis. She still does. All the plants look different.

 “I am sludge, why leave this sludge.” : It is me” : “You are singular, why trust puddles.”

“I grow numb.”

And that’s it. No moral to the story. The “so what?” is this: There are a lot of puddles, and they have various levels of scry-ability.  Because everything isn’t a metaphor, yet this particular Lego of mythology is in so many death-stars of personal, and cruel, attacks.

Stepping on a Lego when barefooted is a specific pain. If you remember it from childhood it is likely unlike other things. You construct your adult life with particular contracts with Legos, and where they will or will not live in your adult life.

I don’t have any Legos. Pollen does enough damage to my eyes, ears, nose, throat. I’m not specifically allergic to daffodils more than I’m allergic to Legos, or ad hominem insults. I carry varying degrees of numbness to the three. Legos, maybe the least.