Who knows what dreams mean when the body is this white waxing flesh or white waning flesh, pale or bright and orbiting with only borrowed light to see by: Who are you? Where are you from? Why are you here, sailing my dreams, reminding me of the disorder of desire?
If I were a healthy sort of person, this—my son making a family of fungi—would turn me to joyful mush, but instead it makes me sad, sad mush.
I am trying so hard not to desire, I am trying to be more like a pill, or any other drug, or a mind, drugged and pilled, or a forest, not burning, or a mushroom, existing.
Did you know that if you unfold the cerebral hemispheres, each takes up about 1.3 square feet? I think of a brain quilt, laid on the floor like a game of Twister, the neural pathways tangled like a child’s arms in his mother’s arms. We all fall down.
Looking at the fluid filled ventricles and ganglia, the maps of the routes to sensation, I think of vines growing up a wall or tree roots underground. Which are we? Which are we not? Playing a game of Twister, we trick the body into the sensations of sideways and upside down, the realities of friction and gravity. My son tries to fall down, he’s happy to fall, he has no idea how one area of the cerebellum sends a note to another: we’re having fun!, has no metacognitive level that says we’re pretending to have fun!
I am the edible mushroom and any polar bear is a warrior polar bear and there is no shame in dream.
Instead they rest in the gap between synapses. Imagine that: having nothing to do, sitting still. Imagine not longing, reimagine learning as the roots growing or the leaves making their chlorophyll. The light shines and you absorb energy from light. Or you’re fungi, extracting energy from the bonds of other organic compounds. Or you’re my son, at three. Who was I? Where was I from? Why are we here? I can’t answer my own questions. I won’t. I’m going to try to stay in my dream as the light slowly moves across it.
This week I went to an art show where a woman depicted her opened heart as a shock of leaves. Is if for sale?, I wanted to know. Her hair was silver and the matte in the space around the art was white. It was not for sale.