MycologyLover708

Poetry and photography

[nemfrog]

Amanita Strobiliformis or Warted Amanita. Mushrooms and other common fungi. 1915.

Internet Archive

[mens-rights-activia]

The duality of man is thinking “children cannot help themselves and we all need to be patient with them as they explore what it means to be human in public” and also “damn, I wish this crying baby was not on the plane rn :/“

[ffcrazy15]

Just as courage is not the absence of fear but doing the brave thing in spite of it, patience is not the absence of irritation but doing the kind thing in spite of it.

[myxomycota]

Cribraria rufa amongst liverwort

by Andy Sands

[seabeck]

Bleeding fairy helm

[jessicaleemarianne]

I have two hearts and one of them is very young.

The last thing I heard before I walked into my apartment after spending the evening with my parents was a yelp from my stomach, a burning, painful wish that both of them would never leave my side again. But I closed the door and went upstairs and into my bedroom, and I cried and cried from my stomach to my throat and it all spilled onto my rug and I couldn’t keep it in one place.

My father came alive in my eyes in ways I hadn’t seen since I was three, before he was injured and before his insides died, before my home became a mine field and before I left my first heart out at the curb so that the heaviness of loving someone while they hurt you wouldn’t be mine to bear, but that of some phantom girl who floated beside me, tied to my wrist like a balloon.

I’m a little girl all over again. The airplanes the two of us used to build are flying over streets in my mind. I can smell sumac and lilac and the feeling of being 9 years old hits me like a brick, wood panel walls and shag carpets and my oma is here, teaching me how to draw a profile and singing a song while she does. And every night my mother sings me to sleep.

My second heart doesn’t remember any of this. My second heart weighs inside me like a longing grief that begs to be seen, but is too white-hot to look in the eyes. I feel this, too—I feel too heavy and white-hot to be seen most of the time, as well. I feel like grief, I feel like a sick and heavy burden too grotesque to bear.

But my first heart remembers the airplanes my father and I used to build. It remembers what it was like to build small paradises under the lilac bushes in my backyard. My first heart, left at the curb, has been following me for years, it too begging me to look it in the eyes.

I have never wanted to see any part of myself for good, I was so scared that it would be like I was falling into grief. But grief and love seem to share the same face.

[jessicaleemarianne]

Humber River, Don Valley, High Park—Toronto, ON

[wachinyeya]

Scientists Find Plastic-Eating Fungus Feasting on Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Marine scientists discovered an ocean-borne fungus chomping through plastic trash in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

[jessicaleemarianne]

To be in the world (Grand River, Brantford, ON)

[itslookingback]

hey don't cry. estimated up to 3.8 million species of fungi on planet earth with only around 4% of species being described leaving 96% of species unknown. okay?

[jessicaleemarianne]

I saw a HAWK today. And I found a dresser on the side of the road, while last night I was thinking that I needed one. My roommate’s cat is rolling around on the patio and my chinchilla is eating hay downstairs

[jessicaleemarianne]

When the log got stuff on it <3

[jessicaleemarianne]

I feel too ugly to look myself in the eyes. When I am sick it shows. I wear it on my skin and hold it in my body. My mom says I should eat more. My guilt covers me like a weeping veil. I cherish it like a newborn baby.

I cannot hold my father. I cannot hold my mother. My sister floats above me but I can only touch her with one hand. I cannot see myself. I do not feel wise (though I am young). I see everyone I meet. It is very hard. It is the core of it all. It is the pit of a ripened plum.

At night I see the spaceships of my childhood. In the day I pass through the park. Some songs make me cry for how I used to know myself. I am frayed wires. I am the knoll waiting to be braided. Wash my hair. Leave me.

[jessicaleemarianne]

I know that one night you are going to kill me in my dreams.

Each fortnight my slumber is interrupted by your smell, and your misery,

And I wake with your tears coming from my eyes.

I can tell it is only a matter of time until you still my heart with your vile hatred of an image;

My body refracted through broken glass that you call yearning

But I think it was a mechanic theft of an idol.

We were harbingers to one another but our comings yielded grief,

And in two weeks when you next come to me in reverie

I will beg of you to bury me.

[jessicaleemarianne]

If I could I would pull your roots out of my twisted stomach and tear myself in two. It doesn’t matter how much it would make me turn, over and over, if my lungs could breathe without asking whether they are supposed to.

I wish I could swallow my hands and dig through the crevices in my abdomen and tear it all open and pour myself out. If I could make it, this skin would burn and flake and leave me, and I’d never have to look at where you bruised me.

But I am not wise. I am not effervescent in the face of sorrow. I am only a girl, and if you tell me you want to see through my eyes and touch with my hands, I will believe you. If you are a fountain then I drink from you even when your water is grey and holds your resentment. I will put it inside of me, for I don’t know the difference between what nourishes me and what kills me; as long as for a moment, I am quenched.

[jessicaleemarianne]

Every few years I die. I died when I was 11, then 14, then 17, and again at 19, and again when I was 22. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, I just die! And I do always come back, thank goodness, and now I am 23 and growing a bean stalk right from my toes and through my mouth and into the stars, and that is how I will live again this time.

[jessicaleemarianne]

My grief used to live at the pit of a plum,

Inside, inside, and away, until I tried to swallow it whole, I choke on it now, and with each hiccup a black mess runs from my mouth, it is vile and it is vulgar on my skin, The remnants of a memory, the uprooting of a tree, sorrow and mourning

In me, there is a real beast of hope and misery, a beast of real love, bright violet brought alight by forest green, shells of asters frozen in crisp November air, my sister laughing as she tells me about her life changing

The pit is breaking free, falling down my throat like I’m swallowing a prayer, it is planted like a seed in my stomach

Give me time, it asks. Lay me to rest, and when I wake, let me flood out of you like the river.

[jessicaleemarianne]

I wish I could shoot thoughts at people. “You look like my little sister” I shoot across the street to a girl on the opposite sidewalk.