I’m drinking red wine from a mug to quell this melancholy.
I dreamt of going mushroom hunting with my father–microphagy is the precise term. (This was a welcome departure from the week’s worth of dreams about being stabbed, or bitten in the back by voracious zombies while riding Eurail). We were in the forests of Mt. Hood, hunting in his prime-picking spots for shiitakes, and came across a bizarre hybrid. It was the love fungi of a carrot stick and a shimeji mushroom. And, we just stared at it in such awe. We knew we had found something new and were speechless. I woke with this feeling–the splendor of discovery–and wishing things could be imagined into existence.