I am outside in a garden.
I lift a brick and discover mycelium threads clinging to the brick.
I am surprised—the mycelium is Allen Ginsberg.
Small beautiful flower heads begin "fruiting" off the brick.
The flowers are his poem Kaddish.
I pick Allen's flower poem and begin to cut it up into a fine powder.
I snort it up my nose.
I think to myself what a beautiful gift.
I feel a deep love for Allen as mushroom and his flower poem Kaddish.
Then I start thinking in Yiddish.
(Sidenote: Kaddish is a poem Ginsberg wrote about his mother. It's a heavy poem.)
Beautiful dream Rebecca. So beautiful that I'm tempted to just leave it be. My expounding upon it will only break the spell of its poetry. I invite anyone reading this to stop here—to move on and turn to the dreams of others or, better yet, send in a dream of their own. The curious may proceed, for this dream packs in a rich loam of subject matter as well as cultural and mycological references that I must unpack a little bit. First the mycology:
I explained that I’d never been interested in symbolism; that I preferred just taking things as themselves, not as standing for other things. But then a few days later while rambling in the woods I got to thinking. I recalled the Indian concept of the relation of life and the seasons. Spring is Creation. Summer is Preservation. Fall is Destruction. Winter is Quiescence. Mushrooms grow most vigorously in the fall, the period of destruction, and the function of many of them is to bring about the final decay of rotting material. In fact, as I read somewhere, the world would be an impassible heap of old rubbish were it not for mushrooms and their capacity to get rid of it. So I wrote to the lady in Philadelphia. I said, “The function of mushrooms is to rid the world of old rubbish. The Buddha died a natural death.”