Mycelial PersonPlaylist by Amanda Monti
Mycelial Person was like surrendering into an almost familiar environment; with only a whisper’s guide at my ear, only a collection of spores touching at my hand - like something gooey tracking through the pages.
I’ve never smelled so much in a book.
It doggedly searched for unnoticed, unseen, forgotten patterns, whose shapes rose gently and fell. But it oozed with acceptance: giving away and away and away, each gift collecting and condensing into the making of the story itself.
This book is a mushroom of love.
— Irene Lee
I wanted to become a mushroom.
I put an ad on Craigslist.
“Will you help me build a mushroom hat in exchange for a palm-reading?”
I made it explicit that there was no budget for this and all I had to offer was this divinatory reading, which I taught myself when I was fourteen because my mother was a witch with a pendulum and I had a heightened sensitivity for the effect of stories on hands and faces.
I didn’t think much of it and would’ve felt lucky to hear back from even just one.
22 people replied.
in the dark to
attracted to light
will crawl such as firefly or flylarvae
round round round
over under the twinkling mushroom
until they realise that
it’s just a mushroom
at this point their little feet
are covered in
which the fly will spread in service of the
At the time I became lovers with my friend but it was very CASUAL meaning that she was very casual about it and I was very much in love with her.
I tried to console myself by by obsessing over the plant person from my local plant shop. I found out sun sign, pronouns and hobbies through eavesdropping on other customers.
The Plant Person, Scorpio, they/them, dancer, always wore tank tops that revealed a tattoo of the Little Prince. Sometimes the little Prince cried droplets of sweat and I came to discern The Plant Person’s scent as it mingled with the lucky bambo and the tiny palm tress. All I wanted that summer was to get a better glimpse at the inside of the Plant Person’s palm and let the lines condensed into their skin reveal to us that these hands were, yes, wrinkly from the water, fragrant from the dirt but that these hands were also made to want me on a deep and intimate level.
Outside, the streets were creamy with micro milky ways as birds were still shitting on pavements and people were still talking about the weather like they had nothing to do with it.
Close your eyes. You are surrounded by the ocean of the motorway.
Down by York street there is a subway stop, where no one seems to care.
Upon entering you had to mark yourself as either top or bottom
and I admired the sense of certainty that my companion brought to
our brief relationship : “I want this,” she had said to me, waist high
in my kitchen. “I want this,” she had said to all the condiments of a
food truck. “I want this,” she now told the leathered butch with the
wristbands. I am terrible at decisions and asked if it was possible to
get both, trying to sound like I didn’t care. Inside people were
fucking one another in shadowy enclaves, some chained onto
latex-cushioned tables, others wriggling around like worms,
gleeful in the mud that was a basement of downtown Brooklyn. I
expected a force beyond my consciousness to lead me into a
constellation of bodies, naturally revealing the language of my
desire. Instead, I saw someone I knew from a conference in Rhode
Island. We made polite small-talk while a very small, masc-
presenting person got whipped by a femme teddy bear on a table.
It was nice as I am crouching by the weed a woman approaches and asks
to watch me whether I am visiting and these grow EVERYWHERE, but
how in this she likes the colours, they remind her of spring, do I like it here?
the masculinity of the person had nothing to do with insertion,
nothing to do with dominance. “How is it going” “Have you found
somewhere to live in the city” “I still have that sculpture” Sighing.
We turned to look at the climaxing Teddy. “Hey, it was good to see
you,” said my friend. “You, too.” “Take care.” I went to the
toilette and googled signs that you are a top, including, but not
limited to loving to be the big spoon. I preferred forks so this
wasn’t helpful. “Perhaps we are mystified by versatility,” someone
suggested in the commentary section, “because there is no hetero-
trope built onto it,” and I took notes as light flickered on and off.
from the bus
she is moist
the scent of
and small purple flowers
how you remember
women i miss the smell
is how you remember of trees
the concrete of pulpy eyelash
lamenting in the spring
last season’s lametta
entangled in her