AMKent books

Part 1

Permanent Solutions

Before she came into my life, mushroom or not, I had nothing but despair and darkness in me. They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but there have been times that I have felt so rattled that I worried that even suicide would not be enough of a solution. Like it would follow me out of the husk, into the embrace of whatever is next. I have often thought this may all be a test, who has the guts to end it prematurely. It goes against every survival instinct in the human body to do away with yourself, a kind of ‘ultimate challenge’. Wanting to die for so long that the idea of suddenly getting better, wanting to live, makes you feel a repulsion. Institutionalised with the idea of a self-caused death, a tragic form of conditioning, the suicidal ideation. I used to look at people who had done it with a form of envy, they had the courage to press that shiny red off switch. In certain parts of the world, it is easier than others. America, for example, you buy a gun and blow your head open like watermelon with too many elastic bands around it. One click, that is it, you are dead, it is messy, and there is a slim chance you will be hideously deformed if you fuck it up. In Europe, you must get more medieval, hangings, often your eyes bug out and your neck internally decapitates from the weight like some kind of morbid playdough. Trains, traumatise everyone, death bags, hard to get a hold of while the wrist is borderline useless. Uncommon methods like salt overdose are supposedly less painful, but drinking the required amount of salt before your body throws it all up is tricky. You get the point, its medieval, barbaric, there is no click, you will really have to face those demons on your way to the goodnight. If you fail, then you are the shamed and embarrassed idiot that is either disabled, marked in some form, or everyone probably thinks you are just an attention seeker. The boy or girl who cried wolf, every single time you fuck it up, this is the prevailing image you portray. People around you tell you its not, they worry, its selfish, you essentially ruin everyone else’s life because you don’t want to exist in your own. You are a literal cancer of joy, your negative existence accumulates in your mind, occasionally flashes in your actions, and everyone else must breathe in your cacogenic suicidal fumes.

To feel both the urge to die and the guilt of feeling that urge, an ouroboros of flagellation until you eat yourself to death. Grim, very grim thoughts, by now I imagine suicide doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, so, lets move on. There are times when I have had a divine touch bolt through my limp and meaningless body, suddenly, I am overstimulated by a sensory overload of beauty. I remember vividly walking to work one morning, it had rained and the trees that I barely took notice of for several years had never seemed so green. The smell was intoxicating, it was like I was inhaling the warm hum of the Earth, everything heightened to the point that my throat was full of serenity. You know those moments of nostalgia you have, when you see someone or something that reminds you of a time you barely remember. A novel time, where everything was virgin snow, footsteps traced back to your birth, when the snowfall began. Eyes from someone that you have seen before, a past retina, a pupil that was intimate to something that is no longer you. I have heard inhales that rung like old bells from times that I am no longer aware of. The haze and sun creating strands of mist and particle swirls, pushing through tree branches like photons through the womb of a star. You hear those voices, that push past your ears and into the bloodstream, just thinking about it makes my eyes well and my throat pang. I remember a tyre from a tractor rolling down a grassy hill, the sun is golden, we are children, and we are hiding in the tyre as it rolls. A game to see who can stay in there the longest, with these pure abstract forms like an impressionist painting, I cannot make them out in detail, but their smudged essence is enough. A horse screams in a dark wood, I am with people I no longer know, if I ever did know them, we are terrified but follow it until we find an old wooden cabin. The dark greens of the trees hanging bloated and full, the patter of rain that works the puzzle of nature to nourish the dirt, we flee after one of us makes up that an evil spirit lives there.

The first piece of music I remember hearing was Bach, it was a recording of the piano and I remember its structured beauty, fierce and unrelenting perfection that my ears were not mature enough to understand. It seemed to make everything so much more purposeful, reminiscent of how a good song makes you feel cinematic, a protagonist in a story that is entirely yours. These things set you up, for failure or success, or maybe utter indifference, but they set you up. I am a snob in a way, to bleed my heart with music, to blood let my soul, I must recreate those intricate dictations of musical perfection, indulge the hierarchy of elitist melody. We are all cosplaying in a way, some cosplay poverty to seem more relatable to those without their wealth, others cosplay wealth to seem less relatable to those that share their wealth. It is all dancing, posturing, letting yourself run wild in the meadow of human fever, social actors and social plays, tragedy, love, strife, growth. A naturalist only notes the observation before them, dissecting the story that unfolds, I wonder if the universe does the same to our unfurling. I almost sounded profound there, but I am not, I am an idiot masquerading as someone above their intellectual station.

What is the story here, what is the purpose of all this exposition, is it just unnecessary insight. It was until I met someone who gave me that moment of clarity, awoke me from the stupor of malaise, malevolent malaise. She left not a shadow but a light behind her, like the streaking transcendence of a blurry night as one travels. Contrast, that is the best way I can sum her up, she was such a polarising soul to my own. I remember her hand sliding across a coffee as if she were a bartender in a highfalutin bar, it left froth to bubble on the table. It was funny, I guess that is how I found her, funny, not in a saviour way but more subtle. This is all sounding rather cliché I know, she was no angel, unlike Bach she was not a creation of pure ingenuity mixed with perfection. When we argued, she had teeth, her words were like hot arrowheads that blew a hole right through you. A hint of sadism reared its ugly head from time to time, she knew my flaws and when things got spicy, she reminded me of them with a sense of creativity that would make Lucifer proud. You have probably noticed by now that I am speaking about her in the past tense. You are right to jump to this conclusion, but she is not dead, well, not completely anyway. I will summarise this up so we can move on, to the point of this whole thing. We were walking by a river, and something happened, it was all rather mad. I just remember her eyes, stalking-like, wild and feverous, then I tried to hide her from whatever was about to happen. I did a poor job, but I am thankful that my cowardice did not get the better of me entirely, and then. Well, she became a mushroom, or a fungus, she looks like a mushroom so I will say she is a mushroom. There was an ancient static in the atmosphere, the river could have once flown through a temple, probably not.

I can hear her still, she transmits her thoughts to me, and I am not allowed to laugh about the fact that she is a mushroom. She is convinced that this is a sort of spell, like an anime we watched once, she says we need to reverse it like the cartoon. I don’t really remember how or why she became a mushroom, I was entirely honest in my retelling, that is about as detailed as I can get about the whole ordeal. I keep her in a pot, she thinks it is demeaning, but mushrooms go in pots like other plants, I think. I am not sure; I have never been the kind of person who knew a lot about ecological matters. I take her with me, we go on walks, she has been a mushroom for a year now, she doesn’t need food or anything, she just does mushroom things. We still watch TV at night, I still love her, and she tells me she loves me, I guess I would want my body back if I were in her position. I have arranged a meeting with a man of the occult; he is going to tell us what the remedy for this whole debacle is. We are both excited, wait, I haven’t said her name, have I? It is Emerald Clover Luna Garden, ok it is just Melanie, her name is Melanie, sorry, I wanted to give her a more meaningful name. Sometimes I tell her I am going to fry her, I know it is funny, but I feel bad because I would hate being in her state. I once drew a smiley face on the cap, or, her head, she was not amused by that at first, but she did find it funny later. Now I draw different expressions on her face, or cap, or whatever the head of a mushroom is supposed to be called.

Stop staring at the table like a lobotomy patient and clean it before this occult wizard guy comes over.

That is her, I must stop dialoguing and prepare the table for the wizard, ironically, he can apparently solve the metamorphosis of woman to mushroom but still requires money.