Manipulative fungi relationships

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This video is about fungal infections that change the hosts behavior to benefit the parasitic fungus. If you are anything like me you will appreciate the elegance of the relationship.


Fungi can also produce plant hormones to control a hosts growth. Talk about manipulative...


Today is Halloween. Imagine that fungi are in our brains manipulating you to do whatever you are doing. What if your personality is partly the manipulations of a pathogenic fungi? Excuses, excuses.

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This link is a great collection of illustrations.

This one caught my eye, it reminds me of the vampire moth I posted on a couple days ago.

Fooling myself?

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Drop by drop the infatuation is diluted until one day it becomes apparent that there never was anything there at all. Solipsistic introjection to the rescue! This is all just a game for me... no, wait, I can do better than that: None of this is real.

Are the lies we tell ourselves the most destructive and also the most necessary?
Is there a feeling more lonely than the realisation that you are a stranger unto yourself?



Are you a stranger unto yourself?

Am I qualified to critisize others? Yes, because I am not blind to my own faults. How do you react to information diametric to your own reality tunnel? Do you reject the information outright, rationalize it, or embrace it with all its ugly uncomfortable implications?


Have you experienced the liminal realization of self fallibility? It is naïve to think that your Destination of Self is in the past and not the future. The liminal is not always a moment, instant or suddon epiphany but can be stretched out weeks or even years-a hallway not a threshold. Brother, where have we been? Where are we going sister?






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Gifts

This is so romantic. A gift of human blood to his moth mate.

So is this. A gift of dead flies between lovers:
"This dramatic drawing of the spider Pisaura mirabilis (sometimes known as the nursery web spider) is the largest watercolour produced by Arthur Smith. Full of action, it depicts the moment in courtship when the male gives the female a present of a fly wrapped in threads."





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Sensory Dissonance and Home Surgery

I cut off the pad of my left index finger while attempting to divide a Parmesan chunk with an overly sharp knife. There was plenty of blood.

Two weeks later it is all healed--sort of. I succeeded in reattaching the severed bit of skin and muscle but the graft is uneven. The reattached bit itself has no feeling whatsoever but the area surrounding it seems to have become hypersensitive. Is it realigned nerves or a mental mirage like a microscopic version of phantom limb syndrome?

I run the finger across my stubble. The sensory dissonance between the numb and the hyper-sensitive areas is too intense and I am forced to stop. People have a difficult time holding diametric thoughts in their mind at the same time, it causes mental friction. To experience two diametric versions of a surface that I run the finger across is also a uncomfortable sensation. You should feel this.

I wish I could loan you my finger so you could experience the unsettling weirdness.


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Acetobacter

I travel into your mouth
and change your world
make you mine
Absorb and exude your
bits in red radiant river.

Traveling together south
our disease unfurled
acetobacter wine
from ventricle pour
winters bite vine wither



mature and partly depleted parts
parts disolving upon parts
our untwining knot unfurls
uncurling unraveling loose
air the touch unshines and curls
inward drinking your foreign juice
ready to make babies all over your body


I forgive you for
your miscarried labors
let me write it off
and begin

I Thank you for
the reptilian party favors
let me wipe them off
of my skin





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Making Poison

Here is a Wiki Link.

My Dead Parasitic Twin

what was I just thinking?
What was that daydream erased compleatly from my conciousness?
Denial happens. We can push it all to the back of our minds.
A mental oubliette.


Sometimes the conciousness looses its hold for a brief moment and:
There is a feeling of incompleatness. It is not romantic lonelyness, something...

This scar of mine... They said diaphramatic hernia at birth. I know they are right but sometimes I forget to forget. This scar... They didn't tell me that I had a parasitic twin removed but I can feel it. Or to be more accurate I can't feel it, in fact...

Cain and Abel
I am the surviving one.
I am cain...



I fed you. I breathed for you and pumped your veins with my blood. I gave you touch and feel. I think for you. You tire me. You wear me down but if ever you were to leave I would still carry you; the cavernous cleft.



And now I miss you.
Push the thought down.
Push it down
Push it down
Push it down
Push it down
Push it down...













What was I just thinking about? I was thinking about something, but what?

It happened on Voltaire Street

Some places are vortexes that suck in weirdness.I sat at a bus stop in front of a headshop on Voltaire Street in Ocean Beach, San Diego. I didn't know I was being watched.She had recognised me as one of her halucinations I would learn later. That was why she approached me.It occured to me that she was the rarest of human charactors: the female serial killer. Naturaly I accepted the offer of a ride.When I explained that I lived 60 miles or so away she just said "ok, do you know anything about medicine?".

You see, she had come to Ocean Beach to yell at a Veterinarian who she was convinced was poisoning her dog. I advised her to keep giving her dog its medicine and that the dogs symptoms were from its illnes not the medication the 'evil' vet prescibed.This seemed to reassure her and once relieved that her dog wasn't being poisoned she bagan to open up to me.
She had been up for some time, on meth. She had that posture. There were people chanting outside her window all night she said. Was I one of them she asked, she recognised me at the bus stop. I tried to convince her that we had just met.She asks my advice on how to get off drugs. I had been clean for about three weeks which we both agreed was a very very long time.Then she proceded to tell me her life story over and over. And over...

She had been mindfucked, compleatly and devitatingly mindfucked. Her only way to cope was denial. Denial.I heard her tell me the same story over and over but at the crucial plot point she would stop and start the story over.I can hardly blame her. The topic tabooish and she would be stigmatized. Nine hours of a broken record.I had no choice. I couldn't just get out and walk at that point in our odyssey.

Nine long hours later she droped me off the place I was living at the time. When she got out to say goodbye (forever) we both noticed her pants.There was a large wet spot on the crotch of her jeans. It was awkward. As batshit as she was she knew to be embarased.
I won't lie. I googled her very distinctive scandanavian name. I wonder what became of her. She probably doesn't even remember me.