First of all, I apologize for not having thought to find out who wrote the Corona poem that I published in the March goodnews. It is by the poet, author and editor Kristin Flyntz. And did you know that we possibly owe our consciousness to a primal virus that settled in our brain a long time ago? There it combined its genetic code with that of our distant ancestors. This tiny code is still active within us, bundling genetic information and sending it from one nerve cell to the next in small virus-like capsules. These packets of information could play a critical role in how nerves communicate and reorganize themselves over time, which in turn is a prerequisite for a higher thinking function. (Cell, 20181/11) Someone who could think (and talk) up a storm was the cultural anthropologist Terence McKenna, who died twenty years ago this April, and who would have appreciated this kind of information. His book True Hallucinations is still way ahead of its time and a must read for any psychonaut. You also need to see the online Tribute to Terence McKenna his brother Dennis McKenna staged (link below). I haven’t seen every conversation, but my favorite episode so far shows Dennis with Bruce Damer, who advocates a culture of compassionate sharing, whereas Dennis shows the kind of attitude towards drugs and life in general I would like to see more of.
So far so good,
Susanne G. Seiler
Mushrooms
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.
Sylvia Plath