Mush Room To Grow

It was too late for regrets now.

In an hour or so she'd feel the effects and she wasn't ready. This had been a mistake. She knew better, at her age, to indulge in such childish things. She pictured her daughter Paula's smirk.

She wanted out. It was too much. And alone? Was she crazy? She was crazy. It was clear now she was an emotionally unadjusted adult and needed help. Okay, call the ambulance. No, wait, breathe. Nothing had happened yet. Relax, old lady, damn.

There was no use thinking this way. She'd made a decision and had to accept the consequences instead of running away and hiding as she always did. She’d already drank the magic brew. A cup of tea with two drops as instructed. 'It's a microdose', Paula had said. Maybe she was immune. Maybe she hadn't taken enough. What was she supposed to do in the meantime? To pass the time until she was, for the first time, high?

High, at her age. If any of her aquaintences saw her...

Rain started cleaning the minuscule flat. She thought it would help organise the chaos in her mind. She grabbed a damp cloth and KH-7 spray bottle and heard a loud no! It had come from her lips but she hadn't had time to think it. Okay, no cleaning then. Too boring. She should lift the mood instead--music!

Elvis Costello, too soft. The Doors, too oldfashioned. The Growlers? What the hell was The Growlers? Fine. Must have been one of Paula's vinyls. She always left a snail trail wherever she went -- it drove her mad. 🎶 Nobody cares about a junkies dream… Y la monotonia es un asesino lento.

The song was speaking to her. Grabbed her by the hips and wouldn’t let go. Eyes closed as if the devil was leading her every stroke and step. She dropped on the floor, stood up. On her forehead a glistening pearl of sweat. A thick tear that tasted like ocean on her lips.

Suddenly, in the middle of the solo performance, she felt high.

Her head squeezed gently like a sea sponge, filled with kaleidoscopic patterns when she closed her eyes. Thoughts intertwined, moist, sticky, colourful, wonderful, the past and the future had lost their meaning. It was only now. Not then, how could it ever be then? Then didn’t matter anymore. Only now, the softness of the thought, her skin, the shape of her beautiful breasts. She was a beautiful woman; the tingle and warmth in her vulva reminded her.

What the fuck she thought. And heard, language!

Oh, fuck off Rain, always so perfect. Never allowed to be sexual, she thought out loud. Not allowed to step out of line, be rude, be gross, be disgusting, ever. Always so careful about what others may think. What do YOU think, huh? So what if she said fuck, fuck, fuck, smuck, duck, pluck, mug, bug... suddenly the uncontrollable laughter echoed through the walls and penetrated her through the belly. Her daughter was right. She was uptight. But she felt loosey goosey.

Did people know about this? That you could feel such vast gratitude? Such deep love for every living being? Two innocent drops of magic shrooms, it's all it took.

She lay there, on the ground, and noticed the rug she’d bought in Merzouga, a few years back, on a Kundalini retreat. It was so soft. She’d never sat down to stroke it and was seeing it, truly, for the first time. The patterns were mesmerising. Someone, a woman most likely, had spent hours, days weaving that piece of fabric and creating those colourful designs. It'd taken her hours to decide to buy it.

The young Morrocan gentleman had treated her to several cups of sugary mint tea with endless patience. She thought it was overpriced and feared being naive and tricked into a rush purchase. But now she realised how inexpensive it was. It was made by two things she craved most: discipline and patience.

When had she stopped dancing and having fun? She would join the Salsa school two blocks away from her flat first thing tomorrow.

It was a fact now. She’d become her mother. She was okay with it. Mother had been a worker bee. Diligent, always head down, always worrying. But always making ends meet. A long sigh broke the train of thought. She felt peckish.

Paula had warned her it could happen and she’d prepared for the event like a pro. Her fridge was glowing with fresh fruit and rich with every possible deliciousness her soul could desire. Right now, it was a chocolate mousse.

She lay down on her new best friend and slowly put the spoon inside the tub. The sound of the stainless steel penetrating the soft texture gave her a little eargasm. The Growlers kept playing, she pictured them as her private orchestra as the last sliver of sun dyed the sky dark orange and pink. She wrapped herself in her own hand-knitted poncho and stepped outside.

The wooden terrace was covered in happy plants. She rationally knew they weren't dancing and there must be a gentle breeze she didn’t feel on her skin. But the way they were moving, was unusual. She realised how rude she'd been to never properly introduced herself. Or know them at all except for the occasional watering or feeding. The geraniums had such little-girl demeanours. Roses were quiet. The jazmin was all about her looks and the lemon tree welcomed her like an old friend with a soft windy whisper — she touched his leaves, his incipient fruits still green, and smiled.

Okay, this was incredible.

She couldn’t believe she’d resisted it for over a decade. The first time Paula had brought up the topic of psychedelics — and it mustn’t have been easy for a daughter to confide in her mother about such things — she'd nearly slapped her across the face.

How dare you talk to me about drugs? I don’t want to know what you get up to she'd said in her fearful voice that always translated into anger. Paula had insisted a bit because that was her style, pure nerve, pure balls, pure stubbornness. Sometimes she wondered where she got it from. Maybe….

Fine. This was life-changing. The wholesomeness, the strength yet stillness and calmness. The perfect balance of opposites she felt and always craved as a Libra but thought impossible. She could understand everything. Her path, was clear.

She saw all her maybes and possibles and probables all the way up to where she wanted to go. All her self-doubt was nowhere to be found. Self-doubt! She couldn’t believe it but couldn’t presently remember where the hell she'd left it (she must look for it later).

Fine, fine, fine. She sighed loudly this time. She grunted, growled, became a panther for a while and so much more you’re still not ready to hear about.

She run to her Macbook to email Paula, because since their last biggest fight she’d blocked her on Whatsapp and restricted their communication to only e-letters.

She’d been logged out. She hated when that happened. Password? Shit. What was it? Her cloudy mind couldn't remember. Letters getting jumbled up on the screen, growing bigger and smaller like a magnifying lens. Dashes of purple and blue coming out the sides of the screen. She felt anxiety taking over. Focus. You’ve got this. After five attempts, reset your password. For fuck’s sake. She needed to check her work email for the link. Technology seemed to engulf her, her life, sucking away her precious energy like a dementor. Harry Potter, really?

In one swift move, the bloody phone went into a dark corner under the sofa, and she unplugged, closed and hid the laptop too. Relief. Her favourite pen wiggled on the table to be picked up, a sheet of paper magically in front of her now.

Dear Paula, the letter began,

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you for your gift…