Andrea and Helle have been posting a number of fungus shots lately—shrooms and other wonders of intriguing mycelial flamboyance, beauty, and sometimes cryptic biology. In their galleries I’ve seen wonders to satisfy appetites both subtle and gross, and I’m learning of a new interest. I’ve been feeling a strange sort of culture-shock lately, and to alleviate its effects, I’ve been in contact with friends overseas. I’ve chatted with Victor about locomotive disasters and gallery showings in Russia. And other things as well. Important things. I’ve been in contact with my friend Stas, in the throes of some existential crisis involving…well…a girl. It’s the usual story: boy meets girl, boy likes girl, boy stands in front of the mirror in a state of dazed, inarticulate confusion and then—after long moments of culture-specific ruminations—decides to shave. Victor has helped my mood immensely. So has Stas, though his efforts involve a bit more of that boy-meets-girl sort of amatory intrigue that meanders into a strange, but lucid exploration of language, James Bond, and Native American Flamenco dancers in New Mexico. Following my talks with Victor and with Stas, and with Corey, I began to go through old emails that I’d sent to friends and family. I found pictures I’d taken in Prague, including the very last photograph grabbed by the camera that died and probably found its way into the bottom of Pavl’s sock drawer. Among the photographic treasures I unearthed from the depths of gmail.com, I found—of all things—shrooms. The fiberglass kind. Big ones. Shiny ones. They stood in the grassy border of Old Town Square—not far from Prague’s famed Tyn Cathedral (where Tycho Brahe is interred,) and the globally-recognized Astronomical clock. Most intriguingly, these now-vanished mushrooms sprouted not far from the house where Franz Kafka was born: his Native House. (Just follow the street partly obscured by the blue mushroom, then take an oblique right. As you walk, you’ll find yourself in the diminutive square named for him and marked by a sculpture bearing his gaunt, haunted likeness.) But Kafka is not the focus here. The mushrooms are what I find significant. They’re nothing like the glorious and subtly beautiful things Andrea and Helle find on so regular a basis, but I’m sure they’re distinct to the Czech Republic. Coincidentally, Czechs are known for their love of mushrooms. During fungus season they make their way into “the nature” with guitars, bottles of slivovice, and containers for what fungal treasures they may find. These treasures are edible, though a few might be of the sort you’d only eat once. During fungus season, the forests are alive with mushroom gatherers—undoubtedly lots of guys named Honza and an equally impressive number of women named Jana. (**Pronounced “YahNa.”) Perhaps, in a way, these fiberglass fungi are markers of the season. Like their smaller, natural cousins, they appeared over night, lingered for a few days, and then vanished without a trace. I captured them as best I could, and now I offer them here. They make me think of Kača and Stepan, of Maria, Kača-3 (I don’t know what happened to Kača-2: I never met her and no one answered my questions as to why Kača-3 wasn’t promoted and given an updated suffix…but maybe it’s because she’s still so young) and Pavl—exquisitely loopy Pavl! They make me think of Stas and Victor as well…but it doesn’t take much to make me think about them. (Play the James Bond theme and Stas immediately pops into my mind! Victor never pops out of my mind.) These mushrooms are for Andrea and Helle, and for a couple of polar-opposite Russian dudes who get the whole mushroom thing, and for anybody else who like unexplained, fiberglass mushrooms in an ancient city known for unexplained fiberglass things. As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting.