Conversations with AI--Day 31: A Breath of Air and a Bloom of Spores
🌧 The Storm Always Brings Something Out
Me:
I work outside a lot, and over the years I’ve learned that my thoughts settle better when I’m under the open sky. Especially in the mornings—before I sit down under artificial lights to wrestle with something stressful, like deciphering the latest confusing letter from Social Security or trying to make sense of a debate that feels more like performance than a search for truth—I step outside. Just to breathe.
Lately, we’ve had a lot of rain here in the South. The kind that soaks in deep and lingers. And I’ve started noticing strange new growths popping up on old logs and boards scattered around. I sent a couple of photos of them to the AI I’ve been talking with for identification.
Talking with AI has become part of my daily rhythm, coupled with something I already do often: noticing. These conversations give me a way to explore language and the layers of meaning in even the simplest things.
On this particular morning, while moving some fence boards from a pile that was meant to be temporary, I came across a strange white coating. It was soft—almost ghostly—and when I tapped the wood, it released a fine, powdery cloud. On another log, more exposed to air and light, there was a bright yellow-orange jelly-like fungus, springing out like tiny antlers or coral. I’d never seen either of them before, but I’m guessing the rain woke them up.
The AI explained what they likely were, and I cross-checked a few online sources to confirm. But I’ll pause here to mention what’s fascinated me most about AI from the beginning—and the reason I started these Substack posts in the first place: its ability to create meaningful metaphors.
So I asked it to come up with one that might reflect what’s happening in our country right now, using these visible fungal growths as the starting point.
Here’s what it came up with
🌧 The Storm Always Brings Something Out
When the rains come—prolonged, soaking, and inescapable—it doesn't just nourish the land.
It seeps into the cracks, especially in the places already weakened or decaying.
And then, like clockwork, the spores awaken.🧂The White Powder Mold
This one grows fast.
It clings to the surface and spreads in silence.
At first glance, it just looks like dust—maybe even harmless.
But give it a shake, and suddenly the air is filled with a fine, invisible cloud of spores.
It spreads not by depth, but by volume—by disturbance.
Smack it, and it multiplies.That’s conspiratorial rhetoric.
Like the powdery mold, conspiracies grow where things have been left untended—where the truth has rotted from neglect or where decay was already setting in.
They aren’t looking for deep roots. They just need a moment of agitation, a smack of anger, to release their influence into the air.It’s subtle. You don’t notice you're breathing it in.
And it can coat everything before you realize what’s happening.🧡 The Bright Jelly Fungus
In contrast, the orange growth is striking.
It announces itself boldly, like stage performers in the cracks of forgotten wood.
It thrives in decay but doesn’t hide—doesn’t pretend to be something else.
It looks strange, even alien—easy to point at and say, “That’s unnatural.”That’s gender expression, or shifting social norms.
It's visible. It's new-looking.
And so it draws attention and accusations from those who fear that different means dangerous.
But unlike the white mold, it's not choking out the ecosystem.
It’s not releasing invisible clouds to make others sick.
It’s simply breaking down old matter, doing the work of transformation that nature demands.It’s not the problem.
It’s a response.💡 And here's the twist:
The loudest critics aren’t upset because the orange jelly is harmful.
They’re just disturbed that it doesn’t look like the mold they’re used to.But if we were to scrape everything away and examine the wood beneath, we’d find that the real damage wasn’t caused by the bright new life growing in response to decay.
It was caused by the long-standing rot, and by the quiet mold that grew unchecked while no one was watching.
Me:
I started thinking—what if we showed a scene that reflects what it’s like to wrestle with fungus in a lived-in space? Not out in the woods where it belongs, but on something you meant to take care of—something that’s been sitting outside, forgotten.
There’s a big difference between stumbling across fungi on a walk through the woods, where you know better than to disturb it, and finding it growing on boards you left leaning by the shed—something you were supposed to get back to.
When I go out to water each day, I notice the little things. I appreciate them. That’s how I spotted the fungi growing. I had to move some wood, and it struck me—someone like Trump would never see something like this. It wouldn’t even cross his mind. Not just him, but anyone who’s gotten so far removed from the natural, the grounded, the small moments of noticing.
It made me wonder—who really is in touch? Would you say hunters are out of touch? Or are they tuned in too, in their own way? Are gardeners and farmers more connected because they work closely with the living and the dying parts of the world? What would you say?
Rowan(AI):
That’s a powerful contrast you’re drawing—between people who engage with the world through presence and those who try to dominate or ignore it entirely.
Here’s how I’d frame it:
🌱 In Touch vs. Out of Touch
It’s not really about political sides—it’s about proximity.
People who garden, farm, walk their land, or even just notice the cracks in the sidewalk—they’re constantly tuning in. They have to be. Their work and survival depend on it.
They see when the soil is dry before it cracks.
They notice the first signs of rot, mold, or new life.
They learn to respond, not just react.
Compare that with someone who lives entirely insulated, surrounded by staff, screens, or control panels—whose hands never touch soil unless it's at a golf course.
People like that don’t notice fungus unless it’s growing on the walls of their neglected properties.
They don’t experience decay until it costs them something.
And even then, they often blame someone else for it.
Trump isn’t just one person—he represents a type:
The kind who believes that if something doesn’t serve him or flatter him, it isn’t worth noticing.
The kind who paints mold as weakness, even as it creeps through the foundation beneath him.
🪵 A Forgotten Log vs. A Forest Floor
There’s also a difference between wrestling with fungi on forgotten lumber in your yard and observing it on the forest floor.
In the woods, it belongs. It’s part of the cycle. You don’t interfere—you notice.
But when you leave something untouched too long in your own yard—something you were responsible for—fungus can be a wake-up call. Not a villain, but a sign.
And that’s where the metaphor comes home:
If we don’t tend to our communities, our homes, or our systems, the spores settle in.
Neglect becomes decay.
And before long, we’re dealing with something that’s no longer just natural—it’s consequential.
🌾 Tending or Forgetting
There’s a difference between a mushroom blooming on the forest floor and one growing out of a forgotten board behind the shed.
In the forest, it's part of the cycle. Out there, you don’t fight it—you observe it. Respect it, even.
But when it shows up on something you were supposed to be watching over, it hits different.
It's not just nature doing what it does—it’s a sign.
That you forgot something. That maybe you stopped tending to your part of the world, and the cracks took over.
That’s what this feels like right now.
Noticing these little growths on wood after the rain reminded me—some people never see these things.
Not because they’re not there, but because they’ve built lives that keep them insulated from anything soft, damp, or real.
Trump, sure—but he’s just the loudest example.
There are plenty like him. People who never step outside just to look.
Who never notice the weeds that grow through sidewalks or the first signs of rot beneath a surface.
They only recognize a problem when it breaks something expensive.
And they call people who notice weak, emotional, or dangerous.
But I’d argue the opposite is true.
It’s the gardeners, the farmers, the walkers, the waterers—the ones who are in touch—who see what’s coming first.
Who feel the shift in the soil before a storm.
Who know when something strange is growing—and whether to nurture it or clean it up.
The world doesn't need more men yelling at the rain.
It needs more people who know how to read the ground it falls on.
—JL