When Grandpa’s Breath evaporated into the ether, I was starved for the clarity and relaxation that had come, and miracle whip came, slathered itself all over me.
It’s an instant strong cerebral buzz and you’re nicely toasted. The strange thing about this, I’d call it a reverse Sativa, with energy rising as soon as the initial effects clear out.
I’m reminded of a time (has 22 years truly passed, already?) when I stepped from my tent in Oregon to behold mountain tips piercing the clouds as the sun rose, rising, sheeting with gold the clouds that dissolved as soon as the sun gained prominence, to exhibit the mountains in brilliant mid-morning clarity.
And another upside... it’s egg free.
The mist creeps through the firs, fingers of condensation that rise and fall in the baleful moonlight.
Under the silence of moss and rock and earth lies an ancient artery of iron and rotted timber; it hums, a dream of ectoplasm. Sparks spray, indeterminate, dancing on the edge of Planck’s Constant. Here an invisible corridor flickers, strangely technicolor, the air filling with ions.
An unfortunate creature might find itself transfixed, its hackles rising, rising, eyes glittering from a point of light forming in the distance. Galvanized by unseen energies and sheer terror, it faces down the light, now a maelstrom struck by ball lightning dancing backwards in Time and Space.
It is a rictus, formed from nothing, of a face being peeled of Life’s Many Maladies, until there is only a full blown face lashed with gentle pleasure shedding ghost light that passes through the wreck of its nervous system.
Then the moonlight is all over everything, as usual, but it glitters. This strain is an oxymoron: just right is just enough, but have too much your eyelids will droop.
When I need the Hammer of God to hurtle from the parted skies, headed directly for my hypothalamus, I sigh in Grandpa’s Breath.
You could imagine eddies of Time curling in the cavernous amphitheater of your Buccal Cavity, each motion a tapestry of histories rising and falling in the ever-consuming redolence of Purple.
It is the cycle of existence once again, poised at that pregnant pause at the end of exhalation which seems to drag on and prompt one to implore, “Is it this the one, finally?” before the tracheal void flutters open once more in a gasp.
It is only after the passage of eternities that you realize you’ve had one bowl too much, the inside of your smile saturated with Purple.
I got the one gram bag. I opened it then quickly closed it. It’s been a few hours and the smell hasn’t gone away. It’s like trichomes are tickling your nostrils.
Each symbiosis of ganja and soul is unique in each incarnation.
Fuck a bouquet of flowers! Give me a jar of Dutch Thunderfuck. Now that’s romance, drawing in its essence in the candlelight, the unearthly smell gloaming into your consciousness, like the laughing light of a positively twinkling day abruptly rendered into odour.
And Thunderfuck is right. Only it doesn’t come out of the sky. It comes out from right inside you, a bloody psychic Roman candle rising and rising with a whistle, its boom a descent into familiar intoxication.
This is a special occasion strain I use to impress my friends and romance my wife; but, uh, she’ll eventually like these kinds of flowers... someday.
Maybe.
Stepping into the dispensary was like entering a warm cave. I shouldered past the rows of glassy paraphernalia, concentrates, and edibles. In the back of the store sat a wizened old man who peered rheumatically over his drooping bottom eyelids.
Thunder boomed and the lights flickered: the room seemed to lose dimension, shadows leaping in as light fled, as if to collect around the old man.
“It’s dangerous to go alone,” he said. Glistening on the counter was a rapier-like nugget, glowing green and steady amidst the unreliable gloom.
I took the bud reverently, raising it high above my head. I felt powerful, impelled, driven! I was ready to fight the world! I dashed to the door, threw it open, when I heard, “It’ll be ten dollars, sir.”
Each High is the Sole Province of its Experiencer
Truth is, the moniker is a bit misleading. It should actually be There's My Bike! I'm the sort of person who goes on so long without cleaning his glasses. Sacrilege, I know, but it's how it goes. When I get around to finally cleaning my glasses, it's "My God... I see everything!"
This is how this strain smokes. (I promise I checked my glasses were clean). It injects your world with clarity, as if you're striding through crystal cut glass, impervious to the laws of physics; the light hits your retinas with the same insolence, that sea of photons that constitutes the Seen adding some sexy gloss to the scene.
You'll try to get out of your own skin for some contact with living, reciprocating beings. It feels good, something as small as retracting the cheek muscles slightly upwards, or something as big as helping a neighbor maneuver furniture along some tricky steps. Perhaps the name is apt enough... between "Where's my bike?" and when you finally exclaim "There's My Bike!" you'll have made someone smile.
And no matter what your rugged exterior may exhibit, you'll be smiling deep down inside.
Happy Biking!
Every strain is different for every person
It’s a dark and stormy night and I hesitate at the beginning of my account, filled with fearful thoughts and despairing doubts, exacerbated by the calamity outside. Turning my tale to paper and pen would conjure my plight out of the abstract thought, into reality, and concrete its status as Incontrovertible Truth, viewable by all who may read my words.
That night... there are flashes of rushing red against a dark grey wall that halved the part of the world that was lit. I understood later that I had fallen. No, if I am to believe my friend’s account, I leaped of my own volition.
We were engaged in games of prestidigitation, the atmosphere immediate to our faces shifting, the buzzing light above shining through layers of smoke as we sipped from generously filled, expertly rolled cigarillos. It was of the highest quality, medical grade, well worth the extra expenditure of funds out of pocket. It was a new strain, rolled out with fanfare by our resident pusher.
Trainwreck BX2.
I had to pause a moment for it’s the first I’ve dared utter its name outside the confines of my nightmares. When I came to, shaking myself from my stupor like a wet dog, hours had passed and yet the storm hasn’t abated, seeming to increase in ferocity the faster I wrote.
I leaped face-first into the concrete. My friend was reasonably freaked. When I came to, all red below my nose, currently queerly shaped, I took my phone and calmly ordered for pizza in a pool of my own blood. When it arrived, the blood had congealed and I was able to sit up, becoming sufficiently restored after the pizza to continue our cardfoolery.
Trainwreck...
Please, don’t allow my tortured account to lead you to believe that this strain is as monstrous or powerful as I make it out to be; I had neglected to imbibe enough water. And it’s true I dally in reacquainting myself with this strain, but it’s only because of the forgetful nature that comes with being a connoisseur.
Whether you believe my tale or not, merely knowing it is out there to be read, is enough. I am unburdened, and if that is not the case, I FEEL unburdened.
PSA: Each High is the unique byproduct of the communion between an individual and his preferred cultivar
We need to thank the US govt for the Age of Love. You see, they were running top secret psychedelic experiment, to see if they could mind control, unleash strange powered, or anything usable that came out LSD; well, something did come out, and it was Ken Kesey.
He stole LSD and gave it to his art colony, populated by freethinkers, writers, poets, and artists. They were trying out a new lifestyle that just didn’t jibe with the zeitgeist.
That got the stone rolling, until everyone was stoned.
Like I obviously am so pardon me as I return to 2018.
PSA: All Highs are subjective and unique to each consumer
It was as if all the colours, glossy and limned in the slanting morning light, almost manicured, weren’t the shouting, leaping, spinning products of photons streaming from the sky’s piercing blue dome, but were in fact illuminated by alien internal processes.
By then I hadn’t even pressed the point of my windproof lighter to the end of my pre-roll. I was sitting there sucking on the cone, savoring its bouquet of lemon and sugar, letting it drift through my upper respiratory system as my ocular facilities took in the gorgeous day.
I pressed the point of my windproof lighter to the end of my pre-roll and had a great morning.