Graces to Greed

The ganja ranches on Humboldt Hill spread across rolling lands towards the ocean of both fog and sea. Long corridors of Redwood trees barrel the sunlight into misty canopies as it seems almost eerie and uncertain to which way this long dark road will ultimately lead. I realize the more and more we venture down this long highway, the farther away I am getting from what is safe, stable, routine... I am truly on my own, as I have offered my love, light, and heart to an industry of auspiciousness. As the hills climb in elevation where marijuana operations fade from visibility of the winding highways, I have offered myself as a humble servant to the ganja mamas.
They perch, in gallon pots, with stems reaching as high as 10 feet. Their most prized beauties are bundles of joy and medicine tucked away in the folds of their leaves. Sparkled with silver fairy dust, crystals glistening in the sun, the buds were rich and abundant, dark green and purple, with pink hairs golden and gleaming, speckling the surface. The plants that yield fruit are the female plants of course, growing their buds bigger and frostier everyday to inspire the male plants to grow in close proximity for reproduction. This is ultimately their purpose. The more beautiful they become, the better their chances are at reproduction. Therefore, the byproduct of their life’s goal becomes our obsession. The ganja farmer constantly tends to the mamas, a humble servant, fueling their productivity, pumping them full of nutrients and building them up to be the most beautiful and most potent they can possibly afford. It’s as if he is almost tricking them into thinking they will reproduce. But the truth is, they will not. They yield their fruit to become the most beautiful they possibly could grow, and then the farmer deceives them, cuts them down, and sells them off to be consumed by our addictive nature to calm and ease our human pain. The farmer is such a unassuming mechanic, not realizing that maybe the intelligence of these highly advanced plants already understand they are not going to reproduce. Maybe the mamas are okay with it. They realize there is a need for the medicine of the world, to be a part of the human race, in a way that they can infiltrate the world and make it better. Only, at the end of the harvest, I saw an unprecedented and vicious nature between man and plants erupt. Just as the mamas were about to be pulled from the earth, they backlashed, and began to grow their male counterpart organs themselves. The mamas turned on us. They became hermaphrodites to protect their strain. The ganja farmer was mortified, as more than half his crop was wasted to their protective nature. Is it because we are so greedy to bring them to such a high place of production? Could they feel our deceit? Can we return to harmony with these plants or will we continue to mistreat their graces to our own greed?

Ganja Mamas

Larabee Butte road is tucked away upon the acres of mountainous terrain, masked by treacherous landslides and entrenched gulches. It’s practically impossible to get up to it without a rugged vehicle or an airlift. The acreage is coveted by hoop houses, and masked in the valleys of larger pines with locked gates and chains. Gun shots ring through the air throughout the daylight hours even though all of it is pretty much federally illegal. Everyone is kind of in this hush, hush state of consciousness, even though the whole country knows what’s going on up there. The cabin was filled with dust and mothballs. If I were to tip the cabin over, over a million dollars worth of weed would fall out. The corridors in the cabin were filled with trash and boxes, piles of papers, and ganja roaches littered the floor. Seven men and zero females, other than the mamas, inhabited this place. As the first lady to arrive, my work was cut out for me. Not only was I to trim as much weed as I possibly can, I also needed to find nurturing ways to love up these boys, for they had been working the fields since March. This time in September, the weather was just starting to change again so there was an opportunity for me to come in and help be the light. I started to cook, to clean, to massage, and to oversee the production within the domestic realms of this operation. And then, just like the mamas, I began to feel like the more beautiful I made the place, the more I was taken advantage of. The boys made me feel like I should have this much energy anyway, because I am a woman, that I could handle it, and more. I, too, back lashed. There were times I couldn't even look them in the face because I felt like they mistreated everything that couldn't be put into a pipe.

Guerilla Work Fare

I am licking mullein extract off my lips to shield my lungs of a massive influx of dust and marijuana that has taken over. Drink tea, netti pot, trim,, sneeze, drink some more tea, trim, trim, trim, smoke weed… so much weed. In my nostrils, in my lungs, in my head. Alas, I surrender, as the layers of the Madrone tree, laying down the earth and invoking the mountain spirit in. Just shed the layers. I noticed the frame created by the trees when I was sitting and working one day, I watched the leaves change color and fall to the earth completely reinstating my faith for being there. It’s funny how I came back to California, and ended up in a dusty situation once again, same time from last year.
I’m back in a similar place where my throat has closed up and the dust has taken a toll on me once again. I am taking long strides in the forest to shield myself from the Humboldt Hills’ mundane work day. In the morning’s early light, I take reprieve from the congregation of ganja trimmers and smokers’ overindulgences, just enough so that I can be certain. But even though I’m aware, the trimmers awake, and blaze blows and coffee until the sun is high in the sky and I just continue smoking copious amounts of weed to keep up with them. So many toilet paper roll sized joints passing through our fingers, no wonder why I’m yearning to find something to overcome the onslaught of mucus and spacey thoughts erupting in my head.
My hands are puffy and swollen with the cold mountain air. Tecate’ and jabs at the corn cob pipe filled with fresh buds comprised our daily breakfast. I sit forlorn to the beauty from beyond my ganja work station. I desire to experience the desert and the sea of California in yet again a more hands on way, rather than viewing it through this rose colored lens of heart-shaped window. My sights are like daydreams, as I must stick to the task at hand. I accept this opportunity I’ve been given even though I am imagining myself in another place. My work is to take care of myself right now. My art is to sculpt my mind, my body, and these precious little nuggets, into a beautiful and tight package for the world to openly accept. The money maker part of it relies on me doing it as fast as I can.