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?
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?
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