What we think of when we think of grass
What should I do with this tube now? It said Purple Haze and 1969. So, if what was in it was what was written on it, then it had to be bad by now and the stuff would certainly not work anymore, or just incalculable. The latter made me pause. How much of an establishment do you have to be to throw away a test tube full of Purple Haze that has matured over half a century? Moreover, cannabis was listed among the ingredients, so there is no doubt. The only question now is how. Into the tea, into the cake, into the tobacco or better just swallow it right away?
Carefully I opened the small glass cylinder. Some of the liquid escaped over my fingers, hid on my arm and spread there. When I looked at the drops, I thought I could see tiny clouds, which they whispered softly, Mediterranean green, shooting up Giacometti cypress clouds, hardly bigger than matches, greenish-yellow marbled bergamot clouds, flower-like pale violet clouds that smelled like light woods. But cannabis? This wasn't a psychedelic party, a rotating drunk, not even a craving for candy I closed my eyes to concentrate even more on what was happening at first hand, to intensify the colours of the film. I hallucinated light woods, which were romping around on a freshly mown summer meadow to dry, kitchen herbs and light flowers. Damn, that's exactly what the contents of the little plastic bags the boys in the city park had put on you when you had to go fast. Looked like grated cannabis leaves, but was mostly just dried meadow grass with herbs. The money was gone and we were probably smoking wasps again at that time, thinking that their centered poison could do something. It always cracked like a campfire I turned back to the inner meadow, left the quiet grasses behind me, smelled the sunny clean earth, on which certainly no hippie had ever danced, marvelled at moving boards dripping with soft vanilla, a few warmer hours only in shy, skin-tight silence. I was thinking about what we think about when we think about weed.