1. Drop
That Jack Herer is strong. Taste was peppery, earthy. This was Rythm flower from Illinois, a short thin joint of it. Smoked a half or two-thirds of it. Sometimes I relight the stubs, the “roaches,” but not usually. It feels like a waste but no more so than not completely clearing a bowl before dumping it out because I want to start fresh.
Jack Herer is a sativa derived from a mix of classic strains including Northern Lights, Skunk, and Haze. These classics themselves are derived from a cornucopia of landrace strains spanning the globe from Afghanistan to Mexico, from Colombia to Hawaii. If there is a field guide to marijuana strains, I’d like to get a copy.
I’ve heard Jack Herer called a wake and bake strain. All good but I rarely smoke before noon—not usually until the five o’clock hour. In this old mid-Missouri farmhouse I’m in, I hear scratching, maybe a rat behind the wall. Looking out the kitchen door I see a five-lined skink, typified by that electric blue tail. My solar shower is out there in the sun getting hot. Wow, this Jack.
2. Peripatetic
I smoked that Jack an hour ago. Or was it ninety minutes? Maybe it was two hours. I’m still high, peripatetic and wandering around this old house, this rural patch of Missouri. Earlier I was clear-headed and tidying up. I had gotten the ladder out and climbed up onto the roof over the kitchen, which is less than ten feet off the ground, so don’t worry.
I was adding caulk around the chimney, filling any crack or gap or opening I could see or imagine. There was a leak along the chimney last night, here in the kitchen. Water was seeping in along the brick of the chimney stack that flues the cast iron wood stove that’s been in this house since before I was born.
Where the heck was I? On the roof, yes. That slanted roof on the right side of the house as seen above. Despite having puffed on the Jack, I was focused and able to fight off the two or three pangs of fear when I felt my weight uncomfortable as I sidled up or down the side of the slanted roof. It’ll hold, right? It hasn’t gotten rotten, as a result of a persistent leak?
Apparently not. I never felt like the roof or the rafters were soft in any spot. I focused on finding cracks to fill with that primordial ooze that is billed a “concrete caulk.” Limestone color, caliza, non-sag. I have had some success recently by using a screw hook as a stopper/cork for these or any bottles of caulk.
I used to wrap used disposable gloves over caulk tube tips. I’ve put nails in them; screws, too. I’ve used those conical electrical connection fasteners. Nothing has worked like the screw hook. I use a large one, where the width of the screw part is just able to work its way into the caulk tube. The caulk dries around it, seals off the rest below. When you want to use the tube again, just work the screw hook back out—the hook leaves you something to grab onto.
If you let the tube sit for more than a couple months, however, I would not get your hopes up about the tube still being good. This works, but like anything, it has its limits.
I’m digressing. This has nothing to do with Jack Herer but I’ve been wanting to write a blurb about that caulk hack for months. The Jack is supposed to lend itself to creative pursuits. It’s supposed to bring about an uppy, inquisitive, smooth-edged high. And today it is delivering just that.
Weeds of Grass 