3.28.2026, 16:05
This Strawberry Pines hits pretty hard, pretty quick. It’s a bit of a spitter but not untasty. Something of a stupor, a stuporous feeling, a drowse, marsh-mallow-y. I’m listening to baseball, have been for four or five hours. It’s the fourth day of the season. This is Mets-Pirates, tied at one. There had been zero extra-inning games so far, then: Rays/Cards, A’s/Jays, and now Mets/Pirates.
“New York is challenging the out all at home plate,” says the umpire, his voice fed over the stadium’s loud speaker.
I’m not sure if writing is helping or hurting. Two straight outs at the plate. That was a squabbler, a fielder’s choice. Soto to first, Young out at home. Force play. Nowhere else to go. No tag necessary, just step on the plate before the runner arrives. Fly out to right. To the eleventh!
I’m baked. Staring off into the distance (the wall). Now the Red Sox and Reds go to extra innings!
We are in Tucson, Arizona. I bought this Strawberry Pines in Clovis, New Mexico. The grower is Somatic. The dispensary was an R Greenleaf. They have a lot of flower by the gram. Yesterday I had a different strawberry strain—Strawberry Pancakes—from High Noon Cult. Then I had a Mezcal Melonade, also from High Noon Cultivation. I can’t say anything specific about either of those strains but I went to bed content; had my first vodka of the day as a nightcap, on the bed stand. That’s been a good place for it.
The Mezcal Melonade is an indica. I smoked it right before going to sleep. I suppose I slept pretty well for a few hours. Then my sister-in-law arrived. I was up for a few minutes. It was not unexpected. Yet, awakening, there was a sense of confusion, surprise—what’s this now? what’s that light? Is someone here? Then back to sleep, a legitimate sleep, until 3 or so—what was five my time (or what had been my time in Missouri for the last two weeks, until DST kicked back in). Multiple time changes, changing time (poem below).
Since smoking the Strawberry Pines earlier, I have been hanging out in the so-called “casita” here. It’s one of my favorite places anywhere—a small, detached office here at my in-laws’ house in the Catalina Foothills. Inside the casita it is 16% relative humidity and 86°. I’ve had the screen door open for days. It’s warm, sure but there’s no direct sun (blinds are closed and down) and there is basically no humidity. 86° with no humidity in the shade is no big deal!
There is nothing wrong with this Strawberry Pines. But now I gotta go check in with the rest of the world. [16:57]. It’s been one hour solid since I smoked and I have a sense that this bud will carry…
(…Indeed, it ended up being a one-joint night but that was not exactly the plan…)
Strawberry Pines has a convoluted lineage (link here). I might never have seen a lineage that is less-summarized. It’s ((Wookie x God Bud) x Pine Soul) x (Motorbreath #15 x (Grape Ape x Mendo Purps)). Wookie appears not the same as Wookies, FYI. There is all kinds of crazy unknown or landrace-y strains on the Wookie/God Bud/Pine Soul side of that lineage. Lavender, Big Skunk Korean, Appalachia, God, Purple Skunk, Goji OG, Nepal, Maui Haze, Blockhead…
I only bought a gram of Strawberry Pines. I wish I would have bought more. Alas!
April 5, 2026, 18:17 cdt, back in Missouri…
Found a joint of Strawberry Pines beggar-ticked among my luggage whilst unpacking. I forgot it was even in there. I would never, ever drive back home with weed from the southwest, not knowingly. Not unless I were looking for trouble. It’s not like I would want to keep flower I bought in one state to use it in another state, I wouldn’t imagine trying to do that in this Great Country.
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine. In the pines, in the pines, in the pines…
My mom and I never knew how to exist without my father around. Now the tide has gone out.
This Strawberry Pines has me plumbing the depths. My plants look sad. I left them for two weeks. The memory of my late dog Hugo rises to the surface. He loved Tucson. We couldn’t get him back one last time. Regret. That’s the bite, I suppose. Cannabis is confrontational. In a good way.
This was the last of the Strawberry Pines. Nine dollars per gram in Clovis. I would buy again. I saw a headline, “Would just one therapy session have a benefit?” Yes.
This kind of bite is formidable. I am asking myself tough questions. Mirror. Know it going in. Use it as a kind of self-interview. A debriefing, a self-interrogation. It might be coarse but don’t freak yourself out and it will be worth the damage to your lungs, and it’s not expensive at $3/session.
You can do better than any chatbot when you self-chat while under the influence of marijuana. But also, you might want to take care to limit interruptions. Focus. Write it out. Smoking helps me, at least sometimes, or some strains. This one. Cannabis is one of the only things that does help me. And exercise. A meaningful walk. And dreams.
Strawberry Pines!
[18:39]
Changing Time
Cold star, quivering ramp,
rolls of silage in the haymow.
At a rest stop,
spray alcohol under arms
feed the dog
drink coffee (instant)
from naked paper cup (burning).
/\\.
A lampshade tilted, so someone could read.
How many guests ago was it tilted,
how many since have enjoyed this slant of light?
But I must set it plumb, must soon shut it off.
My co-pilot seeks the reset of sleep—
enough tossing and turning to the hue of a
daylight LED on a northeast New Mexico night.
Once snuffed, the bulb glows for
just a moment, reminding me of the moon.
In sleep, I hold tight the wheel while crosswinds
threaten the alignment as would a scirocco seiche
or a dance named after another dance.
/\\.
We drove in the direction of latest light
and were rewarded with another extra hour.
We burned toilet paper and roasted several cacti.
When we had to turn around
the extra hours were taken away from us;
we began to age uncontrollably.
The extra light disappeared as well,
and we wondered what we’d done.
Weeds of Grass 