Jar opening, 12.24.2025, 14:54
The fruity aroma! Mango, pineapple? Sticky. It’s a lovely pungent fruit-punch smelling grind. Tropical drink. And the smoke is tasty. Just a one-ee for now. The lineage is G-13 x Jack Herer (link). The grower is Alien Labs.
[We left Arizona a few days later so I had to leave the XJ-13 behind in a safe place, hoping to return to it before too long…]
Return to AZ and to XJ-13, 3.25.2026
15:41. I am still feeling the XJ-13 I smoked around 13:05. So, two and a half hours ago. There is a current. It is still thrumming. I am working through some emotions. A distraction. A blessing, a curse. They were irises, they were peonies. They were monarchs headed south but I wanted them to stay.
I will smoke again, and soon. The XJ helped along an afternoon, fine samaritan. There were fits and starts. There’s some power behind this strain if you want to put the pedal down. This is what I do this for, and why. The optionality. It’s trippy like that. Rooms. An architecture. Places that have always been (t)here but you never went in, and why? XJ-13. 15:47.
16:44. I haven’t smoked again. I’m “not high” but I’m getting some strong vapors from the past, aka alcohol and weed. I am harkening back to my childhood. There was a plate, not to eat on, and not a decorative plate but a wedding gift maybe, what might have become an heirloom for a neighbor family. It was on one of those stands, in the back of a carpeted basement. This was Signal Hill, Belleville, Illinois, 1987 or so.
I had this special blanket (“Blankie”) that I drug around something like Linas from Charlie Brown but on this occasion I had it wrapped around my neck, like a scarf a la Snoopy doing his Red Baron impression (the pilot not the pizza). For some reason I thought I could put this plate on the carpet, stand on it, and spin so my Blankie scarf would whip in the wind of my centripetal force.
I am not sure how many spins around I made it on that plate but sure enough I cracked that fucker in half. I can’t remember what was even on it, maybe the parents’ wedding photo in a sort of green nostalgic tint. Didn’t I know what I had done? I stood on a plate, why? To spin? I still think about that plate, and I still feel bad about it.
Then there was that cake for my mom’s aerobics instructor. Maureen. Who died of cancer. I don’t know if she was diagnosed already at the time of the cake incident or not. This was also early days. What was cancer? Why is everyone so concerned about Maureen all of a sudden?
There was a big party for Maureen. The aerobics class was taught at this pool and tennis club called Oak Hill. It no longer exists. Oak Hill, Dorchester, the Elks. Those were the glory days of Belleville, Illinois, and they are long long gone.
I was in a gymnasium, where the party was going to be. Pre-party I was in there, and it was dark. I was checking out all of the food, everything lined up for a buffet, for a feast for Maureen. I can’t remember why but something drew me to the cake, its icing. And I was compelled to take my hand and press it down onto the top of the cake, to crack that icing, to leave my mark. Then for some reason I decided to confess to my mom, who of course lost her shit and swore that Maureen was “going to shoot” me. I could see the revolver, a bullet being fired, the chamber spinning, the smoke. I was as good as dead. A dead little kid, shot and killed for sticking my hand onto a cake for an embattled cancer patient.
XJ-13, folks. I never did smoke again. Let it ride. Give it room. Let it run. It’s trippy. Is it the Jack Herer or is it the G-13 Hashplant? G-13 being the only strain the “government” ever developed. Sure they did! Aliens!
One More Round: 3.30.2026, 12:30
Recently smoked an XJ-13 joint. Four-tenths of a gram. I did not quite burn it down to the nub.
I’m moving on, this Tucson visit is going to end soon. I’m not sweeping anything under the rug but most everything is in the water going under the bridge, headed now downstream, away from here, and out of (my) mind. I’m where I was the last time I smoked the XJ. It’s earlier in the day to smoke, for me, compared to my typical 16:20-esque burns. I’ve had nothing to drink except water and some drip coffee, what was left from yesterday.
I’m trying to get some blogging done. Big ambitions for the day, har-har.
The XJ-13 smoke is of an unusual flavor. It tastes sort of fruity but it’s also soapy. One generic description of the strain said the smoke had a finish reminiscent of chamomile. I admit I had not thought of chamomile—my palate is not that sharp—but I must agree. Not quite fruity not quite soapy not quite medicinal but herbal with a mouth-coating finish reminiscent of sipping a cup of chamomile tea.
This is Arizona, this is Tucson. I am in the casita. The fan is going, the door is open (screen engaged), 29% relative humidity, 81°. It does not get much better than this! To be breathing so much wild air, so much fresh, outside air is a treat, a privilege—even if the pollen count is a little high.
A delivery from that online retailing powerhouse has arrived. Need some erasers? How about some fresh Boveda packs? A tube of dog toothpaste? You can’t have the 2-pk of screen door roller wheels. I need these to replace the cracked and worn-out wheels on this sliding screen door that lets the air in but keeps the bugs (and other critters including rattlesnakes) out. I often leave the glass door slid open with nothing but the screen keeping this casita secure all night. Sometimes with music going. This casita is one of my happier, one of my happiest places. If you have not seen me here, you have not seen one of the better versions of me lo these last five or ten years. Come on out to Tucson, the water’s fine!
12:39. Anyway. I am toggling back and forth between maintaining some useful level of focus on this written page while also giving myself some leeway to float away and if necessary get a little whirlpooled by a worthy topic or stray thought. If there is some other direction my subconscious, my memory, or my unconscious self wants to take me then I need to be willing to consider letting it lead me.
I’ll tell you this, though. These Lucy’s Warblers have been the bird of the trip and it’s not even a close contest. The are more heard than seen; their omnipresent scissory warble is all over this town, from up here in the foothills down to the running path along the dry wash cutting through the middle of this bright, dry, hazy mountain-desert town. The Gambel’s Quail, always a fan favorite with their cat-like calls and their drooping black forehead dongles, have also been especially vocal and prevalent this time around. Sometimes they stay quiet and stay hidden—maybe during the hottest months, or when coyotes and bobcats are especially close, on the prowl. I will try to type… 12:43…
…14:00. It’s been a solid hour and a half writing, typing, blogging. I powered through some entries. Now I’m interested in a drink. It’s time to w(h)et the whistle.
I never got too high or too low with the XJ-13 this time. Its effects were in line with a Sour Diesel high. I experience a heavy feeling but beneath that upper crust there’s a level on which the most of me is motivated, focused, and foraging. I wouldn’t call the XJ-13 a “conversation starter” strain for me, but these days what strain is?
I’m signing off once again from Tucson. Tucson, I love you, but we can’t keep saying goodbye like this…
Weeds of Grass 