- Guest Writers
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by John Pot
Foul greetings, dear reader, and welcome to my study. Have you heard the legends of the haunted spliff? The stories are doobieous at best, but what you ganja do? They say all who smoke the haunted spliff hear marijuispers in the night—strange new voices telling tales of their own.
Tonight we travel back in time, to the worst year of them all! Out in the wild where all manner of beasties roam… That’s where the lost soul I tell you of tonight found himself alone—alone with his thoughts, alone with his senses: fire, the smell of burnt hair, horrible howling hounds, and the smoke filling up his lungs. Some say his joints were packed with demons that crawled around his veins, possessing his blood until they reached his brain where they could whisper to him. Alone with his joints, alone with his senses, alone with the demons of the green, green night….
There is a secret spot that I like to go.
When I get the opportunity to escape the oppression of this so-called civilized life, the road tends to take me there… Over the Cape mountains, across the cultivated landscapes of green and yellow, through river valleys and quiet rural towns, on dirt roads passing cows and sheep, homeward to a small guest farm at the foot of the continent where my mother would be putting the kettle on as soon as I stop and stretch my legs…
After excited barking from the dogs, the unpacking, and a sweet cup of coffee, my feet start to itch for the short walk to that secret spot I like to go to.
After sunset, far away from the farmhouse, a small camp fire is gently crackling. I pitched my tent facing the flames and already gathered a pile of wood large enough to keep me warm deep into the night. Red hot coals are waiting for the black Dutch oven, butter, rosemary, onions, beef, and vegetables…
By now the first joint from hours ago is worked out of my system and my weed tin materializes from the darkening shadows. The bud smells amazing, deep sweet earthy flavours, slightly spicy. Smells good.
I tear a square piece of paper and roll a thin tube. I like my gerricks long, about halfway up the rizla, the joint is smaller, my tin lasts longer. I also never have to struggle with that last hit, never struggling to find it with a lighter and never scorching off my moustache hairs.
Finally, with ceremonious dignity, I bring a burning twig from the fire. The tongue of flames burns into the paper, into the herb, through the tube and into my blood, my nerves, my senses, my mind.
The pot will take a while to get ready yet.
It has a slight meaty umami flavour to it. Nice.
It’s getting cold.
It here where the memories come back, slowly creeping in from the edges of thought, all those people all those stories. The fear and anxiety, the pressures of the status-quo. Hopes and dreams shatter in the firelight. This year, 2020. Jesus, what a year.
Another drag. More wood on the fire.
Yet here I am, here we are. Refugees stranded in virtual reality… Or maybe virtual refugees stranded in reality. The reality of Covid and Trump, China, Putin, climate change and a broken economy. This is us right now.
Another drag. More wood on the fire.
The food is ready.
Thank god for weed.
And so, dear reader, our tale is disembowled! Would you risk life and limb to the creatures of the night? Would you take in the acrid fumes of Blue Mandarin Cookies and give yourself over to its murmurings in your mind? Would you burn your moustache too? Find out just how deep the nightmare goes in next time’s tale from the spliff.
