Home is inside you. That’s where I’m headed. Back to a time when youthful dreams filled my head. Following a trail into the sixties and seventies, and even further back, hoping to make sense of all that went down. A personal and global history of cannabis, if you will.
I’ve eaten half of a homemade edible a coworker gave me and I’m feeling like a possum eating honeyed bumblebees for breakfast. I’m on my way to Renton, WA to see Jimi Hendricks, the master himself, dead, but very much alive. Four o’clock and rush hour started four hours ago. Traffic is a giant centipede bending at a crawl around the S-curves on Interstate 405. I’m getting happier, even as the smog and congestion builds in the encroaching dark. The last of the sunlight, cold and hard, splashes my windshield and blinds me momentarily. A choppy sea of winter clouds pounds the horizon over the Puget Sound to the west. Rain is coming.
The poet Bukowski titled one of his early books: The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills. Time is difficult to catch, so I’ll set my compass and sail into those seas, be they rough or calm – into a way of being that I once owned, now lost. Time can do that. Loses its way as you move forward. I’m hoping Jimi will jar that which has been sleeping inside me all these years. The past is never past.