H O M E G R O W N A

N O U T P O S T O F

C O M M O N S E N S E

ello neighbor, Handwelcome.

Somehow, I’m looking at February on the calendar tacked to the kitchen wall here at PajamaFlats.

T h e d a y s a r e longer, with light enoughtoseeuntil late afternoon, now. But once again, I search for words by which to entertainus.

That, after all, is what I’mabouthere.

As usual, however, this gig,likemostothersI’ve enjoyed, finds me a fish out of water. Or so I’ve been told. By now, too manytimestocount.

Iwillalsoadmit,itseems I may have, again, chosen to ignore the obvious.

Maybe it’s because my hearing, like everyone else’s, is highly selective.

And I’m not talking aboutanindicaorsativa high,either.

I mean, if I thought it could be pulled off, I’m sure I’d have tried denying it by now. But for me, it’s tough denyingthefacts.

Mostly because one of the many blessings here is a set of ears that hear well enough to make music.

The producing and engineering credits only make ithardertodeny.

So,mosttimesit’stough making a claim of ‘I didn’thearyou’stick.

Notonlythat,butwhenit seems otherwise, it’s oftenanact.

Thus, and many times,I’vedamned these elephant’s ears.

Then,there’stheissueof my always protected eyes.Oncethetoolsofa hunter, after hurting them in a workplace incident years ago, I’ve lavished care upon them.

And though I wear glasses to read, neither age nor UV exposure has yet affected the former hunter’s longrangesight. But they, too, are cursed by a need. Not to look away from what they see, but to record and keep the memoryofit.

Though often guarded by dark glasses to protect them from the sun’s dangerous rays, a lifetime of writer’s training means they, too,misslittle.

I’m nothing, if not a product of training, work,anddiscipline. Anyway,thelatestword isthatwhatI’mtryingto pass off as a sense of humorisfartoodarkfor themassmarket. Or anyone without either a thesaurus or a calculatorhandy.

Did I mention how this wouldbeoldnews?

Well,ifnot,thereyougo. Itsureistome,anyway, ifnotyou,too.

My reply has always come in the same form. You’re reading it right now. But you ask, do I not care that those who make such claims might be correct? And yes, I believe myself able to hearyouwonder.

Though we’re separated by who

s w h a t amount of either timeorspace.

Foryou,dearreader,it’s a most salient point, I know. Because much wouldseemtorestupon myanswertosoruthless a question. Though, and no matter my reply, neither rest nor ease be grantedbyit. Anyway, my answer to suchaquerywas,is,and will ever be the same, a resoundingno.

I’m also pretty sure, though,thatmeansI’ma little crazy, but not enough to need help.At least, according to the sawbones. And that, if nothing else, makes me laugh.

I hope it works well enough to keep you comingbackhere,every month, for more of the same.Becauseifawriter doesn’t work, he not only can’t eat, but will soon lose the tenuous griphekeepsonwhatwe jointly accept as reality. Andonceagain,I’mnot talking about the fatties welovesowell.

See, nowadays, though legal weed i s a b u n d a n t , paying gigs for writers are on the e n d a n g e r e d species list. And the money on offer, most times, amountstotheftof i n t e l l e c t u a l property.

Still, to those lucky enough to have them, a death grip holds them in place.Andthisoldwriter knows at least one thing toowell.

It’safactthemany t h o u s a n d s o f cannabis industry w o r k e r s n o w hitting the streets afterlayoffsacross Canada will soon l e a r n f o r themselves.

There is no romance to beingoutofwork.

T h e r e i s n ’ t anything funny aboutit,either.

Until next time, smoke 'em if you got 'em, and happygrowing.

© T.F. Pruden 2023

for @highcanadamagazine