Girl Scout Cookies

previously published in Weed World, Issue 125
Download PDF: Weed World – Issue 125 – Girl Scout Cookies

Grown and Processed by: Vishudda Express’d

Back in the 90s, a very popular Internet activity was to determine, using feature films, the smallest number of degrees of separation of any actor/actress from Kevin Bacon.  It was determined that he was a hub of extraordinary activity.  Interestingly enough, we find that daily, our own lives constantly intersect with seemingly unrelated players who affect us without any of us realizing it.  While carrying on our everyday tasks, our minds remain frenzied, blinding us to the unseen forces of push and pull between people who come into our circle for a short or long stay.  Girl Scout Cookies turns down the volume in our heads and prevents us from being tuned out by routine, making way for noticing the  little things we take for granted but all have in common.


I first met Suhki from Vishudda Express’d while at a cannabis event where I assumed I knew  every other notable hashmaker in attendance.  Walking by, he pressed a package into my palm and disappeared into the crowd.  I gave no thought of it until a few weeks later when searching through Instagram hashtags for “pressed Hashish”, I happened upon the account  of @vishuddi_express’d which featured several photos of greasy templeballs which caught my eye. Interested in his hashmaking style, I reached out and soon visited him at his home.


Stepping through the threshold of his house is like being transported from the bright, but emotionally cold outside world, into a fairy world of art and music.  Every wall and surface is adorned by colorful creations by his wife or his father-in-law.   Reggae music in the background adds to the easy-natured vibe and I think about how lucky I am to have crossed paths with him considering I had not noticed him before. My personal network is larger than I had previously believed.  Strolling through the cheery apartment I walk out of the back door and and over to his small greenhouse.  Glancing in I see organically grown Girl Scout Cookies plants clustered together and positively radiating.  Suhki beams with pride as he tells me how he lovingly babies the plants and relates his grand plans for making killer hash. He tells me how he has, with positive intention, aligned the plants along a crystal grid, channeling energy which revolves around the plants; constantly encouraging each plant to grow to its fullest potential and make the most beneficial medicine possible.


A hashmaker with 12 years of experience, Sukhi and his wife formally began offering their “Hashish and rosin for patients just a few months ago.  “Vishudda” refers to the throat chakra and “Express’d” refers to the flower rosin that he produces.  Sukhi believes he can best express his healing energy for others by infusing his plants and Hashish with love and intention to greater purpose.  Though not opposed to recreational use of cannabis, he makes spiritual connection with the divine his true focus.  Listening to inspiring music at 432 Hz and surrounding his plants with crystals creates a bubble of mindfulness and  positivity.  Since first meeting him, I have had the pleasure of enjoying both his open heart and his amazing concentrates made with the greatest care.  The bubble hash I have in my hands is no exception.  Nicknamed “Trixx” for its fruity smell reminiscent of sugary breakfast cereal, this 73 – 159 micron Hashish is a hand washed and air dried product of the plants I was privileged to see growing months before.  I have saved tasting the Hashish for a special time.  Now that I am in New York visiting my parents and getting ready for the most anticipated steelband competition in the United States, I am ready.


It has been a while since I have visited the grand museums of the City, and I plan a trip to the Museum of Modern Art.  According to my transit app, the train I need is not stopping close to my mother’s house, which necessitates me to travel almost a mile away to the next station.  I do not mind much.  The walk will allow me to partake in the beauty of Brooklyn.  Standing outside in the light breeze, I pull apart the parchment paper and stare at the soft, light brown mass of resin.  Vaguely reminiscent of Mary Jane (no pun intended) peanut butter chews,  the Hashish gleams in the sunlight.  I bring it closer to my face and the ambient aroma is like artificial sweetener.  I see why Sukhi and his wife call this Hashish “Trixx.”  I pull it up right under my nose and a sharp, metallic smell rises thickly.  I look around and seeing no one on the block, bend down to surreptitiously pack the generic vape pen.  Being in California, one gets used to packing bowls and pens with little care.  This is New York, however, and though penalties for cannabis use have lessened significantly, I am still wary.  Screwing the top of the vape pen back on, I pull on the pen and begin walking while listening to steelpan music in my ears.  I smile as the “dry hit” is just as expected.  I taste a mild flavor of cereal and grain.  Pulling again, the Hashish finally makes contact with the coil and the first wisps of vapor slip between my lips.  I am almost never satisfied with the mouthfeel of a vapor pen, so I do not judge the light, barely perceptible nature of the pull.  Rather I keep pulling steadily, filling my mouth and then my lungs with sweet, fruity, air. I exhale through my nose, revelling in the slight bite of the vapor.  I walk past large three storied homes, tucked away behind the frenetic atmosphere of Flatbush Avenue; hidden from view but no less glorious than the fancy penthouse apartments of Manhattan.  I walk steadily, and pull on the vape pen on what seems to be an eternal stroll.  Perhaps this is further than I thought, but then again it is not so bad.  I begin to notice the intricacies of the musical arrangement and marvel that the Hashish must be working.  I am enveloped in my own personal symphony of steelpan instruments both playing their own melodies and yet working in tandem to create a multi-layered tapestry of harmony.  The beauty of the music lifts my already lofty spirits and I swear I am listening to the angels in the heavens.  I feel like life is truly grand, as the leaves seem even more verdant and the air even sweeter.


Soon I get to my destination and descend onto the open air station.  New York’s subway system is a 24 hour sociological experiment; forcing interactions of the most diverse groups of people, many of whom do not take too kindly to being probed my eyes.  Quickly the Q train approaches and I step on.  It is midday, so the throngs of people I’d usually expect on the train are absent.  About 30 people sit and stand as the train smoothly travels through the densely intertwined tunnels that connect the boroughs.  A few people are on their mobile devices, but for the most part, people seem lost in thought.  Everyone appears so unique, but are we really so different?  I chance looking into their faces and imagine how many are thinking of their families, their jobs, their secret desires, and their quiet failures.


As the train rumbles on, I feel a warmth spread from my chest outwards as a body high settles upon me.  The hard seat of the train feels as comfortable as my couch at home and I close my eyes as I have a few minutes before my stop at 49th Street.  In my ears the arrangement continues to pull at my heart strings and I feel myself swaying imperceptibly.  As a native New Yorker I almost instinctively know when I have reached my stop and I open my eyes.  To my surprise, there is a man leaning against the door watching me and smiling knowingly.  Had he see me moving to and from to the lovely sounds, or had he connected to me on a different level and agreed that the melodies were indeed lovely?  I nod, stand, and leave the train.


I ascend and make my entrance into the hustle and bustle at Radio Music Hall.  The heat slaps my face and I remember how sweltering is New York in August.  When I lived in Miami Beach, I was always close enough to the ocean for a quick dip at any moment. Rather, I find myself practically trapped in a scorching valley of soaring glass and steel with the concrete cooking beneath my feet.   Small beads of perspiration quickly begin to form on my brow, and my clothes cling uncomfortably to my frame, but I am actually feeling pretty good.  My sense of lightness has just slightly begun to wane and  but decide to repack my vape pen.  I stand with my back pressed against the side of the towering Radio City Music Hall and take out my small parchment paper.  With a quick snap I pull the paper apart to reveal that  I think again about how lucky I am.  Hashish is typically kept in a cool environment, protected from the elements, but squeezed into my purse, the Girl Scout Cookie has melted into morsel sized peaks of sweet, smelling caramel creamy goodness. Unceremoniously I scoop a lentil sized dab and smear it onto the coil.  As dozens of people are passing me by, not one person is giving the slightest acknowledgement of me stuffing high grade bubblehash into this vape pen.  New Yorkers have singular focus to get where they are going and as usual, people do not notice what they do not expect to see.  I pull on the pen and take out a long, slow drag.  Sweet, smooth smoke slowly rolls into my mouth and down my throat.


Anyone who has experienced New York City in the summertime is aware of the melange of odors that drift by at any time.  Aromas of food from far flung parts of the world mix together in a jumble while being blanketed by the horrific smell of rotting garbage. I am completely unfazed.  The warm air brushes over me like feathers dancing over my skin.  Car horns blare insistently, but somehow, the sounds seem so far away.  I have a short walk to the MOMA and I plan on enjoying every moment.  With a bounce in my step, I stride toward the museum, passing along the way determined businessmen and women, hopeful street performers, awe-struck tourists, clueless amblers, and overconident teeneagers and I make a point to smile at every person who meets my eye.  People often think New Yorkers are rude and mean, but they are just self-involved.  My conscious decision to bring some cheer is rewarded with sheepish grins as if I am reminding them that there is much for which we can express our contentment.  After all, it is a beautiful day in the greatest city in the world.


I enter the cool Museum bein walking around.  My high is at full effect, but I walk assuredly as if I visit every day.  To my dismay, but not surprise, I am not very taken with most of the art on display.  Modern art has never been my particular taste and I wonder why I made the trip over here in the first place.  After wandering around the building aimlessly, I start to make my way outside when my interest is piqued by a video installation of Lovers byTeiji Furuhashi.  I stand in a darkened room for 20 minutes watching projected images of nude figures moving along the black walls, appearing to interact, but rather just moving past each other obliviously.  Are we New Yorkers like that?  Can we not see how we influence each other all the time?  I tire of the seeming lack of connection and leave the Museum to take another toke and remind myself that though I may be a solo entity, I am an integral part of the fabric of society.


Contrary to what seems to be a world of 7 billion individuals, our lives are intertwined through small and large moments of shared experience. Through art, sports, or a simple train ride, our innate desires for connection and understanding is revealed. Partaking of the Girl Scout Cookies Hashish clears a space for introspection that sheds light on our complex web of interdependence for our continued happiness and fulfilment. Indeed, we all are one.



The Dank Duchess