I spent yesterday in the company of the Rasta. It's been a long long time. The bus ride took over an hour. He's no longer in Seattle. We talked, we laughed hard, I filled him in on what he hasn't missed. Sometimes we just watched the traffic pass by, smoking lung cookies inbetween the bowls of buddha and just shared air. No food, a few things to drink, and of course TALK.inertiam
your name came up. Rasta says, "Hello Soldier"utopianbuddist
your name was bandied about. Rasta says, "Tell that Soldier, I want to see him">
He looked good, dressed like an ave rat, black pants, black hoodie, small kofi on top of his 30 years
of dreads. The Rasta is like 60+ in actual human years. We've been friends for the past 3 years. I've visited him about the same way since he moved. I looked up his ex's number out of my email. He wants to talk to her. He was wet eyed and happy. It felt like I was visiting my father. If his ass was alive, I would have someone to talk to, like I talk to the Rasta.
I missed him in town last week. Fudd introduced him to Otha as:
You think Ain't yells at you. Well this is the man who yells at Ain't.
I could only smile and nod my head yes.
Later that night, after I took my hat off, he commented with happiness in his voice.
"Your dreads are growing back."
"Yea" I said, rubbing the locs. I told him about Quintin looking at my hair surprised at the loc'age.
"Well, I knew you would grow them back. Once you get use to something like that, it's hard not to grow them back."