Craigs Stories, Tales, Views, BS, Opinions, Blog
“But a Rasta never Marry, Cause a Rasta Never Sorry”
The tune still sticks in my head – it was part of a walking song our Jamaican friends called out as they trekked over the hills and ravines leading us to their bush outposts.
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Readers of this post should first catch up by reading the first part.
After hanging with Ken (the Fisherman) for a day or two, he pulled us aside for a personal chat and said “you folks don’t belong here (in town). I have some people I’d like you to meet”. Heck, we figured anyone who was alright with Ken was fine by us, so we answered in the affirmative.
He took us on a long walk up the coast road……for those who know Negril, this is past the caves and cliffs where the road gets lost in the bush. At some point we turned into the bush, and walked down a rugged path into the hills. Read More…
April of 1970. I was only 16 years old at the time. The world was in turmoil due to the social and societal changes brought about by the 60′s. The Vietnam war, race riots, killings of Dr. King and Malcolm X, LSD and Woodstock were all relatively recent news. It was a time which is difficult to explain to those who did not live through it. The closest I can come is to say that it seemed like virtually everything was up in the air. Any day could have brought the “revolution” that would have split the country even further apart. Read More…
My first girlfriend was really into sex – a real addict. This was a pleasure for me, being a very shy and retiring teen. I never did, and never would, ask a girl for a date. By the time I hooked up with Carole (named changed to protect the innocent), I had already missed the chance at my first 4 or 5 loves. Not that sex was all I wanted – far from it. My first “loves” were women who I thought were beautiful inside and out…definitely could sense their presence! Read More…
(Note – this is from a retreat I attended in 2002
Greetings, my fellow human beings.
I have returned from the depths of my own personal hell. The ten day meditation retreat (http://www.dhamma.org/) that I attended was quite a trip, to put it lightly. I’m be writing more about it, but suffice it to say:
IT KICKED THE SHIT OUT OF ME! Read More…
Must have been the summer of 1968 or so – we heard tell about some folks with a small farm right outside of AC who were growing pot. They told us we could pick all we wanted for $30. Read More…
Soon after my childhood sweetheart moved in with me, we both developed a case of wanderlust. We had both been working jobs in the center city philly area, and although it was an interesting existence we knew that we would eventually have to get out of the city in order to experience the real world. We hatched a plan to save up some money and take a trip to Jamaica, a place which seemed quite exotic at the time (1970-71). Besides, we heard they had some decent pot at very low prices!