Montego Bay, Jamaica
(Trying to light a joint in the wind makes me appreciate the stillness more.)
We went there for the reggae. Pulse beating in time to Family Man’s bass. Jah Rastafari! I and I. Haile I Selassie I. We went there to listen and try and touch something. There are so many soldiers in and around the stadium, but when the lights go out temporarily, a voice near where we are sitting, cries: “Turn on the lights, mon! The pickpockets are at work!”
(The wind is so high, it threatens to blow this joint out of my hand.)
Alone in Montego Bay. Smoking dope rolled in Tampax papers. Staring at the ocean. Not pregnant. Ain’t got cancer and moving up on that magic number.
(The wind is whistling through the palm trees. I am momentarily startled by the sound of it and by the bellhop and a guest walking by close enough to smell what I am smoking.)
I realize my eyes are swollen from the a.m. weep. A boy rides by me on a two-wheeled bike, or does he disappear and the bike become a turquoise motorcycle? Honda, probably. With enough chest to make it macho and enough speed to make it dangerous.
(I am inattentive. Seduced by my own words on paper and the possibilities inherent in the vanishing bike rider. The wind whistles and blows out the joint.)
I feel different. I am out. In another country. With my own passport. Bob Marley’s face and music are everywhere.
We came here for the reggae and they give it to us from 10:00 p.m. until 7:00 a.m., but we woke up to the sound of Miles Davis from the room next door and he laughed. “L.A. Rastas playing Miles,” he says and names the tune: “Back Seat Betty.” I remember that picture of Betty Carter with black leather hip boots and studded black leather belt and parted teeth and feverish eyes. I wonder if that was what Miles liked about her first. Her teeth and her eyes. The water is so blue I feel like I can fly. I think I can keep up an airplane with the power of the beating of my own wild heart. Such is the power of freedom.