Starting tomorrow I will count down at breakfast with my PC charged in Canada and at tea time, with the impatience of a constant clicker, I will visit the bank of historical events of the government of Jamaica. Tonight, I indulgently search for the nearby story written by Black and play YouTube clips of Usain breaking records.
At dinner time, I lift my feet up on a coffee table with Blue Mountain and flick through Ackee and Codfish before loosening my limbs for an overdub before going to bed to listen to the tunes from a crazy Jamaican radio station.
I wake up now, lie, and prioritize dates for national releases around the world, reggae shows at home, and writers’ retreats. I need to be in Jamaica by the end of July where the Canadian fishing continues in Anchovy, St. James. A quick change will be necessary, however, as I draw the jet line back to New York in time for Oliver Samuels’ party in the park on August 4. Recovery from jet lag and shenanigans will be aided by a long stay on August 6 as I combine national events with live Olympic coverage, hoping that selected defenders of Jamaica’s athletic prowess will win wonderfully once again.
In our own speech, Louise Bennett Coverley conveys the course of our satisfaction. Though I miss her celebratory night in Florida as I reflect on my journey, I draw on the electronic collections of dialect rhymes from Miss Lou and successive artists as I read Derrick Wright on our power to connect abroad and Franklyn Knight on our remarkable journey. like a democracy at home.
Tomorrow will dawn soon as I prepare to activate the plan. I will take the ill-generated dollars of migrant wealth out of my bank and offer them to Virgin Atlantic for a series of fees that will carry me through my intensive planned activities. The balance will be on the rocks, but I will have fifty years to prepare for the next binge.
By then, we may be intergalactic star travelers with new and more dazzling horizons, but today we pray for the knowledge and wisdom to plan our presence and the vision to realize it. Most of us 50th anniversary celebrators were just children when Bustamante and Norman Manley achieved independence. They have not lived to see this day of national maturity but we have. Let’s not let it pass with a groan, but instead stand together to blow it up like a starter pistol for economic growth, as fast as Bolt’s feet and as boastful as Marley’s reggae beat. I like it, but no, tallowa! And we need the liquidity to live up to our dreams.