I keep thinking of him. Keep hearing him. Keep recalling footage of him performing. There's something there. Something so immensely great, then lost. Like a good dream. The music was an expression of his sense of the divine. Even the pop songs took flight on jet wings of belief and experience. The little tin shack in Trenchtown. The stadium shows. The arc of his life is of Shakespearean grandeur. I wish I could find someone to follow like this. I'm not so sure about the future. We're turning into machines. Give me sand. Give me thatch and tin and bamboo. (I'm not naïve, he was rich as hell). But give me the biggest star in the world in a five-dollar soccer warmup. My God. There was a time when superstars were photographed wearing their own clothes.

I had a close friend who grew up in Trenchtown. It was a very tough place. To rise up out of that . . . . 

Bob Marley keeps evolving. Who is to say he's not still here.

I was really there. It was real. That was me. Irreverent to authority but highly effective on the ground. Almost fearless. In the end, reckless, not tactical. Ready to come home. In a box if necessary. It was real. Time to let it go.

Very impressed with Timothy Ferriss and the 4-Hour Workweek. No, working 4 hours is not what the guy is about. This is about working smart. And about outsourcing and the consequences and opportunities. Americans work a lot of hours with little time off in the Sun, so a book with a hammock strung from palm trees on the cover is going to get picked up. More, it's about Filling the Void with the time you create. Time is the new gold. I haven't read the book yet. It's in an Amazon box in my living room. I've been nonstop working on bidding for freelance work, updating this site, and learning about feedburning. And I've got a script that needs finalizing and a million other things that aren't bringing me immediate funds.

But my creative life is rolling. While my old worklife dies, the new one is begging for attention. Like a puppy in a cemetery. This site's going to change and evolve. The band is still alive. There's a lot of new music. Just no financing to record it. The EP was a good promotional venture, but a very expensive calling card.

Moving forward, time moving faster. I have a short movie to shoot this Summer by the Sundance deadline. Have a video coming out for 'Nameless.' It's 6am and I've been up all night. Sunrising, the deer are looking for something to eat. I can't figure why they haven't taken to the salt/corn lick I put out. I washed my scent off. And it's rained since.

I want to do something in this life for refugees of the Iraq/Afghanistan Wars. And for people who have survived Traumatic Brain Injury. I've been trying to get this freelancing/outsourcing thing figured out for two years. I have many ways to Fill the Void with time I create. Tim Ferriss is helping me get there, rapidly. And I appreciate it.

Never throw invective at someone who dominated you. It's weak.

Also, know that the corporate stranglehold on our public art may never loosen -- but it will break.

Art is sacred. It is not a business. It was sacred before the Enlightenment. And to the sacred it will return. Transcending and including all the bitter lessons of polarizing, destructive, competitiveness. Transcending and including the rapid developments that greed sometimes made manifest. Transcending and including all that has passed.

We need not retreat to caves and campfires. But Art is being returned to artisans.

No one dominates me. I will complain about no one's treatment of me. Because he is I. And I am I, and we are I.

This is not just something I read out of a book. This is something I've experienced. But who to tell.

But I promise you not as tired as those who are in it. The ones fighting are doing something few people could ever do. They are putting something in front of their own dreams. Something daunting. Something immeasurable and something inducing awe. To really be alive. To put one's own life behind another's (or in front). To walk the scales of life and death. Every minute of every day. For a year or more. Again, and again.

Imagine going to the market for eggs and orange juice and not expecting that you will return home alive. Is Iraq really that different from Kansas? It is not. God wears different clothes there, that is all.

There is oil under the desert in Iraq. In Iran. The oceans and gulfs are the conveyors to market. Indian. Persian. Iraq. Iran. Afghanistan. Pakistan. Draw a (pipe)line. Do the math. We will not leave the region while oil is our gold.

Pray for the Soldier. He makes your life possible. She is the agent of your decadent life. It is not something you want to admit. But it is so.

The more we ignore the Soldier, the more we sign a compact in blood. With you know who. The guy in red. With the little horns.

Whether you drive an SUV or walk in sandals, your life is built on oil energy. Let your righteousness blow wind into the sails of awareness.

And may you never know War. Leave that to the Soldier. It is his mission. And he will walk through fire for you. Just don't forget what that means.

Life is to be lived.

Smooth, wild-boundaried lake, fanned and dazzled by the air.

When there is less money, I put less in my stomach,

And thrive.

Nature puts her arms around me.

And I think of the prayers I'll say

In my last moments.

'Thank you, I am ready to go.'

(And fall, into your Depths. . .)