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.