Jamaican Dem

I have been 100% free of Psychiatric medication for 8 days. No Venlafaxine courses through me any longer to trick my brain into thinking that life isn't a festering pile of shit. No Risperidone saturates my blood, making the discordant chorus that sings battle hymns in my head crescendo into a cacophonous symphony now -no more muffler. They are going off in there, man -what a racket! 

You guys want to keep it down in there? It's like Bedlam!

A seven year physical and psychological addiction, has been taken in repentine fashion and wiped over my balls. This has been a nightmare, while simultaneously an experience that has brought me closer to myself -'the I'. I am not out of the woods yet, I would say that I have two more weeks before the worst is over; but I can say that everyday it gets a bit easier. I become more and more like the old me, and in the process I become more numb... every single day... 

Soon, I won't feel shit anymore -not for any reason, not for anyone or anything. 

(Detachment.)

[Transcendence.]

Alone is my dharma. I have done this by myself. I have not had a therapist to indulge my pussy-assed tendencies to boo-hoo and "why me". I've done all of my crying for John Dolo, straight to the dick, a year plus without bothering a soul with my Greek tragedies. In fact, last week, I went to see a so-called Neuropsychologist, just to vent, whom kicked me THE FUCK out of the sesh (about 3 minutes in) for dropping an F-Bomb and calling Psychology quackery. LoL. 

"Get out. I'll have you know, I'm not just some therapist, I'm a Neuropsychologist"

"Oh yeah, congratulations toots... I'm not just a lunatic, I'm a holistic gynecologist... Your smelly Chakra is imbalanced..."

 I am not being monitored or counter-medicated by some Psychiatrist. I can't go back to my old Psych after the pretty picture I texted him of my forearms looking like Dusty Rhodes' forehead after the match with Abdullah The Butcher (circa 1985) and a caption reading "where do we go/where do we go now?". It is very safe to say that if I show this hideous face at that prick's office again, the boys with the butterfly nets are going to crash into my sesh like they were the Kool-Aid man's godchildren. Dr. Bombay was a guaranteed Baker Act just once that little image reached his inbox, so I guess this is where we part ways -you curly-haired geek. To think that I "Acked" you in my novel... ugh! Thanks for nothing... 

(Fuck, he was a Bauhaus fan, though. That counts for a lot!)

I do not vent to another living soul save for the venting I do here or on social media. I am certainly not drinking daily anymore, so scratch that off of the list of potential sources of solace. Let us see how bad you'd want to have a drink when everyday at around 5pm you feel like you have a fever and start getting teeth-chattering chills. I seriously think that I had a seizure the night that I crashed at Samantha Cadiz's flat. Imagine the bodily discomfort of LSD without ANY of the fun rewards, that is kind of what this is like -as if a waking fever dream. 

With the exclusion of one act of kindness from that aforementioned, remarkable young woman, alone is my dharma...

I have, however, called upon my higher power to get me through this. That higher power, of course, is music... 

Reggae music in particular will be the balm for my ails. No Venlafaxine nor Risperidone makes my spine "ah straight-up" like that 4/4 time, the offbeat skank, and that lunging bassline. Nothing will make 'the I' feel as if a conqueror like a dual horn blast combo from Bobby Ellis and Tommy McCook (Blazing Horns, 1977, Fiyah!) that can tumble the Walls of Jericho. When I hear a Val Bennet sax line, 'the I' feels like a cool, hillside breeze that refreshes you as you sip up some cocoa tea.

 I can hold my head up, and without the aid of meds. I just need the man called I-Roy 'toasting up' a version (shun shun shun shun shun shun...) over the "Sidewalk Killer" riddim. Jacob Miller's "Rockers", from the movie soundtrack, and the whole subgenre (period, actually) that it defines will be the strength I will call upon to beat this thing. Gregory Isaac's moan and groan will touch me even deeper now. The character of EEK-A-MOUSE will fill the gap left by my fleeting personality. "Scratch" is perfect for me in my new levels of insanity. The Nyabinghi forces will replace the belief or fear in "nah duppy, ya seen?!" 

Reggae has been a passion in my being since early on, thanks to the man, the Boss selector, the man called Clint O'Neil (do your homework). I discovered Clint O'Neil way before there was a Sunday Reggae Vibe on the college station (WVUM, Conscious Rhythms, R.I.P.) It was a little hard to not come across his delightful baritone at least once if you were a Miami native in the days of knob-twisting radio. Why? OK, follow my logic... James Brown touted himself the hardest working man in show biz, but really he can kiss Clinto's balls. O'Neil worked like a Jamaican, pardon the stereotype, doing overnights 6 days a week, with a different theme every night, and had the greatest Caribbean DJ voice and trademark laugh ever. Just to illustrate, he would do Mento/Calypso night, Soca (especially during carnival season), Rocksteady/Ska, early Reggae, Dub, Rockers, etc. So, to my point, any Miami native from the the knob-twist days knows Lord Clint's voice, either advertently or in passing. Now, if you're a Reggae diehard from Miami, Clint O'Neil is one of your patron saints. Him ah Ras!

 Later on, just before college, the passion in me that was ignited of my own curiosities and furiously stoked by O'Neil would be broadened and refined by the man called Louie Rockerz (Jah Cuban Sound), who quickly gauging my likes and dislikes took me deeper into the "DeeJays" period, and put me on to Lover's Rock and Dancehall Reggae. 

We (meaning 'the I' and my associates from the "Bass Mint") were a bunch of Latin youths running around with some very, very tasty Reggae record collections (my first purchase was Pablo Moses' Revolutionary Dream... I'm just saying.) As for them, they got jobs at VP Records after high school which made their crates fatten with insane choice cuts. My commitment and love would pay off, once my sparse travels through the West Indies took place, and my love and knowledge of Reggae would be rewarded by big smiles, sincere fist bumps and 'big-ups' ("Respect, Seen?!) from my Caribbean brethren and sistrens. 

The Man called Clint O'Neil, the Boss Selector, dem ah call him "The Wolfman Jack Of Reggae"

JahCuban Sound's Rockers (this mixtape ah deadly mi ah tell yah, youth!)

The second week of this hell that I am in, I was able to get by using very vivid, controlled hallucinations involving myself "riding this thing out" in Negril -at night while I'm busy not sleeping. There has been hallucinatory instances, nothing to get scared over, but very vivid. Still, at night, I can manipulate the racing thoughts if I focus them on an "Om". Negril is my Om. Yeah, there's a madness to my method as well as a method to my madness. I-Man was sitting up in the RIU Negril, eating Callaloo and Breadfruit, smoking "I-Grade" and drinking Appleton Estates chased with Red Stripes. A very dark-skinned, pretty Jamaican girl, "society gyal" named Sunshine (reference, do your homework) keeping me company in her homemade Burning Spear T-shirt, and she just "ah nice up mi afternoon wit' a smile and Chinese eyes". 

Thankfully, the Reggae section of my record crates...

 "rules the nation...

 with versions" 

(shuns shuns shuns shuns shuns.) 

I have summoned every absolute annihilator in my arsenal, every single, massive "Big Chune" in my repertoire to create an ambience that can take me there... 'down yard way'. Amidst my odd escapism, a poem was born. To me, the best I've ever written... ever. Only thing though, it is written in Patois. If you can't follow Patois on a phonic level at least, well... then ... 

Bye!

(Soon Foh-wad, ya' 'ir?!)

To the rest -with half a brain and a "Likkle culcha'" -check this... This is my favorite of all of my written poems. I call this one... 

"Jamaican Dem".

Jamaican Dem

'Pon the North Coast Highway,

the man called Nesbeth ah drive

his minibus.

From Mo' Bay, about an hour away, to Negril.

On Independence day, no less.

Slowly but surely, 'im ah get mi' der...

'im a transfer us-

Me, Myself and I and I and I...

(Yes, I...)

 

A Delroy Wilson chune ah play fi mi system,

Nesbeth ah smile, and ah nod 'im head, "Ya mon!"

'im ah look at I and I, and 'im a ponda', "What kind ah Cuban ah dis?"

"Nesbeth, the Boss!" mi' ah say to 'im.

"Hail, Star" 'im reply. 

This ah beauty in mi' soul eye.

Ah black mon, ah beige mon,

find ah common heart in ah culture vibe.

One of dem ah bon in da cradle, in ah yard...

the other mon ah student of culture, 'im ah mon ah da world, 'im no commercial Ras...

The Dasheen ah beautiful... so broad and green, biggest leaves mi ah ever see...

The likkle houses on the 'illsides charming in simplicity.

Mon, the air ah smell like spices so nice,

of curry and roasting breadfruit, and

cocoa trees,

and Ganja smoke that ah lively you up.

"Nesbeth, ya' mus tek mi fi Orange Hill, ya' kno'."

When I man arrived at Orange Hill, mi' ah kiss the dirt, where mother Earth grow her finest herbs.

Then ah Rastaman ah put an ounce in each 'and, and 'im a say "My yout', bless I, seen?!

And mi' ah reply "Yes I, Ras, I mon ah conscious yout' ya' kno".I mon an ital yout', seen?! Mi' prey on calabash and callaloo and dasheen and nah eat nah ting that can cry an' scream. Ya seen?!"

The Ras ah reason with da' mon, and 'im ah bless the chalwa fi mi' lick up the I-tion.

Negril hotel mi' next destination.

Listenin' to 'chunes' way over yonder can never mimic

the power of clappin' thunder an' Earth riddims 'pon deh'. 

'Pon the North Coast Highway, "Shades of Keith Hudson" kept mi cool and deadly in 100 degrees, mon.

Nesbeth ah grin, ah suck his teeth... "Cho... Mon, ya got selections!"

"Mon mi mixtape is perfection, Nesbeth... I-Man a dig in dem crates, mi boss! I mon a save up tapes, mi boss, of the man called Clint O'Neil who taught Reggae 101 when mi a likkle yout'"

"Mon ya sumthin' else, seen?! Ya jus ah cool mon ah come check yard"

Mi say "Yes I, your country fi deh garden of Jah, my youth!"

Mon, it ah rain in paradise fi five days straight.

Mi nah splash in nah beach, mi nah fun in nah sun,

Mi have fun in mi hotel smokin' Collie and drinking rum.

Makin' small talk fi mi' brethren and sistrens

Spreading love, fi mi love is seen.

Jamaican dem, I Man ah mek' dem smile.

I and I make dem eye gleam.

I and I got culture vibe though it may nah seem.

I and I love Jamaican dem, mi ah hold dem fi mi shanty heart...

Yes I...