Why I feel the need to take this trip...and why it's not as scary as it seems to all my relatives.
By Bayless Parsley

June 8, 2006. London, England. Jamison’s house.

"My life is my life, and I only got one life to live. I&I live it upright, regardless of the circumstances." – "My Life," Warrior King.

Bob Marley may have been wrong in his belief that former Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie I (previously known as Ras Tafari) was the risen Christ, sent to loosen the seven seals of the Apocalypse, but he was dead on about something else: One good thing about music is that when it hits, you feel no pain.

Art has an uncanny ability to inspire, and music is the art form which fuels my passions better than 93 grade gasoline. There’s something about a song that can just take control of your heart, your soul, your mind … especially when you’re listening to conscious lyrics, words that deal with issues a little weightier than bling, bitches and "two-tone Fode Explorah’s."

All spring, ever since I picked out a random CD at Waterloo called "Conscious Decisions II," that is how I felt about "My Life."

For me – especially in the years since I have ceased to find much comfort in the Catholic faith – reggae music has been my primary source of inspiration. Not because I substituted one dogma for another (I am anything but a Rastafarian; my buddy Tom loves Cat Stevens, but Allah knows he ain’t a member of the Islamic ummah. I think TK may be about 0-for-his existence on answering calls to prayer, let alone clueless as to which direction he’d turn if told to face Mecca). It’s not as black-and-white as a Johnny Damon-level switching of sides. Essentially, the theme of blind adherence/no questions asked that I associate with growing up a papist has been replaced largely by Marley’s personal stance: "Who feels it knows it, Lord." ("Running Away," Exodus).

With so much sway over the direction in which my own philosophies have gone the past five years, reggae is more along the lines of my moral compass – or maybe a flickering, yet constant, beam of light perpetually shining through the fog clouding my life’s harbor.

And my guess is that nearly 99 percent of you are chuckling to yourselves right now.

"Ooooh, Bayless (head shaking, the unmistakable trace of a smirk lingering on your grill). Are you a RASTA? Irie, MON! Bahaha. You are too much, I tell ya."

You’re laughing at the idea that an upper-middle class, white, wannabe hippie who definitely does NOT believe in Tafari’s divinity could identify so strongly with an art form composed by blacks, for blacks (or so you assume). Music that you instinctively associate with a litany of keywords, none of which should appeal to a baldhead resident of Leave it to Beaver Land, USA … like myself.

If you’ve made it this far down the page, then there’s a chance you may be able to dig a little deeper, just enough to peel away the thin layer of stereotypes that lay wedged in the creases of your brain – stereotypes that only become more and more embedded with each thud of that hypnotic one drop bass beat. To understand what I’m talking about, you’ve got to transcend the images of dreadlocks, ganja and Bob Marley’s mug.

Reggae music is not about dreads and ganja and the Tuff Gong. It’s about livication, respect and giving thanks and praise for all of creation. But more importantly, it’s about your own inner convictions, not the Baltimore Catechism and a "How To" manual on getting to Zion. It’s about living your life, and living it upright, regardless of the circumstances.

In other words, who feels it, knows it.

Today, my first full day on the other side of the Atlantic, I began Day One of the rest of my life. The script that guided me for these past 22 years got chucked out the window somewhere over Bangor, Maine. In a way, "I’m Wayne Brady, bitch" – because from now on, I’m in the improv business.

Whose Life Is It Anyway?

My life is my life, and I’ve only got one of them to live. That’s why I’m taking this trip, rather than immediately going corporate, or filling the void with a job that I hate, or immediately plunging into law school so I can finally "learn how to think" according to my father, The Bob. Hence, the indefinite return date, arbitrarily set for Dec. 20, which is translated into "whenever I feel like it … or run out of money" – flexibility made possible by a paltry $50 fee to change my reservation.

Robert Nesta Marley was 27 when he touched down in London to start a chapter of his life called "Catch a Fire," a name taken from the 1973 album – produced in London – that led a poor, mulatto, Rastafarian Jamaican to international stardom. I’m 22 and fresh out of college, also trying to start a new chapter, and I just touched down in the Grey City as well. Coincidence? Perhaps.

People love to ask me if I’m a grown up all of the sudden, as if a piece of sheepskin with my first, middle and last names calligraphied on it could change me into a responsible adult overnight. My answer: I have no job, no mutual funds and no mortgage. In short, I’m not any more grown up today than I was last month.

But I’m not a kid anymore, either (otherwise I wouldn’t be able to pay for this trip with my own coin). And I’ll spend my time over here trying to figure out what kind of balance between the two that I want my life to have.

That’s why I named this blog "Hitting the Snooze Button … On Life," so I can keep on livin’ the dream until then – even if it is only for five more minutes.

But in the meantime, I&I will live the dream upright, regardless of the circumstances.