"Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream." -Jack Kerouac

At 4pm I sat down in the lounge of our hostel in Bangkok and the sky erupted. An immense thunderstorm. Standing water in the streets. A thick grey sky dulling the light and falsifying dusk - fat wet drops that almost hurt when you're out under them.

We're not roughing it here. There's aircon and a western toilet and wi-fi, but still a big jump from Singapore.





This trip continues to pulverize me with each passing moment. It's such a shift in so many ways. So much good I confuse with bad and bad I conflate with good. My anger, I won't pretend that it has melted, but I don't feel this sting of rage I'm always battling. San Francisco has become such a brutal place for me to exist. Here, away, I'm so happy to be anywhere. To be somewhere new. It doesn't hurt that my responsibilities are different here, but writing and shooting photography staves off the boredom I've grown to loathe and the shifting landscape makes me feel more at home than I have since I left Chicago the first time, almost six years ago. Even though I "do" less, I do it better and with greater enjoyment. I've quit the tv, quit a few other unsavory habits that consumed me and now here I am. Sitting, writing and listening to the rain instead of re-watching episodes of trailer park boys. I do miss the boys though.

My birthday is on Friday. I'm going to be 24. A year ago, I would have told you my 24th birthday would be dinner with the family and a quiet night in. We're going to go to see Muay Thai kickboxing matches at the local stadium and out for a couple drinks somewhere seedy. The morning after we're jumping ship again and heading to the beach.





So far, in Thailand, we've checked into our spot walked around and eaten a bowl of soup noodles to which I added some of the ground chili paste from the tub on the table. In the states I would have added more, but as it is I can still feel it scorching on my lips and chin where I slurped a bundle of noodles without delicacy. I've discovered little kefir drinks they sell everywhere. If you come here, drink them everyday. Helps with the spicy and keeps your gut nice and cultured and if I need anything, it's a bit more culture.

On the late night tip, we went and wandered Khao San Road, the "backpacker destination," where ladyboys make kissy faces as you pass and the men make hushed offers for ping pong shows and boom boom massage and other depravity. I even got offered another job, this time as an extra on a Thai soap opera (I'm not kidding). Not, this time, because I have an English degree, but because I'm American, overweight and wear a mustache. His words and now mine (I'm NOT kidding). Instead, we sat and had a Singha and a hookah (a hook-AH, don't confuse them) in the company of a Thai Rhasta, I think his name was Ka, who pinched at the mouth of his Bob Marley tattoo and mimed sprinkling it over the bowl of the hookah. We laughed, he laughed.





I thought I was a hermit and I may well be. But for today and tomorrow at least, I'm a nomad. It feels just right. It feels selfish and amazing. I'd like to help people someday and how can I even pretend to help people if I can't help myself.

My dad says I'm writing like Jack Kerouac, whose quote I had to look up and whose name I couldn't spell without Wikipedia. My dad's a shill. Don't trust him when he talks about his spawn. Trust him most of the rest of the time. Besides, I was going for Thompson, but I can't find where the Samoan hid the salt shaker and the screamers. Jack also said, "the only truth is music," so he can't be all bad. Pops always knows just what to say to make me feel like he's lying to me, but he just really believes it. It's awesome. That confidence is hard to find in yourself and it's good to have fans, even sweet bald biased ones, so long as you have a callous dick of an editor. Which I don't. There would be, I'm sure, thick red lines through much of what I've written.





For now, this is my place and I'm trying hard to be honest. I apologize for nothing, but I don't always write what I mean, even when I mean what I write. I learned something important when someone I'd met didn't take kindly to something I've said here. Not everyone appreciates it when you allow yourself to make mistakes. Not everyone has the luxury to intentionally make mistakes. I see that clearer now. I doubt that person will be back to read this, but I thank him. I hope this isn't too cryptic for the rest of y'all. Point is, this is my thing. You have yours. Not everyone likes your shit either. Deal with it or go away. No worries.

Carbon once and carbon once again. I believe, from what I've seen, that this time right now is all I get. Everyday I remind myself this is the reason to live and dream, not the reason to fear. I try to not begrudge the faithful, in fact, I respect most of the words as they were written and on my low days I envy the people who can submit to them - but I just don't see it. I don't think I ever will. Try and convince me if you must, but don't beat yourself up over it. That dog won't seem to hunt. He may be a Buddhist.





Sometimes, I wish I wasn't afraid of death (sometimes I say I'm not) but when the plane pitches in a cloudbank I grip the armrest and my stomach rolls. The same feeling when the train tipped in Peru. The same feeling when the ATV tossed me into the ditch. The same feeling when the roller coast clicks over the top or takes a hairpin. Mouth say one thing, brain say another. I'm not done yet.




(This photo taken by Brooklyn's finest - Jisho Roche-Adachi)

A large lizard just fucking destroyed a cockroach that was trying to scuttle out of the rain and into the hostel. I feel well protected. I feel well.

Location:Bangkok, Thailand