With the visual overload the six hour drive from Phonm Phen to Siem Reap dilivers I find the things that resonate the deepest or the sounds and smells. We stopped at this bridge at about the 4.5 hour mark, built over a thousand years ago it no longer serves as part of the main route between the capital and second city but is still a big part of daily life for those that live near by. It doesn't seem as much has changed since the bridge was built to allow elephants and easier path to tow volcanic rocks from the south to build the temples around Ankor.  A lady squats to wash her clothes in the greeny, grey-brown water that's running slowly now the rains have stopped. A family burns hard wood on the opposing bank, I suppose more to keep the mosquitos away than for cooking, the acrid smoke mixing with the incense lit in prayer underneath the seven headed Nagga. Just across the bridge there is a Hindu ceremony celebrating 100 days since the death of an 80 year old woman from the village. The cymbals, bells and chanting of ancient blessings are turned up passed 11, as her friends and family sit in colorful opulence against the lush green backdrop of the trees and the eternally grey sky.
  Somewhere along the way, before the bridge and after eating a tarantula for the amusement of the local children as well as my companions, we came across a solitary rice farmer tending her fields. Gap toothed and leathery from years in the sun, she beam with pride over the vast green field, slightly turning gold as the rice nears harvest. She's recently sold a large part of the field, which she still gets paid to work, to buy a house for her and her son, as well as I'm sure numerous unmentioned family members.

  

The Sun rises over a distant mountain range spreading it's pastel precursor over the foothills, the soaring ridge to the right (I have no sense of direction in this airport to say which way is north) and the runway of the Taipei airport in front of me. Having passed over the international date line some hours ago I'm more than discombobulated and thankful the coffee cart just down from my gate is the first thing to come to life among the designer outlets and duty free.
It could be the lack of sleep, caffeine and the bizarre dreams had on the plane, but I'm continuously amazed by the direction my life is taking, if it weren't for my travel companion sitting beside me I almost wouldn't believe I was sitting in a foreign country on my way to Cambodia for a second time this year.
  After getting to our hotel with relatively little struggle I wake up at 4 am to the smell of frying chillies and a touch of garlic. The residents and shop keepers on the road bellow or rolling up their shutters, sweeping the verandas and washing down the sidewalks. Life starts early in the Khmer capital, a group of monks congregate outside a guest house waiting to be taken to alms, feral cats and stray dogs slink around in the shadows in search of a breakfast morsel. The sour smell of a garbage truck proceeds it's arrival prompting the shop keeps into a flurry to gather what they can to throw in the back of the open truck as it trundles by.  In the heightened activity the monks have made their exodus, making way for the inn keeper in his pink dress shirt creased khaki slacks and sandals to dispatch the days work of bi-hourly sweeping, smoke breaks and conversations with his neighbor.
  Having been here in this city just eight months ago I'm more taken back by my familiarity with it than the frantic pace of traffic slamming against the languid way of life. It seems that no one is in a rush yet if you were to close your eyes the rest of your senses you tell you otherwise.  Adding to the regular confusion of the city is Water Festival, the Khmer equivalent of New Year, bringing in millions more people along with their desire to thank the rain for blessing them with a harvest again, or to get drunk and buy fake Gucci, whatever. With smoke from cooking fires lining the streets, loudspeakers competing against vendors selling god knows what, pickpockets, monks, heavily armed military police, screaming children running in every direction, I stick out like a sore 230 lbs, tattooed thumb. The only moment children stop running a muck is when I emerge from the throngs of people and into their field of view. Jaws drop, eyes widen... Smack! Their gobstruck parents bring them back as they barely manage to stop staring themselves.
  Dragon boat races down the Mekong, expat Brits soliciting the next few months of prostitution, nightly firework displays that produce enough smoke to actually hide the fireworks themselves. All things I never knew I needed to witness but feel as if I almost couldn't live without having seen it now.

sunday service

Slow Sunday morning, typically reflective, slightly sentimental. Burnt coffee creeps into my living room contrasting what Juicy J is rapping about. If all I blow is loud will bands truly make her dance? Questions I may never find an answer to anymore.  And I wonder what inspired an ill spent youth? Skateboarding and rap music have been the ruin of many young men. Growing up in the age of the Pissdrunx , DJ Screw, sippin lean, cocaine and, pardon the expression, bitches, delinquency was mass marketed and glossy. I bought it, hook line and sinker without reading the fine print. Side effects may include but  may not be restricted to; depression, anxiety, social isolation, low self esteem, financial ruin, delusions of grandeur, loss of morals and socializing with misdeviants. 

  Waking up in unfamiliar places with stab wounds or random women, having survived a minor drug overdose or narrowly avoiding incarceration was fun for a while and sure as shit made for some good stories but Dios mio, if that didnt shave a few years off my life. Sitting on my deck overlooking my garden with Mt. Doug in the distance, the caffeine slowly subsiding I sigh in relief to be here, to be present. Thankful for those misdeviants and the ability to look back and laugh.

Its been a good long while since I've had the patience to sit in front of my computer.

  To be truthful my computer gives me the bitter, thick taste of having drunk too much bourbon and the knee jerk reaction of saying "I'm no good at computers" because I don't get the instant gratification of the uppers and downers of the past. But here I am, refusing to be beaten by the past and posting another photo of my kitchen window.
  It may be that this corner is generally where the coffee is kept, but there's something else that keeps me coming back to stare at the roofs covered in pine needles between myself and the big red house.
 It could be the books of recipes I've never followed or the
the touring bike that hasn't had fulfilled its potential yet,
I don't really understand.

This cricket pitch is another place I frequently visit without really understanding.  I've spent hours watching the games here and I feel as lost as I once did in my own head trying to follow the play. However, at least I know that its the sense of culture in the incomprehensible chatter from the players and the colonial ghost I like to think inhabit this corner of Beacon Hill that keep me coming back.

 
Sooke is one of my favorite places on the South Island.  Even with urban sprawl doing it`s thing and creeping in, it still is holding onto most of it`s vastness and backwoods feeling.  It`s home to surf breaks and big hearted people (not the surfers, who are notorious assholes) like my friends Kurtis and Megan, who are two of the most gracious host. Be it a couple car loads of drunk skaters showing up to crash unannounced, or making sure to send you home with cake if you`ve just popped in for coffee.
  I recently discovered the Sheringham lighthouse for the first time on a Famjam. It`s a stunning and beautiful place with shear, jagged cliffs and plenty of wild life. On my first trip out there I ran into my friend Drew who works for Vans in Toronto.  It blew me away to run into him at such a remote spot on a tiny island so far away from the context in which we know each other.

Out this window I can see two roofs, the hospital in the distance and into the third

story kitchen of a big red house.  In that kitchen I watch a young couple make

coffee, do the dishes and hug. We`re on pretty similar schedules, us three, Im generally the first 

up and the first home from work but they`re never long after me.  I seldom where my glasses in 

my house so I have no idea what they actually look like and wouldn`t recognize them  if they 

walked passed me on the street. I have three windows that face them and am curious to know how 

much of my life they`ve seen. Be it a bald tattooed maniac stomping around yelling at himself

or someone sitting peacefully drinking tea and reading on a couch, I`m sure they think theres a couple

different people living here as well.

Doug. Doug Hardy is skateboard royalty. Can not be fucked with, triple OG status.
  As a young punk ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQ41hqlV0Kk) I looked up to him and the crew that eventually became my people. For better and worse.

    Doug and I have spend hours in each others arms crying over the years. Be it his sorrows or mine, theres been a lot of tears shed, which equates to more than a thousand laughs with anyone else. If you cant cry with your friends, thy`re  not friends.