I used to skate dude. The "I" starts deep in my gut, "used to" forms somewhere in my in my throat and comes out nasally. "Skate" and "dude" are both shortened, practically chopped in half as though I grew up in "The Valley", to which I've never been. And herein lies the problem, acting as though I'm something I'm not nor ever could be while thinking of myself in terms of things I once was or the grand delusions of what I will be as  opposed to the things I am. For some reason I was never able to embrace myself for who I am and where I'm from, thankfully that has changed over time.
     I don't entirely blame skateboarding for the my ill-spent youth, I think I was predisposed to obsessive behavior and addiction, but god damn if the cult of the idol "they" created didn't make it seem necessary to fulfill that role if I wanted to be accepted.  Getting sponsored in my first year at high school by a local shop that shared the space with a tattoo artist helped me misrepresent myself the way I wanted to by being the first kid at school with tattoos, building the exterior armour to protect the scared child within. Armour I relied heavily on my entire life instead of addressing the swirling abyss of emotional turmoil in my underdeveloped mind.
   The first and last time I went to Slam City Jam in Vancouver I was taken over by a board company I was riding for based out of the east coast at 17. It was a pretty loose affair and I was still in high school but somehow convinced my folks it would be a wholesome weekend with my pals. The details remain a bit hazy but coming off the ferry from Victoria with my arm in a cast I somehow got dropped off at the house that the Piss Drunks were staying at. Greco, Dollin, Trainwreck and this little dude name Steve that was an industry player that kept rapping Funkdubiest. The haze thickens and Trainwreck an I are in a Triad bar well past a wholesome time to return home, I think he was convinced one of the girls was a prostitute; she was not and it ended up with the window of the house we were staying at being shot out and me without a cast. If this is skateboarding sign me the fuck up!
    The  Trainwrecks, Jamers and Mateos of the world were people I adored. From a previous generation where tattoos were sacred and somewhat taboo, cocaine was only cut with baby laxative and rat poison as opposed to fentanyl and beer was a breakfast drink. I certainly wasn't the last of that cool generation to get tattooed, more the first of the posers pretending to be as tough as we thought those before us were, which I now see as more of an inability to address emotions and communicate in a healthy way. I hope I'm not doing a disservice to those I've named or anyone else as I don't put their short comings on them, rather the male psyche as a whole. I can only speak for myself of my experience, but I never had another male teach me how to recognize my emotions. After bumping a knee as a child it's ok to cry, how to express anger in a non physical way, talking through trauma, all things I wasn't aware of growing up and into my 30's. I can't imagine my great grandfather sitting my grandpa down somewhere on the Alberta prairies as they were making their way west to talk to him like a snowflake as I so greatly needed, and I'm sure that conversation was never had anywhere along my family tree.
    During my youth I was embarrassed of who I was, a sensitive upper middle class kid whos parents were worried sick about him and wore my armour to protect myself from being found out or hurt, by a word or a look or lack there of. Today I'm embarrassed that I still wear pieces of that armour and the old "Fuck you, why don't you get out of your car and come get a taste" reaction pops up in the middle of a lovely day, and I'd like to apologize to the guy in the parkade this afternoon and his girlfriend who was really embarrassed for us both.
   I'm generally happy these days which is a long way away from the phsyc ward, and I'm happy to be a work in progress.

Spot lights sway across the night sky while strobe lights pulse to an unheard rhythm, emanating a glowing green dome above downtown Siem Reap. This country and this city in  particular seems to be at odds with itself. The non stop party on Pub Street, the unrelenting squaller in the slums and the complete peace found just outside the city in the swaying green rice feilds, golden frosted tips signifying the nearing of harvest. Walking among the labrynth of streets and alleys, a reminder of the French colonial area, I'm continuously grabbed and asked if I'd like weed, cocaine, LSD or perhaps a special massage. In that order. With none of what's on offer filling my fancy I'm left to walk aimlessly with the tourists, monks and locals; the smell of baking concrete, fish in varying stages of decay and an underlaying smell of hot garbage, the umami of the third world, adding to the sensory overload.

  On our 2nd day in Siem Reap we visit an area of town that's new to me, know locally as beggar village.  The rainy season having just come to an end the streets still hold ankle deep water bringing malaria, dysentery  and a host of other invisible killers.  The sprawling hutment is a mass of ramshackle huts put together (not built) with an assortment of materials, whatever is found and can be carried. The majority of the homes sit on the ground as opposed to the stilts like most houses in Cambodia where the residents live in the stagnate disease filled water

for the majority of the year.  Huddled in the shade a family picks through scavenged garbage searching for anything of value that could be possibly sold or traded at a later date. Curious eyes peer from doorways at the white giants. There's a small number of brave children who rush to us eager to show off their English skills, repeatedly asking our names and "How are you?".  Having no education themselves the parents can't weigh the proper value against the meager sum of money their children gain begging in town, creating the vicious cycle driving the problems in the slum. Perhaps there's an unwritten rule, but nobody asks for a thing within the confines of Beggar Village.

Like everywhere else I've been in this country, predominately Buddhist and Hindu  at the same time, the kids laugh and play regardless of circumstance. The adults carry on with the days needs of filtering water and acquiring what food they can to feed the youth, whether their own or god knows whos it doesn't seem to matter.  Aside from marking how many people live in each shack with spray paint the government has nothing to do with this illegal settlement focusing instead on their fleet of tinted out Range Rovers and continuing the blatant nepotism that simultaneous is progressing the country into the future as well as crushing the majority of the population with growing poverty.

  Cambodia is many things, the easiest of which to point out is extreme. Rain and floods of biblical proportions through half the year followed by stifling heat and the slow moving fires fed by the parched husks of barren rice feilds.  Staggering poverty and the gilded unabashed corruption producing incredible wealth for a select few. The rural communities laugh futilely and long for the days of communism while those that live in the city applaud the ability to avoid corruption but find "agreements"  and "understanding".

  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.