Farang! Farang! The teen boys shouted as they passed by on the moped. The one riding on the back raised his arms with middle fingers extended from both fists. There was no malice in the gesture. They’d seen the hand motion in American movies, these boys with brown skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. And it was their first thought when they saw me, the boy with white skin, pale eyes, and pale hair. Farang. Foreigner.

The Thai aunties used to pinch my cheeks and touch my sister’s golden hair when we first moved to Thailand. I hated my cheeks pinched. Far more traumatic than leaving Texas and flying across the Pacific to Southeast Asia for me, a four-year-old. The strongest attachments I had were to my parents and my sister. These came with me. I didn’t think it strange my parents sold our climate-controlled suburban house in Stephenville, Texas and traded it for a traditional Thai house on stilts, uninsulated and reliant on shade and oscillating fans to beat the tropical heat that enveloped the town.

I quickly learned I drew attention in my new home of Nan, Thailand. At first, it was just stares. Maybe a shout of Farang! by an adult or child to get my attention so I would turn and they could get a better look at me, the oddity. I didn’t mind it. I liked being noticed at that age. And I liked to play. You didn’t need to understand each other linguistically for hide and seek, riding bikes, or shooting slingshots. But finding playmates took time.

We moved frequently, too. Every two to four years. One village to the next. Half a year or more at a mission house in the States. Everything was temporary. Always another move looming after settling into each new house. Another country and culture. My roots grew in a pot.

As I learned the language, I made friends. We’d build Legos on a mat laid out on the cement slab under our house. Play football in the lot next door, goals indicated by pairs of flip-flops. Fly kites on the dried-out rice paddies. Hold tournaments on the PS2--racing each other in Burnout or beating each other to a pulp in the latest Dragon Ball fighter. My language knowledge accommodated this and little more. What are we going to play? When are we going to play? Concrete, practical, superficial. I wasn’t interested in emotion or the abstract. So I didn’t learn it.

If I wanted to converse in my native language, my opportunities were slim. There were my parents and little sister, of course. But meeting other English speakers in the land of Thai was exciting to me. Rare. And almost never with a child my own age. So I learned how to play with adults and carry conversations with kids much younger than me.

My sister and I were homeschooled in the Northern Thai countryside among the rice paddies. International schools were an option, but Chiang Mai and Bangkok were five and ten-hour drives away, which meant boarding school. My parents didn’t want to send us away. I didn’t want to live apart from them either.

I had tastes of formal school, though. Semesters here and there. One in second grade at Chiang Mai International, another in fifth or sixth at Grace, once at a Texas public school. My favorite periods were recess and gym because this was a social rather than scholarly opportunity for me--being in a class with children all my age who spoke my language. An opportunity to be invited to birthdays, friends’ houses for playdates, to clown, to argue and fight, and make up.

And then I would leave.

I liked homeschool with its fluid schedule. Completing homework lying on the couch. Frequent field trips. Class on the go. The freedom to pursue my own interests. Generous time to read widely and deeply. But as I read novels with characters who had idealized friendships where they spent so much regular time together, I was reminded of the distant friends, acquaintances, I had who were living this--seeing the same faces every day, deepening relationships, becoming lifelong friends, developing crushes, discovering enemies, knowing and being known. And I felt envy. A yearning.

Most of my meaningful relationships had factors that created unavoidable distance: language, culture, age, location, time. In all cases, I was the odd one out. The homeschooler in a traditional class for a semester. The kid in a group of adults. The oldest in a gaggle of kids. The farang among my Thai neighbors. Only visiting.

--

I was so ready for college. Moving to the other side of the globe did not bother me. I had done it before. And I had a growing need to be able to think freely beyond the worldview of my parents. I desperately wanted to be surrounded by peers.

Where are you from?

Thailand.

Tyler, Texas! My cousin lives there.

I had this exchange during my first week in college. It encapsulated my experience reentering U.S. society in Texas. Anything foreign was mistaken, misheard, and immediately mapped to the familiar. I was easy to categorize in Thailand--you could just look at me. Here, I sounded and looked like one thing, but when it was discovered I was another, it often provoked frustration in people. Bewilderment at best. Maybe brief curiosity. I don’t watch American football. I don’t know the popular music. I didn’t go to prom. I didn’t grow up in the same church my whole life. I didn’t see my extended family regularly, or even on holidays. And once they knew all this, it was too much. Too much effort. And they would turn to more familiar things. Less foreign things.

I imagined myself an astronaut--a curiosity on any campus, in any town. Being asked the same questions, over and over, about space. Stirring some excitement, then indifference because you’re on the ground with the rest of us now. This is Earth. You can’t talk about the moon all the time. It’s way up there. It doesn’t have anything to do with us down here. Take off your suit and act like a terrestrial.

My sanctuary was the International Students Association. We all knew or were learning what it meant to be farang in the States. There was solidarity. A curiosity about each other’s language, culture, cuisine. But the craving of the familiar was here, too. Cliques pulled together by the gravity of shared nationalities. I was left adrift between orbits with a small handful of Third Culture Kids, individuals who grew up outside their parents’ passport culture. We spoke the same unmoored dialect. Shared the same regionless culture. We lived the same liminality. And we all knew this season--these relationships were temporary. The next move was imminent. We shared our depths first. We could enjoy superficialities later. When it was time to leave, there were no goodbyes. We had learned to only say, See you later, with a smile and dry eyes because if we crossed paths in the future, we could just pick up where we left off.

--

I did not expect Nashville to be long-term. I assumed it would just be the first stop after college. After a few years, I’d move to a bigger city or back to Texas. With any luck, I’d find a way to live in Thailand again. There, at least, I knew where I stood.

Four years passed. I got restless. Itchy. The rhythm that dictated my life said it was time to go. But all the old reasons were gone. There wasn’t a new village to evangelize, no furlough to the States, no college graduation.

So I stayed.

Another four years passed. Now I’m starting another. I discovered that I’m a homebody despite my childhood necessitating frequent travel and moves, and that I enjoyed my own company more than I thought, despite being starved of society most of my life. I found a new rhythm. My own. I thought of leaving often. Then less. And even less.

I became a better chameleon in Nashville, learning the expected patterns of a group and reflecting them back. These colors were true, even if they did not represent the full spectrum. The movie guy to movie friends, the photo guy to photo friends, the food guy to food friends. I had reconciled that most people could not or did not want to understand the rice paddies and how their hue changed with each season. That was too far away.

In all these circles, I feel like an interloper. The late addition. Last to arrive and likely first to leave. Wedging myself into a dynamic established eons ago. Tolerated. Possibly resented, because I’m temporary. I let my personality be big, but kept my demands small--thankful for the few kindnesses I received like a visitor in a stranger’s house. None of these places were mine after all.

I’m peripheral. This feeling is present even in my profession. I walk the edges of the events I photograph, observing. With my long zoom lens, I reach out and take what is offered--moments of laughter, earnest discussion, camaraderie, companionship. Then I move on. A momentary invasion of privacy, soon forgotten.

I found contentment in this. Why should my adulthood be any different from my childhood. But as my time in Nashville grew greater than the space I’d allotted it, suddenly I had friends I had known for a decade. Friends I’d seen marry, have children, buy houses. Friends who’d come and gone. Some told me I was a constant. And that, You have a lot of friends. But even surrounded by this network, I feel like a drop of oil immersed in so much water.

There are moments when I forget. I am in the living room with my friends. It is late. The light warm. Conversation flows and laughter is plentiful. I am lulled into belonging. I know these people completely. They know me. But then a comment is made. An innocent observation. About a common social or cultural experience everyone has shared. Except me. And I’m thrust outside. I stand in the darkened yard, resigned to watch through the amber window.

Leaving is my constant. Leaving Texas. Leaving Bangkok. Leaving Nan. Leaving Chiang Mai. Leaving Phrae. Leaving Thailand. Leaving Abilene. Me leaving, and people leaving me.

A friend who had left came back for a visit recently. It was a happy reunion. Quality time and catching up. And I started thinking of leaving again. What if I left this city? Left the indie theatre where I’d seen countless movies with friends, all the little bars with happy hours filled with stupid jokes and philosophy, the trails and parks hiked together. I imagined not being at my friend’s daughter’s next birthday party after attending every single one since her birth. Imagined no longer running into other regulars at the sake bar, no longer seeing my church community every week, no longer sharing early morning coffees before work, and so many precious little things that had become unconsciously constant…

And I began to weep.

This month’s playlist:

Portrait of a Lady on Fire

There’s a moment that makes me gasp. A moment that crystallizes a visual motif and subverts a classical myth. And it broke me. I used to say Call Me by Your Name was the best romance I’d seen. It has been supplanted. This tragedy breaks the heart only to grow it larger.

Clariel

My favorite entry in the Old Kingdom series since Sabriel. The richness Nix adds to this world. Seeing the dawn of the kingdom’s decline. Learning yet another dimension to the magic of this land. A worthwhile prequel, surprisingly. And an excellently crafted tragedy.

Ghost of Yōtei

A beautiful evolution. They took the already polished Tsushima and made it gleam even brighter. The world is gorgeous--already resplendent in lush flora and now suffused with a perfusion of fauna. Flocks of cranes take flight as Atsu rides past on her steed, and herds of wild horses will gallop alongside. A duel to the death amidst a cloud of golden butterflies took my breath away. The combat is refined while also being more brutal, feral to match Atsu’s tragic character and her terrible path of revenge. It’s more Ghost of Tsushima, but better. Living up to the glowing memories I have of the first.

This month, I have also been writing, here and there. Journaling and other things. I scanned a lot of developed film, which had been gathering dust around my apartment. And I had fun buying Christmas presents.

Captured on an iPhone 12 Pro with Halide’s Process Zero. Edited with Darkroom.

This month’s playlist:

Angel’s Egg

I have forgotten how I first saw this movie. Or how I even heard of it. I feel it may have been during the restless malaise of lockdown. Viewed on a friend's Plex server or a dusty page of the Internet Archive. It was strange. Mysterious. Unhurried and beautiful.

Angel’s Egg was released in 1985, direct-to-video in Japan. It has only been available on VHS--DVD and Blu-ray in later years--and received sporadic, limited stints at theaters in its country of origin. This year, the movie was distributed internationally for the first time. It was wondrous seeing this avant-garde dark fantasy on the big screen. Our viewing was introduced by an animator. He spoke of how there is no consensus on the meaning of this work and he argued that possibly understanding is not the point, but feeling. He compared it to Lynch’s sentiment that his work didn’t require rational meaning because all he was trying to evoke was emotion. I appreciate his perspective greatly.

Fouuund.it

I am not a poet. I haven’t invested the time to read poetry, so writing it is beyond me. But I was delighted to learn of these poetry “games” at fouuund.it--a project by Emily Edwards. Every day, the site presents a passage from public domain literature and invites you to create a blackout poem or haiku from its words. Finding the poetry in the prose has become a creative practice I thoroughly enjoy.

Lirael

I remember being very put out as a kid because the sequel to Sabriel switched protagonists. I didn’t particularly like Lirael or Sam, and we only received a morsel of Sabriel and Touchstone. But I’m wiser now. This is a good sequel. It adds richness and mystery to this world I love. The new protagonists bring new complexities and personal challenges. It’s a very entertaining adventure. I can’t put it down.

Over the Garden Wall

I asked for this hat last Christmas of a very anxious gnome. People keep asking if he’s Wirt. My response is, if anything, this creature is one of The Hidden People. But the questions prompted me to finally revisit the limited series. I loved this animated tale suffused with charm and whimsy, and a shade of darkness, when it released. I was impressed the show was allowed to be a single, encapsulated run and left unmolested by endless sequels and spinoffs. Its potency has not been diluted as a result. But only grown richer with time.

Arcologies

I was poking around Bandcamp for some Jungle and stumbled upon this band. Great tracks to work to, or fall asleep.

This month I also spent nearly a week in San Antonio and went on several photowalks around the city; I took photos for my friends celebrating pregnancies, anniversaries, and leavings, and I was asked to read some of my writing for a small audience.

This is a first draft. I wrote it in just an hour and had no time to proof and polish it. The past few years, in the new year, I journal about the previous twelve months and reflect. Sometimes portions end up on my blog. 2024’s reflections were published as “2024 Collated” because I refused to call it “wrapped.” I ruminated on the movies I watched (many) and series (little), video games I played and books I read. I had a section headed simply as “Coffee.” It does pertain to coffee, but it’s really bout he people I wrote with that year.

An excerpt, ”I forgot the value of writing with others in silence...During lockdown a few years ago, I was invited by fellow writers to join a video call on Saturday mornings where we’d quietly work on our projects. It was a lifesaver in more ways than one. Something to anticipate, social contact, and creative accountability...

But the group reached its natural end when the world reopened. I returned to sporadic solo writing.

Then, early last year, I received a new invitation from new writing fellows. Same day of the week. Same time. This time in person...

Already blessed with one writing group, I was suddenly bestowed with another. A bar I frequent advertised it would be hosting a public writing group called Shut Up and Write...Writing with strangers was certainly different, but the results were the same. I became a regular attendee. And the strangers became friends. Friends enough to be invited to Friendsgiving. And with the accountability and encouragement of two writing groups, I finished another shitty first draft before the year was out.”

I visited Thailand this May--my childhood home. And as I wrote about my experience, I noticed something strange in how I spoke to my friends.

Another excerpt, “Everything I say is a rough draft. What I really mean is written down. I have no problem letting friends and strangers hear these works in progress as I workshop thoughts and stories. This is the creative process...

But as I began to reflect on my trip to Thailand, I noticed I was holding back with those closest to me. Not that I was afraid. I wanted to share. Intensely. But I realized I wanted them to hear the polished thought first. The fully faceted emotion...I wanted it to be treated seriously...”

And as I thought about what I wanted to read for you today, and these passages I wrote this year came to mind, I was struck by the blessing it is to have a community, to have friends, to have people who will listen to my half-formed thoughts and read my ham-fisted writing and take them seriously from the beginning, without iteration, editing, or rehearsal. People who let me be a first draft.

I embedded links in the transcription of the reading here, otherwise I resisted the urge to make any edits.

This month’s playlist:

Chainsaw Man: Reze Arc

I watched some fantastic movies this month--One Battle After Another, Sorcerer (again), American Psycho--that I could write at length about. But it finally clicked why Denji is such a compelling character for me. He’s been deprived of everything. Food. Shelter. Love. Friendship. Education. So much so, he’s an alien to all he encounters. He is perceived as crass, feral, stunted, a child. They laugh at his small goals--delicious food, a clean bed, affection. But they are so caught up in their adult foibles that they miss that Denji has life figured out. All he desires are his basic needs met and people to love and love him back.

Sabriel

I continue my tour revisiting childhood favorites. Sabriel holds up. The world holds up, and the characters; the story holds my interest. I love the thought of a reverse necromancer and a magic cast through musical tones and amplified through the use of bells. Enchanting. Looking forward to re-reading the rest of the series and exploring the new additions.

Ghost of Tsushima: Iki Island

Riding around on my horse, cutting down Mongols with my samurai sword, and writing haikus by the stream. What else does a body need. Itching to play Ghost of Yotei.

Scaring the Hoes: Directors Cut

It’s the same album plus extra sauce. Love that Peggy does these expansions--the one for him. And it’s merely pay what you want. Not a cash grab. It’s for the love of the craft.

This month, I also made art just for my friends. I took photos and recorded video that only a few eyes will ever see. Pieces I have creative pride in. And received much satisfaction in making and sharing.

This month’s playlist:

Dogtooth

I’m a Yorgos fan. Dogtooth has the most infamous mystique of all his projects. But it didn’t live up to its reputation for me. I could see how shocking and strange this movie must have been upon release. But I started with The Lobster. To this day, I have not been made more uncomfortable or upset by another movie. I’m glad I saw Dogtooth, regardless. I was curious to see a film of his performed in his native Greek.

Our Share of Night

No book has had so many elements that appeal to me and also been so boring. The start was intriguing with its grounded weird fantasy horror, but now, so blessedly close to the end, I question why I haven’t put this down sooner. Nothing of note has happened. I see no resolution in sight. I have no connection to the characters. It’s felt like a profound waste of time.

Alien: Earth

Better than it could have been. The show’s respect for the original movie is clear in the excellent production design, but the series also has courage enough to cut its own path in the franchise with unique themes. It’s avoided some of the pitfalls of streaming TV. There’s still a “prequel” episode that expands on events leading up to the opening, which adds nothing to the story but runtime. And I feel it running out of gas with episode eight. Not every season, let alone show, needs to be ten hours long. Less is more.

That said, if you see Noah Hawley on the tin, watch it.

Also, this month, my softball games have consistently been rained out, which has greatly annoyed me, and a lyric video I’ve been working hard on finally released.

This project began as a request to produce a Spotify Canvas. I promptly yes-and’ed it into a lyric video. My thought being, if we were going to shoot a little video, why not shoot a little more and have enough material for social media promotion and YouTube.

I asked for the song and lyrics, which I read while I listened. Necessary because I can’t follow the lyrics in music. Not for lack of trying. Lord, that would make this process so much simpler.

This is what was conjured in my mind:

HFR (high frame rate) close-ups of a box of matches, lighting, sparking, going out, trails of smoke.

A simple visual theme directly inspired by the chorus that could be shot in a few hours. We borrowed a friend’s house with a nice big window--our only light source. We borrowed another friend’s vintage matchbox collection. And bought far too many matches.

I rigged the camera so it could be mounted on the tripod portrait or landscape. This allowed us to quickly reframe a scene from Spotify/social media to lyric video. Our biggest time sink turned out to be getting matches to light. We resorted to cannibalizing a new box’s striking surface and attaching it to the vintage matchbox used on camera.

We did so well on time that we added an unplanned head-on shot. It was left on the cutting room floor, but did give us this little blooper. Far funnier in the moment after striking hundreds of matches.

A production of only a few hours resulted in a Spotify Canvas, a library of clips Lunalay could use for social media, and a full lyric video to further promote the single. I’m going to ignore that postproduction took 10x the amount of time.

You can see the Canvas by streaming Loosely on Spotify, like the social clips over on Lunalay’s Instagram, and watch the lyric video on YouTube.

This month’s playlist:

High and Low

Gripping. Especially since this movie manages to transform from a single-room drama to a meticulous police procedural halfway through. The protagonist’s struggle with the moral dilemma felt realistic and caused me to vacillate between disgust for him and respect. And finally land on admiration. Fantastic ending. Not ideal, but satisfying.

Bel Canto

I asked friends for book recommendations for my flight to Thailand. This was one of many, and I failed to read it until my return (I consistently overestimate how much I can read on trips). Beautiful writing. But it did not connect with me through the first two-thirds. I was not engaged with the premise and was not interested in the ceaseless digressions into the private lives of the enormous cast. The final act got me, though. I wept. The book is a sly seduction into these love affairs that consume you unaware. I gained something from this.

Frieren: Beyond Journey’s End

Surprised by this one. Did not expect a cozy fantasy adventure about learning to treasure the time we have and the people we’re with through the eyes of an ageless elf, where a mere ten years blindsides her with more meaning than all the millennia she’s lived. Strangely relatable to me. First episode drew tears.

Grace

This is secretly another movie review. A friend invited me to watch the doc It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley. When she learned I’d never heard of him, she encouraged me not to look anything up. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The movie is a by-the-numbers music documentary, but very well executed. I walked out of the theatre with a respect for the artist and some insight into the mind of musicians--an utterly foreign place to me. Lovely interviews. Careful curation. Thoughtful. I’m a Jeff Buckley fan.

NYT Games

I never liked crosswords. Too finicky. But I was introduced to Connections a few months ago, and it’s, unfortunately, extremely my shit. This also put me back on Wordle--only a lockdown fad for me--and was coaxed to try The Mini, if only to try to best my friends’ times. I was pissed when The Mini was paywalled and “replaced” with Pips, though Pips is quite fun. I like this semi-daily ritual.

This month, I also took photos for friends, watched so many Akira Kurosawa movies, and joined a softball league with no prior experience. I managed to hit a triple my first time at bat, and walked a lot of players when it was my turn to pitch.

Everything I say is a rough draft. What I really mean is written down. I have no problem letting friends and strangers hear these works in progress as I workshop thoughts and stories. This is the creative process. I’m not ashamed of it. Fiction, jokes, observations--they are all tested on the ears around me, then discarded or developed further.

But as I began to reflect on my trip to Thailand, I noticed I was holding back with those closest to me. Not that I was afraid. I wanted to share. Intensely. But I realized I wanted them to hear the polished thought first. The fully faceted emotion. I wanted them to experience the best articulated version untainted by my verbal floundering. I wanted it to be treated seriously--my words are never serious until they’re on a page. So I wrote. And I tested my rough drafts elsewhere. And chose my words carefully. And I prayed that I would be understood.

I don’t know if I succeeded in this. To be known how I hoped. But so many more people than I expected decided to follow and read this pop-up newsletter. And they wrote to me. Left comments. Sent messages. And friends expressed disappointment that there would be no more entries when Travelogue concluded.

I was encouraged. My writing affirmed. Honored to have a community that cared enough to listen. I’m proud of the work.

And I felt loved.

Travelogue was a pop-up newsletter that ran from July 19-31 of 2025 and documented my return to Thailand in May, eight years since my last visit and 15 years since I left my childhood home to attend college in the States.

“Pop-up” means it ran for a period of time and then disappeared; the email list was deleted. The entries of reflection, photography, and ambient video recordings are preserved here as one document.

July 19, 2025

05.19.25 | BNA>SEA

It is impossible to sleep the night before a morning flight. Even though I packed early and checked and rechecked my bags. Even though I have all my tickets and documents in order. Even though I set five alarms I wouldn’t need. Sleep is light and fitful.

Arriving at the airport before the sun and settling in at the departure gate with the morning light is a familiar ritual. Not one I crave. But one I have fondness for. So is this flightpath--from the middle of the country, to the coast, to East Asia, to home.

I was four years old when we moved to Thailand. I remember we had to wake up at 4 a.m. to catch our flight at DFW. It was my first time flying on a plane. And it was taking us to the exact opposite side of the globe. Twelve hours time difference from Texas. The flight was long and arduous according to my parents. I remember nothing, mercifully, of the hours in the air, extended layovers, of packing up a whole life and shipping bits of it by boat to a foreign country, of worrying about passports and visas, of learning a new language, of leaving friends and family far, far behind.

It was nothing but adventure for me. And quite normal. I traded Texas for Thailand without qualms. Everything is strange and wondrous as a child, so everything is easily embraced.

We start boarding. My first stop is Seattle. A first for me. We typically began our Pacific crossings from LAX. But then it’s on to Incheon, an airport I’ve flown through more times than I care to count.

July 20, 2025

05.20.25 | SEA>ICN>BKK

Sleep is also impossible in the air. I try. Earnestly. The most I manage is three hours skimming the unconscious. Not enough for over 24 hours of total travel time. Movies transport me instead. I don’t know the number of movies I have watched flying over the Pacific. It’s an opportunity to catch up on things missed and take chances on things I’d never consider. I remember watching Lars and the Real Girl and being moved despite the odd premise. I remember being baffled and annoyed by The Tree of Life and nearly writing it off until I saw it again on a proper screen.

My parents dedicated precious space in the crate to a box of VHS tapes when they moved us to Thailand. The Aristocats, Toy Story, piecemeal recorded episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. We wore these tapes out and mourned their passing once the humidity inevitably allowed mold to grow. The library of tapes would be replaced and grown with each visit to the States. Then converted to a new format--first to VCD, then to DVD.

Movies were family time. They wound the day down. We would crowd into one of the few rooms with air-conditioning, usually our parents’ bedroom, with plates of dinner and watch a movie we’d seen tens of times over on a small CRT TV. Often, there would be an intermission for bowls of ice cream.

The flight to Thailand is a spiral of new movies, futile sleep, and bibimbap--unfortunately protracted when I learned at the baggage claim in Bangkok my luggage was delayed. My suitcase was put on the flight behind mine. Then there is the hour-long taxi ride to the north side of the city. And finally, well past midnight on Wednesday, May 21st, I am able to shower and crawl into a real bed.

July 21, 2025

05.21.25 | DMK>HKT

Thailand greets me with rain in the morning. The reality that I have returned to the country of my childhood has not struck me until this moment. My father kindly booked me a hotel directly across the street from the domestic airport. I simply walk over a skybridge to catch my morning flight to Phuket.

I feel the humidity embrace me as soon as I leave the hotel. It’s a broad, weighty warmth. Too early and cool to be sticky yet so I only feel the thickness. This is what I always notice first arriving in another country. The first breath. When I visited Texas as a child, the air tasted sharp, cold, thin, fresh. I found it exciting, invigorating. Now I drink in this heavy, warm, vegetal, musty air and feel the same excitement.

I check my bags and as I stow my boarding pass a torrent begins to fall outside. Earlier, the sky had been covered with a creamy down. Calm, and non-threatening. The sidewalks were dry and dusty. Now the vaults of heaven are open and thunder against the ground in undulating curtains of rain. This releases in a moment, without warning. And it will be gone just as swiftly. This is rainy season.

I laugh at how my Weather app attempts to explain the climate. It perpetually displays a severe weather warning, predicts 100% chance of rain, and forecasts temperatures and humidity ranging from the low to high 80s throughout the week. The forecast is useless. It will be dry and clear until the sky lets out an almighty sneeze drenching everything under it and this silly little app can’t say when except it can happen at any moment.

This is reflected in the culture. Unless one has an important appointment, you don’t bring an umbrella along. When it rains, people simply step under an awning, a tree, or inside a building and wait for the rain to pass. Here they yield to the weather.

The flight to Phuket is uneventful, as is the long taxi ride to Kata beach. And finally I am reunited with my parents and little brother. They wait for me in the resort lobby and embrace me the moment I leave the car.

July 22, 2025

05.22.25 | Phuket

The primary reasons to visit Thailand are the food and fruit. When Dad was planning the trip, he asked me if there was anything I wanted to do specifically. My response was, “to be there, and eat.”

My parents and little brother immediately took me to dinner when I arrived at the resort yesterday evening. We went to an open-air food court and ate fresh fried spring rolls, garlic fried rice, Khai Jiao (friend omelette), Pak Boong Fai Dang (stir-fried morning glory), Kaeng Khiao Wan (green curry), and rice. Sweet, sweet Jasmine rice. I ate to burst. Then topped it off with a Nam Bpan, a fruit smoothie, which is simply fresh fruit and ice thrown into a blender. Nothing else is needed. I chose the ambrosiac combination of passion fruit and mango.

Jet lag wakes us up early my first full day at the resort. We take our coffee at the breakfast buffet as soon as it opens. When ready for food, I browse the broad selection slowly: fresh fruits, Southeast Asian dishes, European pastries and sausages. My plate begins as cacophonous collage of cuisines but simplifies each successive morning until it is only a small saucer of papaya and pineapple.

We wander to the beach while it’s still sleepy to play in the waves. Kata beach has low, languid surf typically. Gentle, unexcitable swells. But rainy season changes the tides. The waves reach above our heads. Energetically pull us into their curling crests. And gleefully dunk us and drag us across the seabed if we are not vigilant. Perfect conditions for bodysurfing, an activity I haven’t enjoyed in over a decade. Wading out to where the waves break, catching a crest at the right moment, and riding the rush all the way back to shore--it’s an exhilarating playfulness I have not felt in a long, long time.

By the time the sun strengthens and the beach crowds, we’ve had our fill of the sea and leave hungrily seeking an early lunch. Something simple. Kuai Tiao Tom Yum (noodle soup Tom Yum) and a Singha beer. On another day, lunch will be more elaborate. A trip to the fresh seafood market for a feast: whole steamed fish seasoned with lime, chilies, and garlic, yellow curried crab, garlic shrimp, Tom Yum Bla (fish), stir-fried Chinese broccoli, and rice.

The afternoons are for small adventures. Walking the beach, exploring snacks at the convenience stores, card games, naps...Then it’s time to eat again, despite feeling overstuffed--how could we pass any opportunity to partake in this food we yearned for--and tuck into Gai Pad Med Mamuang (cashew chicken), Tom Kha Gai (Chicken Coconut Soup), Phat Graprao sai khai dao (Basil stir-fry with fried egg on top), and banana roti drizzled with sweetened condensed milk.

Finally, it is early to bed. Our reward for not surrendering to the lull of jet lag in the afternoon and resisting our pillows until the sun sets.

July 23, 2025

05.23.25 | Phuket

I sleep soundly, but the jet lag has me up at five or six again. I tough it out until just before seven and give up. We go to the sea after a light breakfast. The waves are taller today. Too strong for Mom’s knee. So she and Dad decide to walk the beach instead.

My brother and I fight the waves. Trying to wade out far enough to catch a big one and bodysurf it back to shore. We have little success. Most forward progress is nullified by the ocean’s disinterested shrugs. Diving under or jumping over the froth of oncoming waves is equally inefficient. One tackles you backward, the other tumbles you into the seabed. We enjoy the strife. And the few good rides. But I also enjoy the silent swells. The sea rises from my waist to chest to neck. A cerulean summit blocks the horizon and I leap weightless as a dandelion seed--up, up, and over--until my feet feel sand again.

We decide to walk the beach as well once the surf beats us into submission. A drizzle started while we were in the water. The flat gray clouds cleared. The sun appeared for the first time that morning and turned the waves from navy to teal, and the rain fell amber. We are far down the crescent of the beach when the clouds return, darker. The rain begins to pelt. I forgot it could sting.

We meet Mom and Dad on their way back to the resort to move our bags and towels. My brother decides to return with them, but I want to see the end of the beach. The rain waxes and wanes as I walk. Old eastern europeans sit under umbrellas and trees. Surfers take advantage of the storm-fueled swells. The waves roll a barnacled log up and down the beach. I can’t tell if they are playing or arguing. A tourist taking a surfing lesson rides a meager wave and stays up on the board all the way to shore. I’m impressed.

I reach the end of the cove--a wall of tropical greenery and a canal that leads inland into town. I turn around and follow my footprints back that have begun to fade like watercolor. I begin to compose this entry in my head. Wondering if there is a theme or message for this moment. A poignant conclusion. And decide there isn’t. I went for a walk and enjoyed the peace of it.

Maybe someday in the future--a month, a year, another decade--my subconscious will take the pieces of this memory and draw lines of association to other notions and present me with an epiphany. But that won’t be rushed. My mind wanders. I think of how I walked with my family and now I walk on alone. I think of how the rain came and went without care. And I keep walking.

July 24, 2025

05.24.25 | HKT>CNX

We leave the beach and fly to Chiang Mai today. An uneventful flight. We comment on how efficient it is to fly in any other country except the U.S. Thailand, a particularly rural country, has more technology easing the security check and boarding process, at airpots big and small, than I’d ever seen in the States. U.S. airports seem to be designed to actively sabotage travel.

Our first order of business in Chiang Mai is to visit the tailor. My brother wants a couple suits made. I decide to order a few dress shirts as well. As we are measured, the personable Indian couple that own the store offer us chai and biscuits. One cookie is infused with cumin and sprinkled with toasted cumin seeds on top. The flavors are surprising and delicious. We are told to return later that evening for the first fitting and decide to fill our time by exploring Chiang Mai on foot.

The city feels small to me now. Even the airport was smaller than I remembered when we landed earlier that day. But strolling the sidewalks is familiar, as are the preserved ruins of the city wall. I am unpleasantly surprised to discover a Taco Bell. The jolt of purple and “Live Mas” slogan feel wrong and out of place in this city known for artists and in a culture characterized by the fresh and handmade. A hypocritical reaction since KFC, Dairy Queen, Pizza Hut, McDonalds and Burger King have all been part of the landscape for decades. Regardless, the Bell feels like a bridge too far.

My friends, half a globe away, are sending me photos of their adventures at a Lao Wat (Buddhist temple) in Tennessee where Pi Mai (New Year) is being celebrated over Memorial Day weekend. Lao Pi Mai is nearly identical to Thailand’s Songkran celebration, both traditionally observed in April. When I learned the Lao Wat held a Pi Mai in May so celebrants could take advantage of the three day weekend, I was ecstatic to be able to attend a festival from my childhood in the States. And I invited all my friends to experience the traditional music and food. It became an annual event for us.

I was sad to miss the festivities this year--strange since I am currently immersed in the home culture. But I feel so glad in this moment. My friends didn’t need me to chaperone them. They went on their own without hesitation. They love what I love.

July 25, 2025

05.25.25 | Lampang

We drive to Lampang this morning, out of the city and through the mountains. We are going to attend a church led by longtime friends of my parents. As we wind the narrow roads up the mountains, my thoughts drift to the overflow of vegetation in Thailand. I often compliment Nashville, my current home, for its greenery despite it being a substantial city. Trees are abundant. There’s a wealth of parks. Hiking trails are short drives away. You can leave the urban quickly. But this can’t compare to Thailand. I am reminded you don’t go to nature here. It’s entwined with everything.

Vegetation in the States is allowed in prescribed areas and carefully policed. In Thailand, space is granted to the artificial. Humans carve little nooks for their buildings and roads, and then they are quickly engulfed by overgrowth. Grass sprouts through sidewalks, vines climb walls, trees cover roofs. The plants are left alone to grow as they please. People let them take up space. They don’t trim or shape them. They shape themselves to the flora. It looks messy, unkept to the western eye. Here, I imagine, the thought is why try to control what gives so much? Most homes, especially in the country, have multiple fruit trees. And they produce abundantly. What a family can’t eat, they give away to their neighbors.

The green is a different quality here. It’s a subtle shift in shade compared to the hues I see in the States. I can’t articulate it. But I see it. It’s unconsciously distinct. The texture of these forested mountains is different too. Shaggy. Like a giant raked up great mounds of fresh leaves. They seem like they could be blown away in a great whirl with one brisk gust of wind.

We stop at a fruit stand on the side of the highway and buy four kilograms of the fattest, rosiest Lychee as a gift for our friends at the church. When we arrive, they welcome us enthusiastically. The congregation is barely a dozen, adults and children. They ask Dad to speak before the service. Worship opens with notes on a guitar and a poorly played piano. They sing traditional Christian hymns translated into Thai. The English versions are foreign to me. I soak up the tones of the Thai lyrics.

July 26, 2025

05.26.25 | Phrae

My parents’ friends let us stay in their cute hotel in Phrae. They try to convince Mom and Dad to relocate to their new property, a stand of bungalows surround by rice paddies, but we are content with the accommodations close to town. There is more country than town in Phrae anyway. One wrong turn and you can trip into a canal used to flood the rice fields beside it.

We want Jok for breakfast--Thailand’s version of congee or rice porridge--and decide to go to my family’s favorite spot. But we arrive too late. They’re sold out. Restaurants like this are common out here. Shops open only for breakfast, lunch, or dinner--specialize in one dish--and when the food is gone, it’s gone. Sorry, please come back tomorrow.

We pick up Salapao and Kanom Jeeb instead, Thai steamed buns and dumplings. Mom chats with the ladies making the buns by hand in the back. We eat our breakfast at our friends’ rice paddy bungalows so they can show us the new property. The view is beautiful. The paddies are being prepared to be flooded. Water buffalo roam the plowed but still dry fields. Mountains ring the horizon. The morning air is filled with the calls of birds I had forgotten I missed.

We meet with an American Christian missionary family new to the area for lunch at a supermarket called Big C. The food court is a cornucopia of Thai cuisine. I eat Khao Soi and Satay while my parents encourage the young couple with three children. The kids spoon rice into their mouths like natives--like they aren’t an ocean away from the culture they were born in. That was me once.

A Big C is like a Walmart or Target but with a strip mall tacked on the front. A variety of small shops, cellphone stores, and food chains supplement the main department store. This one has the ubiquitous KFC, Mister Donut, and Dairy Queen. I get a blizzard. The first in years. The mini size--barely a cup of soft serve. I only need a taste.

We shop for Pha Mo Hom after--a traditional fabric and work shirt. The materials grown, woven, and dyed by the community. The work shirt has cloth buttons, a Chinese collar, and large front pockets all sewn from indigo dyed cotton. It’s like wearing a sturdy denim shirt. The fabric is no longer dedicated to field work. More decorative shirts, bags, hats, purses, other home goods are made--it’s even found its way into high fashion--and they are dyed with intricate patterns of elephants, village scenes, and floral designs.

We play badminton at the municipal gymnasium in the late afternoon. We are lucky to find an open court. Students play casually with friends in the unconditioned building. Others train for competition. And a coach teaches a group of children. I work up a sweat rallying the birdie back and forth with my parents and brother.

We need to wash some clothes and look for a laundromat that evening. Food stalls line the roads serving noodle soup, stir-fry, and other treats. Students finished with their afterschool activities eat with their friends at folding tables seated on plastic stools. Clouds of flying termites swarm the florescent lights, coaxed from the ground by the rains. Jing-joks, small adorable geckos, cling to the walls under the bulbs and feast.

We feast on Rad Na and Pad See Ew.

July 27, 2025

05.27.25 | Phrae

When I see the tree that stands amidst the rice paddies in front of my childhood home, I feel it does not know me. I lived in this village for six years--middle school to high school. I watched this tree change with the seasons. Boughs reflected in the flooded paddies waiting to be planted with young sprouts of rice. Its large leaves becoming flushed with the youthful green of new growth as the juvenile rice flourishes around it. Its vegetation darkening as the rice matures, heads bowed with grain. Then the paddies dry, yellow, and are harvested leaving rough brown squares scattered with straw. And we would fly kites by the tree on the cool wind that came down from the mountains.

And the tree had forgotten me.

I had not been recognized throughout the trip. At the church, my parents’ friends greeted Mom, Dad, and my little brother with enthusiasm and fondness. Their gaze slid over me in confusion. I was a baby-faced college student, or recent graduate, the last time they saw me with my perennial cropped haircut. Now they saw a 30-year-old man with a full beard and long curly hair. My parents had to introduce me. “This is our oldest.”

I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed I’d been gone so long. Ashamed of my broken Thai. Ashamed I was unrecognizable.

Too much had changed.

But then they hugged me. Faces alight with surprise and joy because they had known me then. And they were glad to know me now. Hugs are not common in Thailand. They are reserved for those you have great affection for.

This scene repeats in Rong Fong, the village of the tree. Celebration of my parents’ and brother’s return, my reintroduction, and hugs. One friend weeps. She loves us dearly and missed us. Her daughter, Nam-pung (Honey), played often at our house. Now she has a child. A neighbor video calls her son, Sam, an old playmate and friend. He is at work teaching at a school. And he smiles when we are handed her phone and sees us. My parents pepper him with questions: how are you, what do you teach, do you have a girlfriend?

We can’t find our house when we first arrive. We see the tree, aloof, the crematorium where we attended buddhist funerals, and the tractor turning the soil of the rice paddies--our view for six years. There are new houses on the street. The trees have grown taller and wilder. So we assume we missed it. We search. And find a familiar fence. With a familiar mango tree laden with fruit. A familiar coconut tree that towers. And a patch of grass we certainly played badminton on with the village children. But no house.

Only an empty concrete pad where it once stood.

July 28, 2025

05.28.25 | Phrae

Minat and Geelawan don’t recognize me either. But exclaim “Luka!” and hug me tight when they learn who I am. They are old ministry partners my parents mentored. Our families were close when we lived in Phrae city. We meet at the house I lived in the last couple of years in Thailand. This one had not been destroyed, but had transformed.

It’s now a café called Sugar Bites. Our former living room holds a grand wooden coffee bar covered with mugs, glasses, and chromed espresso machines and grinders. The room where we homeschooled is now a bright sunroom filled with café tables and chairs. And the concrete slab that separated the main house from an auxiliary building--which used to accommodate our kitchen, a storage room, and my bedroom--is now a garden courtyard. It’s beautiful, cozy. The coffee is delicious. And they have honey toast.

I tell Gee I lost my Thai, “Luem puat passaa Thai.” And her response is simply, “Puat chat.” You speak clearly. This isn’t the first time my pronunciation has been affirmed. A new, to me, family friend was startled when I spoke to her with the few phrases I was confident in and exclaimed, “Puat chat!” I had to ask my parents to translate the second word. Grammar and vocabulary may be slipping through my fingers, but I cling to the thought that pronunciation is like riding a bike and can’t be lost.

As we leave the valley of my hometown, driving back to Chiang Mai, my eyes take in what had been blinded by regularity. The sky decorated with a diverse improvisation of clouds transforming at the whim of rainy season. There the sun shining against the blue, there Toy Story clouds, there a grey felt sheet casting a great soft shadow on the fields, there a dark mass skirted by a blur of rain. All this weather can be seen all at once in the wide valley surrounded by its constant crown of mountains--ornamenting their peaks with clouds, draping mist about their shoulders, or standing sentry unadorned except for the haint of distance. These mountains were my horizon as a child. There was my house, our street, the rice paddies, the Yom river, the surrounding village and towns, and the mountains that hemmed us in.

The scenery unearths a forgotten ache.

Texas was a wonder to me as a child because of the horizon’s brutal simplicity out on the plains. You could see the curve of the world there. My current horizon is a jumble of tall concrete buildings and hills in an urban area that can’t decide if it wants to be a city or a town. I miss the clarity of the valley and the comforting hug of mountains.

July 29, 2025

05.29.25 | Chiang Mai

Our second pass through Chiang Mai is a flurry of food, fittings, and supplemental souvenir shopping. The famous Night Bazaar still sells the usual tourist trash, but the quality seems to have improved. Absent are the bootleg DVDs, eliminated by streaming. I have fond memories buying disks by the dozen, a dollar each, and playing the roulette at home to see which played or not. There are other changes, too. An extensive subterranean mall with nicer artisanal shops, a favorite spot for my family, had flooded and now lay vacant. And new plazas and side streets had opened with open-air food courts and shops and stalls selling handmade items. Pha Mo Hom cloth from my hometown is being sold with an eye-watering markup.

We prefer Warorot Market. This is where Thais on tiao--a visit or trip--go for souvenirs to bring back to their friends and family. The market is stuffed full of dried fruits, locally grown tea and coffee, and handmade crafts from communities all over the country.

We eat at our two favorite farang (foreign) restaurants: Duke’s and Butter is Better. Duke’s, started by a Chicagoan, was one of the first places to offer decent American fare. It has burgers, salads, pastas, pizzas--a massive menu. I order the calzone for old time’s sake and it proved the best I’ve eaten in a while. Butter is Better was a later addition to the city and is modeled after a diner. It serves milk shakes in a traditional sundae glass with the extra in the metal tumbler it was mixed in. They are most famous for their reuben which they have to make from scratch--from the rye bread to pastrami--since the ingredients simply aren’t available in Thailand.

Between these heavy foreign meals, we still manage to eat plenty of Thai food. And even savor a final roti at a Night Bazaar food cart--banana and egg wrapped in crispy pastry and drizzled with sweetened condensed milk.

July 30, 2025

05.30.25 | Bangkok

We are packed and waiting in the hotel lobby for our taxi to Chiang Mai International Airport. We’ve bought overflow bags to accommodate all our souvenirs--an inevitable outcome.

I insist on eating a double cheeseburger at the airport Burger King. A silly tradition of mine. The burger is mediocre and the hash browns incredible, as always. We breeze through security. We board. And we are in Bangkok all too quickly.

My flight is early next morning, but my parents and little brother fly out tonight. We drop our bags at my hotel room and hop on the skytrain to Paragon mall.

I loathe malls in the States. They’re boring warehouses full of cheap waste and bad food stretched out in a long, windy dark pattern. The only reason for me to step inside one is a movie theater. The malls in Thailand put everything I’ve seen in the States to shame. They’re vertical, knit together with overlapping escalators. Each level is cogently organized: luxury, hobbyist supplies, technology, clothing, home goods, etc. Usually, there’s also a supermarket. The Paragon has an IMAX theater at the top and a whole aquarium in the basement.

We go to the food court and eat our last bit of native Thai food. We feast on Phat Graprao, Tom Yum, Pak Boong Fai Dang, and what we affectionately call Butt Balls--sausages prepared as spheres and tied together with string. When cooked and the string removed, they look like tanned tushes with the pale shadow of a thong. Dessert is fried banana--so sweet, savory, crunchy, and creamy.

We return to the hotel. The night’s travelers shower. And I say farewell to Mom, Dad, and my brother in the lobby. They wave as their taxi drives away. I return to the room. Shower. Worry over my bags checking, rechecking, triple checking that everything is accounted for. Then attempt to sleep.

July 31, 2025

05.31.25 | BKK>ICN>SEA>BNA

I breakfast alone--friend rice, pad prik king, and pad kana namman hoi--check out and hire a taxi to take me to the international airport. The drive is nearly an hour. Lower roads are bumper to bumper in the shadow of the skyscrapers, overpasses, and skytrain. The scenery is concrete. But here and there bursts unchecked plant life of polluted green.

We move faster on the elevated highway. I can almost see the shape of the city--clustered skyscrapers give way to shorter, stacked suburbs, and beyond that the beginnings of farmland. The highway undulates--dipping below and rising above its neighbors--and I glimpse the river delta Bangkok is built on lurking beneath the overpasses. The water is grey and littered with trash. There’s a reason my parents never took us to the floating market or rode a river taxi. You can see the dysentery slicked on the surface. Tucked away along the overshadowed riverbank are the impoverished homes. Wooden, stilted houses half on land, half in the water crammed together and patched with ramshackle boards and tarps. Some dwellings are concrete. All worn. They look like the homes I’m familiar with up north in the country. Homes my neighbors lived in. Homes I lived in. And here’s the green, too. Fruit trees, vines, and bushes take up as much space as they can from the city.

Passing by this liminal region between urban and agriculture, I reluctantly address a thought I’d been avoiding. Something I knew and wish I didn’t. I would never live in Thailand again.

I feel like a tourist. The 14 years of my childhood spent in this country--living in villages by the rice paddies, playing soccer in dirt lots with the goals marked by our flip-flops, eating meals on mats on the floor, going to weddings, going to funerals, listening to the monks’ endless chants--feel like they account for nothing now that I’ve lived over a decade in the States. I left. Thailand moved on without me. Forgot me. My connections to this culture are pulling thin, breaking one by one, and drifting away like spider’s silk.

The trip back is uncomfortable but not interminable. I watch my movies, eat bibimbap, pretend to sleep. Each flight worsens as we approach the States. The services and comforts degrade. The passengers grow louder and more inconsiderate. More than sleep deprivation wears at my mood. And then, I’m back at my apartment. It’s the black hours of morning. I want to shower and sleep. But, more than anything, I want to see my friends. Because only with them does this trade makes sense.

Photos in this series were shot on an Olympus XA1 loaded with Fujifilm 400, an Olympus XA4 loaded with Kodak Ektar 100, and an iPhone 12 Pro.

A few select photos were taken on the Nikonos V with Kodak Ektachrome 100.

The Sigma fp digital camera and Soundman OKM II binaural microphone were used to capture the ambient videos.

Thank you for following along.

This month’s playlist:

Sorry, Baby

The best writing I’ve encountered this year. Expertly weaves hilarity with heaviness for grounded, human moments--the way we laugh and joke to cover our hurt and grief. Thoughtful, sorrowful, hopeful. Incredible debut. I’m seated for whatever Eva Victor does next.

The Amber Spyglass

The best of the trilogy. But not as magical or profound as I remember as a child, though it still made me tear up at moments. Love the world. Love Lyra and Will. My heart breaks for them. This novel remains a special, formative book for grade school me.

The Bear

Christopher Storer’s creative choices continue to frustrate me. Season four is an improvement over three. It has some forward motion instead of spinning its wheels (though that may have been the entire point of season three). Dialogue swings from excellent to annoying multiple times per episode--scenes from earnest to cloying. One subplot meant to be comedic falls completely flat. A widely uneven season.

But Ayo Edebiri’s episode is a delight. And Jamie Lee Curtis’ performance is simply incredible. Her scene attempting to make amends with Carmy is the highlight of the season. Excellently written and crafted.

The Retrievals

I listened to Serial like everyone else when it debuted, but immediately stepped off the true crime train before it got a full head of steam. The first season of The Retrievals I consider true crime adjacent. What kept me listening is it doesn’t feel voyeuristic. It’s educational and humanizing. The final episode has an emotional slap that left me in a funk for the rest of the day.

Undeterred, I rolled right into the second season, which made surprising creative choices for delivering the narrative. It framed much of the story as a TV show script--specifically a medical drama--woven with interviews and professional reporting. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of true events being recounted this way. It’s unique and immersive. The season was as emotionally dense as the first, but it wasn’t all grief and hurt and anger. The most moving element was community working together to correct a wrong and beginning to make a difference. The work is difficult and long, far too long, but seeing the first, small sprout of change is overwhelming. I’ll be listening to whatever story Susan Burton tells next. Probably with tears in my eyes.

Wet Leg

This band has been popping up in my Pandora stations for a few years. Welcome contributions, but they didn’t latch onto my brain until this month when I ran across their Tiny Desk performance promoting their new album, moisturizer. I will be picking up their entire catalogue this Bandcamp Friday.

This month was also partially dedicated to preparations for Travelogue, which ends today. Learning how a newsletter platform works, copyediting, formatting, linking, embedding, scheduling. Outside of that, I’ve been taking some photos for friends, experimenting with infusions, and working on a long-overdue music video.

I dedicated most of my free time to journaling about my trip to Thailand. It was bittersweet. I had a lot to process. And then decided I wanted to share the experience publicly as a pop-up newsletter. Photos, video, reflection--one entry per day that I was in Thailand. It starts on the 19th of July and ends on the 31st. You can follow along here.

This month’s playlist:

Requiem for a Dream

I am an odd Darren Aronofsky fan. I have seen few of his movies. The ones I love are the most polarizing: Noah (2014) and Mother! (2017). And I haven’t watched either of the movies he’s well known for: Black Swan (2010) and Requiem for a Dream (2000). I’ve now ameliorated part of the situation.

Requiem is trying very hard and doing a good job at it. “It” being a visually original and stunning film. The elaborate timelapses, “hip hop montage” sequences, the blending of hallucination and reality. Impressive.

But I did not like this movie. I found it garish. I feel the way it handles the topic of addiction is in poor taste. There’s no subtlety or nuance to the characters. They are paraded across the screen as a macabre freak show--which may be the intention--and left me feeling nothing but disgust for what I experienced. The single impotent note of “drugs bad” did nothing for me.

I feel Trainspotting (1996) treats this topic with far more grace. It’s compassionate, humanizing, without pulling any punches. Yes, addiction will destroy you, but these are people, too.

The Stanley Parable: Ultra Deluxe

It’s been a while since I’ve played a true walking simulator. This one genuinely has the best writing. The meta commentary is clever, though not awfully deep. But I don’t think I’ve seen all there is to see. Depth may be lurking behind the next door. I appreciate the low-stakes gameplay and discovery. Perfect for a chill and a chuckle.

The Subtle Knife

Book two of the His Dark Materials trilogy has severe sequelitis. Little occurs. It lacks a beginning and an end. Interstitial. Liminal. But it does lay important groundwork to enable the Amber Spy Glass to shine.

This month was entirely devoted to Travelogue, the pop-up newsletter. Writing and reflecting. Developing all the film from the trip. Editing little “reels” from video clips I recorded in Thailand (Meta’s Edits app is regrettably very good). I’m proud of the effort. I hope I translated the experience well.

This month’s playlist:

The Taste of Things

This may be the most romantic movie I have ever watched. The Taste of Things seduces you into presence. It lets the preparation of a dish take up as much time it needs. It lets every sound be heard. It lingers on every expression. It lets the sun dazzle. There is no race. When each scene ends and moves to the next, there is a bit of heartbreak that it did not last longer. Every moment is a treasure.

The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Ages

Link’s Awakening is the quintessential Zelda game to me. Oracle of Ages and its counterpart--Oracle of Seasons--are based on that beloved Game Boy game so I’ve enjoyed the experience. Ages falls short of Awakening in a few ways for me: not as mysterious, some mechanics feel gimmicky, or are annoying. But I like it. It’s familiar and new. Comforting.

The Golden Compass

The His Dark Materials books were formative for me. I read them only once. But I gifted a friend The Amber Spyglass and as I wrote a note attempting to explain why it was important to me (and why I was gifting him book three in a trilogy he hadn’t read), I realized it was time to revisit these three books. I’m only partway through The Golden Compass at the moment. It’s like refreshing a memory. I remember enjoying the first book for its imaginative world and being frustrated with The Subtle Knife for taking time away from Lyra. But the real sucker punch was The Amber Spyglass. I wonder how I’ll receive it now.

Bob’s Burgers

Catching up on the seasons I’ve missed. This show doesn’t have a single bad episode. Each a delicious morsel.

This month I also directed my first music video (now in the midst of editing), collaborated on another photoshoot, and shot way too many rolls of film in Thailand.

This month’s playlist:

Blue Prince

I respect this randomized puzzle box. It’s a delight to gradually discover how to play the game, and trilling to glimpse the secrets waiting to be discovered. Nearly every element in the game harbors more than meets the eye.

But I doubt I’ll finish it. The randomized elements of the game will eventually erode my patience. I think the combination of puzzler and roguelike is clever, innovative, and well-executed. However, I already have little patience for puzzle games. Add in RNG that can foil completing a solution, and you have a recipe for me to drop a game quick.

I like it! It’s not for me.

The Telling

Continually impressed by how Le Guin developes such a rich, alien culture and immerses us in that worldview to such a degree we begin to think in those patterns. And then, when we come up for air, we know exactly what she’s talking about on our world.

Not my favorite of hers. But a valuable tale nonetheless.

The Elephant Man

I’ve done it. I’ve seen every Lynch feature film. But I can’t say I liked The Elephant Man. The movie is good, likely great. But it made me profoundly sad. Lynch is fearless depicting the evils of humanity without subtext, and equally fearless in depicting us attempting to be better. It was hard for me to watch. The degree of exploitation, both conscious and unconscious. Pseudo-heroes grappling with their ulterior motives and potential villainy. Hope being given, then taken away. We behave as animals. This is our greatest temptation.

Jungle

New work-focus music.

This month I’ve also celebrated Hot Dog Week, continued to collaborate creatively with the artists in my life, and been moved to tears by multiple works of art.

Shot with the Leica R3 on Provia 400 and Lomochrome Purple.

I see them in the mirror. I see them in the puddle. I see them the moment before the laptop screen lights up. And They see me.

My reflection is supposed to be me. It was me. But one day it was not. Those are my eyes, my ears, my teeth. But a cruelty hides deep in their pupils. Their grin is full of needles and their auricles are knots of tumors.

They are my enemy. I can’t explain why. Every time I see them, I feel nothing but hostility. Sometimes I see an expression of terror. Wide eyes. Clenched teeth set to spring open with a scream. They are mocking me. Mocking the fear about to burst from my chest.

I am here. They are there. My one comfort. I feel the violence in them but the most they can do is torment my mind. So I must ignore them. I avert my eyes. I preen blindly at my sink. I look to the standing tree instead of the hanging one in the pond. I blink as I open my laptop. I turned my back on my enemy. This was my folly.

Someone opened a glass door into my path and I did not see. I glanced away from the enemy instinctually. And I walked right into them. My Reflection. And now I am there. With Them.

I am frozen in shock. Their lips split to reveal those horrible teeth. To snarl or scream. I do not know. They mean to do me harm. I attack first. We use every fiber of strength in our struggle. We are cornered animals. Our combat wordless and free of exclamation. Every ounce of oxygen needed for our exertion. Peace impossible until the other is extinguished.

I am thrown into the glass door. The portal to our confrontation. And it shatters. Into long cruel fangs. I snatch one up. Ignorant as the crystal fillets my grip. And I am upon Them. I roar. Thrust. And my shard glints in Their chest. And Theirs scintillates in mine.

Our blood seeps from our bodies and mingles. And our blood is the same. It was always the same. I am realizing too late. The eyes, ears, and teeth. They are me and mine.

Then in the periphery. In the facet of the shard. At the point of reflection. The imperceptible intersection. I see the Cruelty. A sly serpent. I see that I was deceived. And They were tricked. This Involution twisted our perceptions and poisoned us. Goaded us into mutual destruction. And I weep. We weep. Until our bodies are bled. Then still. And our Enemy glitters in our blood.

This month’s playlist:

Worlds of Exile and Illusion

I glutted myself on Ursula K. Le Guin’s fantasy and now I’m going back in for the sci-fi. I started with the famous The Left Hand of Darkness, a tragic and affecting tale, then jumped backward to the first three books in the Hainish Cycle collected in Worlds of Exile and Illusion. The early books lack the power of The Left Hand of Darkness, but these are seeds. With each story the colors deepen and become more complex--exploring increasingly nuanced and foundational elements of the human experience.

I love Le Guin’s fascination with how cultures and planets tell time. How they procreate. How they love and fear. The bedrock of social constructs that touch every part of life. But the worlds she conjures are mere artifice for the meat of her stories--embodied characters with absorbing emotional journeys. I’ve never felt so drawn into individuals’ internal landscapes.

The Straight Story

I’m not a David Lynch fan, but I’m certainly an appreciator. Thankful for The Belcourt putting on a retrospective so I could fill in my gaps of his work. I’d only seen two movies and Twin Peaks through The Return previously. The Twin Peaks body of work was hit-and-miss for me, but it has my earnest respect. I did not like Inland Empire. Some parts of Lost Highway clicked with me, though.

From the retrospective, I only didn’t enjoy Wild at Heart--which is a shame because the cast and performances were sublime. Blue Velvet (essentially a Twin Peaks pilot), Eraserhead (by far the most unique film I’ve seen in a while), and Mulholland Drive (holy shit) dialed up my admiration on a logarithmic curve. I was also treated to several of Lynch’s early short films and I’m in love with the animations he incorporated into The Alphabet and The Grandmother.

But I did not expect the grander of The Straight Story--to think I almost skipped it. Likely one of the greatest G-rated Disney-distributed movies of all time. Quiet, beautiful, funny, earnest, and makes the heartache. As the movie putters to its conclusion, I began to worry that there would be a fumble. I felt a crescendo building--one to rattle the soul--but knew one misplaced note could ruin the whole thing. But it was perfect. Two simple lines summed the journey with staggering simplicity. I’m crying right now just remembering it. Everyone should watch The Straight Story.

Severance

Yes, I am watching season two. Yes, it’s the best-looking show on streaming, competently written, and well-paced. It is worth your time. This season’s title sequence is mid though. I will not be taking comments. See for yourself: 1,2.

This month I obviously spent too much time at the movie theater, stirred a little controversy online, and the latest episode of my podcast released. We pontificate about Conclave.

This month’s playlist:

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

The more things I watch and read that portray dreams, memory, and the interior mind, the less impressive Inception becomes to me. Inception remains an entertaining spectacle. It’s just shallow. Paprika is far more visually impressive. The Lathe of Heaven is vastly more mysterious and I’d love to see it adapted to the screen. And Eternal Sunshine is simply a better movie that is indistinguishable from an actual dream.

I hate when Clementine is swallowed by the dark. I had forgotten that shot and when I saw it again this month I was struck with admiration by how cruel and dreadful it is. That’s what this film is. Cruel and dreadful. And beautiful. A lament, and celebration.

My friend said, as we left the theater, that heartbreak is so powerful. That it’s awful but an important thing. I wonder if this is one of the ideas the movie was trying to communicate. Heartbreak changes you. Without it, you won’t. Dunst’s character is robbed of her heartbreak. She’s forced to repeat her humiliation and grief. And I think this is the small hope: she gives their heartbreak back.

Absolution

Increasingly, I realize that Area X is best as a visual experience for me. VanderMeer uses so many words to describe the indescribable--with great skill--but it’s all a rich loam begging to cultivate a visually stunning film experience. In prose alone, this ended as a ponderous exercise. I hope there’s a future for movies based on this series beyond Annihilation.

Baldur’s Gate 3

I’ve enjoyed picking away at this over the past month. I’m not far in and I don’t feel rushed. The top-down RPG captured my interest when I was young with Dungeon Siege, but I haven’t played many since. I only dabbled with Knights of the Old Republic. And I never played one with turn-based combat. I like it. I like the characters. I like the slow strategy of the battles. I like the chance of the dice rolls. It hasn’t engulfed me like it did many upon release. But I think it will be a comforting game to pick up and put down as I need.

Wolf Alice

I forget how much I love this band. I can listen to all their albums on repeat. They’re so calming and energetic at the same time.

This month I’ve also been far too social for my own good so many of my creative endeavors have been relegated to the back burner. But the podcast I may or may not be involved with may or may not have launched, I spent way too much time mansplaining film projection formats, and managed to destroy my Pentax 6x7 on a photoshoot. Thankfully, I found a guy that may be able to resurrect it.

Shot with the Leica R3 on Kentmere 100.