My mom has always hated how I pace when I’m on the phone. It makes her dizzy watching me make circuits around the dining table. Growing older, I’ve noticed I tend to pace when I get a brainstorm. A new idea for a short, a mental idea of what music to coincide with a video, or how mindfucked I get by a Borges short story. I get tunnel vision thinking so intently on an idea, and the feet just go, on autopilot to power the brain while the brain is preoccupied in doing whatever the hell it’s doing.
Wherever I’ve lived, I’ve done a lot of walking. More walking than logistically necessary, most times inconveniently so. Now in Thailand, I take long bike rides, across town and in circles around the moat. Not because I’m taking so long to get there, or that I’m lost. I’ve been so inundated by reflection in native culture, Thai society, Thai sexuality and sexual stigma, conceptions of race and racial privilege, globalized identity, politics, Thai conceptions of art and visual culture, exquisite corpses of art from cultural cross-pollination - all this in relation to my own overgrown, cancerous creative itches that leave me tired and hungry and exhausted with all that energy siphoned into the ideas until they live and breath and walk and sweat and travel the world with me as electrons around the nucleus.
I can see the appeal of the backpacker in aimlessly travelling. I can’t do that. I’ve realized I wouldn’t be just walking, biking, flying, driving, riding the bus, riding the train, riding the scooter, swimming, climbing, or dancing across England or France or New York or Seattle or Spokane or Chiang Mai. It’s all pacing.