I just travel the world with my backpack and my cameras and a bunch of Clif bars.

There is a part of me that still wants to go out and grab a backpack and unplug - not take a cellphone or even a camera and just get out there and experience the world and travel. I have yet to do that, but someday I hope.

I'm about 5' 10", and my hair is the length of my whole body now. We grow our hair because of faith, but it's getting heavy. Most of the rastas I know with hair my length are elders, and they keep it tied up, but for a young person who's active and running around, the weight is a big thing. So to play sports, I put it in a backpack.

I always thought backpack swag was cool, but the more I do it, the more it is in light of Mac Miller.

I like the city. I like the concrete. I like big business. I like being a CEO of my own company and having a lot of responsibilities. At the same time, when I can go off with a backpack or off on a surfboard or even off on a run somewhere in the woods - that's where I'm really happy.

Nothing was ever in tune. People just blindly grabbed at whatever there was: communism, health foods, zen, surfing, ballet, hypnotism, group encounters, orgies, biking, herbs, Catholicism, weight-lifting, travel, withdrawal, vegetarianism, India, painting, writing, sculpting, composing, conducting, backpacking, yoga, copulating, gambling, drinking, hanging around, frozen yogurt, Beethoven, Back, Buddha, Christ, TM, H, carrot juice, suicide, handmade suits, jet travel, New York City, and then it all evaporated and fell apart. People had to find things to do while waiting to die. I guess it was nice to have a choice.

Grover wore his fake feet and his pants to pass as human. He wore a green rasta-style cap, because when it rained his curly hair flattened and you could just see the tips of his horns. His bright orange backpack was full of scrap metal and apples to snack on. In his pocket was a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knew two songs: Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 12 and Hilary Duff's "So Yesterday," both of which sounded pretty bad on reed pipes.

I didn't know. I feel sometimes like?there are all these rules. Just to be a person. You know? You're supposed to carry a shoulder bag, not a backpack. You're supposed to wear headbands, or you're not supposed to wear headbands. It's okay to describe yourself as likeable, but it's not okay to describe yourself as eloquent. You can sit in the front of the school bus, but you can't sit in the middle. You're not supposed to be with a boy, even when he wants you to. I didn't know that. There are so many rules, and they don't make any sense, and I just can't learn them all

I just travel the world with my backpack and my cameras and a bunch of Clif bars.

The rite of passage of learning to build a fire that will burn all night with one match is not an insignificant one in my husband's family and I grew up camping and backpacking. I love to camp.

There is a part of me that still wants to go out and grab a backpack and unplug - not take a cellphone or even a camera and just get out there and experience the world and travel. I have yet to do that but someday I hope.

So I'm more at home with my backpack sleeping in a hotel room or on a bus or on an airplane than I am necessarily on a bed. It's weird being here. It feels like I'm standing next to my real life.

There was a great complexity to my father. He was a devoted family man. But in the same breath he simply was not suited to an anchored life. He should have been somebody who had a backpack an old map a bit of change in his pocket and that was it - roaming the world.