I received my second year extension today. I'm flying back home for the summer but it looks like I'll be living here a little longer.

Life continues in Feldbach, my adopted home on the border of the Austrian Alps. Slow lunches with various local dignitaries--the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker; Thursday afternoons at the shooting range with the Ladies Auxiliary Club; weekends selecting grapes and strawberries at the Farmer's Market in order to satisfy my urge for making fruit preserves.

In other news, and ceding to my parents' wishes, I have included new pictures on my photo site that accurately portray the devastation in my room--a combination of uninhibited bachelordom, a declining personal hygiene, and the slow erosion of what others might call "self-respect."

Shout-outs:

1. Brando, I'm wearing your scarf. Thanks buddy
2. Mom, I cooked that food in the picture all by myself.
3. Sherman, thanks for sending the Urban Climber Magazine
4. Jessica Alba, for just being yourself.
   

An update, of sorts, with no delibarate continuity:

I'm back in the game, boys and girls. The camera was purchased, after much expense, and a little bit of bargaining (in my broken German). Expect more pictures and less whinning. I went back and read some of these posts. Why didn't you tell me I sounded so Emo? I'm looking at you, Brandon.

I cannot justify the expense of this camera. I don't for a second believe it will make me a better photographer. I do think, however, that in the course of time uninterrupted, it will make me a much poorer and possibly more bitter soul.

'Tis the season for saying I'm sorry: So sorry about not being back home for the holidays. [Begin moment of weakness] I really miss you people. [End moment of weakness]

In other news: After spending my first Christmas in Austria with my host family, I will be heading to Monte Carlo and the coast of southern France on the 29th for my first proper European climbing trip! Needless to say, the dude is excited. I will be belay slaving for some local hardmen, and cool guys to boot. One of them has a pretty nice website: www.styleofclimbing.com.

And after getting my ass kicked on French limstone, I'll get my ass kicked on fabled Austrian powder. I will miss the first week of school because I am going on the annual ski week with the all girl's school. I will be in the beginners snow boarding course. Life, I know, is horrible. And I plan on documenting the horror extensively--with my new camera.

The year is almost over, so I'll end on a positive note. I am taking my cue from Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who wrote somewhere at sometime the following, I think: "It doesn't matter what you do this year or in the next one hundred, because you will be dead forever."

In the realm of clinical psychology—or is it clerical podiatry?—experts refer to the continued “use” of lost legs or arms by patients as indications of the so-called “phantom limb syndrome.” A similar tendency, I have discovered, is showing itself in the modest actions of my everyday life here in small town Austria, among the quiet streets and hello-friendly neighbors.

My problem, insofar as it is a problem, happens whenever it wants, but always in the same fashion. Sometimes I'm just walking around in a circle (on leg is shorter than the other, don't laugh) trying to figure out if I should go home and sleep or stay out in the cold and feel tired—and then it hits me. I take in the scene, the lighting is right and the elements are in place: a combination of proportions and textures that catch my astigmatic vision. I raise my two hands in front of my face, bending my fingers and twisting my wrists, until I produce a gesture that's often mistaken for an earlier life's gang related activity. I close my left eye and peer between my two hands. Everything is still, my legs are bent and spread wide to distribute my weight. Slowly, I move my right index finger in a downward motion, hold, hold, and then press fully, simultaneously saying “click.”

I swear on the futures graves of the 2005 Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders that when I get my first paycheck, I'm going to buy a camera.* I miss taking bad pictures, accidental pictures, lucky shot pictures. I miss worrying about white balance settings, f-stop numbers, shutter speeds, and ISO settings. I miss holding the camera, wearing it around my neck, cleaning the lenses, changing the filters, charging the batteries. I miss uploading the shots onto the computer, viewing a slide show, sharpening out of focus shots, messing with highlights and shadows, consulting the histogram.

As I am unable to show you new pictures, I'd like to tell you now about some of the more recent photos I've taken with my phantom digital camera.**Bear with me, but in order to do this, I will have to employ what people without cameras call “word pictures.”

1. I was walking home one night under lamp light and a distant moon. A single set of footprints lay in front of me, small and numerous, pressed against fresh fallen snow, Robert Frost style. I chose a slow shutter speed and high ISO setting to compensate for the lighting. Still, without a tripod, I couldn't stay still long enough. Everything was fuzzy. Disappointed, I turned off the camera and left for warmer spaces.

2. This second shot was a no-brainer. She was beautiful in the way one thinks of Botticelli's Venus: tresses long and soft on slender shoulders, chestnut brown with golden streaks. She walked with her hips; left and right, right and left; her ass bouncing to some alien gravity; moving to some secret song. I took some shots before she disappeared around a corner. Still staring at that corner, I closed my eyes and let my body consider her for a moment, taking her in with the air that entered my lungs. I held my breath.... Finally, I looked at the screen to see if I got anything good. Only black! The goddamn lens cover was still on. Rookie phantom camera owner mistake number one.

3. For the last shot, I opted for a traditional landscape format. The subject was a wall of graffiti. The major colors represented were oranges and yellows, with blacks for highlights and definition. Most tagging here is either an expression of youthful ennui or dramatic calls for political upheaval. This one was different, which is why I chose to spend some time taking pictures of it. The subject matter was......................uhhhgggg, forget it!

You can keep your nouns and verbs in the cupboard. WORD PICTURES SUCK.***

*After I pay the two month's rent I still owe my landlady, and then food, and then maybe a hat, a green hat. Some socks too. And thermal underwear.

**Yes, yes, I know. The traditionalists are moaning over the fate of film. But digital suits my purposes here; the technology is easier to blog.

***If you still want to read about pictures, I can do no better than recommend a book length essay by Susan Sontag called “On Photography.” If you are interested in the origins and consequences of our image culture, this work will freak you out. She's a considered thinker, lucid writer, and a critical/genuine fan of photography as art.

A walking ephiphany: listening to Beulah on the way to school is perfect in snowy weather. Longer posts to come next week.

For about 900 American bucks, all this can be yours. Link

I first met Kim in a forest.* It was dark and I think she might have been wearing glasses. We spoke briefly, taking our turns in polite conversation. Since then, I have always enjoyed Kim's talent for entertaining my company. When I thought it was a good idea to color my hair salt and pepper gray--after the distinguished fashion of George Clooney--Kim bleached it brown. She let me borrow her grade school copy of Wind in the Willows and never said 'no' whenever I asked to play on her 15 inch Powerbook. Her generosity is a strength and I'm only one of the many who have benefited from it.

Kim is mostly quiet, but if the occasion calls for it, she'll laugh a laugh that makes you laugh along with her. The kind of laugh that makes her arms bend at funny angles. We both love Audrey Hepburn and I like the way she sits with her feet on her chair, sometimes without socks. It's cute.

I haven't always lived up to my part of our friendship. How many movie nights did I cancel at the eleventh hour? And always with an awful explanation. How many rafting trips did she organize and invite me to, only to hear that I was going climbing that weekend? I once stole a mix CD from her. In retribution, she gave me another mix CD to enjoy. I played those songs with a prisoner's guilt, every track a new favorite. Kim has better friends than me, but I'm blessed to know that she has not forgotten me in the way that I've sometimes forgotten about her.

No excuse is good enough this time, Kim. Not for this date. I will regret not being able to step on your toes when we dance the ballroom dances we both know. I will regret not having a chance to surprise you by asking the DJ to play Rilo Kiley's the Frug so that we can finally figure out how it goes. But what I will regret the most is not seeing you dressed in long white and smiling a smile you've never smiled before.

On a perfect Saturday afternoon in December, my friend, Kim, will marry a boy from Muskogee who loves her.

* We actually had a philosophy class together before our forest meeting, but meeting in a forest sounds so much more Edenic. That and I think Locke and Sartre would approve.