Sherwin Nation

2006-03-23T05:52:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-02-08T06:48:00.000-08:00

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:

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

2005-12-20T09:13:00.000-08:00

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."

2005-12-01T09:36:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-25T02:02:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-08T03:04:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-04T11:04:00.000-08:00

"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse and a turtledove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travelers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks, and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who have heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud; and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves."
-Thoreau

I lost something this weekend. In the middle of good company, well worn and wearing a mood of happy return, I arrived in Austria after several days in romantic Budapest. We parted ways too quickly, moving in opposite directions, and without the drama of train station goodbyes. While there are still distances of the literal and figurative to consider--nothing so precious as a turtledove was lost--I'm nearing an understanding of what he meant, if not yet what he felt.

The best parts of me think that we will meet again.

2005-10-30T02:07:00.000-08:00

I will be unable to post with my usual frequency this week. Many of my readers will be disappointed to learn that several days of school holidays have given me an opportunity to visit romantic Budapest. I'm still not too sure what makes Budapest romantic, but I just don't like saying Budapest without the 'romantic' prefixture. Like saying refill without 'free.' (Prefixture, I'm certain, is not a word).

A few words on Strudel. I've discovered that I can damn near anytime I want get some Strudel. It's 8.30 in the morning, so what, I can get a Strudel. It's the afternoon and I'm off work, fuck it, let's get a Strudel. A wonderful pastry, certainly to be enjoyed by all. But did you know that a Strudel comes in more than just the popular Apfel (apple) variety? Man oh man, do I enjoy Gemüsestrudel (Vegetable Strudel) or Erdapfelstrudel (Potato Strudel). And to top it off, my landlady (Vermieterin) is back, and once in a while, guess what she makes? That's right, the goddamned Strudel.

On a side note, I'm quickly running out the cash money I made this summer working four different job. (Makes me sound like a hard working, huh? Point of fact, I was told to leave one and ended up quiting the other three.) I've aggravated my savings by purchasing a brand new road bike. That really put the air out of my Luftballon. Oh well, she's a sweet two-wheeler and my goal is to ride her from Feldbach to Innsbruck in late spring, three-quarters the length of the country, over the Alps and valleys, and probably some breweries. That and I still have not received my first paycheck!

When I come back from romantic Budapest, I'll post pictures as soon as I want to. Tootles

2005-10-03T07:26:00.000-07:00

My landlady took the equivalent of a spa vacation this week at a resort near the mountains here in Austria. We would usually have conversations at night (basically me pointing at an object and her telling me what it is), but because she will be gone for a total of three weeks, I'm basically by myself in a house full of objects I don't know the names of. In my newfound latchkey kid solitude, a solitude Rilke and Thoreau could only write about, I find myself entertaining thoughts that highlight a markedly decreased cognitive ability.

The other night, while tucking myself into bed, I actually said, and without external prompting, “Yessss, but can you tango?” I rounded off the interrogative by applying a faultless impression of Antonio Banderas—the puss with the boots in that movie with the monster and John Cleese. Take some time to say what I said out loud to yourself, accent and all. Now why would I say something like that to myself before going to bed? Why in the hell would I ever say that to anyone?

I said that because there is a good chance I might be going crazy. Crazy because I'm alone at night listening to mostly English language music (see previous post), and during the day I'm trying to speak German! Any psychiatrist would have told you that it was only a matter of time before the patient succumbed to the inevitable: impressively accurate and heavily accented Spanish pick-up lines for dances that are actually Argentinean in origin and aimed at no one in particular.

2005-10-02T06:46:00.000-07:00

It is Sunday, the day before I start school here in Austria, and the usual first day blues are on my mind. What should I wear? Am I going to sit with the cool kids or will this be another year with Clarence and the boys in the Audio/Visual club? I didn't do anything this summer, so should I make stuff up or tell them the truth: that grandma brought me to the hairdresser's after church every Sunday for her perm, some gossip, and sugar cookies? A part of me thinks that bare-back horse riding across the Mongolian steppe casts a shadow longer than the truth. Let's call that shadow “envy.”

Still, I think I'm ready for school. So what if I've got diabetes now from the sugar cookies and my sense of haute couture is limited to the sensibilities of dated fashionistas: muddled flower print dresses at three-quarters length, hospital issued stockings that rest around the ankles, and beehive hairdos held together with pin and prayer. Look for me on Monday and you'll find the guy smiling. It's a new year and I'll be the one wearing the navy blue cardigan and his best black underwear, waiting for lightning to strike.

2005-10-01T06:37:00.000-07:00

Ten things I have done so far:

1. Traveled and took some photos. Check out my photo site.
2. Correctly predicted the weather. Did that like twice.
3. Incorrectly predicted that I could beat two locals in a drinking game called Nageln. Basically, driving three-inch nails into a piece of wood with the sharp side of a hammer. Loser buys the round. Therefore, the rounds I purchased included Puntigamer beers, shots called Sambuca, and shots of Jaeger. Did that like seven times. (Note: in spite of the monetary loss, and in combination with some obscure drinking form of Keynesian economics, my street cred increased)
4. Split a bottle of wine with the principal of my school. It's going to be a good year.
5. Moved my lithe little body to the theme song from Dirty Dancing. I was later informed that an old Austrian couple in the bar/restaurant took exception with my considerable talents. Apparently three and a half minutes of vigorous self-massage over the length of my hot and bothered body just doesn't garner the applause it used to. “Nobody messes with Baby!” (the second best line from a movie, ever.)
6. Attended a wedding.
7. Spoke to girls. Yep, I did. But not—as hindsight strikes me hardest—at that damned wedding.
8. Met some super fine cats and dolls at the week long seminar for incoming teaching assistants. We learned a lot about each other and no, we really didn't. WWWT? (What Would Wittgenstein Think?).
9. Sang a song in German to one of the original Von Trapp children, Maria, on her birthday. Seriously! Granted, it was over the phone and with sixty other teaching assistants, but I'm still going to file that in the “I can't believe it's not butter” folder. I even have a photocopy of a hand-written letter she sent to the assistants thanking us for coming to Austria and teaching. Said letter will be placed in said folder.
10. Got a divorce.

Preliminary Conclusion:

It is not a good idea to take part in drinking games—especially with locals—involving sharp nails and a hammer, and thinking, “Yeah, I could win this.” Because before you know it, you're drunk, dancing to a song from a movie about dancing, married, sober, singing a song you don't understand to a person you've never met but who was the inspiration for a character in a movie about singing, divorced, and coming to wonder, when the night is still and the bottle still empty, where your youth went.

2005-09-29T06:27:00.000-07:00

I cannot possible keep up with what the kids are listening to back in the states. On top of that, I promised my parole officer and several members of the clergy that I'd never visit Pitchfuck again. So, dear friends, send me news on the latest Maroon 5 or Alien Ant Farm. This way I don't lose face with the students in my classes.

Current albums I'm listening to:

1. Broken Social Scene – You Forgot It In People. I'm crushing on Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl. It takes me back to my boarding school days in Connecticut, from the pillow fights and the anorexia to the rendezvouses with the boys from Choate.
2. Feist – Let It Die. Mushaboom and Secret Heart. If I had a special lady friend looking to conceive, I'd give her this album. Then we'd conceive.
3. Gorillaz – The G-Sides. Super fun and better than the original: Clint Eastwood (Phi Life Cypher Remix)
4. Antonio Carlos Jobim – Finest Hour. An episode of Sea Lab featured the duet Aguas de Marco. Don't fear that it is sung in Portuguese. Definitely worth finding and listening to alone. Send the kids on a meaningless errand, draw a bath, turn on a candle, and relax in the warm waters of lyrics you'll never understand.
5. The Stone Roses – The Stone Roses. I made friends with some British teaching assistants by virtue of the fact that I owned this album. And if they didn't become my friends, then sod 'em! (ClaireBear taught me that one)

Special thanks to Europhoenix, my brother, the Winfrey Boys, Soapy, Huizenga, and BearShare. KimFu, I'm waiting for you to hook me up. She's easily the best party mix maker in the greater Oklahoma City area. When I rented a skating rink for my 21st birthday party, she lit that place on fire. And then I broke a friend's ankle in two places. Sorry Soapy.

2005-09-13T10:01:00.000-07:00

Given the inappropriate amounts of time I have had this summer for earnest reflection and discount pharmacy pain killers, I have managed to develop a handful of ideas that I would like to pursue while living the American expatriate lifestyle. I will keep you posted on the various successes, failures, and amendments of this list

Twice weekly tramps through forest and glade, in search of soft cheeses.
Introducing cock-fighting as both a viable business opportunity and an exciting way to spend a Friday night.
Eat more beer.
Get new invisible friend. Preferably one who speaks German.
Tastefully photoshop myself into pictures with girls who look interested in me.

2005-09-12T14:15:00.000-07:00

My mother, a woman of otherwise commendable patience and underrated sarcasm, and I have been fighting. Words were exchanged and long stares cast. A dry air moves between us now that reminds me of Marrakesh in summertime. Supper is unbearable and practiced with the civility of strangers forced into small quarters. And when she tucks me in at night, warm under goose down and 800 thread count Egyptian cotton, what happened, I wonder, to all the Stevie Nicks cover songs she would sing me soft to sleep with?

The splinter under our skins: what to pack for my move.

In a perfect world, I would without chagrin transfer the bulk of my movable estate to my future residence, the coveted wine region of southeastern Austria. Naturally, the Tiffany flatware would arrive in time for a proper meal of l'ortolan and lobster confit. My autumn wardrobe, a mixed bag of bespoke Savile Row suits, would lie waiting, boxed in leather and smelling of the better parts of London. A listing of my current requirements, however, would prove rather long. I need not go further into details save only to say that a glass of my finest Scotch will be waiting to greet me—after landing my airship in the middle of an old Hapsburg hunting ground—in the only way a gentleman should want: at least twenty years old and dressed in heavy crystal.

But as it stands, such is not the case. Luggage is a limited commodity on the various commercial airline carriers operating in the United States. Apparently everyone, regardless of social rank, is granted the same amount of space. My mother and I, therefore, were forced into this situation, into this stalemate, by an airline racket functioning under the twin distresses of capitalist and egalitarian irrationalities. So here we are with competing philosophies. My sense of unapologetic entitlement versus her "feet on the dirty earth that everyone gets to spit on" practicality.

The war of words and stares continues, unsettled in this house where dinner is served warm and a little boy is put to sleep nightly. What to bring? What to bring? In a perfect world, I would bring my mom.

2005-09-12T10:36:00.000-07:00

At some irretrievable point during the rum and coke summer of 2005, I graduated from the University of Oklahoma, without distinction. When the time came, I was not asked to give a speech of strong word and moral force to my class—to the thousands of people I stared at, ignored, never knew, ridiculed, pined for, and was jealous of—during my several years as a student. In my disappointments I find an easy fault with the epicurean parts of myself. Three cheers for the failed classes, the ill-used academic opportunities, and the thinness of my curriculum vitae. “Hip-hip-hooray!” and I cry every time.

It was, however, this same prodigality, this same tendency towards personal Sodom and Gomorrahs, that afforded me close access to the many moments of genuine felicity my one life on earth would wish to have. And would wish to have more of.

Fortunately for me, between the Sturm und Drang of unfettered youth and the market realities of my recent graduation, I managed to find temporary employment as a Foreign Language Teaching Assistant in Austria. During the next year, I will be away, sadly, finally, from the town and country atmosphere of home for...well, probably the exact same thing in Feldbach, Austria. Population, under five thousand.

So, in the interest of keeping in touch with friends and family, here is the Sherwin Nation, a documentation of sorts: the truths and fictions of a daily life under foreign flag and currency. Welcome to and marvel at the sinning and trumpery of my unexamined life, superficially noted and absent the dirge of existential balladry.