Slow Forward

Tony Z at his finest. Here's to summer -- cut grass and stickball, force kale chips down 11-year-olds throats, put fun out of business. The Lake. Lemme at 'em!

Mo' Road

Sanctuary Speak

"The most valuable thoughts which I entertain are anything but what I thought. Nature abhors a vacuum, and if I can only walk with sufficient carelessness I am sure to be filled." 

That's Thoreau. Coming home again, and maybe caring too much. I'm swelling with memories and good folk (and quite literally ballooning with food) like a tongue, until it fills the mouth and heads for the throat; it's like the only way out is going back in. Home is someone holding their finger up between your eyes, just out of your range of focus, and hooking the ends of your periphery together until there is nothing but a singular point of fuzzy, visual white noise. This particular return makes me cross-eyed. I care too much when I walk, move when I should sleep, and have thoughts talk over the crackling of the fire. Christmas day bloated too -- fist-sized snowballs and their dashing in a myriad of poofs onto the ground.

Maybe I'll disintegrate too; maybe I have too -- I wonder, per Gretel Ehrlich, "Isn't everything redolent with loss, with momentary radiance, a coming to different?" Each snowflake may be unique, yet all of them, even these big ones, fall and burst or melt, freeze; and on it goes. Nature eats it's tail again, and I feel small, yet integral. I dilate and eventually wane, soften then harden, eat my own tail and find myself at home once again; and in this distillation process I find that sometimes you just have to walk off all the growing pains.

As always, the photo archives provide solace, this time via South Dakota's open spaces. That grass is still crawling and I can look out at the sky and breathe my own wind toward the horizon. Clouds for peanut gallery.

We're cool

Thank god human beings do strange, strange, things...

Industrial Lovin'

I've been taking a contact improv dance class this semester, and it's been all sorts of revelational. Guess when you touch other people you touch yourself. Either way, this one is sure to leave you wanting to be able to roll all over someone while maintaining some healthy boundaries... or not.

ps. Let the tunes check your head.
pss. Let the cinematography compartmentalize your head.
psss. Let the rib-cages move you. It's worth the ride.


Sigur Rós - Valtari from Sigur Rós Valtari Mystery Films on Vimeo.

Of Course, it's Raining

I'm not a huge R&B guy, but How to Dress Well has pretty much smitten me since their release of "Total Loss" back in September. Came across a great collaboration between Pitchfork (love 'em, hate 'em, at least they helped produce this) and one of my personal favorites, La Blogotheque.

Swoon.

Now: On Repeat (fitting, eh?)

Easily one of my favorite songs on easily one of the best albums of the year now has, easily, one of the trippiest video's of recent memory. Drugs? Something like that...

Mad Press

Look! We made it big!

Hands

Get out. It's too good. Slangin' clay like it's a child; kid raised right from the looks of it.

It's a story, which, in my opinion, we are all always in need of. Watch his hands nurture the clay. Listen to her voice - it cares. It might be because, as she says, they have the perfect life.


Two Fires - Short Documentary & Artist Profile from Pigeonhole Films on Vimeo.

Remix

Time-lapses aren't exactly old news, but if you're a complete Vimeo whore (*cough cough* me) then you've seen it all. That's why I surprised at how surprised I was by this latest find on Wyoming's seemingly pre-historic backcountry. Maybe it's the dub-step that drops 3/4 through. Which is even more surprising, because I normally can't stand dub-step. One thing's for sure: this sucka is catchy.



Wyoming Wildscapes from Nicolaus Wegner on Vimeo.

Standard.

Need to shout out to all that is Gadfly. Fantastische new schtick from Matt. What's new, you ask? Not shit, so just get to readin'

Stay Fly

Take 60 mins. Unlike others, it'll be worth more. Feels like a life-time's worth of experience. Fly-Lo's most recent album, Until the Quiet Comes, is bonkers. Recent illuminations include..."creating new music is the best meditation. When I'm able to get into that space, nothing else matters, and I'm just a vessel for whatever the message is; I feel like I'm not in control. It's like this organic communication, and I feel like that is the quiet, in a way...I try to convey this feeling of being innocent in a mystical state, being in a place that's new, seeing things with brand new eyes, for better or worse. I just imagine this little kid floating on a beautiful king-size bed over the city at night, seeing all sorts of crazy stuff happening in the world."

Not trying to put any preconceived notions out there about him, but Fly-Lo's shit is on some other shit. On making beats - "It's like an orgasm, man-- if it lasted forever, it wouldn't be awesome. Actually, an orgasm would be awesome if it lasted forever." You'll wish 60 minutes never ended. 

The Incredible Mess

I ride motorcycles. It's fun. But, I don't do them - know them. And it's not the cinematography or background music that make this short film so affective. It's him. His "gutter-punk or apocalypse punk" aesthetic. His truths - "It's not the pride of ownership, it's the pride of learning, of building something." And then there's that moment when, as if surprised at himself, he barely whispers, "Oh that's beautiful".

"This bike has nothing to do with what I talk about. When I'm out in the workshop... time stands still. Its my world - there's nothing. No politics, no wars - its just this. Its a kind of mediation for me. Its that simple. Its the end of the story, there is nothing more."



Deus Ex Machina from Seth C Brown on Vimeo.

Pub Shit

When he takes a sip before he starts - it's such a thick moment. Check the shot shortly after of the pictures on the ceiling halo-ing his dome piece. Oh yeah, I guess you could also check out his voice. Money #punsonpunsonpuns

What It's All About

"Because you know, that beyond the fog, is something you will always like."

It might be perfect.



LONG LIVE THE KINGS - Short film documentary - from SAGS on Vimeo.

While I'm at IT

Music Kick.  Still getting into the xx's new album, Coexist, but this stripped down version of "Angels" has remained one of the more raw things I've heard in recent memory.  It's hers.  The album version doesn't quite do how her lips move justice.  Weep away.

The xx "Angels" Live in Tokyo from Final Cut on Vimeo.

Well, Good

Thank God somebody - they - made this video.  Yeah, it passes for catchy at the chorus, and sews separate minimalist lines into a patchwork of inspiration.  Yeah.  Check for the old boxer, he's my main character. 

PlayGirl: Brawny Backcountry Bro-Bod Dastardly Dapper Damsel-Delighting Hunky Hermann Edition

Call 1-800-PRTY for the Limited Collector's version today! 

Just Gettin' Started

Eastbound and down with it are we.  New Mehico, Tex-ass; devoured.  Up next: Oklahomie, Arrrrghcansaws, 10-esee, Nawf Cackalakey, an’ Ol’ Virginni – all sittin’ pretty on the menu.  We eat.  We hungry.  Only thing we don’t scarf down is road dust, which gets served to the suckas behind us.  We’re in straight land that does a lot of hot and dirt.  It’s here that 90mph starts to feel like crawling on your hands and knees, the horizon is apt to be eaten by mirage, and your bones jingle-jangle to piston rumble.  Yet not far ago we were laying a right number on all sorts of curves like it was a damn road strip club and oh, boy, we made it rain.

Turnin’ needs talkin’ ‘bout.  It’s like hitting a baseball – it’s all in the hips.  Yet on a bike, throwing your hips means your committing, well, your life.  I was thinking about the moment when you cut it hard and your wheel hits a patch of gravel or tar and slips.  All three of us have experienced it before - that instant when the preciousness with which you hold your life crystallizes in total, lucid fear.  As this trip would have it, I read a passage in perfect stride that articulated my thoughts and then kindly one-upped them.

Peter Matthiesson, in The Snow Leopord, tells, “My foot slips on a narrow ledge: in that split second, as needles of fear piece my heart and temples, eternity intersects with present time. Thought and action are not different, and stone, ice, air, fear, and self are one.”  Is it enough to relate to our journey in only one way? NOOOOO!!  So Matthiesson kindly continues, “What is exhilarating is to extend this acute awareness to ordinary moments, as in the moment-by-moment experiencing of the lammergeier and the wolf, which, finding themselves at the center of things, have no need for any secret of true being.” 

The journey never ends; the implementation has just begun. 

Camp So Hard

We’re loose around the edges.  We’re starting to smell like human beings, not brand names. If I am not mistaken, Whitman himself chanted, “The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer.”  Maybe ol’ Walt could give us some pointers on how to score some cavewomen in rut.   

It's all due to what Dad calls “guerrilla camping.”  There is a method to our crash-spot decisioning, and it could rightly be considered madness.  Yet it leads to places like this:

 I called this one “Motel Mountainsage” (Montana and Wyoming sport more sage bush than a female sadhu - ewww).  Dad lays down the base coat for all money-shot sayage-ings with, “They should pay us to sleep here.” Preach it!  I’ll pour out one more here for my homies - Glacier National Park’s very own crash bandicoot spot…

Someone said that the third times the charms, so here goes....

Yup.  It goes like such: ride one's face off till dark, find choice spot that one probably shouldn’t spend time in, and sleep at said choice spot.  It makes for a spontaneity and awesomeness, but can logistically, and literally, can be a pain in the ass (especially when you opt out of the ground-pad clause, like boy genius here).  It also serves to further our wookie aesthetic; while pulling out a nights worth of forest mange from my hair, Gareth crisply observed, “Dude, it looks like that tree came in your hair.”

Our sun salutations (which consist of eastward facing A.M. kidney-tapping sessions), river ecosystems killing baths, and baked bean-induced farts (which could tear a straight hole in the ozone layer - I guess that’s one way to find us) come across as an excessive celebration of the American spirit.  Yeah, I think that’s it; we’re just acting really American.

Yet there’s more to our vagabond tactics than grunge and guffaws.  Following the intuitive voice can turn a vacation into a journey, a joy-ride into a synchronistic exploration.  You sniffin' what I'm steppin' in?

Never Have I Ever

Never driven a motorcycle before? It kinda feels like....

- Nailing someone in the face with a perfectly aimed snowball.
- Taking a bath in Sex Panther. 
- Luke Skywalker streaking through the Death Star trench - shout out to my nerds.
- This.  On wheels. 
- Raw-doggin' Kim Kardashian... while skydiving. 

Maybe that last one was insensitive.  Maybe not.  Maybe you should just go ride a motorcycle. 

What the Muse Allows

My Uncle recently reminded me that we owe much to perspective.  Keeping that wisdom in mind, riding through straight flat land might be described by most people as "boring."  Schlappy (Pops) prefers the term "mono-culture."  That subtle distinction can make all the difference when a nook and crannying session in your mind lasts for eight hours, maybe more.  Riding can be either self-destructive, or fulfilling and inspiring like few other experiences, and it's completely up to the rider. 

The intensity that travel entails brings me to a quote by Cesare Pavese that Rona recently shared: "Traveling is a brutality... Nothing is yours except the essential things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky - all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it."  I tend to dislike over sentimentalized Pico Iyer-ish quotes about how traveling can change your life, but this one nails it.  Sleeping on the ground, dreaming hard, and chasing sunsets as if they were skirts has been our M.O., and it feels as pure as I've even known something to feel.  Then again, that doesn't mean it's easy.

Long cruises require a Zen disposition that my generation hasn't exactly been raised with.  Among other things, I'm a words guy (how articulate, I know).  Yet most lyrical castles I construct - poems, one liners, jokes, digressions - collapse beneath the force of the wind and the weight of the miles.  It's a cool reminder of impermanence - how fleeting our presence is, both on this ride and in the long haul.  Moving through nothing but cornfields on my 21st birthday only added to this sentiment.  Monotonous landscapes makes it easier to day-dream, yet that feels like an utter waste of consciousness. Ultimately, there's not much else you can do but be present and simply appreciate what you're moving through. It calls for a concerted awareness.  Dad's good at it.  I'm getting better.

Schlappy and I have both done this kind of thing before (hackneyed chronicling of my journeys can be found here and here).  In general, motorcycle trips provide the perfect recipe for self-discovery: ample time for introspection, the ecstatic joy of man-handling curves, and scenery that moves the beholder, including, but not limited to, the off-hand chance that you'll catch a glimpse of a cow peeing (which will remain funny until my soul shrivels up and dies).  But this one is different.  We're in this one together, which satisfies any 'happiness is only real when shared with others' needs.  In sum, this journey is very, very real. 

So, as the sun sets and rises, and we push forever West, there's a simple fact that we're happy to be reminded of each time that we lean into it: it's better in the wind.

I Love Lamp

Greetings! Dispatching live, from the unbelievably rank confines of Room 205, Days Inn, Wheeler, OH. Why, you ask, does this broadcast come from bumf&$*ville? Well, mainly because having a smart phone doesn't mean that you're still not an idiot.

This report is dedicated to Momma Herms, who somehow let all of her eggs fall into the same motorcycle road trip basket. All is well, and there's a deep, 'meta' lesson to be learned from this, Mom: dudes will be dudes. 

Two of said triumvirate of dudes (Father Wolfi and I) piggybacked our way toward Chicago, in order to round up a second steed for this gander West. We're pretty much hauling ass. Or at least that's what we were doing until we drove into what looked like a squid thrashing black ink down from the sky, aka West Virginia's dramatic piss festival of rain. Up until that point, we had been laying rock n roll flames on the straight shots and cutting curves like butter. I hate to press pause on the humor, but dammit, it was beautiful. There was this definitive moment at the border of the storm, where the wind had flipped all of the leaves onto their backs, turning all of the tress white. It was like a double rainbow moment, but just to ruin the visual, it could have also been described as 'nature ballin' outrageous.'  


Virginia (and maybe even the entire US) tends to brown paper bag WV with stigmatisms like, “coal,” “litter,” and “just because your cousin is the easiest score you can find, doesn’t mean…” Yet WV was amazing. I witnessed the American gradient begin, as glimpses of Colorado peeped from beneath bridges and between ridges. As we pushed through the final wave of the storm, the darkness a cape in our wake, the setting sun paved a yellow brick road for us to cruise on. I shit you not, the road was actually golden. So, I'll have you know that today I heard Busta Rhymes' "Do My Thing," in which he so eloquently quips, "I will endanger your species like an ostrich / hold you hostage, and crazy feed you swine sausage / HAH!" You hate me, but that's probably what you feel like right now, is all I'm saying. 


Just to completely contradict myself on the whole 'sticking up for WV' thing, I have to anecdotally mention our waiter at this Mexican joint who struggled to keep the massive wad of dip in his lower lip from bubbling up and slurring his words, and also the cashier fellow who, while giving us 'directions,' was barely able to recognize our location on a map because he was so completely shit faced. Not to mention my butt is already sore, and that doesn't even take into consideration future crusty truck stop bathroom escapades did I just type that out loud?

This trip has been pre-emptively titled "So America." I'm still in cheap joke mode, but I assure you that it has been of a revelatory nature thus far. Future ramblings will include what Matt (quick shout out to Gadfly! Everyone go read it now!) has dubbed 'prosaic ball shots.' Yup, that just happened. The realness awaits, as Pops and I, sucking our mental thumbs, hurtle towards it's presence. I'm ready. 

New Janx

Been scribblin' n shit.  This one took a while.  Don't know why, but all that matters is how awesome the cover art is.

Title.

I recently saw a singer-songwriter round that featured Danny Schmidt, Nathan Moore, Danny Schmidt's girlfriend (he's awesome enough to encompass two people), and Diane Cluck.  Walked away reconsidering what music, and hell, even life, was.  Cluck was distinct in a number of ways, namely that every thing she did was profound.  She continually engaged with the type of intention that's associated with monks.  She spoke few.  She was just there. And from there came some incredible music.  She just popped back into my life, via this great take it away show.  From there to here, enjoy. 


Diane Cluck - Content to Reform & Freefall | A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

OMG, beards

Old happenings are on the prowl.  Times with the Last of the Brohicans aka Walt Whitman's grandson aka M.A.N.  You can call him Harrison though.  He had me along for a shop day.  Your thinking, 'omg, shoes.' I'm thinkin...

Brotherman has not lost the innate faculties of his hands.  Which is something that we should all be taking notes on.  Here, he's going for a cutting board that a self-righteous bougie will pay out their designer garbed wazoo for.  It serves to highlight how very few of us do anything these days.  This cutting board is gettin done, if you're sniffin what I'm steppin in.



Most of us wish we could do, when all that it takes is to hop into that old beat-up pick-up and head out to the barn for some sawdustin and rat-race-bustin.  It's probably all we're good for.  Harry is a good man, and that title isn't within the normal repertoire of bestowage.  He's good because he isn't scared to try things.  He's good because his hands are rough and his beard is gnarls and his words are always true.  That's something money can't buy, so I guess he's got the best of both worlds.  Look who's shopping now.  

Rollin' in the Deepest

Hoarding spree is at an end.  Here's one with an orange bike in it (I've been obsessed all things orange - even previews).  




Alain Massabova - 40 years in Paris from ART BMX MAGAZINE on Vimeo.






Homeboy plays hard.  Maybe all that he needs is a dance partner. Wellllp, guess what I found him... you knew it would be orange, didn't you. 




Danny Macaskill: Industrial Revolutions from Cut Media on Vimeo.

Curfuffle in the sky. A closed store front. A relationship could be struck up between the two; synthesis finds its way into the everyday as if it owned the damn place. But today, today, the letting slide feels right. I am okay with this.

Lets Have A Think About Education

As many of you might know, K-herms and I went to a Waldorf school from Kindergarten through middle school. If you don't know what that is, think Montessori. If you don't know what that is, think hippy artsy-fartsy. Or is it? I am constantly surprised with the irrationality of some of our systems and institutions when we claim to be such a rational, western society. Here is an amazing analysis of the shortcomings of public education and our outdated factory mentality of education. Presented with one of those cool Story of Stuff type animations.

Deletion

There are some really good trees out by the Sanctuary. More on them later. Right now though, check out negative Africa in the sky.

Take the Time

K-herms has been spitting some wisdom about observing and internalizing so here is an experiential study on those concepts:

January 2012

My brother, while exploring, happened across a stream on my neighbors property one day and so appreciated it that he brought me there the next time I was home. I go now to revisit the place in order to observe the area.

It is a cold day in January at our location in the Albemarle county of Virginia. It snowed earlier in the day, but the ground was not cold enough for it to stick. Now it is cold, not too cold that can see your breath, but a wet cold that chills you to your bones. Everything is wet and the tree branches are covered in a thin layer of ice. The sky is a uniform grey, and limits visibility.

The stream lies at the bottom of a hill, between the base of the hill and a farmers open field. As I entered the forest on top of the hill, the forest natural alarm system sounded a few calls. A bird tweeted “zweeuh” “zweuh” to my left and was answered by another on my right. Soon after another bird of a different species entered the conversation. As I tromped down the hill I noticed the different stages of life the forest was in. The trees were all barren, a few had some brown, withered, leaves and the rest carpeted the ground. Many deceased trees littered the ground, their trunks and limbs in various states of decay. Mosses and lichen were the only green organisms to be seen in the background of blacks and browns. As I approached the stream, a few patches of tough grass, yellow and greenish stalks pushed through the dead leaves and mosses. I observed an interesting phenomenon. Although the ground was wet, snow/ice lingered in the deceased branches and trunks. Is the ground warmer than the deceased trees? Or do the dead branches conduct heat at a slower rate? I do not know. As I approached the stream, I began to hear it’s gurgle, and as I sat and stopped moving around it became the only sound; the birds had ceased the alarm. That, and the sound of vehicles whizzing down interstate 64 in the distance. Maybe all the moisture present is magnifying the sound. It sure is difficult to get away from civilization for good. On the other side of the stream a dilapidated barbed wire fence has grown into a few tress and fence posts, which are the only things that separate the field from the stream bank. The stream bank is eroding on both sides. The stream itself has healthy curves to it, but he amount of exposed roots and clay/dirt on each side show that it may straighten over time as the curves erode. I scour the stream bank looking for tracks. I find a solitary pair of deer tracks in the sandy soil. The only observable life in the stream is a school of miniscule fish darting back and forth underneath the overhang of the bank. A few birds started chatting again after a period of silence. The birds that initially greeted me began their “zyweeh’s” and a few others shoot a machinegun burst of “tse-tse-tse-tse-tse”. Ice dropping heavily from tree branches breaks the sound. Another bird streams a non-stop call of “guh-ge-guh-ge-guh-ge-guh-ge-guh”. I feel as though I am no longer a threat and the birds do not fear to talk freely. There is a log sitting next to me that has been decaying for quite some time. I know this because of it’s dark appearance and it’s interior structure beginning to be exposed. Most of the branch has disintegrated away leaving mostly the hardest wood intact. This is an interesting phenomenon because the knots of the tree protrude like the bulbs and pods from the rotting core. It reminds me of some bizarre alien architecture.

Speaking of architecture, I remember when I was a child we used to imagine ourselves as master architects. Our materials were twigs, moss, stones and bark. We would go to the riverbanks and create elaborate fairy houses. Our idea was that if we designed a beautiful enough home, fairies would come live in it. We used to try and sneak down to the fairy houses when no one was around to see if we could observe them (we knew they were scared of humans so we tried to observe them secretly).

Sitting here I wonder… where did the magi in life go? When I was a kid there was so much excitement in day to day activities and I feel as though I have almost lost that. And some are worse off than myself. I am sitting here on a cold day, in the middle of winter, where the skies are grey and everything is wet and frozen. And I am sitting in the middle of the woods writing observations on a piece of paper as butt gets wet from the rock I am sitting on and as the cold seeps through my extremities to the rest of my body. And I am thoroughly enjoying myself. I cannot help but think that the greater number of my peers would laugh and make fun of my current activities, much less leave the comfort of their warm home to embark upon a similar expedition. “F-------- hippie” they would say in half judgment and half laugh, I can hear it in my head.

To me there is a great stillness in nature. My brother and I visit our “spots” frequently in order to take a step back fro the stressful rat race of a college life all tangles down with homework, research, part time jobs and dramatic social lives. It just feels great to take some deep breathes and gain some perspective. Take the time to realize what is truly important in life and laugh at the silly stress patterns that we constantly let ourselves slip into.

It also saddens me because it is at these moments I realize I don’t know the names of the birds gossiping in the tress. I couldn’t tell you the type of grass under my feet. And some part of me feels guilty and asks myself “How have you gotten so disconnected?” “You should know things like this”. I always tell myself when I have more time I’ll learn these things but I know it won’t happen until I make the time. And all my time is caught up in this rat race.

Ahhh another one of those negative worrying thoughts! They bring awareness but then they pass through the mind like a breeze clearing out the stale weather and bring in new space for the future.

Life in Flower

I have a great friend who reminds me of this.

Some Things You Need to Know

Look Ma, No Hands

Ink tusche. Let her ride, she'll go. Horizons become endangered; the sprawl is on. Assist by water.

We've got ourselves quite a little soiree here. Double check for animal shapes, it's fun. You might find yourself too.

Down by the River

Recently, while on an early morning Nook and Crannying session out at the parentals, the woods yielded a new spot. Go past old Ellen’s house, scramble down a knoll past all sorts of trunky ruins, cross an earnest little length of field, and behold: a live creek runs. At times, it seems to be running for long distance, and at other times it might just be frolicking with its shoes untied, tripping over itself in a series of splendid faceplants. It all depends on how you listen. As John Berger says, “Receptivity is everything.”

Good man.

On the bank, a throne beckons. Sit. From there, watch as an aerial bird ballet accomplishes itself. A tree sways, still drunk from imbibing in last nights moon drench. A myriad of rustles, crunches, and amorphous babel (was that a bird fart?) abound. The air is vigorous; it carries January’s bite in its wake, and despite the warmth of Spring’s recent encroachments, the cold teeth serve to remind us of winter’s vitality. All of these things are gifts, and to not accept them would be to wage war against the giver. That’s why Berger is so right. To truly receive is an art; to appreciate, to observe, to internalize, maybe even to become. There’s nothing passive about it; to accept oftentimes requires more energy and awareness than to bestow. Sometimes it’s harder, like accepting another person for who they are. And sometimes, all it takes is a little jaunt down to the creek, to soak up some A.M. goodness, and to listen to the bird farts.

Nest

When the rocks start to crunch under the wheels, just after the last right turn, we all recite in unison: “home sweet home.” Cliché? Maybe, but it makes me beg the question: what’s so “sweet” about the 5665 Wyant Lane abode? For once again we find ourselves here - four Hermann pieces of the puzzle, reconvening at the center of our universe for the Holidaiyez. I reckon we should all take a step back and reconsider what makes us return home. ‘Tis the season, nay?

Before you even enter “The Sanctuary,” heed the path’s subtle introductions; the steadily expanding fairy garden metropolis on your left; the prayer flags above the door perpetuating our hippie stereotype. Self-deprecation aside, you are welcome here. They say (yeah, those people) that turning the handle of a door is the handshake of a building. I’d like to point out that ours doesn’t have a lock, which Gareth “G-Spot” Hermann sees as a greater metaphor: “the door to our house is like the door to our hearts – it’s always open.” C’mon in folks, t’aint nothing to hide here.

Yup - Momma’s got baked goodness bangin’ in the kitchen, Sinatra’s croons are drifting lazily on woodstove heat waves, while opaque tissue paper transparencies quietly allow the outside world in. The knick-knacks have completed their annual pilgrimage from the woodwork, and now replace the junk mail and various clutter of old with neat scenes of nativity and hand-made simplicity. When I come home, I look more deeply at the things that surround me. Oma’s embroidery feels just right between the thumb and forefinger. The baby pictures breathe carefully on embers of the past, and squirrel wars beyond the worn sliding glass door are played out with valor and shocking passion. It’s here that things normally taken for granted step forth and demand the awareness of our wayfaring, fickle consciences. In a mad, mad world, this place pays homage to authenticity’s last stand.

When we pause for the appreciation of details, it becomes clear that we also gather again because the conch shell has been raised and sounded in the name of Chill. Repose is the name of the game, and thus the pace of activity has slowed to a crawl, and finally passed out (we’re not sure if it’s the woodstove or the frequent food comas). The ottoman’s “no vacancy” sign will maintain its status, playing host to visiting feet. Cups of chai, hot chocolate, and tea will occupy our hands—if we can get off the couch to make them. The place is one massive pit stop, a collective moment to sit down, kick back, and think out. Eyes glaze over, and cozy reigns supreme once more.

The distinct elements of this down-home atmosphere are drawn and threaded to one another by our shared experiences, and thus, every time we return, this place gently places a historical quilt on our shoulders. This is especially true for my brother and me. As Rebecca Solnit says, there is a “tangible landscape of memory, the places that made you, and in some way you become them too. They are what you can possess and what in the end possesses you.” Our parents created this place and it, in turn, shaped and molded us. That’s not to say that our parents didn’t mold us; rather, the creation of our identities is tightly wound in the feelings and emotions associated with events that have transpired here. All around us are wisps of memory that delineate the landscapes within us. For the bros. Hermann, to be Home is to return to the source, to realize a life full of meaning.

Our parents live that life year-round, as fulfillment tops the to-do list, creating a paradigm that us younglings look up to with wide eyes. My dad points to a carved wooden bowl on the bottom shelf, the first one that he made in 1973. He rubs his hands over the worn edges, turns it over in recollection. He’s lost in his own landscape; one that he shares with us, yet that also contains wilderness known only to him. Together, the terrains of our four memories form one world. One sweet, sweet world that continually calls us back. One world we call Home.

So American