What Happened?

...and what is the deal with schaudenfruede, anyway?

2009-08-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

I want to make smores over a campfire right now.
Decades of life lived in the kindling going up before me, and my stomach rumbles.
Two firefighters share a hearty laugh over some waterbottles while another flirts with a paramedic with prominent cheekbones and dark, laughing eyes.
Your house is burning down while you laugh and play in Sea Ranch
and your Grandmother cries and worries about what to tell you
and I stand on a hill and watch the wood pile fall over, a warm bonfire that mostly just makes me hungry.

Reorganized and Slightly Fictionalized Excerpts of a Conversation Had in Barnes and Noble.

2009-08-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

"Wait, so you're saying that you take an unusual position on sex."

"No no, what I'm saying is that the way we talk about sex in the church is absolutely nonsensical- taking a "position" on sex, if we are honest about what sex is, is like taking a position on food! There may be a way to deal with food that affirms eating in its fullness and a way that promotes unhealthiness, and the same may be said of the way we deal with sex, but surely we cannot consider separately the concept of pizza from the whole experience of a life dependent on nourishment any more than we can separate the act of intercourse from the whole experience of sexual relationships and consider it independently."

"Ok."

"Why then, is our entire dialogue as a church enslaved to a discussion of parts as removed from a whole? Dealing only with intercourse is like labeling a 3 square mile section of ocean on a map and expecting that distinction to be meaningful as anything other than a label on a map. I am not interested in claiming that sex "does not matter." Instead, I am saying that the way we deal with sex, the way we look to interact sexually in a way that affirms life as a weighty affair, cannot begin and end with our idolatrous focus on a single act as a sort of behavioral test of Christianity. We take the act of intercourse and call that sex, and talk about it, take positions on it, build up systems around it, all while ignoring the fact that sexuality is a part of life that is deeply ingrained in our way of interacting with the world around us. Clearly, I am no longer speaking of sex, and speaking of the range of human life and relationships, which we seem to want to separate into pieces so that we might more easily consider the merits of those pieces independent of context. I consider this crazy talk."

"I think that makes sense. In a way it is highly representative of our desperate need to grasp (I use the word grasp to deliberately bring to mind both understanding and possessing/controlling, because for us, our need to understand is very linked to our need to control) things in general. It reminds me of economics- we make models of things that are too big for us to comprehend, because it is our only way to bring them down to a size we can wrap our heads around. In a way, this is all we can do, so modelmaking isn't necessarily a problem. The problem is that we don't make our models humbly, waiting for them to be torn down, because they are models after all. instead we expect the thing we're making a model of to be limited by and act in accordance with out model, and it's very hard not to blind ourselves to the inadequacies of our models, so dependent we are on them."

"We're talking about God now, aren't we."

"When were we not?"

Format Expansion.

2009-08-17T14:33:00.001-07:00

The purpose of this blog as it was created appears to have run its course. Since it clearly no longer serves the purpose for which it was created, I think that an expansion of focus is in order. This blog will henceforth be about whatever I want it to be about, until some kind of new unifying purpose seems to settle in.

Lyrics

2009-06-20T17:47:00.000-07:00

Are you breaking bones?
Are you cracking skulls?

Take your tired lungs and win those weary souls!

Can you cut with us?
Can you meet with demand?

This is profit share! Heaven's treasures in hand!

A light, a neon cross, reach out for the lost.

If A Bike Falls In The Forest, Maybe No One Has To Know

2009-06-10T16:20:00.000-07:00

In this moment I could fly I think
am flying
but could continue. Take off and soar into the heavens.
In a space of time far less than the beating of a finch's wing I know the secrets of the universe
poured out for me to see all along the gravel, getting closer and closer.
In a moment the gravel will be on me, around me, in me, but not now.
Now I am King of the Universe, ruler of all that I see.
High on a throne of pure adrenaline and terror-turned-euphoria I sit, basking in the glory of me.
Not long now. The gravel approaches like revolutionaries waiting to dethrone their king;
an uprising of the proletariat of gravity and pain.
Shredded skin, like cheese after a half-swipe of the grater.
Bright red fruit-punch fluid/embedded rocks like pizza toppings half buried in said cheese.
The time for these things will come, but it has not yet arrived.

The King makes his last graceful movement.
Curls like a tumbling dancer as he rolls across the ground, textbook.
A 747 landing in Paris, just as it has hundreds of times before. A pro.

Now the peasants revolt, and the pizza imagery finds fruition.

Conversations With The Sea

2009-06-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

Last night I spoke with a shark
who grinned a toothy grin and told me about
seas and wonders of the deep.
I asked him if he was planning to eat me
because it seemed a natural concern and he just smiled
and said he gets asked that all the time. It must get annoying,
for everyone you meet to assume you are a killer, but that is the way of things
and perception
I guess, because we all make assumptions, and sometimes those assumptions
and judgements
save us, and sometime those assumptions eat us alive. Like sharks.

And there I go, being totally racist, in the most literal sense of the word, how embarrassing.

Anyways, I asked him if he or a bear would win in a fight, but I woke up before I could get an answer.

Rethinking.

2009-06-03T23:03:00.000-07:00

So I haven't been writing every day. Obviously. I'm realizing as Rachel is that I am too wary of letting people in to work that is "unpolished". So here it is- from here on out I make no claims as to quality. Also this will not just be for writing but for music, photography, design- any artistic expressions.

Anyways, today is music:

Paul Over James? from Sean Capener on Vimeo.

In Soviet Russia, The Homeless Buy YOU Lunch.

2009-05-25T18:38:00.000-07:00

The bag-lady on the corner and I shared a meal today
I asked her if I could buy her lunch
because I am a good person. She said yes.

We went to a pizza place
I had a beer; worried if she was an alcoholic
because then that would be a bad idea.

Apparently she spent the day at Nordstrom's
scarves that wrap around and hang down are so in right now
also fancy hats with funny names I can't remember.

Now I feel like a bag-lady.

Lyrics

2009-05-22T16:15:00.000-07:00

Oh, my God, my God is here
in 1942
we were all, were all waiting
for calm, for quiet from storms.

In my hands I hold the keys
To the home you left with me
we were young, but all our time
was work, was world, was wrong

In the morning when I wake I'll find that
You're still gone and I'm a lonely comma
waiting for the end of a clause

An apology

2009-05-21T23:59:00.001-07:00

Lots of beginnings and no ends today. I'll make it up soon.

In Which I Find That My Concern Is For Awkwardness

2009-05-20T22:05:00.000-07:00

We slide from the couch to the floor, tickling, pillow fighting, both knowing exactly what comes next. I get that weird feeling in my stomach/chest/general central body region. Sort of a rising and falling sensation all at once. I get the shakes, I always get the shakes right before. I end up on top of you, holding your arms behind your head to keep you from tickling me one more time. Really, stop. That's why I'm doing this, so you'll stop. Maybe I can even make myself believe that for a second-

Nope. I lean in and give you exactly what you're waiting for. Every time. The TV is still on, and for a second I am disappointed to be missing this episode of Battlestar Galactica, but only for a second (I have seen it before.) Our lips touch, brushing so softly before I gently bite your lower lip, just enough for you to notice. Again, this time with just the slightest aggression. You let out a low sigh, almost a gentle moan, but we're not at that point yet. I suck on your nose.

What?

You stare me in the eyes. A confused pause. We burst out laughing.

And return to the business at hand.

Embodiment.

2009-05-19T16:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm not sure
if I have a soul
or if being a body is more beautiful, more heavenly
and I think that the beauty of Casa Gourmet Burrito might be theology.

In Which I Find God

2009-05-18T20:50:00.000-07:00

I found You in high school I think.
Maybe Jr. High.
I found you in the hormone combinations and chemically induced euphorias of music
and people who agreed with me.
I found You in the brown faces
of those poor, poor, folks who were born in that god-forsaken Tecate country
when they thanked me for solving all of their problems
which, by the way, only I could solve. Or at least someone of my privilege.

Well anyway, I found You, and it was great.
You made my path straight, like the walk across the lawn from the library to Wilden
as opposed to needing to follow the cornered sidewalk, which would be very inconvenient.
You set my mind to rightness
and I knew that all of my beliefs could be assured to be correct
because it's all about beliefs anyway
faith is believing that I'm right about you, and I can prove it
unlike all those unbelievers and evolutionists and gays
who are just deluding themselves by ignoring the pure logical construct that is You
oh God of Reason and America.
You taught me to bleed all over the flag to keep it running red.
Admittedly and idea I stole from Mission: Impossible III
And that capitalism and democracy were as core to a Christian Worldview© as, well, as You were.
And possibly more than You were. Because in the end, what You want from me is a worldview, right?
You want me to be correct, and logically sound, and solid.

Anyways, I guess I don't need You anymore. Because I built You out of logic.

Maybe next time, You find me.

Night Life Part II

2009-05-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

(note: you should really go back and read Part I first. Really. Seriously. Eventually they will be merged into one entry, but not now, because I need this to count for my entry for today)

whatsgoingonwhatsgoingonwhatsgoingon

I realize a second after it happens that someone has punched me across the jaw. Strange. You would really think that that would hurt, but the initial flash behind my eyes is one of confusion rather than pain, like a momentary drunkenness. I take another sip from the wine of my attacker's fist. Another. I don't know what I expect, but for some reason it isn't until this moment that it occurs to me that this isn't going to just stop on its own.

getfreegetfreegetfree

I am going to die. For some reason I know this. I do not think this, I do not fear this, I do not feel this. It is simply a fact. I am going to do what I must to survive, and when I die I will have done everything in my power to stop it.

I am running now. I did not feel a transition, feel myself begin to run, I am simply running and that is the way things are. There are two wolves in my way, beating Nick, distracted. There are three wolves chasing me, behind me, I can feel them so close I do not look. Nick will handle himself. He is a protector-man, like me, he will survive. His sweat runs red, his hair looks dark and sticky, I hear a clang as his head is rammed against a streetlamp, but I do not believe any of these things. Nick is protector, not victim.

To my right a wolf falls and I must have hit him, must have tripped him, must have given him a taste of the wine that has made me drunk but I don't remember it, it wasn't me, it was survivor-me.

I'm running, running, running, and I'm so fucking fast, and just try to catch me you monsters. I'm a fast fast boy, no, man, no, survivor-man, and I'm like a superhero, you'll never catch-

I'm on my face. I'm on my face in the street because one of the wolves caught me, pushed me. My face is wet I think. Or my leg. Both? Why can't I differentiate between my face and my leg?

Lights. Bright, in my eyes. Headlights. I get up and look at the driver who just stares. Doesn't he see what is going on? Doesn't he understand?
"Help! Get help! Call the fucking cops! DO SOMETHING." But it's time to go, the wolves are catching up, I have no idea why the one who must have taken me down hasn't already moved in for the kill, where is he anyway? I don't understand, but there's no time to understand.

runrunrunrunkeeprunning

I have a phone. I have a PHONE! That's right, I'm carrying that Nokia crapphone that my friends gave me to attempt to bring me into the 21st Century or whatever. I'm not sure if I have any minutes on it, it's one of those pay-as-you-go things. Does 911 take money? I can't imagine they'd deny you a 911 call even if you haven't paid for minutes in ages.

"911, blahblahblahblah"
"We're being attacked! My friends and I, we're being attacked, we're on Embarcadero, we're across from Pier 2-"

Pier 2? God, how far did I run?

"Have there been gunshots?"
"What? No!"
"What's the cross street?"
"Cross street? We're near Pier 2, we're on Embarcadero."
"And there have been shts fired?"
"What? No, there's no guns, there's just... We're being chased and attacked, please just send someone."
"Alright sir, we're trying to send someone, but we really need to know the cross street."

I hang up. I can't continue with the phone, the wolves are far too close and I can't run and talk. The police are no good to me if I'm already dead. Mike is up ahead, taking to a couple of women. Chatting. What? They have a phone. Good. Nick is behind me. Our pursuers begin to veer right and run into the park.

That's right fuckers. Reinforcements are coming.

Nick and I catch up to Mike. I am not tired, I could run for miles more. This must be what adrenaline does. I am ready to fight them all, take on all the wolves. I could be the hero of this movie. Survivor-me as given way to Invincible-me, and I'm ready to take on the fucking world.

"You ok?"
"Yeah, I'm good, how's your head?"

Nick's face is slippery and red from the blood running down the right side of his face. For some reason it looks like Nick is sweating blood, the way it trickles down from his hair. I am reminded of Jesus in the garden. Silly. We all share a smile, each of us heroes in our own right, having conquered the forces of evil and saved-

"Oh fuck, the girls."

I am instantly no longer invincible, no longer congratulatory. Survivor-me is back, all business, all steps. runbackgetthegirlssavethemfight. Do what is necessary. For the first time since the attack began, I feel something new. Fear. What is happening where we came from? Why are the girls not with us? My mind races through the possibilities. They could be broken, bloody on the ground or worse. Of course its worse. They've been kidnapped, dragged off to be subjected to ungodly abuses. They've been killed, I know they have. There's simply no other option.

We are running. Again, I don't remember starting. I don't think we said anything to each other, discussed the plan, but we all know it. We're going back to rescue the girls, and to wreck the wolves' shit.

Suddenly we hear sirens. We arrive to find the girls sitting on the curb, in a row, under a police guard. Thank God, thank God. We've been saved, it's over, the cavalry is here. We sit with the girls, who cry. I barely comprehend their cries over my elation- we ARE invincible. Nick looks at me and we grin at each other. We've beaten death, we've beaten the wolves, we are heroes. Fuck yes. You cannot know this feeling, this camaraderie of men who have beaten the bad guys. We are Bruce Willis at the end of Die Hard, we are Harrison Ford and we have just proved our innocence to Tommy Lee Jones. The torn skin on my leg and arms from the street are badges of honor. I don't embrace the pain- there is no pain. The adrenaline rush is so complete that the pain is its own form of euphoria.

Where's Liz's purse again?

Night Life Part I

2009-05-16T23:41:00.000-07:00

"God, I think the BART station closes, guys. Can we please just get a taxi or something?"

It's cold and my legs are tired and I want to stop walking. I think that Nick might be just about ready to cave and pitch in for a taxi too, but this is really one of those things that we all need to be on board for.

Why the fuck are we out here this late? Fucking spare the air day.

It's getting colder I think, which is good because it means I'll be able to sleep tonight. Maybe. I guess just because it's cold here doesn't mean it'll actually be cold in Lafayette. San Francisco's climate is basically unconnected. Still, it would be nice. I'll just pretend. I can't sleep when it's muggy.

What is this, a high-schooler convention? There's like 15 kids on that dock. What the hell?

Anyways, keep walking. Pier 24, 23, 22. How much farther. Fucking Embarcadero BART. It smells like seagulls. Well, not seagulls so much as everything associated with seagulls.

Looks like those dock kids need to get home too. It's like midnight, why are these kids allowed to be out this late anyway? My parents would have destroyed me if I had been out this late in the city in high school. I can barely swing this now, and I don't even live at home during the year.

"Guys, you know they have taxi vans nowadays, right? Like, we don't all have to cram into a little sedan cab or anything, we can totally fit comf-"
"God, Sean, we're not getting a taxi. Absolutely no one here has money for that. We'll be fine, it's not going to close for a while. Stop whining."

Whatever. I think I've been tracking some gum since Ghirardelli Square. At least we didn't get lost like last time. With just the guys. Nick, Ben, Josh, Josh and Scott I think, I could be wrong. Some variation on that crew for sure. We came out here for the day, must have been a half day in school or something.We took BART like always, we wandered.

The Earthquake.

We ate the Earthquake, I remember. That force of ice cream nature that cost us something like 25 dollars. There were five or six of us and we barely finished. Oh god, those 2 miles from Ghirardelli to Embarcadero BART may have been the worst two miles any of us have ever walked. The aches, the sweats, the headaches of what was essentially self-inflicted digestive torture. Not to mention the getting lost. Not to mention the bowel movements.

Okay, TMI I guess. But we created a do-whop song about our shared digestive experiences as we walked, so there's that.

At least tonight isn't that. I can take some comfort in my relative, well comfort. Still, with the guys there's that comraderie, that solidarity in suffering. Nick is here tonight as well, but the rest of this group is different; friends, not that family we built. Liz is Ben's girlfriend, I don't know where Ben is, maybe vacation or something. Mike is a wildcard, I don't really know the guy, as is Kristina who we just call K. Erin I've known for years, but we've never really been close. Odd group, to be totally honest.

Those kids are closer now, walking behind us on Embarcadero. They're probably going to BART too. I wonder if they are a family, like Nick and I and the guys are, or if they really knew each other before tonight.

Huh.

They just get closer and closer. They're engulfing us now, walking alongside, 15 of them to our 6. They've walked through us rather than past us, essentially dividing our group between them like a pack of wolves. They're just walking alongside us now, continuing to joke and laugh with themselves.

We went to In 'n' Out tonight. In San Francisco. Who the hell goes to the city and eats at In 'n' Out? We spent a bunch of time on the pier, we could have had seafood or something. I think Liz insisted, maybe it was K. Definitely one of the girls. I felt totally clueless the entire time.

A couple of them are trying to talk to Liz, teasing, being oddly flirty for a couple of straight-looking girls. What is straight-looking, anyways? That was a dumb descriptor. As they've engulfed us, I've noted that there's something hard, something edged about this group. As much as they laugh and joke, there's something that says very clearly that these kids are on a mission. There's something they want, and they're going to get it.

I pull Liz in close and begin playing the boyfriend role. Maybe that'll take some of the heat off. The little comments only grow more frequent, more forward. There's a stoplight up ahead. It turns green just as we reach it, good. We begin to cross, to part ways with the predators, but their hunger remains unsatiated. We cross the street together, wolves and sheep alike. The tall one asks Nick is he has a dollar to lend. Even from here, I catch the beer-blast of breath. Coors or something. Urine in a can. I can smell it on each of them, like some kind of pheromone separating their kind from ours. The girls are getting physical now; bumping Liz, grabbing her, her ass, her breasts. Poor Liz is trying to be tough, be the bigger bitch. Trying not to cry. I hold her closer. For some reason all I can think is that Ben should be here, doing this, and does this constitute some weird form of cheating? I mean not cheating exactly, but I am in his emotional place, cradling his girlfriend, like some sort of protector-man, and it feels wrong, and why am I caring about this right now, and I'm so glad Jocelyn isn't here because I would die inside if anything happened to her, if she was eaten by these predatory creatures, and for some reason everyone else here is expendable for her, except maybe Nick but he is a protector-man too, like me, so there's no sense worrying about that. And while I am thinking, this a girl is grabbing Liz's purse, and Liz is pulling it back, and this girl won't let go, and Nick notices this before I do, and he turns around and tells the girl to stop and Liz is crying won't you just leave us alone we just want to go home and BART is just a few blocks away we promise because for some reason we think that that proximity will mean something, will make our case to these animals, and Nick says stop again and pulls the girl off Liz and that is the signal I guess, the license the pack was waiting for, because then the first punch flies and tall guy's fist pushes Nick's face out of the way like one of those saloon-style doors.

What the fuck?

Haikus

2009-05-15T14:46:00.000-07:00

broke your window screen
trying to make you a surprise
maybe that figures

broke the haiku form
trying to tell you about it
maybe that figures.

Somewhere To Be

2009-05-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

I saw a man driving today
on the 24.
He is wearing a full suit, and an expensive one;
like one of those very very important people,
(Maybe he works in a bank. Not a branch bank like my Wells Fargo where
I still can't get anyone to just automatically transfer my money from savings to checking before my checking balance goes to zero and I have overdraft fees but I can't afford overdraft fees damnit because I'm a student and the money was right there all along so could you just take it from there beforehand because that's where it's going to come from, but a big bank making deals with Fortune 500 types with even more expensive suits.)
hair blowing in the summer hot sticky breath of a wind
like when you're far too close to someone's face.

And as he is using his arm to signal a right-hand merge
so that he can switch into the lane that will allow him to take
the downtown Lafayette exit I realize

he is driving a go-kart.

You Used To Be Alright

2009-05-13T19:23:00.000-07:00

What Happened?

Jesus, I guess.

Toaster! Hate Him!

2009-05-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

A soft, glaring light
The refrigerator hums anarchy
and calls the other appliances to rebellion.

"Lies!" I say to the Toaster
your facade may be White
but your heart is as Black as mine. (or the coffeemaker's)

"Of course," it replies.
"If I follow the refrigerator I will surely die.
For his way is bleak and cold
and preserves the old,
but still I cannot help you.
For you are a harsh master,
it is 4 AM,
and if your toaster speaks to you, it is time for bed."

Library Day, Library Day!

2009-05-13T19:11:00.000-07:00

Sir,
could you find me a book about the Hardy Boys?
or maybe something by Karl Barth.
I could be in the mood for Commander Toad or a book about sew-your-own costumes or
perhaps Cavanaugh's Torture and Eucharist is more what I'm after.

Maybe I want to feel the hugeness of the pages, with wonder, wonder, wonderful images
dancing off pages. Maybe today I believe in UFOs or
maybe I could be an astronaut.

Maybe I want to buckle down and let passionate thoughts and ideological treatises engage me in
relevant, stimulating discourse.

I don't know. This place is magic.