tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142263802024-03-14T05:37:34.312-07:00fake your deathAll our words from loose using have lost their edge.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-18709418499124856772010-05-12T21:23:00.000-07:002010-05-12T21:29:50.841-07:00On Writing and Age WrinklesI love writing and I hate writing. The two feelings are constantly throwing house parties in some emotional apartment my logic is never invited to. Like opposing pistons charging wildly into the same cylinder or two bulls in the same pen. They collide with force and drama and certainty. With writing specifically, as much as God teaches me through it, it's never good enough to show anyone - and so it stays unpublished, entombed and unfinished. It is for me, <a href="http://fakeyourdeath.blogspot.com/search?q=on+writing" target="_blank">catharsis and chaos</a> in equal measure.<br /><br />But maybe writing is more like life, people can forgive an imperfect word or a bad paragraph as long as there's a beauty to the whole. All of our words are like lines and wrinkles drawn into an aging face - they make us, us. Different, weak, broken, strong, but recognized and loved, <strong>not in spite of them, but because of them</strong>. It's different, how God works, how he stands with stretched arms signaling the beginning of a better story; offering strength and peace in the middle of weakness and chaos.<br /><br />So our worst days become a kind of necessary punctuation. They link the elements in our stories; pauses in our prose.<br /><br />And our best days are the secret and soaring poems we only tell to our favorite people.<br /><br />Our stories are made beautiful because they're written with the stuff of the bad days and the dignity of the good days. And like that, maybe we're supposed to accept the imperfect words because we know that better words are coming, and sometimes, in the best times, they come quicker than we'd hoped. Or sometimes we have to dig and bleed to find them. But we always find them. And always when we need them.<br /><br />Maybe we are all writers who have already been written into a story full of labored sentences and the right amount of poetry. We just need someone to read it and tell us to keep writing.<br /><br />So, write it, whatever it is. Write the bad words until the good ones come. Change your life. Start your life. End your old life. Get a better job. Get a better boyfriend. Hit "publish." If we trust that the whole of the story is beautiful a one, we can't really fail. Let the worst of you become a kind of period that doesn't just end a bad sentence, it signals the beginning of a new one, a better one.<br /><br />Maybe it's time to trust that the words will come. Maybe it's time to let Him write and know that they will.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-49956641985743287412010-05-07T19:53:00.000-07:002010-05-07T20:48:49.692-07:00Forgetting FacebookIn an effort to remain transparent, I will, in full disclosure say that I have checked Facebook this week.<br /><br />It was Tuesday or so, and I'd forgotten to log out from my phone - I got some alert and followed it in to the Facebook interface in order to read a message and log out.<br /><br />There. Truth. I feel so much better.<br /><br />That said, I'm learning quite a bit about myself as I've given up Facebook for a month.<br /><br />1) <span style="font-weight: bold;">The days are long enough</span>. They just are. It's easy for me to get overwhelmed with work and irritated with God for giving us "only" 24 hours a day. The truth is, we have 24 full hours in every-single-day - and that's long enough to do just about anything we want.<br /><br />There is enough time in the day. In fact, there's plenty.<br /><br />Think about it. Say you work (or go to school) for 8 hours a day. If the average person gets about 8 hours of sleep (that's being optimistic) that leaves another 8 hours left to do <span style="font-style: italic;">anything you want. </span>There's enough time to work another full time job with the time we have left over. Of course, that's a bad idea, but the point is, there IS enough time.<br /><br />While it's not directly related to Facebook, this week has brought to me some of the most difficult conversations I've ever had. But the best part was, was that I was <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span> to have them. I'm not saying that my time spent away from Facebook has necessarily opened the door to deeper friendships, but these conversations were literally of the once in a lifetime kind, and I thank God that I was fully there to engage in them.<br /><br />2) <span style="font-weight: bold;">I've done more. </span><br /><br />I've read more, written more, ran more, started swimming, started my own <a href="http://www.seandurham.com">megalomaniacal website</a> - I've just simply done more and have done better work. To be sure, there's times where my left hand wants to instinctively type "F-A-C-E' in the address bar and let autofill do the rest but usually, I'm too busy doing something that matters.<br /><br />3) <span style="font-weight: bold;">I feel <span style="font-style: italic;">slightly</span> disconnected</span>.<br /><br />I think part of the lure of social media is the "connectedness" it offers. It's like you're privy to hundreds of different conversations and you get to piece together certain elements of people's lives through their pictures, updates, links etc. There's a small part in all of us that is sated when we feel 'included' - but a birds-eye-view shows me that really, it's just nourishing insecurity. I want to <span style="font-weight: bold;">be</span> included, more than I just want to <span style="font-weight: bold;">feel</span> included - and sadly (or maybe, hopefully) that really only happens outside of the internet.<br /><br />So, overall - it's a positive project I've launched into. Right now, I'm giving myself only a 50% chance of ever returning to Facebook. Maybe though, the problem isn't the site itself, but my self-control, or lack thereof.<br /><br />How has it been giving up meat this week? Or Facebook? Or anything? I'm excited to live deeper.<br /><br />I'm really excited.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-43471898642208757452010-05-01T14:21:00.000-07:002010-05-01T14:24:08.229-07:00Goodbye Facebook (for now)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2rGpbYqk25jUumc7M0JrGSKs1YZjQ3-y3y7DntyrOjMlLbzZ8zgJEiUYYJOd424xGOHWlBAyX9wqd5U_KiVGlazn9WYBm6M0T7NKspy4ffG2t1I-z7VPVQcb7EObuL3-yUTx/s1600/anti-facebook.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2rGpbYqk25jUumc7M0JrGSKs1YZjQ3-y3y7DntyrOjMlLbzZ8zgJEiUYYJOd424xGOHWlBAyX9wqd5U_KiVGlazn9WYBm6M0T7NKspy4ffG2t1I-z7VPVQcb7EObuL3-yUTx/s200/anti-facebook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466415486184331938" border="0" /></a><br />I could tell you that I'm giving up Facebook for a month because it's simply next on my monthly list of "discipline projects" or I could be <span style="font-style: italic;">superholy</span> and say that I'm "Surrendering" Facebook, maybe even call it a "fast" - I suppose those things are true, but only half-true.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I check Facebook a lot. </span><br /><br />At work, at home, on my phone - straight up - I check it all the time. And, after some pausing and introspection, I really can't figure out why. Maybe it's the same reason we all check it constantly, checking in on "our world" - or worse, some kind of post-modern indulgence - counting comments and nods like flair or checkmarks of affirmation.<br /><br />Whatever it is, it's become unhealthy for me and it's going away for a month - at least.<br /><br />So, besides not knowing what 430 people are doing everyday, or who (still) hates Mondays - or which of my old students are working their way towards drinking problems, I'm excited for this month's abstinence. But abstaining for the sake of abstaining isn't enough, is it? Whatever's been given up, needs an interim (de)vice to fill it's void, to align the wayward compass or the whole meaning of sacrifice is lost.<br /><br />So, I will turn to writing, or reading, or simply being silent and wonderfully disengaged.<br /><br />I've already turned my attention to next month's discipline project, and I've decided I don't want to do it alone. Anyone want to give something up for a month, or better - DO something consistently, everyday for a full 30 days? Let's brainstorm, let's change our lives, lets live better, fuller, deeper stories.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-27143585650572080002010-04-26T21:54:00.000-07:002010-04-28T08:43:57.813-07:00Live in love and let the world know why.I met a woman while shopping tonight. Well, by "met" I mean she checked me out and bagged my items. And by "shopping" I mean... Ok I was at Wal-Mart. <br /><br />Debra was her name, I wanted to ask if she shortened it from "Deborah" - to rid herself of the baggage that comes with unnecessary consonants. "That's very phonetic of you" I wanted to say. But I didn't. <br /><br />On her vest, next to "Debra" was a much more prominent pin that spelled "JESUS" in jewels. Probably Bedazzled, if I had to guess. I wondered if management ever confronted her regarding the amount of real estate it claimed on her vest. I wondered what Debra would tell them if they had. But I suppose no one would mistakenly call her Jesus instead of Debra. <br /><br />I was fourth or so in line and as I studied Debra I'd hear her salutation as she finished with each customer's process. "Blessings" she'd say to one. Or "have a blessed night" to another. As my turn approached I speculated about what she'd tell me, like a man entering a doctor's office or fortune teller's....tent. <br /><br />"Maybe Debra knows." - was everything I could think. "She knows I lied at work today." or "Look at this white boy, down in the ghetto looking for deals on whey protein and power steering fluid." I'd not yet spoken a word to Debra, but I was desperate for her endorsement. <br /><br />The register beeped a cold digital rhythm as she processed my goods. Some car stuff, some wine I'd bought for $7.24 just to make a statement (I'd seen the same bottle sell for $30.00 a day earlier.) the aforementioned whey protein and some various necessities. They scanned through and I broke the silence. <br /><br />"How's your night going?" I asked, a hint of sheepishness cracked my lips. <br /><br />"It's great." She said, all teeth and smile. "I'd never complain. Did you just come from the gym?" - I had indeed, and I was ecstatic that she had sent my conversational serve back over the net. <br /><br />"It's a beautiful night" she continued. "That'll be $36.42."<br /><br />I'd walked in 20 minutes earlier lamenting the fact that I was entering a Wal-Mart; even more disappointed in the fact that I even live near the low-price leader. If I'm honest, I felt superior to the situation; that my lot in life was certainly higher than congregating around pregnant teens and poor families and discount groceries. <br /><br />But Debra, who pinned the name of Jesus to her breast as an announcement of identity; used every opportunity to speak Love into each pregnant teen and poor family that came through her line. I don't have to visit again to know that everybody who chooses her lane will receive the same benediction. In the best way possible (through love) it confronted me with the opportunities (or opportunities I miss) each day to speak love into someone's life. Not only love, but Love - in the name of Jesus. Straight up. <br /><br />That's the goal of our lives isn't it? The great commission and all of that. To live in love, and let the world know why. There's some kind of perfection in every single minute and I want to live truly and lean into these minutes like favorite poems or tall, swaying trees. <br /><br />I swiped my card and entered my PIN number. Debra handed me the receipt. <br /><br />"Be blessed" she told my eyes. <br /><br />And I was.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-81527655934751642302010-02-27T15:23:00.000-08:002010-02-27T16:09:04.582-08:00"I was chasin' something, but I wasn't sure just what"I saw this a month or two ago, it was one of those transcendent moments that don't happen as often as I'd like.<br /><br /><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vm4F_n2T_Eg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vm4F_n2T_Eg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="340" width="560"></embed></object><br /><br />For me, this song might rate up there with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJbz5HaKCJc">Cannonball</a> as one of the best ever written.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-38133324980132148232010-02-06T16:49:00.000-08:002010-02-06T17:50:48.935-08:00A Hangover from Memory Lane.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGd_c4zXl14fQfK_xnkg_9FYnh7Mi6rNCc4ZV8load_HF5_3Hdlj4pyWE5nJXY_tnh9IxwIjX0_nWyT_bETb7T2sMWBYANh6_FtO3K8vDa7zLQKwJnCnbhaSFfmdq6cbMZVj00/s1600-h/Whale+Tail"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGd_c4zXl14fQfK_xnkg_9FYnh7Mi6rNCc4ZV8load_HF5_3Hdlj4pyWE5nJXY_tnh9IxwIjX0_nWyT_bETb7T2sMWBYANh6_FtO3K8vDa7zLQKwJnCnbhaSFfmdq6cbMZVj00/s200/Whale+Tail" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435301467014142834" border="0" /></a><br />I used to be in a band. A few actually. And they were good, actually.<br /><br />It's strange and surreal and somewhat painful to look back into those memories. I've kind of locked them away and given the keys to 4 other guys. And only on rare occasions, inebriated by nostalgia, do we open the locked cabinets and drink from them.<br /><br />By the time I'd graduated high-school we had 3 recordings out under three different band names. We'd changed members only once, for the most part, the core of us remained forged. By my first year of college, we had been in talks with a few record labels, and I had all but dropped out of my second semester - missing so many classes to record our first (what would be our only) full-length record. That summer, we set out on tour.<br /><br />MTV feeds our fantasies with visions of two-story busses that pick band members up from their Gatsby-esque mansions, our reality picked us up from our parents' houses in a 1986 conversion van clocking around 218,000 miles on the odometer. One troubled tour began with us breaking down 1/2 mile from setting off from my house. Literally, five minutes after hugging my parents and loosely promising to send postcards, I was calling them to come to the rescue of our sorry situation. I'd never once doubted that we'd be fine. And so, we were.<br /><br />I have a lot of memories of these summers, the best probably coming from the first stop on our first tour ever. We'd been booked in Yuma, Arizona. Aside from one (still) deeply depressing turnaround trip to Fresno, the band had never been on any adventure with more than one destination. We'd reached Yuma in a few hours. The van was smoking a little from inappropriate (see: not engine) places, and seemed to handle her maiden voyage with the effort of a moderately healthy octogenarian. The city is dusty, or at least I remember it being dusty. Plenty of wind and Mexicans; we were absolutely alive. As we stopped and began to unload the only guitars we had, and the equipment we'd be sharing with <a href="http://asilaydying.com/">another band</a> for the next two months, a kid about my age approached me.<br /><br />He was wearing one of our shirts.<br /><br />The thing is, we didn't have shirts. We had arranged some last-minute screen printing and were due to pick them up in a city or two down the schedule. He had <span style="font-style: italic;">made</span> his own Falling Cycle shirt. In Arizona. Hundreds of miles from the suburban bedroom where I'd sit for hours in my underwear creating parts to his "favorite songs." To this day, the reality of this does not make any sense to me.<br /><br />He thanked us for coming to Arizona, and I thanked him too, for coming. We played that night to probably 30 people; it is still one of the proudest moments of my life.<br /><br />This is a (horrible) video from our last show ever, almost exactly 6 years ago. Another one of the proudest moments of my life.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">EDIT</span>: Someone at about 3:22 yells "What the hell is going on?" - a great question my anonymous friend. After 6 years, I still don't know, either.<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/U_y5K8hnlZM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/U_y5K8hnlZM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-45323138615263367172010-01-24T22:08:00.000-08:002010-01-24T22:43:01.413-08:00I have to do something. I do not want to do it. I need strength and grace. Maybe peace will come.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-24543006389451299922010-01-14T23:05:00.000-08:002010-01-14T23:25:10.358-08:00Enter: BeautyIt's been a hard few months.<br /><br />It’s not that I’m bad with the truth, it just comes slower for me. The abrasion of transparency is too easily avoidable, and while I’m sure it’s been apparent to my closest friends, I haven’t been on the up-and-up as of late.<br /><br />Personally, and probably too honestly, the last few months have been dark for me. For a few weeks, I was sure that God had grown dim in my heart. For a few days, I knew I had wandered too far outside of his grace. And for a few terrifying hours, I wondered if there was a God at all. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe</span>" I thought, "<span style="font-style: italic;">my western paradigm needs a convenient creation tale to sate the ugly questions and my fragile consciousness needs a story to believe that explains why, for some reason, we all feel orphaned in some way."</span> Truly, it felt dark and wholly unnatural, like breathing underwater. If I'm honest, my lungs are still sore.<br /><br />The doubt came in the desert. A dry and dusty few months with as little spiritual life as the terrain suggests. I’d been working constantly and was overwhelmed with obligations. I wasn’t sure what hours He kept, but my schedule never seemed to sync with God’s. Our shoulders would brush, and surely he was ready to talk, but honestly, I didn’t have the time.<br /><br />Enter: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Beauty</span>.<br /><br />Oh, Beauty. A notion as sincere as the sun and probably just as old. I have been confronted lately with the almost tangible and ubiquitous truth in beauty. I would argue that everyone, at some moment (hopefully many moments) has experienced some level of unmistakable beauty. No matter how often we overlook or avoid it, It is, for must of us, a regularity. But why is anything beautiful? A rocky coast and angry waves have very little evolutionary value, but I’d dare anyone to dismiss them as unremarkable. What good is it to be reminded of our fragility, and why does it stir into us something like wonder, rather than paralyzing fear (and, truly a wonderful mixture of each?) Beauty adjusts our compasses; it drives us northward.<br /><br />It is laughter and pain (in equal, liberal doses) that forges bonds into brotherhood. It is joy that unites lovers and it is love that confirms them. The heart of God seems so full with desire that to ignore ours is probably the only way to walk in the opposite direction of Him. I'm learning that it's good to feel small, to measure ourselves against the bigness of a God so good He uses beauty, not codes or commandments, to fill our sails, to drive us northward, towards Himself.<br /><br />It's so easy to live in an existence that feels determined by me, but living this way, is it any wonder I feel helpless, anxious, lifeless? Like a ship sinking from stilled seas, I need wind and I need waves and I need to plunge into the blue every so often, if only to see it’s terrible and beautiful depth.<br /><br />And to remind ourselves, that the pool of grace is deeper than we can dive.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-10557802448287997402010-01-09T16:38:00.001-08:002010-01-12T11:59:53.333-08:00On Coasting and Climbing.A few years ago, I launched a mission to engage myself in the most uncomfortable situations possible. I actively sought the awkward. You had a place I didn't want to be? I'd go with you. You've got a person I didn't want to meet? I'd get their number (This didn't turn out well.) Reluctance became routine. The results were as expected, a full year of goosebumps, pocket-hands and <del>witty</del> banter. But, more importantly I've been blessed with a few new friendships and mentors I now wouldn't trade for anything. I also became an expert at moving furniture. It's very much like tetris.<br /><br />I'm taking a similar approach this season, this time focusing on finishing things. It doesn't have to be indulging in a passion or driving the final nail into some life-changing project, but I think the challenge itself will change my life. And, it will be difficult.<br /><br />I've always been excellent at starting things. From reports to relationships, the best part is the beginning. The part where you're swept into inspiration and the conversation flows naturally, and you think "this is how it should be." But I'm realizing that the beginning stages of anything are supposed to feel like beginning stages, and the hard, determined middle-stages have a feeling all their own. And the final stages are even better (so I hear.) My downfall is expecting the latter stages to feel as euphoric as the beginning. <span style="font-style: italic;">But coasting downhill can only take you into valleys. </span>I'm learning that maybe there's a beauty in climbing out of them.<br /><br />If I'm honest, I'm afraid of finishing. I'm afraid that I'll have to own the results, stand next to them; speak on their behalf. What if they aren't good enough? What if no one cares? But I'm tired of that and I'm tired of justifying my failure to finish.<br /><br />I guess I'm learning that there is no climax without conflict. Here's to finishing things, starting with this blog.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-88591617405126439832010-01-04T19:54:00.000-08:002010-01-05T11:24:39.325-08:00On WritingOkay. I’ll do it.<br /><br />I've given myself permission to write. And it's terrifying.<br /><br />And here’s my promise. I'll only write from the deep part; the true part.<br /><br />I remember that old myth before it was ruined by medical shows or friends in nursing school; the old yarn that told us our blood was actually blue while in our body, and only turns red when exposed to oxygen. Writing for me is proving that myth false or else watching my blue blood become red. My skin is cold and dry so I'll have to dig into the deep veins. I'm learning life is<span style="font-style: italic;"> not</span> best lived from the deep parts.<br /><br />It's <span style="font-style: italic;">only </span>lived from the deep parts. We are orphans anywhere else.<br /><br />I've had some kind of affair with writing for a few years now. Some days, I'm gifted. Some days, I wonder if maybe English was my second language. Most days, though, writing feels like owing money to God. He’s a big benevolent bill collector and upon non-payment His whispers become wails, and his chasing becomes chastising. Honestly, it feels terrible to ignore God. But it's beautiful, because it's nothing like guilt.<br /><br />It feels something like being shipped off to a foreign country where the language sounds familiar, but it’s not. You get by for awhile with lots of nodding and pointing, but ultimately you’re left hungry and can’t find the bathroom. Writing has felt much this way for me. It's been both catharsis and chaos. But it’s good, and it’s important and I have to believe in it.<br /><br />I guess this is how I know that God is good; that we are pursued by our desires, we are hunted by passions. To me, this begs the existence of some kind of adventurous, persistent, desiring and beautiful creator who travels unreasonable distances to display something profound, leaving us surrendered and exhausted, arrested and whole.<br /><br />So this year, I will write. It feels a little like dancing and fighting at the same time, but I really hope you will read it. And while I hope it's more dancing than fighting, I have to go where the blood is.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-83914148728813737472009-11-14T10:53:00.000-08:002009-11-14T10:58:54.102-08:00Stream of consciousness and a conversation with oneself.Sometimes we sit there, our hands held, yours warm and smooth and mine, rough from wringing. A little clammy in late in the evening.<br />The only real lines I've drawn have been crooked and almost always circle back to me. Nothing real or permanent and no canvas to paint. I cannot paint if I do not leave, but still, I have several books to write and no more than several sentences. A world that celebrates potential is a world that stops and starts with the impetus of genius. <span style="font-style: italic;">That sentence is meaningless.</span><br /><br />These geneses of genius.<br /><br />And perhaps we too were fiction, <span style="font-style: italic;">don't go back and add commas. </span>She lived a story written beautifully, perfect grammar and structure. There was no plot or capture, no story or support. She was endlessly edited, and I, all painted self and broad strokes, I'm overdrawn and indebted.<br /><br />Oh God, with what great oneness you've designed us, that we would compass this globe in all of our errant ways and still, to find bits of you swimming like small magnets in all of our blood. And when, upon encounter with another, we feel drawn - some mad electric swell that tells us that we're made of the same stuff. <span style="font-style: italic;">No more digressions, and close your mouth when writing. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Now, look away from the screen. </span><br /><br />Don't tell them anything, says the bad man. But my hands are clams, clodding away at some kind of computer and compulsion towards half-hearted alliteration. Sometimes, I just try to conjugate words and leave it to Mr. Macintosh to tell me what's what. That's how I discovered "didacticism." What a stupid word for a first year college kid. But it worked, didn't it? Getting A's was never hard for me, it's all about focus, but I had none. So, I would memorize big great words and ask important ancillary questions so the teacher would think I was really on to something.<br /><br />And, indeed I was. I was wondering why the steel on the side of the chair felt so cold in such a warm classroom. And I was hot on the wild trail of speculation. See, the woman next to me was married and I heard her make mention of a few kids at home. But she leaned in real close to the guy next to her when they spoke. Now, there was nothing illicit, I understand that, but maybe things weren't great at home. Or maybe, she misses the attention of men, or maybe they were just in the long boring afternoon of their marriage.<br /><br />So, to compensate, for thinking about everything in the classroom (everything but the lesson.) I memorized good words. Great words that I'm now embarrassed to know, and all of them I won't mention here. I've always cared more for the question than the answer. Sometimes writing is too honest, too base and too cold. <span style="font-style: italic;">I wish self-actualization had more tact. </span><br /><br />That's how I maintained a decent GPA despite learning almost nothing.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-6719759401802044002009-10-12T23:41:00.000-07:002009-10-12T23:45:34.290-07:00Who is Jesus?Napoleon asks "Who is Jesus?"<br /><br /><blockquote>Well then, I will tell you. Alexander, Caesar, Charlemagne and I myself have founded great empires;<span style="font-style: italic;"> but upon what did these creations of our genius depend? Upon force. Jesus alone founded His empire upon love, </span>and to this very day millions will die for Him.... I think I understand something of human nature; and I tell you, all these were men, and I am a man: none else is like Him; Jesus Christ was more than man.... I have inspired multitudes with such an enthusiastic devotion that they would have died for me.... but to do this it was necessary that I should be visibly present with the electric influence of my looks, my words, of my voice. When I saw men and spoke to them, I lighted up the flame of self-devotion in their hearts.... Christ alone has succeeded in so raising the mind of man toward the unseen, that it becomes insensible to the barriers of time and space. Across a chasm of eighteen hundred years, Jesus Christ makes a demand which is beyond all others to satisfy; He asks for that which a philosopher may seek in vain at the hands of his friends, or a father of his children, or a bride of her spouse, or a man of his brother. He asks for the human heart; He will have it entirely to Himself. He demands it unconditionally; and forthwith His demand is granted. Wonderful! In defiance of time and space, the soul of man, with all its powers and faculties, becomes an annexation to the empire of Christ. All who sincerely believe in Him, experience that remarkable, supernatural <a id="KonaLink3" target="undefined" class="kLink" style="text-decoration: underline ! important; position: static;" href="http://www.trap17.com/index.php/Napoleon39s-Words_t26006.html#"><span style="color: rgb(0, 150, 0) ! important; font-weight: 400; position: static;font-family:Verdana,Arial,Calibri,Tahoma,Trebuchet,Sans-Serif,MS,Georgia,Courier,Times New Roman,Serif;font-size:12;" ><span class="kLink" style="color: rgb(0, 150, 0) ! important; font-weight: 400; position: static;font-family:Verdana,Arial,Calibri,Tahoma,Trebuchet,Sans-Serif,MS,Georgia,Courier,Times New Roman,Serif;font-size:12;" ></span></span></a>love toward Him. This phenomenon is accountable; it is altogether beyond the scope of man's creative powers. Time, the great destroyer, is powerless to extinguish this sacred flame; time can neither exhaust its strength nor put a limit to its range. This is it, which strikes me most; I have often thought of it. This is which proves to me quite convincingly the Divinity of Jesus Christ.</blockquote>Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-84797389595444390022009-10-11T20:26:00.000-07:002009-10-11T20:28:20.020-07:00Straight from Wild at Heart Notes"I want grey hair and a well-worn ring on my left hand. I want a brood of boys living lives unbroken - lives whole and complete and initiated. I want a wife of character and beauty - a deep well of discernment. And I want to rescue her everyday for the rest of my life."Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-36146823362353289172009-10-02T21:44:00.000-07:002009-10-04T22:12:46.297-07:00Wild at Heart - 2009Why is it so easy to ignore my heart? Life functions normally, mechanically - safely, but in it I find no life at all. I construct a safe workweek filled with obligations and the occasional celebration but each day I ignore my heart.<br /><br />Truthfully, I don't need wisdom, I need the will to move boldly in the direction of faith.<br /><br />I'm still processing as my thoughts and experiences are bucking their way into my long-term as I try to corral them. It's tough this time, the fog is thicker.<br /><br />If the theme to last year's trip was "Name" - knowing my name, understanding my name, believing that God even has one for me beyond the one I've created on my own - this one was "Family." It seemed that each quiet time, God was dragging the lake of my family convictions. Fragments of my own family experiences made their way into almost every quiet time. I saw experiences I had completely forgotten about (repressed?) both good and bad and I'm starting to allow myself to believe that growing up straddling two lives in two different states isn't normal.<br /><br />What I'm beginning to process is something on the edge of profound. I hope to unpack (maybe publicly) what that means for me and I'm hoping God feels the same way. Who knows, maybe I'll post something straight from my notes. But that might be too personal.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-21107294665498946442009-09-02T14:32:00.000-07:002009-09-02T14:33:08.305-07:00Ruined<div class="entry"> <div class="snap_preview"><p>We would rather be ruined than changed,<br />We would rather die in our dread<br />Than climb the cross of the moment<br />And let our illusions die.</p> <p>— W. H. Auden</p><p><br /></p><p>True on so many levels.<br /></p> </div> </div>Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-26267360473887148182009-08-17T07:09:00.000-07:002009-08-17T08:50:43.513-07:00Finding Truth in Alien Movies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVss51dSkjanCqp0WfarDIN0RYJNmCOLXvCXaIgXjKjVGcz06i2Jpirf0COBgDenoss3ii0yI7rdkk3cFheqYD9O4JpaYg4WlhCpovt02ld8Xy3zSsjd4xUF2gD56-hJebcxEO/s1600-h/Alien+in+District+9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 163px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVss51dSkjanCqp0WfarDIN0RYJNmCOLXvCXaIgXjKjVGcz06i2Jpirf0COBgDenoss3ii0yI7rdkk3cFheqYD9O4JpaYg4WlhCpovt02ld8Xy3zSsjd4xUF2gD56-hJebcxEO/s200/Alien+in+District+9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370949979349041426" border="0" /></a>For reasons I'm still digesting, 'District 9' might be the most important movie of the year.<br /><br />I'm an amateur critic at best, but I know what makes a movie. 'District 9' combines all of the right elements to fashion something wholly true out of something wholly alien. Although the movie draws from a deep well of traditional action-movie standards (see: cursing, vaporizing aliens/humans, screaming) it reads like a moving war documentary, one you know is simultaneously indecent and incredibly true.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The actors won't win awards, but not because they weren't great.</span> They were. Mostly because, (with the exception of the chinstrap-sporting badguy) throughout the movie, you really forgot they were actors. There were no dramatic monologues or one-liners agonized over by geniuses in the writing room. They were human (and alien) extensions of our reality. I think this is the central theme to the film.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">The movie is terrifying, but not because of the aliens.</span> </span>I'm used to the alien antagonist, the inexplicably blood-drunk extra-terrestrial hellbent on human eradication. Those kinds of evils are safe, distanced. This movie was not. The evils in 'District 9' were found not unlikely futuristic circumstances, but in the truth of ruthlessness, which is far more transcendent.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This was a "drive home in silence" kind of movie.</span> </span>If you saw the movie with a few people, you might note the deflated sighs and general "it's hard to talk with a 50 pound weight on your chest" vibe 'round the auto.<br /><br />I didn't dare reach for distraction.<br /><br />I realize this is a vague and spotty review at best. But like I said, I'm still processing the movie; still digesting. It's like I prayed for 2 hours while eating the largest meal of my life. The 50 pound weight is getting a little lighter, but much of it is still there. And for some reason, I'm not ready for it to go away.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-4357220652346139162009-08-05T23:06:00.000-07:002009-08-05T23:22:07.594-07:00High CoupPathetic poems<br />Tough to do well, works in pinch<br />Learned in seventh gradeSeanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-37162783944943641382009-08-04T23:01:00.000-07:002009-08-05T08:35:42.962-07:00Tonight's WarEach of these<br />Small, sweaty soldiers,<br />bruised and battle-worn<br />All anxious and subject to deletion.<br /><br />At the mercy of their boy-general<br />Drunk on his own idealism.<br />He pushes them into battle,<br />Untrained and unarmed.<br /><br />But If they could peel themselves from the page<br />They would<br />gather their own twelve-point uprising 99 soldiers strong<br />All these letters, with hyphens drawn<br />And small period grenades.<br /><br />Would launch themselves upon me<br />For my misdirection and brazen indiscretion<br />A mutiny upon me, their battle cry echoes quiet and clear<br />"What did you think this would take?<br />Ambition alone does not a poet make!"Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-22568676436646220772009-08-03T23:27:00.000-07:002009-08-04T08:59:17.081-07:00The Artificial HeartBusy beats the artificial heart<br />Calculated and perfect<br />Efficient and profitable<br /><br />Thank god we've replaced<br />the One he was born with.<br />What with all of its inconsistencies<br /><br />Soaring and racing and sinking<br />Like mad water birds<br />The kind you watch for hours.<br /><br />Busy beats the artificial heart<br />No longer flesh<br />Now, strong, even and cool.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-14261361203912846932009-08-01T21:47:00.000-07:002009-08-02T11:47:59.851-07:00The Old ManThere is an old man singing<br />Singing to no one and also everyone.<br />He's as blind as lady justice<br />And probably just as old.<br /><br />He might have been strong once,<br />Before the music<br />And his incessant talking<br /><br />But now, he sits stooped over bourbon<br />Singing and singing and singing<br />To no one and to everyone and to me<br /><br />He might have been strong once<br />But probably never this happy.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-85272003467000482482009-07-26T22:58:00.000-07:002009-07-26T23:00:11.170-07:00Dancing Toward Bethlehem"Dancing Towards Bethlehem"<br /><br />If there is only enough time in the final<br />minutes of the 20th century for one last dance<br />I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,<br />say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.<br />My palm would press into the small of your back<br /><br />as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile<br />of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,<br />just as the floor of the 19th century gave way<br />and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.<br /><br />There will be no time to order another drink<br />or worry about what was never said,<br />not with the orchestra sliding into the sea<br />and all our attention devoted to humming<br />whatever it was they were playing. " <br /> —<span style="text-decoration: underline;">Billy Collins</span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/438.Billy_Collins" class="authorNameRegular" title="view all quotes by Billy Collins"><br /></a>Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-45444921598973639312009-07-01T22:56:00.000-07:002009-07-01T23:11:22.218-07:00A lover neglected.I have twelve followers. Twelve people who have chosen to be notified of whenever I update.<br /><br />To you, I apologize for my tenuous relationship with writing. Truthfully, it's a lover neglected in lieu of employment, it's the friend who's let too much time creep in between visits. It's the tough phone call I've been meaning to make.<br /><br />I need prayer, I do. Blogging (and the internet in general) has a propensity of increasing the melodrama, but truthfully, I need prayer. It's so easy to lose our heart in the day-to-day. I don't think it's ever a sudden loss of heart, but the sudden <span style="font-style: italic;">realization</span> of it's loss. Like, one day we wake up to find a mirror full of wrinkles and and resume full of excellent references.<br /><br />But, the heart is the matter isn't it? It must be found and fought for and protected. I truly believe that it's there where hope is and it follows that it's there where the greatest assault must be. Consequently, it's there, in that assault where I find myself.<br />I need prayer.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-90766047157101278152009-06-10T09:17:00.001-07:002009-06-10T12:24:28.070-07:00On Teaching.Today marks my last day with students in the classroom. I've resisted the impending last-day nostalgia so far, though I suspect in a month or two it will creep in and I'll spend four days in continuous cringing at memories of lame jokes and accidental culturally insensitive remarks. But, there will be far more to be proud of.<br /><br />Starting a new job on Monday feels like I'm getting divorced on Friday and remarried to an entirely new woman next week. I'll have the weekend to process and grieve. Really though, she's not new. She's who I've known and thought about for the past few years, it's a comfortable fit, though I'm still a little nervous; I wonder if our hands will still fit together the same way.<br /><br />Teaching, for me, has transcended traditional connotation of "employment." It's been a vacation from the social expectations of "job." I can say without hesitation that there hasn't been a day I've dreaded coming in.<br /><br />To be sure, I probably haven't been a real teacher, something more of an observer getting paid and treated like a real teacher. I'm much more interested in conversation and inspiration than curriculum and grading. Probably not the stuff of real teachers.<br /><br />I think I've cheated the system. I know honestly that I've learned more than I've taught. When I think about it, most of the past two years flashes before me like a movie-montage set to bad (Read: Awesome) 80's music. I'm going to work on capturing as many memories as possible before they're stolen by time and coming priorities.<br /><br />Some of the most profound realizations:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They're smarter than me. </span>Any teacher would be amiss to think that students are the only ones learning. I learn from 150+ people a day. Each student has a story. Some good, some bad but these stories are, for the most part, true. To not learn from that would be an exponential waste of time.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">They Remember.</span> I remember halfway through last year, a student repeated a phrase I used on the<span style="font-style: italic;"> first day of school</span>. That moment changed me. He never knew the impact, after all, he was just being a good student, but it was defining for me. God used that moment in ways neither I nor that student can fully understand. Our words matter.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Teaching is hard. </span>Teaching is freaking hard. Teaching is seriously hard. But it's big and it's good and it's worth it. I honestly feel that after this, I'll be fine anywhere.<br /><br />These memories are mine. They're my story now. I've been in excellent company for the past two years, and it's tough to put words to exactly how undeserving I am, so I'll be quiet and thankful.Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-42167628384606514142009-05-26T09:19:00.000-07:002009-05-26T10:09:20.470-07:00Durham Range of Emotion<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvWo7_ISbmgtzl7UhlZujbuGGN8VDyDCUFxtsPdhT-liUsEf8eGqtcQYIuxTilUk6oO_wdf2GXbjzfdKJqSdCGymS0rPodG3vZGmEl90fGC_PHPdXvQBzOMk9d2lB_cyBnq0S3/s1600-h/Arrow.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvWo7_ISbmgtzl7UhlZujbuGGN8VDyDCUFxtsPdhT-liUsEf8eGqtcQYIuxTilUk6oO_wdf2GXbjzfdKJqSdCGymS0rPodG3vZGmEl90fGC_PHPdXvQBzOMk9d2lB_cyBnq0S3/s320/Arrow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340179607037465170" border="0" /></a><br /><br />If this were my group therapy session, what insights would you offer?Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14226380.post-80994184468561145482009-04-24T11:55:00.001-07:002009-04-24T12:02:03.804-07:00One is Not Bold in an Encounter with God.One of the most beautiful quotes I've ever read. I <strike>teared up</strike> cried the first time I found this in <span style="font-style: italic;">'The Ragamuffin Gospel'</span> by Brennan Manning. Coincidentally, one of the best books I've ever read.<br /><br />The quote is from Richard Selzer, a doctor who wrote a memoir called <span style="font-style: italic;">'Mortal Lessons.' </span>Manning uses the quote to metaphor our own palsy in relation to our God, and how he twists his lips to kiss ours.<br /><br />Wow.<br /><br /><blockquote>"I stand by the bed where a young woman lies, her face, postoperative, her mouth twisted in palsy, clownish. A tiny twig of the facial nerve, the one to the muscles of her mouth has been severed. She will be thus from now on. The surgeon had followed with religious fervor the curve of her flesh; I promise you that. Nevertheless, to remove he tumor in her cheek, I had to cut the little nerve.<br /><br />Her young husband is in the room. He stands of the opposite side of the bed and together they seem to dwell in the evening lamplight, isolated from me, private. Who are they, I ask myself, he and this wry mouth I have made, who gaze at and touch each other so generously, greedily? the young woman speaks<br /><br />"Will my mouth always be like this?" she asks.<br /><br />"Yes," I say, "It will. It is because the nerve was cut."<br /><br />She nods and is silent. But the young man smiles.<br /><br />"I like it," He says, "it is kind of cute."<br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">All at once i </span><i style="font-weight: bold;">know </i><span style="font-weight: bold;">who he is. I understand and I lower my gaze. One is not bold in an encounter with God. Unmindful, he bends to kiss her crooked mouth and I am so close I can see how he twists his own lips to accommodate to hers, to show her that their kiss still works."</span></blockquote>Seanerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00837488852947600685noreply@blogger.com3