Recent Studies

A maddening descent into the biography of Aleister Crowley, an interesting mirror.

"A true vision is to awakenment as awakenment is to a dream; and a perfectly clear co-ordinate vision is so nearly perfect a Reality that words cannot be found in which to translate it."
-Aleister Crowley

Crowley exists in a world of his own mythology. His reality is his own creation. Perhaps this is true for all of us. Is your reality solely the product of your will and imagination?

Small Poems

GOOD MONKEY EAT RITUAL
Again
Silence preserves the air,
in absence, a square
the mall, kids, television
Silence sharing space
while our teeth clatter
silverware with
lunch at 5, dinner at 8
Staring,
The Biggest Mistake:
would be romantic if
I lit a candle
or maybe more
than echo


UNTITLED
There is blood running from his nose
he is a painting
self-analysis
leading self-loathing
to water, it drinks in sickening gulps

There is a stranger hanging from the cross
his frown is painfully reassuring
surely he suffers for me
I know him well for it

Your smile cannot be believed

it's teeth are precious
they resemble candies

The soul: a product that will never be created
Surely it would've been well marketed
we all bought in credit-card swiping fury
credit to money
as soul to body

Love, perhaps the most marketable product
but they refuse service
these thick-lipped market magicians
who so enjoy their imitations
as to herald them to be the imitated
as I watch it drip
Full, Pregnant, wings unfurled
from precious, candied lips

RISING
It's the
surface feel the texture
expanding
folding breathing

present

out of context
-----focus-----

present

on reset release

at last

forever---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

something

will find itself

wait precussive, grid-like moments

while it eats itself

alive

it is more alive

than it's ever been

between your precussive, grid-like teeth

Parent as God as Fundamental Reality

Father killed mother and tried to raise the kids all by himself. Father is old. He is dying. Goodbye Father. What shall the children do now that Mother and Father are gone? Shall they breath through eachother's mouths? Will they destroy the world? CAN THEY SURVIVE ON THEIR OWN? Those who understand pain, who else understands pleasure? Cuddling monkeys in silence all that a sleep-deprived brain and a fumbling heart could ask for. Silly monkey. There's a place in me that know about the place it should be. There's a place in me that knows of a place in me where no one ever speaks. There are pieces of me with incongruent symmetry that have been thrown away

About this JOB thing

So now I'm looking for a job. With someone who has no experience this won't be an easy taks. I have to struggle in order to get a job where I'll struggle to live my life in a cubicle where I'll struggle. I'm starting to not like the sound of this.

Old Poems Email

The one with the beard sent me some poetry that I wrote in his journal when he was in Hawaii with me:
Dear James,
Here is some your stuff, I thought I remember you wanted to see some of it. So in hopes that this make you remember softly
yours
sean callender
Sticky stained feet,
bloody swollen feet
achy fleshy meat, and broken rotten teeth
angry stomach grind, twisted broken spine
crazy brains to find jelous love of mine.
I can create worlds to live in the empty spaces betweenfriends are full of angry twisting semantic love gropingshaking to achieve a meaning beyond our sterilityand a word to help describe being burned alive lettingme consume the needy jealous stare that tore holes intothe night still hope we'll be alright just a little too lateand tight and drifting our of sight we might've been theseworlds only strong enought to stick to the repititionof a word whose feeling makes us sick but our eyes now speakthe ruth and our heart which will decieve now that our home iscold and distant and we know it's time to leave.

I am dancing with my feet in the air
spinning in circles in a gorgeous mess
I am dancing with my feet in the air
laughing at my fears and values
I am dancing with my feet in the air
Every time my body touches yours
Every time you look directly at me
Every Time I cannot be near you
Every time I laugh at what hurts me
I am dancing with my feet in the air
Sick of living sick of licking sick of living
You are living you are death you are life
And I'm a fool I'm a liar I'm a thief
Dancing on bloody broken feet

I don't think I get it
Not wait wait I do
But can't it wait
No wait it's you
I can't laugh now
Not suppose to
Should feel bad now
No wait I do
I think I'm strong
No wait it's you
Can't think straight
Don't want to

A summary of recent events

Icy winds of the north. So let this story begin at the ending. He's snapping, I guess he's taken too many mushrooms. He thinks he's Jesus, he's welcoming me to the feast. He's in the bathtub "Looking for the face of God." He's trying to drown himself in the bathtub. I'm fighting him and trying to get him to stop. He punches my face, I punch his face. The police are here, they've got their tazers out and there here to do business. The fire department is here, they're strapping him to a strecher. He's safely tucked away now, his anatomy ( did I mention he was naked?) hidden beneath a blanket, the only appendage not tied down is his head, he's swinging it in every direction looking for. . . .God, I have no idea what he want's anymore.
Next day I relate the story to a group of friends. An older man whose name I don't remember asks me why I tried to stop him. I tell him I don't know. He tells me that I have no right to decide that he should continue living if he doesn't want to. I tell him he's right.
Outside I see the man again and thank him for being forthcoming with me. He tells me that his wife committed suicide. She had even told him of her plan, and all he said to her was "Well, I love you but I can't stop you." Sometimes people know what they want and I guess you're not suppose to take that away from them. I would have asked her to stay. I wouldn't want my wife to kill herself. I guess my need transcends my love.
He went away after that, back to Honolulu. Tacoma becomes a cold and lonely city. I get visits from friends, one grew his beard out and I was relieved to see his smile. Now he's coming back, I hear rumors that he wants to do something different this time. Maybe he's over the idea of a commune, it certainly won't be any time soon. I get calls from his girlfriend telling me he's better. I have no idea what she means by that, I have no idea what she's doing over there in Hawaii with him. She called me last night, made me promise to go on an adventure with her when she 'get's back to Tacoma'. She doesn't know when she'll get here. I'm confused and irritated by the conversation, she keeps asking if it's alright if he comes too. I don't know, the last time I saw him we were trying to kill eachother. That feeling hasn't exactly left me, but I don't want him to think that I hate him. I've actively avoided thinking about it. Maybe I do.