Hello. My name is Trent Demarest, as you may or may not already know. You may have been wondering why I have been writing with a pseudonym, or you have just started to wonder. Whatever the case may be, it is the purpose of this page to explain my reasons.

I had a Facebook account for a very long time, but I decided to get rid of it in…2011 I think it was? Anyway, I didn’t like how much time I was spending online, and I didn’t like how Facebook seemed to exacerbate my temper. I found myself saying things to people that I would not ordinarily say to anyone — complete strangers, friends, acquaintances, it didn’t matter.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because I’ve definitely fallen into the same bad habits since starting a new Facebook account a lá Sven st-Claire. I wish that I could assure you that those days are over, but I cannot — the Old Adam is strong in me. All I can tell you is that I will try to curb my sharp tongue, think, and — if need be — pray before hitting “Submit” on my comments. (It’s harder to pray before hitting “Enter”, though — thanks, Facebook, for making it easier for all of us to be asses.) If you have been the victim of my spiteful words, I ask for your forgiveness.

So, why write with a pseudonym? The reason is simple: I don’t want friends from high school and college, other friends, random chums I’ve met elsewhere, etc., to connect with me on Facebook. I don’t want a Facebook search for “Trent Demarest” to turn up my profile. I’m not on Facebook for Facebook friendship. I’m on it to discuss and debate Lutheran theology. I’m not judging you if you use Facebook more conventionally. I just don’t really like it — again, largely because of my own bad habits. I don’t really like looking at pictures of people I don’t know, or even people that I do know, without them actually showing me the pictures personally. It makes me feel creepy. Perhaps you think this is weird — sorry! I am indeed weird; you will get no argument from me on that.

I understand if you suspect ulterior motives on my part. Maybe you think I just like to sling invective from behind a fake name. I won’t pretend that this wasn’t partially the case — I am, after all, a poor miserable sinner. But since it’s better to confess AND be exposed, just know that this was never my sole motive. Whatever I sling from now on, I will sling as Trent Demarest/Sven st-Claire.

Please feel free to address me as either Sven or Trent (or “a papist twice over who crucifies or murders Christ”, or “a real masterpiece of the devil’s art” or anything from this wonderful randomized list) in any subsequent online discussions that happen here, or on Facebook, or elsewhere. If you know me personally and want to call me Sven in real life, I guess I’m fine with that, but I’ll feel a little weird.

Please check out my other weblog if you so desire!





But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us — to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves —
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress’d.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well — but ’tis not true!
And then we will no more be rack’d
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day…

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