I own a few pieces of Mary Ellen jasper containing fossils of primordial algea, somewhere between two and three billion years old.

As far as artifacts, I own a few Roman coins, some undated, some dated at around 500 C.E.

   

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I fear nothing.

Fear is our only enemy, but it can be transcended, despite the best efforts of the fear-mongering war criminals currently infesting the White House.

   

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You never heard of Randall Clevenger, a Gulf War veteran.  I never heard of him either–not until I read of his violent death.

From all acounts, he was your basic solid citizen–paid his taxes, never got in trouble, never so much as raised his voice in anger.  Then he served two terms in the Gulf War.  He never saw action, but while he was there, something happened–something died inside him.  A shaman might say he lost his soul.

Upon his return, he became violent, hostile, agitated.  He started using alcohol and other drugs heavily.  He became obsessed with weapons–”He sat around cleaning guns and sharpening knives,” a cousin told reporters.  A few months after his return, his newborn daughter died.  In 1995, he threatened to kill his wife if she ever left him, and threatened to kill himself.  In 1999, he assaulted a police officer, and had his knife collection confiscated–this was in  Missouri.

He moved to Alaska, got a job as a delicatessen worker, and the violence continued.  Both his wife and a neighbor asked for court protection from him in the form of restraining orders–six were sought, four granted.

All of this ended earlier this month.  On August 10, Clevenger advanced on police Sgt. Paul Hatch–who had responded to a domestic violence call–brandishing a sword.  Hatch repeatedly ordered him to drop the weapon.  Clevenger continued to advance, threatening the officer’s life.  Hatch shot him three times in the chest.

Now, at least, Clevenger is at peace.  But Paul Hatch will have to live with the killing for the rest of his life.  The local district attorney said the shooting was justified, but I think that Hatch will find small consolation in that during the many sleepless nights ahead.  Just one more–no, make that two more–victims of the senseless, not to say insane, wars being waged in the Middle East.

Attention must be paid.

Nothing.  Everything that has happened in my life happened for a reason, and was in my ultimate best interests.

There are no “mistakes,” no coincidences, no accidents.

   

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Why not?  The question assumes, incorrectly, that everyone is a slave to his or her genitals.

   

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In third grade, Vance Good and I were elected co-captains of the class magazine drive–high point  high point of my generally lousy childhood of my youth, next to some quality time spent in the shrubbery with a neighbor girl.

   

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Jimmy Carter–I think he would be most interesting to talk to.

   

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Twenty or thirty years of community service, working at an animal shelter.

   

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