I guess so, having once worked as a nude figure model for a college art class. 

I love looking at pictures of myself, but don’t like actually being photographed–I get all stiff and self-conscious.

   

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I’d like to address an issue that few seem to care about these days–honesty, and the lack thereof.  Look around–the administration  in Washington lied many times about Iraq in many ways, and continues to do so.  Public figures, not just politicians, lie about their behavior.  Companies lie about their profits, and advertisers lie about their products.  A survey last year indicated that the average American male will tell three lies in the course of a ten-minute conversation.  Women lie, too, but for different reasons–men lie to make themselves look good; women lie to keep relationships going smoothly.  All of this is, I think, deplorable, and still more evidence–as if any more were needed–of the decline of what we laughingly call civilization.  It wasn’t always this way.

Satan–one of the more useful metaphors of the Judeo-Christian mythos–was once called the Father of Lies.  Someone  once wrote that to tell a lie was the greatest sin–not that “sin” is part of my reality, but it is, like the mythical Satan, a useful figure of speech.  George Washington is said to have never told a lie, but this was itself a lie, perpetrated by one of his biographers. Me–I don’t lie.  Not as a rule, anyway.  To the best of my knowledge and recollection, I  thoughtlessly told one lie this year–to my wife, and recanted the next day.  And this bothers me every time I think about it.  But as a rule, I don’t lie.  At the risk of sounding arrogant, it is simply beneath me.  No one and nothing is worth my lowering myself so.  To do so would chip away at my hard-won integrity and self-esteem.

I wasn’t always this way, so I must confess to having the zeal of the recently converted in this area.  I grew up with an alcoholic father, who lied as naturally as breathing.  I learned to lie at an early age.  Lying was safer than telling the truth.  Years later, I worked in public relations–for the  government of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania–and thus was not only a liar, but a professional liar.  I was one of those people who told the public that there was nothing to worry about when Three Mile Island darn near melted down.  I was one of the people who participated in the Legionnaires’ Disease coverup.  Later, I was given a comfortable sinecure in return for keeping quiet about some gross illegalities the governor’s office perpetrated. And still later, as a street peddler in the tourist-trap town of Talkeetna, I told tourists that the hematite necklaces made in China that I sold were ,in fact, handmade in Alaska.  The profit was great, but the cost to my soul was greater.

Fairly recently, I transcended most of my addictions, and got serious about becoming a decent human being.  The process included a great deal of painful–and honest–soul-searching therapy.  Today, I spend time on a daily basis in reading, prayer and meditation with the aim of furthering my spiritual growth.  My goal is nothing less than spiritual perfection, and I aspire to  attain it at some point during this lifetime.  I do this not in fear of some nonexistent afterlife punishment, or in hopes of some equally nonexistent afterlife reward. I do this because I accept that it is my job to create myself, to live up to my greatest and grandest and most noble conception of myself.  Anything less just won’t do.

My intent is to create a heaven on earth for myself and those I come in contact with, on a daily basis.  Some days I manage it; some  days I don’t.  Some days I am radiantly happy, despite living with pain, poverty and disability.  When I am  less than radiant, I don’t kid myself, or anyone else.  This causes awkward moments, however.  Like in a checkout line–the clerk says brightly “How are you?” and I  might reply–honestly–”Terrible. Thanks for asking.”

Nothing.

Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, and it should not be encouraged.

   

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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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