User Profile

I was born into a very loving family. This inaugural dollop of good fortune has impacted me in ways that I am still uncovering, and probably will never fully and properly appreciate. Yes there was conflict and hardship and puberty, but I always knew that I was loved, and I am unendingly grateful to my parents and sisters for that. From my childhood and upbringing came my love of autumn and trees and winding roads and laughter and windy days and kitty cats and board games, of competition and fairness and science (fact and fiction), of music, reading, snow storms, thunder, very large rocks, mammoth piles of leaves, and that ozone smell just before it rains.

After high school, I joined the Army, an impulsive stab at placing entirely out of reach the familial shell within which I had lived for the entirety of my life. College could not have accomplished that so neatly; plus I was determined to exercise my newly acquired legal right to make my own life choices by doing anything other than what was expected of me. From my enlisted years, which I spent overseas, came a philosophy, a passion for knowledge, some healthy cynicism, some self-reliance, the first stirrings of some long-term purpose to my actions, a sizeable pile of bad writing, a slightly thicker skin, and the beginnings of what are turning out to be some life-long friendships.

My post-military years found me in Southern California and Arizona battling entropy at the very Front. I don't talk about this much any more because most people can't process the information without becoming defensive about their own death-obscuring mental constructs, and at some point years ago I realized I had to stop doing battle with everyone's biggest personal demon. But these were certainly the defining years of my life to date, marked by an indescribably astounding and mind-expanding barrage of new people, new concepts, new experiences, new ideas and opportunities, and revelations regarding life, death, and things not nearly so discrete.

Then came Black Sunday: the day I turned thirty. (I'll pause here a moment while you solemnly don your black armband.) I used to think that turning thirty was something that only happened to old people. Now I know the startling truth: it can happen to anybody, even the very young. Fact: If you gather up one hundred people at random from the U.S. population, several of them will be over thirty. They'll be the ones falling toward the rear of the pack at every loud noise, muttering grumpily and staring off into the middle distance while doing basic arithmetic on their fingers. I myself, in stark contrast, have handled the affliction with a combination of abrupt, panicky changes in lifestyle and hobbies and home environment, and erratic fluctuations in weight, eating habits, and overall fitness--i.e., basically just careening wildy from lane to lane on the highway of life, unnecessarily endangering myself and others. They tell me that this is healthier than striking people.

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