Shots fired on Wood St. and a scared-looking kid ran across our front lawn. Grace says she's calling the cops about the gun, but not on the kid because she doesn't want him killed by police. We think we live in a nice neighborhood but what does that mean? That our neighbors have a collection of wind socks and chimes on their front porch?

If I were a different story teller I might say I met the kid later in another context, befriended him and gained his trust, found out what was going on with that gun. Gave counsel.  I gave my own son an early birthday gift instead.

Chain smoking now on a nature walk around the yard, looking for rare wildflowers and trying to uncomplicate these feelings. I have three rules, none of which apply here. We have a door that could be easily kicked in. I am craving sunlight and craven.

To say I've been hassled by police is a stretch. Once, I was called "Tupac" by an officer at a roadblock because of my tattoos, but usually they just let me go with my fucked-up registration.

I'm reading a book about how the stegosaurus managed to have so much sex. The issue being all those spikes on their backs and tails, but you can find their bones everywhere. I'm also reading a book about the deep future, the coming wars over the Arctic and over the best windswept plains. But I don't feel doomed like I used to.

I once watched this NASCAR driver crash and flip and in the interview afterward he said, "Winning is one thing, but when will this all end." I feel his sentiment.

I'm still in the backyard, looking at the house. I believe, for no reason, that the kid and the gun will not reappear in my life—every hour  it seems more like a dream. I sweareth, here among these bright red wasps, violence can not be an answer.


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