April, 1965. ‘Twas the Year of the (Wood) Snake, according to Chinese astrology, when an Aries male appeared in a smallish town in upstate New York, a modestly short jog from Pennsylvania’s north-central border and a wee bit further from the famed Finger Lakes in the center of the state’s lush and hilly emergent Spring greenery. After more than five decades roaming the planet with reckless abandon while foraging about for love, purpose, and peace, the nearly exhausted, overweight, malcontent found his calling – or rather attended to it now.
Writing. Living a life as a serious writer. Because now that’s what I actually do, as opposed to contemplating such a life. Oh, sure, I have a pension and I also drive people around so as to survive the long, lonely, and steep uphill slog. I don’t see myself staring at a blank page, with a bottle of whiskey and a loaded pistol, in the near future anyway.
My purpose in pursuing my passion is to share what I’ve lived, learned, and now think after sorting and distilling my often errant, twisted and not quite right-minded experiences.