All right, so here I am, sixty-four years old, standing in the jungle, spiders all around me, sweat trickling down my back and from under my armpits, but I still have the stamina to pose for the camera. This is me, the impulsive blogger, the novelist, the short-story dreamer, the questing intellectual. Now, by intellectual, I don't mean I think I'm particularly smart; I'm just interested in ideas--all sorts of ideas, from quatum physics to traditional ways of oceanic navigation to French Romantic art to what goes on in a dictator's squirming-toad-filled skull. I'm a big fan of the thrilling, intellect-rattling, unshackled life that being a skeptic, a free-thinking secular humanist--an athiest, if you must--allows. I have spent much of that life on both an intellectual and physical "walkabout"--a never-ending rite of passage, traveling around both the world of ideas and the world itself, looking, observing, wondering. So, while other writers' blogs are about writing--just about their writing--I find that I am fundamentally incapable of limiting this blog to musings about my own scribblings and pictures of my own book covers.
This blog is about whatever has my attention at the moment, from the silly to the wonderous to the horrid to the terrifying. In the end, when I look back through the years of entries, I hope to have pretty good picture of who I was in the world I lived in. In other words, as a man and a writer, because, of course, the two are inseparable.
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