63Philadelphia, United States
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My self-summary
I grew up in a small Midwestern town between a river and an old stagecoach trail. A little further inland were the railroad-tracks. I used to lay in bed at night and hear the train whistle blow. And then the rumble of the train, shaking the earth before vanishing.

Not a bad prelude to a life of dreams.

I come from a large Catholic family, and took my first road-trip at fifteen-years old. My parents didn’t have time to miss me. I went to Montreal with an older and wiser friend who was 17. The next summer I hitch-hiked to the East Coast and burrowed in Cambridge while the anti-war protesters rioted down the street at Harvard Square. And that was just the beginning. One lonely trip after another. A half-smart kid from a thumbtack town with a knack for living on the edge of trouble.

Restless. Underpowered. Stubborn beyond reason. I drifted to the West Coast one lost summer. In Santa Barbara, I stayed with friends of my hitch-hiking buddy who was sinfully handsome, got all the girls, and later went certifiably insane. Eventually, I would teach Special Education in Detroit and soothe the psychologically frail. Meanwhile , in Santa Barbara, our hosts had a dog that wasn’t feeling well. On the trip to the vet, I got assigned to sit in the back-seat and hold the sickling. I felt its stomach quake. An almost biblical foretelling. When the dog puked on me? I felt vectored by the angels to be less than zero.

Before leaving town, I visited a chic Santa Barbara bookstore. I had the feeling that I was in for a long-long life at the bottom, and that there must be an art to it. Deep down inside, where I should've had leaden anger, I had fighting exuberance. Well, I couldn't quite find the book that I was looking for, and so I thought that I'd have to write it for the next sad-sack a million miles away from home with euphoria his blood. A life's assignment. I should've given up. But I’ve got a peasant drive along with something that science can’t explain. Do you think that there’s such a thing as a spiritual IQ? Why do some experts experience God with organic gusto, and other experts experience God at an academic remove? I think that receptivity to the divine in art is an analogous thingy. Even then, many are called and few are chosen to actively create as opposed to politely receive. Therein lies the inner-road to headache, heartache and all kinds of rejection. Maybe I don't know enough to quit.
What I’m doing with my life
I'm half-Irish but wholey suffering from the Irish pathologies. And I don't mean alcoholism. I mean with the tribalism, the sentimentality, and the poetic imagination. It can get a little scary.

To make matters worse, I'm left-handed. "Zurdo" to the Spanish and "Sinistra" to the Italians. That means I'm Southwest of the norm in my instincts. A boon for the humorist but a real embarrassment for the inner-cop. I'm a lapsed Catholic but still believe in the Pagan/Vatican hierarchy. Spirit-Mind-Body in descending order. The artist/comic in me inverts them to good effect. The sexual-libertine in me inverted them to good effect as a young buck, and continues to invert them now as an old goat to really problematic effect. My psycho-sexual apologia: I have the erotic imagination of rock star and the body of retiring writer.

I'm pulled to extremes. It would make a lesser man crazy or numb. But I'm neither defeated nor dead before my time. I do lots of yoga. Religiously, but without the moralizing. Did Michelangelo want to save the world? No. He wanted to express what was Divine in his ornery, animalistic, ego-maniacal nature. And for that, he had to mind his own inner-tabernacle even as he was working under the Pope's Dome.

I do lots of yoga. Then I write about Life in the City as a properly rebellious and poetry-intoxicated Irishman. Full of blarney but increasing centered. Self-centered on the outside and magic-stone centered within.
I’m really good at
I spend too much time in books, searching for knowledge when not drowning in envy for the self-solved author. I’ve got a ton of my own stories, though, most of them soaked with so much sadness that I can't tell them unless I laugh. I’ve lived a bass-ackwards life while attending to almost all of the conventional touch-stones. This means that I not only dress-up well, but that I can hold my own socially with normals and alpha-normals.

I’m very good at moving through the social-spheres. Of course, I default into being a dusty urban cowboy. But I've tried so many
different things in my quest for "place". It given me a reserve of experience that can be used to fortify and broaden someone else's narrative. I enjoy being a sympathetic audience while drawing my own boundaries.

That's my "game". I'm good at it. I long to be great at it.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Presently, I'm reading about Cleopatra three-ways 'till Sunday: Plutarch's account of Marc Antony's affair, Shakespeare's account of the same mischief in his play "Anthony and Cleopatra", and Camille Paglia's critique of the play with all her insights into the Dionysian, the femme-fatale and the epic life.

I've recently read, "Why I am a Pagan" by the European New Right virtuoso Alain deBenoist. An excellent book that brings Nietzsche back down to earth. I am not a nihilist. I am not a Social Progressive. I am not an atomized, hyper-independent, ultra-individualist artist. Rather, I'm a blue-collar guy from a long line of Cathedral builders, Temple builders and, possibly, Oracle janitors. I have an ancestry.

I don't do movies. But I wish that I had a woman who'd pinch me in the ass and say, "Let's go!"

Classical Music, of course. Bach because he's the master of math and flow, science and emotion. Mozart because of his celestial whimsy. Beethoven because of his gruff gravitas and beauteous melody. In spite of my Pagan leanings, I'm uncharmed by Wagner. I'm a muted and reserved Brahms kind of guy. His cello sonatas get me where I om.

Hillbilly music. Johnny Cash. June Carter-Cash. Merle Haggard. I've got their genes, and their miles too, but I'm a bit of the sensitive-poet type. Yuk! I don't listen to country music often, but when I hear it? The Celtic nomad in me sighs.
Six things I could never do without
--Reading and Writing.
--Good ol' fashioned hillbilly music (to keep me honest).
--Family (to whom I owe my genes and arts).
--Sexual chemistry. Okay, sexual-alchemy. I've had to turn to mythology and The Hermitic Tradition to get a Larger-Than-Catholic view of sex. And to get a Larger-Than-Modern-Feminist view of sex, too. For short-hand, I could explain myself as a Jungian. However, Jung is too tame for my imagination which requires not only the most central Female Archetypes, but the most extreme Female Archetypes on the far frontier. The satellite archetypes. The Bad Girls who're exiled to the fringe orbit.
--Yapping above my learning. It's my right as a blue-collar guy to rant. It's also my birthright to take a whole lot of lumps for being wrong, and count the scars as trophies.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
Well, first of all I think about what a screwball I am in a screwed-up world. Then I think about Logos. That's right: The Divine Order of Natural and Supernatural Things.
On a typical Friday night I am
Wondering why I could not have been more communicative with past girlfriends. More simple. More plain. I think this, especially, if I'm all alonesome and listening to country music songs. Then, after romantic soul searching I go back to general soul searching and read the meta-physical and meta-political texts that are my intellectual lifeblood. I'm the poet-lyricist of the North American New Right, and the very best at what I do. Which doesn't make me invulnerable.
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I am Patriarchal in theory and Matriarchal in practice. Also, I'm on disability and live like an urban boho on a limited income though my future is unlimited and I get around. Far and wide.
You should message me if
You can understand that I had 5 sisters. None of them passive. So it's natural for me to flex my male jaw just to create space for myself. I noticed that my sisters' boyfriends who didn't tease back or push back were gone with a yawn. Also, you should message me if you have a soft-spot for a published writer with some genuine clout who is never-ever going to make a lot of cash money.
The two of us