“Sit down, my friend!”

In another time, you wouldn’t have clicked my “About” page. You might’ve tapped my shoulder at the village tavern or gingerly rapped upon my cottage door. You might’ve seen me walking on the highway and decided to offer me a ride. Perhaps in any of these cases we’d have talked well into the night over ale and crackers — Lord knows I’d like that. Instead, every word you read here has been converted into the blinking binary of laser light and electric pulses and was sent flickering through a planetary mesh of glass and copper, out through so many routers and cell towers, all re-constructed in pixel form on your “smart” telephone or computer. And sad to say, we’ll not be having any ale or crackers — yet.

Those who know me know my life has been a strange one. I have been known variously as a hayseed kid, a foothill rambler, a penniless vagabond, a dropout scholar, a tippling polemicist, and a military sailor. Raised in a Rockwell-esque bastion of bucolic bliss in the Adirondack foothills, I am a member of that youngest generation to remember life before cell phones, the internet, and 9/11. I have watched rural America’s decline with a bleak sense of wonderment at how rapidly a culture can deflate; and in my sojourns both as a thinker and as a traveler I have sought to find whatever embers of primordial human warmth and fraternal proximity I can find, from obscure island hamlets to squatter encampments to isolated border hinterlands — and much more.

Now, at the behest of many friends and with the patronage of my paying readers, I spend most of my time writing. Watch me as I fling myself out into the far corners of the earth as both bard and vagabond; hear me as I cast my aspersions and praises with moonshine on my breath. As I go, perhaps my work can form a sort of chronicle of hope — that the merry days of men may be far from over; that all who’ve penned obituaries for the jocular brotherhood of man should be forced by my efforts to rescind and retract them all. Whether I find it in Cathedrals or in tarpaper shacks, on the roiling black oceans of foreign coasts or amid the peaceful and towering oaks of home, I will find some sense of sublime and beautiful hope, and I pledge to share all of my findings with you here.

A Penny for the Wayfaring Bard

No “About” page could be complete without an exhortation to pledge your support — not merely in spirit but in pennies. For my life costs nearly nothing by modern American standards, and I should tell you your pledge may go farther in my case than in any other. My mortgage is $400 per month and in food I spend about as much. When I travel, I usually do so as cheaply as possible, sleeping in ditches and thumbing my way across provinces and states. Already, the patronage of my readers affords me the ability to spend much of my time writing — soon, I should not only be able to write full-time but to travel often and to obscure spots on the world’s map that will yield intriguing travelogues for my paying readers to enjoy.

Here on Substack, I am beholden to no one — I have no handlers; I am never censored, I have no publishers to please. I toe no line but that of my readers. Insofar as I can edify and please all of you with my offerings here, and inasmuch as this spurs you to in turn give me my daily bread, I have succeeded. It is a great honor to have found some success so far, and I am thankful that I have more or less complete license to write what I wish.

I am, above all, thankful to my readers — particularly those who’ve generously pledged to support me with a few dollars each month. You have changed my life; I can only hope that I can change yours for the better so as to return the favor. May God bless you.