I am in search of the numinous. I wander. The tragedy with wanderers is that we are homesick — always longing for a home we have never known.

I am a pilgrim. A pilgrim without progress. A pilgrim without shrine. I beg for alms on the way. But I find the gates are always closed. Then I wail and prostrate outside.

I write about philosophy, education, literature, and art — I don't see any of these as separate from each other. I am drawn to the mystical, the weird, the surreal; for their beauty and their tragedy.