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It was raining when I was born, in a tiny village hospital in South Wales. (It's always raining in South Wales, and the sheep that run through the streets, bleating insanely, come direct from Hades.) My grandmother's first words, when she saw me in my hospital crib were, "Let 'im die, bless 'im. He looks like a rabbit skin with a head on it." Those words were not spoken in malice. Impatient to get on with things, I had arrived three months premature. I weighed just over 3 pounds. Gran came from a generation when babes in my state would have passed away in front of the living room fire.
Since that inauspicious birth, I have worked as a janitor, antique refinisher, music teacher, mink-farm labourer, factory drudge, and oh so many more abominable jobs! I have been deported from Japan, earned two graduate degrees, survived a number of insanely passionate love-relationships, and can play a guitar with my toes.
I love Paris. I love cats as pets, and all animals as sentient creatures. I think this is why, when asked at around age nine the name of my greatest hero, I answered "St. Francis of Assisi." Tarzan came a close second: I kid you not. (I also harbour a crush on a hybrid historical/fantasy Joan of Arc, but did not know that at age nine: It has never done me any good.)
I believe resolutely in the sanctity of fundamental human rights, kindness, and Nature in all its life forms. My great grandmother was Native American. That, and my Welsh birth and ancestry, I consider blessings.
I now work as a full-time author and free-lance editor. I continue, obstinately, to write and publish fiction, essays, short stories, and literary criticism, with no immediately evident signs of mental injury.