Confessions of a Human Nerve Ending

Now I suspect (though I have no method to confirm) that the reason Henry David Thoreau wrote so little during those two years outside of Concord, hanging out at Walden Pond, was that he was chopping wood, and starting fires, and tending fires, and just basically busy with the business of staying warm. When you are worried about staying warm, writing just doesn't seem to be all that important. Writing is pretty sedate, just you and your own thoughts running out your fingers. But I admit that when I embarked upon moving the wood pile so that it was closer to the house and splitting axe and splitting log, the moving seemed more important too. But the words were already coming, spilling out, running down my muscles into these two hands. Thank God I learned to type cause the words come so much faster now making it hard for me to keep up. And I admit I had to hold that first stanza in my head for a bit   as I moved that 1/2 cord from one part o...

Greetings. My name is Jean Phillipe Gillespie Nate the III. And while I am one of three: my grandfather from a land so far away and my father who looked a lot like me let me endeavor to showcase to you my ruminations, extrapolations, expostulations, affirmations, enunciations, and articulations on why it was 4 wise men who set out to see what was hanging out under that big ol' star. " O' beautiful star of Bethlehem " Cause you see my gift neither glittered like gold, or fragrated like frankincense, or was as malodorous as myrrh. My gift was fresh spring water, that rolled down Mt. Ararat over gold flecked granite and watered the Burseracae Tree but dried up before reaching Commiphora Myrrah . My water is what made all this possible, and I was giving it to you. And during the walk, I lost track of what was yours and mine, and drank yours.    So I had to go back...and they kept on. This old wise fool is always late.  ...