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.  ...

The long bowed wood left marks on the hardwood floor, so we tried to keep the rocker on a rug. It didn't work and every house would have these streaks where our rocking had stripped wax off. Memory is a hesitant thing, a thing best left on shelves for rainy days. What troubles me is remembering, remembering August ninth- nineteen ninety five. A boundary day, a before and after day. He wasn't just a guitar player missing the upper bird digits of his wing-ed finger. He wasn't just a singer, who often strayed off key. I struggle to write what he was, and still is,   some 16 years later as I remember remembering. That day was long neglected friendship calling just to see how I was holding up, sorting through dated and venued bootlegs, listening to over-mixed studio CDs, holding my two black dogs and rocking and crying, and rocking and crying. Once a year we made a trip, made arrangements for inside. Locking knowing eyes with...

I'd been promising myself I'd write a poem every day during my too short two week vacation.  Most years I'm in Colorado dealing with my mom's inability to do anything quietly or the franticness that my sister approaches buying presents for her husband's side of the family.   But, this year, I'm home and really wanting to spend my time writing.  Usually that involves poetry, but this year, the essay seemed to tickle my muse and I've found myself drawn to the form again and again.    So, here I am, Christmas morning and I'm thinking and wanting to get my thoughts down on paper because I don't really know what I'm thinking until I put it down on paper (virtual paper). The pattern this year seems to be to really break down how art works (or at least how I see art working),  so after finding myself talking about my set at the Green Mill and my next morning conversation with Marc I thought I'd get it down and relate it to Louis CK's show ...

Bond.   James Bond. I've been on a bit of a Bond binge, dabbling round the series, taking stock, wondering why the series kept me engaged for all these years. Now, I'm not one who'd argue that it was some sort of pinnacle cinema, yet, there is something comforting, something suburban about seeing them all again. Back before the VCR, I'd watch them when they aired on ABC, and in high school...I'd make sure I saw them when they came out, and now I'm revisiting them again and strangely intrigued once again. What is it about nostalgia? about the romanticized life that my adulthood has never resembled?