The first time I read Thoreau his words crawled into my spine and up to my brain, pushing math equations out of the way and lodging themselves there, poking me, prodding me into action

The first time I read Thoreau his words crawled into my spine and up to my brain, pushing math equations out of the way and lodging themselves there, poking me, prodding me into action., yelling at me, "Wake the fuck up."

Those words had sex with punk rock lyrics, old folk songs, and beat poetry, and gave birth to a new generation of thoughts that fought with history textbooks and brainwashed patriotism for control of my brain. They throw loud parties that make me dizzy, and at times they whisper to me to do things that I've been told are wrong.

They make me want to write poems and sing and laugh and cry because everything's so fucking beautiful, or alternately, everything is so fucked up. Either way, the world comes alive. Indifference is not an option, not ever. Apathy is impossible. Everything is too fucking real.

So I want to say thanks, Henry David, because now I'm alive and it all started with you. You taught me not to be a bystander, that bystanders aren't always so innocent. You taught me only to follow the rules that make sense to me. Fuck the rest of it.

I'm looking for my drummer, Mr. Thoreau. I haven't found him quite yet, it's hard with all the different beats assaulting me from different directions, telling me to follow them. But I'm still looking for the right one, the one that really fits. I hope I find it some day.