P O E T & C E L E B R A T E D E S S A Y I S T
Feelasophy
“If 'philosophy' is the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality, and existence,” writes beloved Colorado poet and essayist David Feela, “then 'feelasophy' must mean more of the same but with a bit of a personal touch.” And Feelasophy, to put an even finer point on it, is Feela’s wonderful new collection of essays—seventy short, wry, and often-sublime ruminations on life’s absurdities and blessings—published over the last decade in newspapers and magazines throughout the Mountain West.
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From an overly cautious librarian’s insistence on treating an internet password as if it were a nuclear code to the certainty that the scent of skunks means spring has newly sprung, Feela finds ridiculousness and beauty in unlikely places. And to each subject he addresses, he brings a humorist’s eye and a humanitarian’s very big heart. The world at large and the world that lies in the palm of your hand are equally fascinating, Feela both posits and proves. If he doesn’t make you laugh out loud on every page, his essays will certainly generate smile after knowing smile.
Readers who don’t find puns punny—even very good ones—should be forewarned, but if you’re someone who loves writing focused on the transformation of life’s little moments into compassion, wisdom, and sometimes even grace, you will rejoice in this delightful new collection. Whether he’s introducing you to a bus driver with a bad attitude on the Mediterranean island of Malta or “Joanne’s Gum Gallery Museum” in greater downtown Quartzite, Arizona—all four thousand pieces on display chewed by Joanne herself—then make some time, settle in, and enjoy. Like his remarkable essays, David Feela is unique—a glib, engaging, and bemused travel guide like no other who explores the mountains and deserts of the American West and locations far beyond, uncovering what truly makes a meaningful life.
Excerpt
"Thoughts on Tourism"
If René Descartes traveled extensively during the seventeenth century like today’s tourists do, he might never have written, “I think, therefore I am,” but instead might have chosen an axiom like, “I see, therefore I be.” As a philosopher whose explorations were confined to the hemispheres of his brain, Descartes understood little about the tourism industry, and it’s likely he never would have approved of this syllogism that explains a contemporary phenomenon: the souvenir T-shirt. All tourists pack clothing and some of the packed clothing includes T-shirts. Therefore, all tourists buy T-shirts. I own a favorite from a trip I took along Route 66 that says, “Standin’ On the Corner, Winslow, Arizona.” I also bought one with the image of a ukulele that proclaims, “Hawaii Lifestyle.” I’m not sure what that means, but I loved the shade of green that reminded me of Kauai where I visited for one very rainy week. I earned it, whatever it means. It stands as my hundred-percent cotton declaration that, “I was there.”
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When a person travels, the urge to preserve the exotic and serendipitous experience supersedes the mind’s natural tendency to classify the day as, say, just another Friday. Tourists eat, drink, take pictures, read travel brochures and maps, and they find places to sleep. Sure, these activities can be done at home much less expensively, but traveling excites the “what the hell” gene and a tourist accepts absurdity as if it were an omen.
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And a $30 T-shirt? Sure, that’s a bargain. Books like 1,000 Places to See Before You Die only highlight my fear of never being able to travel enough, especially if I take the book’s premise seriously, and that my ultimate self-awareness and fulfillment lies in a bucket list of recommended vacation destinations. My other worry is that I’ll end up with a dresser drawer stuffed with T-shirts, more than I could possibly wear for the rest of my life.
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Then again, my homebody-self suspects something must be wrong with people who travel. Backed as I am into the Four Corners, brewing my own coffee and paying for internet access, I know T-shirts are less expensive than round trip plane tickets.
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You see, I’m caught between these deep blue seas. One part of me wants to explore—to see the Eiffel Tower, the ruins of Pompeii, to float in a Venetian gondola—while the other is so grateful to finally get home, he can’t imagine what drove him away in the first place. Then, from the bottom of my suitcase a soiled souvenir T-shirt surfaces. I unfold it—this pledge to be a tourist—and drape it like a flag over my chest.
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Descartes believed that thought—not our senses—turns us into human beings. We hear, taste, touch, even see the world like any other creature, but only by being aware of our perceptions do we become (and here I take a liberty) tourists. I know, the money collected from travelers by local economies is appreciated, but like philosophers, tourists don’t get respect.
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Descartes also postulated that the untrustworthiness of the senses can be illustrated by his Wax Argument. It goes like this: one’s senses perceive the wax’s chunkiness, but if you set it over a flame, a transformation renders the senses senseless. Like a paramedic arriving on the scene of an accident, thought rescues us and returns us to our—dare I say it again?—senses. Stay at home too long and my life begins to feel like wax but leave home and I notice how travel alters me. In the fire of the world’s strangeness, I glimpse the alchemy of a moment, pure gold.
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That’s probably enough philosophy. Born with a feelasopher’s moniker, I can’t help going mental once in a while, which is why I value the souvenir T-shirt, because it weaves the fleeting nature of my travel experiences into the physicality of my daily life. It’s that simple. It allows me to carry each personal transformation close to my skin, to wash it and fold it and tell an occasional story about my latest trip whenever an unsuspecting stranger asks me about my T-shirt.
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I’ve considered a trip to Prague for my next metamorphosis, visiting the Kafka museum, but I’ve always wanted to visit Gibraltar too, a British dependency at the southern tip of the Iberian peninsula. It usually takes me a full year to muster the courage for another major assault on my sedentary senses, but it helps to imagine myself coming home with a souvenir T-shirt, something with the picture of cockroach, say, or better yet,
Endorsements
“If you want to read a book filled with love, life, and razor wit based on incredible observation and perception, written in some of the sharpest, best-crafted lines you’ll find out there anywhere on the vast horizon of poetry, brimming with the freshest imagery and figurative language you’ve seen in eons, this just might be your lucky day.” —David Lee, author of Rusty Barbed Wire
This is how so many travelers pass through the desert Southwest: Their instinctual GPS steers them clear of any complex community encounters and heads them straight toward Utah's Canyonlands . . . or that great gash in the desert, the Grand Canyon. If you follow this itinerary, you may see the sights but, sadly, you'll miss the experience. This book isn't a destination guide. It's like an outfitter's guarantee to his customers that you paid good money for more than just a tour. A finalist for the Colorado Book Award.
“David Feela is the voice of a voyager, but one who turns his caring and keen traveler’s eyes on the landscape of home and family. The Home Atlas is a wilderness guide for each of us on own terrific yet close-at-hand adventures, right here, right now, where ever we might be, on our own voyages of the heart.” —Ken Wright, author of The Monkey Wrench Dad
> David Feela biography, Colorado Poets Center
> David Feela at goodreads.com
> "The Art of Reading Watermelons," Utne Reader
> "An Encounter with William Stafford," Literary Traveler
> "Raising the Bar, Dimming the Lights," Broad Street Review
> David Feela, selected poems at Leaping Clear
> Interview with David Feela, KSJD Radio
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Author photograph by Pam Smith
Cover watercolor by P. Smith
David Feela has published three books of poetry, Thought Experiments (The Maverick Press, 1998), The Home Atlas (WordTech Editions, 2009), and Little Acres (Unsolicited Press, 2018). His earlier essay collection, How Delicate These Arches (published by Raven’s Eye Press, 2011), was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. He lives in Cortez, Colorado.