I’m writing a story about my evening. In it, I take a walk up the road past Jablonski’s place to see if he should happen to be mudding that godforsaken concrete wall he’s been failing at for the last three winters.Read

Thunder in the distance, and the rhythmic rasp of cricket legs, and the roar of ATV engines, or motorcross bikes. The air is plant-scented, leaden like a log. Not a tree shakes or wiggles or sways. Another far-off rumble, then a car horn, wavering for some reason, somehow. My ownRead

I’m back home at my house in New York after 2 months in the Midwest, living with and vacationing with family—both mine and my wife’s. I stood waist-deep in reedy, gray, clay-like, silty muck. I canoed across a lake with my nephew and hollered “Yeah!” when he leapt off theRead

cold snow light sea

It’s about the illusion of invincibility. It’s about integrating our vulnerable selves and our most precious selves. Dropping the illusions, and not buying into the healthy reality that we are all really tender and capable of being broken. Literature has a lot to learn from sport. I mean, Michael Stipe sang so beautifully that Everybody Hurts over 30 years ago, and here we are.Read