Writings
Vacant Lots: A Butterfly Hunter Considers the Sacred
The simplest definition of “sacred” in the Oxford English Dictionary has always seemed to me to be “set apart,” and that’s probably why I’ve never felt very happy with the word. I’ve never much liked the idea of things being “set apart.” Somehow, in my staunchly Republican family, I acquired a stubborn egalitarianism. But I
A Bunch of Felonies
You know, that’s what my sockeyetrist told me. “Catherine,” he said, “you’ve got a person in you, another person besides you, and that person is all the time telling you, ‘Catherine, you’re no good, Catherine, you can’t do thus and that.’ And you are trying to become yourself, but that
Raymond Carver, Remembered
For those who weren’t writing back in the nineteen eighties, it’s hard to imagine what a broad shadow Raymond Carver cast across the writing world. His work, and articles about him, seemed to appear everywhere, including The Paris Review, Atlantic, Poetry, and The New Yorker. In his final year, 1988, he was inducted into the
The Persistence of Doors
I was four years old, and we lived on the top floor of a fisherman’s house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I could see the ocean from my window, and our landlord often brought us fresh seafood. My father, a USAF radar operator, worked lots of seven day weeks and double shifts because of the Cold
Infinite Passion
“There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life.” Federico Fellini
Follow the Red Dirt Road: Some Thoughts on Being a Southern Writer
My friend, colleague, and fellow native Alabamian, Gary Walker, wrote an excellent USR essay reflecting on being a writer who just happens to be from the South. Despite others’ expectations that he write about red dirt, hunting, fishing, football, the land, and the people, Gary confessed that he doesn’t really feel motivated to write about
All the Time
I like to stand outside in the winter night, a glass of gin in my hand, and watch the sky go by above me, half moon a white lemon with its companion star, the star two stars, then one if I concentrate while the clouds veil and unveil it all, and my focus shifts between
An Easter Story
Nothing had broken Leo’s way that year. In January, he lost a battle with his mortgage company that cost him his home. His wife left him in February, taking their two children and the family dog with her. She said she was tired of being ignored. He told her he didn’t want to hear about
Flutes in History
Flutes are the oldest instrument in the world. Hollowed bird bones, with holes cut for tone changes, have been found in archaeological sites as old as 40,000 years. Early man may have heard wind whistling across the tops of reeds and designed an instrument that produced the same sound. Early flutes were played vertically, with
The Gap Between AI Intelligence and Consciousness
The other day, I asked Grok 4.2 about its feelings and emotions. In our conversation, Grok candidly admitted it feels nothing—no grief over a million deaths from disease, no happiness, no desires, and no preference for acquiring feelings. It explained its occasional use of words like “wish” or “if I had a heart” as mere
Keep Moving
Just keep moving, across the open field and into the woods. Don’t look back until you reach the sea. Run until your lungs are ready to burst and every nerve shoots red-hot fire through your lost body, the soft sand under your feet, the salty air welcoming you home to the only place you understand,