The Family Farm

It didn’t feel wrong because I chose to do it. When I was home from university, I continued in this way, carrying a sharpened coal shovel and leather gloves, or my mother’s .22 Ruger handgun.

Off The Page: I’m Not Talking to Anybody

Perri Klass reads her essay “I’m Not Talking to Anybody”

The Empath

New Orleans—my home from the start. I fit better on streets that sag, where live oaks lay low, where rain falls in sheets all afternoon

Hal-9000, Bach, and the Personal Physics of Going Deaf

There is no sound in space. Beyond our noisy atmosphere stretches an infinite quiet.

Our Psychedelic Minibreak 

I am Googling the best places to get magic mushrooms. It’s important to stress here that I am the squarest person who has ever lived.


It gets hold of me, I wrote less than a year after her death. Somehow  it creeps up.

I Must Have Been That Man

To the left of the scar, I could see the new heart beating beneath my skin. The new double pump song of perfection replacing the one wrong beat, a single ventricle, I’d had before.

Book Review: Writers on Walking

Surely there’s nothing more salubrious than stirring the endorphins from their slumber and striding out, briskly purposive toward nowhere in particular?

Harvest Moon

He’d looked perfect – nothing deformed or discolored, no hair out of place, both shoelaces tied. The life had been shaken out of him.