Rob Carney

Dec 4, 2024 | terrain.org | Rob Carney

1. As a kid, I never wanted socks for a present. This was a long time ago, of course, before socks had properly evolved. Now there’s Bombas™, and long ones with llamas on them, and skater kids (it seems to me) who actually like all the plain white tube socks, and somehow the 21st century must be spun from softer wool, as if the sheep today—whether in Ireland or munching on the grass in Montana—just poof up into these clouds of stuff that’s a lot less scratchy. Anyway, socks.

Oct 14, 2024 | terrain.org | Rob Carney

1. People outside of Utah think this place is weird, and Utah deserves that. But when it comes to sprawl, it’s as normal as everywhere else. Take Point of the Mountain, for instance. Forty years ago, that name made sense. Before the gravel mine. Before they pulled down half the mountain. See, it takes gravel to make the concrete, and they need the concrete to build the mall sprawl, driveways, and eight more lanes of interstate.

Aug 13, 2024 | terrain.org | Rob Carney

No one can talk about summer anymore without also talking about fire. It’s the common denominator. Europe, Africa, Australia, North America—fire, like disaster cartography. It’s too huge for the news to put a frame around, and yet they have to try. I mean, this has to be reported. What happens, though, if the citizens don’t listen? And what happens if the ones they vote for listen even less? I don’t want to wait for an answer.

Jul 17, 2024 | dark-mountain.net | Rob Carney

Recently, after writing essays, I thought maybe there’s a better way to reach people and get them to listen – like parables, those old teaching stories; and satires, although I worry that the ones being satirised might be too dumb to get it anyway. Humour can reach people, true, but Oscar Wilde probably noticed that any Lady Bracknell types in the audience either missed the point (dramatic irony) or just stormed out.

Jul 8, 2024 | terrain.org | Rob Carney

1. Radio WavesWhen I worked in the fireworks business, some of the trucks had radios, but they only got am stations, and those were all the same: selling gold, selling guaranteed salvation, selling weight loss and fringe-right fury about the Democrats across the Northwest and then out to other galaxies since our radio waves leave the atmosphere and carry this splutter like another kind of space junk. So mostly I’d spin the dial around until I landed on a mariachi station.