Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Kaleidoscope of pink moons
Nick Drake. The wonder of discovery of this lost soul for many of us in the late 90s. Ghostly and withdrawn he passes through like something remarkable outside your window you’re likely to miss.
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Life after Homeland
How could life ever be the same now that we’ve finished eight seasons of this Showtime original featuring Mandy Patinkin as Saul Berensonand Claire Danes as the unpredictable Carrie Mathison.We’ve pored through the evils of this worldforeign and domestic and… Read More ›
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The week of my life
It is just another Wednesday. Not a manic Monday but a day to connect other days, a waiting room, a tunnel. Down we go the slide of days to the bottom, back the metal rungs to the top. Half way… Read More ›
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Meditation on a sun break
All this new shrub I planted needs is light and rain to take root. Good soil. And so it pours through me too and that’s all I need to make my own flowers or fruit, what we use to create…. Read More ›
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The mountains kissed the sky
Early morning walks when the light is coming on, the sky peach and the mountains blue. A morning like this your dad calls to say he has cancer: not the kind to really worry about but still, “cancer.” He’s trying… Read More ›
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Ode to Weber
I bought a new charcoal grill, the kettle kind. If I keep this one as long as I did the last I’ll be 68 when I’m done with it. Sixty-eight, dragging it to the curb. Some things you can’t salvage… Read More ›
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Before there were selfies we just had ourselves
One by one they led us to a room with a stool and a camera and a blank screen. And took a DNA sample of our souls for a square in a frame to disperse on the winds. And that… Read More ›
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Pain is the toughest riddle
Alan talks about his time in the SEALs but I never probe for more because he knows I’m a writer and I feel like a thief casing someone’s mansion when he starts telling a story.
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Quilt of boar skin and bone
I lay in the driveway flat as a spatchcocked chicken with the bay doors open and the Captain Beefheart blasting. That old charcoal grill was so beat up the legs popped out when you emptied the ash. The insides were… Read More ›
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New moon for you
Lily and I walked the trail to a frost-covered field the color of bone, of yellowing teeth. And she talked of her world view as it’s grown, now 16, of crystals and moon charts and social justice. And back home… Read More ›
