Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
-
We were here
Books are one of the few things we can touch and handle in an intimate way and then share with strangers when we’re done.
-
From a distance
At first the day had no discernible features to it, nothing to hold onto. A smooth rock face stretching up. I made my way through the dark to the coffee pot and back to the den with a blanket where… Read More ›
-
All the days
They went in a pile beside the bed: the socks, the shirt, the pants and underwear. And in the morning, they came on in the opposite direction. The days were like that too, they got taken off at night and… Read More ›
-
A Christmas bedtime story from pinklightsabre
If you had just been there, you would know what I mean. The feeling of that day and why it was so special, why I was trying to hold onto the moment. We spent a year living with my mom… Read More ›
-
The weight of all we felt
This day could be drawn in pencil it’s so drab. The roads are wet with rain and the leaves are down, the birch with their spindly arms and dragon eyes, a tangle of dead leaves, a lone bird…this feeling of… Read More ›
-
Letter never sent to my professor, ‘DHG’
What planet were you from? You wrote that on one of my papers. We were all trying to be different, to find our voice. You helped us find ourselves.
-
How to drink Scotch
The layering of these behaviors was something to unravel when it came time to quit. Because the neural networks in his head, whatever wiring existed there, were largely drawn and defined by alcohol. The pathways to pleasure were like motorways on a map. Either he had to stop visiting those towns or find a new route.
-
One small thing
This is the color of November. Mainly gray, with dabs of red and gold. The trees have just enough leaves to remind you they once had more. And so the season bends towards absence. A harvest, a feeling of fullness,… Read More ›
-
Fall back
It’s the last Sunday in October, dry, and I’ve just torn up the front garden beds and transplanted everything to the back. Like Dawn used to say about our basement in West Seattle, the back of the yard is where… Read More ›
-
The dead
It’s that desperate time of year when most of the leaves are down and my morning walks are dark and windy. The time of year I took my last solo backpacking trip, last October. I’d quit drinking and the trip… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 