Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Why Led Zeppelin called that one ‘Presence’
By the time Led Zeppelin got to their seventh album Presence the band sounds tired. Still good, still Zeppelin, but starting to show signs of wear. How could they not? How many bands make seven perfect albums like that? Less… Read More ›
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The Last of the Whiskey
Maybe it was the sub-tropically rooted atmospheric river we’re under in western Washington that put me in a funk with all this rain, all this weeping and draining and sagging and uprooting that got me encased in a work-induced death… Read More ›
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Pipe cleaners and cats prose
The tree limbs had the same shape as pipe cleaners, the pipe cleaners Dawn got at Michaels for some school project but the cat co-opted them, figured they were toys designed for her, batting them around on the wood floor… Read More ›
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Monday stop light meditation at the five-way
The kids were small enough then they didn’t have the wherewithal to complain or object, they just got in the car with the dog, the three of them in the back and me driving, Dawn saying isn’t this nice, and… Read More ›
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And now, this is what 8 o’clock feels like
In 1994, Bukowski died at 73. It’s hard to imagine we have so many days until we don’t. He said don’t die before you’re dead, hold your head under the water, play the violin. Plant tulips in the rain. But… Read More ›
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“Anthony’s Navel”: pinklightsabre announces Saturday guest post call for content | favorite books, films, music
Last week my friend Anthony sent me a piece he wrote about an R.E.M. album that was important to him and a college radio program he used to listen to, and I thought I’d start a weekly guest post column… Read More ›
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Corpse pose, prose
When we came back from Germany last year I had May, June, July, August, and September off before I went back to work. And before that I had a year not working, starting just before Christmas. How fast the clouds… Read More ›
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The intensely overstimulated, middle-aged (not so young) American
Just having my mornings where I don’t have to jump from the bed to the shower and can put on whatever clothes I left by the bed the night before and lie on the sofa awhile waking up, doing whatever,… Read More ›
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Irish I could write like James Joyce
Originally posted on WHAT THE HELL:
Writer and friend of the blog, Bill Pearse, and I were touching on James Joyce the other day in the context of one of Bill’s posts over at pinklightsabre. Dubliners, specifically. Something he said… -
The intensely masculine act of cooking beef chili
I broke up the beef with the back of a wooden spoon until it was no longer pink and spread it with the fat and spices and aromatics into a weave and stood there in my apron, regarded myself, got… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 