Author Archives

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

• The month’s last Saturday’s gift is gray

  By Bill Pearse on February 25, 2017 • ( 9 )

  Oh for these last gray days and new moons. For Orion’s belt in the north, in the night. For our yard leaning on its side and the papery brown fronds hanging down. For the milky sun and messy watercolor blues,… Read More ›

• ‘Where the shadows run from themselves’

  By Bill Pearse on February 24, 2017 • ( 13 )

  I got back in the slot, the cafeteria salad bar at work, tonged some shredded carrots, spinach, diced beets…made a modest bird’s nest out of it, weighed it, scanned my card, picked a two-top by the windows and started in…. Read More ›

• “Rain starting in 38 minutes”

  By Bill Pearse on February 22, 2017 • ( 8 )

  When I came down in the morning I didn’t know where Dawn was, the coffee was brewed but she wasn’t in her office or the bathroom and for a moment I imagined her crying, in the dark—but she was just… Read More ›

• Listening to the band Suicide in a Peet’s coffeeshop in the suburbs, Redmond

  By Bill Pearse on February 21, 2017 • ( 20 )

  I didn’t like the band Suicide before I heard them because I didn’t like their name, and when I saw the album art I liked them even less, it was the name Suicide made to look like it’d been carved… Read More ›

• Every day I can I’m going to write

  By Bill Pearse on February 21, 2017 • ( 17 )

  We drove to Fremont, a neighborhood my kids have never seen that’s in Seattle and just 35 minutes from our house, and when we got there and saw the stone troll under the bridge, the tourists pulling over taking selfies,… Read More ›

• The scene with my grandfather in a dream

  By Bill Pearse on February 20, 2017 • ( 20 )

  

  In my dream my grandfather was there and I thought this is the last time I will see my grandfather and then he was gone flickering between a photo and a living, breathing grandfather and in the street a wake… Read More ›

• The last of the daily monastic offices

  By Bill Pearse on February 20, 2017 • ( 8 )

  There was a problem with the house work I think. I couldn’t stop going between the laundry room and the den and lost track of who I was, I got covered in dog hair and slacks I wore across Europe… Read More ›

• Most of them witches

  By Bill Pearse on February 19, 2017 • ( 26 )

  

  In the manner of my mom’s partner Eberhard I held my head under the hand sink and let the cold water run over me and down my torso as I stood and grunted, examined myself and got dressed. It makes… Read More ›

• Song for Friday, Monday, the weekdays

  By Bill Pearse on February 17, 2017 • ( 23 )

  

  Worked into the tapestry of life is work itself, it’s inseparable, in fact it will loosen and destroy the fabric of life in its absence the way pests get into the woodwork or wardrobe and ruin you with holes. Work… Read More ›

• Tourette’s

  By Bill Pearse on February 16, 2017 • ( 12 )

  

  There are times I come out of the men’s room at the Microsoft campus and can’t remember where I am. I look left and right, I pick a direction and walk with confidence but it all looks similar and slightly… Read More ›