Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Why men need caves
Men need caves to be their base-ass selves, to giggle and fart and talk nonsense because that’s what men do best, being men. I’ve thought about why men prefer pissing in the outdoors, will even go out of their way… Read More ›
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To be on the safe side
Now that our cats are gone, the native wildlife is starting to re-emerge: rabbits, squirrels, moles, mice, and everywhere, birds. Which makes me admire the cats for how much they beat back the wildlife to the edges. They would never… Read More ›
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Der Zug hatte Verspätung
The day starts around 5 with me getting up before my phone can wake me, up the street to the Bahnhof to catch the 5:57 to Frankfurt. But they announce (in German) the 5:57 is delayed by 10 minutes, cutting… Read More ›
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In other words
My feet are like bloated sausages when I put them in the bucket and Eberhard fills it with a hose. I drank and read and slept some on the plane, found the bulky luggage claim area in Frankfurt, waiting for… Read More ›
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The Needle and Thread, Seattle
I am with two Canadians in a waiting room in Olympia, Washington: the United States Department of Agriculture Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service. I don’t really know what they do, I’ve just been sent here by my vet to… Read More ›
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Is your religion a cult?
Anthony made fun of me for having plans Friday afternoon to meet with the Mormons at our house. He said why are you doing it, so you can blog about it? That was part-true. They were supposed to be here… Read More ›
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Three Girl Rhumba
I’ve been experimenting with drugs for our pets, for a 14-hour international flight next week where they’ll sit in the cargo hold while I read a first draft of my memoir on the plane. I crush the drugs, dilute them… Read More ›
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Vergangenheitsbewältigung
Our German teacher has us saying the words Cherry, Church and Kitchen in German. They all sound the same, she asks if we can hear the difference — it’s how you clasp the vowels. We can’t. It’s a “ch” sound… Read More ›
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The eagles are kites without strings
When I drop the dead crow in the compost bin it folds like a puppet with no hand. It feels auspicious, dead birds, and I’m glad I’m not getting on a plane today, laying low. We enter the roundabout swiftly,… Read More ›
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Shy bear lookout
The forest has grown in now, this time in spring the green darkens and I am inside a giant’s beard hacking my way through fronds and fallen limbs, unsure where I’m going or why, just that I need to be… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 