Author Archives

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

• The handlebar mustache sequence

  By Bill Pearse on April 23, 2015 • ( 21 )

  The English professor looked like a smaller version of David Crosby. Like if you let the air out of David Crosby, that’s what he’d look like. Except they let too much out of his face, to where the cheekbones looked… Read More ›

• I don’t know what I like, but I know art

  By Bill Pearse on April 23, 2015 • ( 1 )

  

  Originally posted on Drinking Tips for Teens:
  $10,000 please. Gallery Parsnippy is delighted and positively damp with pleasure as we present new artistic works in our spring show. “Zoltan’s Anvil” by Trevor Sproud – mixed media Free at last, free…

• Implied rooms

  By Bill Pearse on April 22, 2015 • ( 2 )

  There is no part of me I can leave without seeing myself still, as I get smaller on the shore. I move about my space wondering at the edges as a toddler fans the border, at what keeps us inside. And… Read More ›

• The adolescent love scene

  By Bill Pearse on April 17, 2015 • ( 26 )

  

  My 10-year-old daughter has her first crush. It’s not her first, and it’s not a crush she’s quick to correct, but her face changes and a flurry of filters go up when she talks about him, which inclines me to… Read More ›

• Life is in the margins

  By Bill Pearse on April 14, 2015 • ( 35 )

  

  People go to blogger conferences for about as many reasons as people blog. I went to the first one hosted by WordPress in Portland a few weeks ago with the simple goal of being inspired, and learning how to navigate… Read More ›

• Lying on life insurance applications

  By Bill Pearse on April 12, 2015 • ( 18 )

  I don’t like to lie, I’m not good at it. But there are times it’s expected, even when they insist you tell the truth, like on life insurance applications. Lying is expected but never out in the open, never outright,… Read More ›

• A slurry of scraps and symbols

  By Bill Pearse on April 11, 2015 • ( 10 )

  

  We drink the blood of Christ from plastic cups and it turns our tongues red, seals us in our symbols and the art of make believe that is faith, belief without proof. And as I enter you I forget myself,… Read More ›

• When she knew

  By Bill Pearse on March 26, 2015 • ( 11 )

  

  They fell asleep by the light of the Visualizer on the laptop but the sound was tinny and the light from it cold, and neither one of them wanted to go to sleep but they both did without deciding to,… Read More ›

• Then I was the remnant of a tale (for Carver)

  By Bill Pearse on March 25, 2015 • ( 15 )

  

  It is a nothing day, a gray day, a throwaway day and I have disappeared into a crack in the sofa with all those forgotten things, a no-man. I have dream-drafts to send me off, sounds of the dryer and… Read More ›

• From the throat, a crow’s hand

  By Bill Pearse on March 24, 2015 • ( 14 )

  

  We are several hours away in the hills, the desert steppe, a friend’s cabin, down a dead end road that leads to a lake, a quarry, so quiet you can hear the gravel on the shoulder when we pull over… Read More ›