Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Punk rock play in the suburbs
I don’t fit in here and I don’t want to. But I catch myself wearing my work badge on my belt and strolling out of the grocery store with my six-pack, and I bet the kids who bag and collect… Read More ›
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Blue and Red Makes Purple
We’re in Portland. A breakfast spot Loren told us about, we navigated here by phone. Monday morning, Portland. I’m not sure they take debit cards because there’s a handwritten sign about checks out front, but I’ve got the day off… Read More ›
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The Sponge Factory Diary
Pepé told us about The Sponge Factory before we moved to Philadelphia. I made the call, and we met the building manager at the door. She had a parrot on her shoulder, and wasn’t wearing a bra. We got in… Read More ›
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It’s better to be sweet than to be bright
Roxy’s not that smart. Her name is Roxy, she’s a cat, sister to the other one. She stands in the light of the laundry room while I feed Ruby, quarter to six. She stands there looking at me while the… Read More ›
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Brands, people, Starbucks
Brands aspire to elevate people to a positive emotional state. But the word brand itself is cold, distant, transactional. It’s the people with the logo on their shirt that make or break it. The bright people in the corporate office… Read More ›
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The Life Transfer
I wasn’t sure I wanted to have kids. It wasn’t one of those things on my list. But when Dawn and I got pregnant and I found out at the bus stop, I felt it inside me too, and I… Read More ›
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Mad Sounds Like This
Ginger has her tongue inside the Boston Terrier’s ear, Minnie, and Minnie is glazed over dreamily, angling-in deeper to Ginger. I’m pressed against the leather couch, part of it, losing sensation of where my skin ends and the leather begins,… Read More ›
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A Golden Retriever called America
Two grandparents with their daughter and a chunky Golden, with a white beard and a smile in her eyes. They named the dog America, born on 9/11. The grand-daughter wasn’t alive yet. The dog’s 100 in dog years, has lived… Read More ›
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What’s true
Sometimes, people will forgive what’s true. Even if it’s not good, not right, it’s true. That’s what comes in to play when you hear music that’s real, it sings of its own accord. It hovers above the Plane of Attachment,… Read More ›
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Giving Notice Fantasy
A fellow blogger announced yesterday she gave notice to quit her job, and dedicate herself full-time to writing. That triggered a fantasy in me, which I spent time propping up last night, a dream-house made out of sticks that fell… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 