Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Seeds spin like helicopters
We’re like seeds in the sky, how we start in the distance and might be a bat, a sparrow, a dragonfly, a seed We start from one corner and slip to the side, come back into focus, carry on a… Read More ›
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Hearts out for R.E.M.
It’s a sad moment on Wikipedia when they move you to past tense: R.E.M. was an American rock band from Athens, Georgia, formed in 1980 by singer Michael Stipe, guitarist Peter Buck, bassist Mike Mills, and drummer Bill Berry. Oh,… Read More ›
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American Waste Story
The weekend was full of plans and I thought about them at the bar, while the Girl Scouts met back at our house. I timed it so I’d get home just as they were leaving and as I pulled into… Read More ›
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The scale, the mirror, the referee (Project Manager rant on roles, responsibilities)
My stomach made a creaking, shifting sound like an old battleship. I looked at the others in the conference room and they looked back at me, waiting for my reaction, would I acknowledge the sound and be embarrassed by it,… Read More ›
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Carried Away
It started with a night running barefoot on the university golf course and hugging a tree for the first time, convinced I could feel its life force swelling from the roots, then ended in the early morning at my new… Read More ›
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All’s well that ends as you like it
I acted in college, in a small theater in a small town called Erie, Pennsylvania. The theater was a former barn, and we huddled in tight in a loft upstairs with our make-up and dim light as the voices of… Read More ›
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Rethinking Pink Floyd
I was too young to connect with Pink Floyd in the late 60s or 70s the way others did. When they released the film of The Wall, I was frightened by it (the scene with kids falling into a meat… Read More ›
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Fourth Creek Trail Junction
We’re supposed to recreate the hiking-bonding moment with Charlotte, the same one I had with Lily, but we can’t because of a funeral, and I wind up taking both girls instead. That means carrying three sleeping bags, the tent, extra… Read More ›
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More and More, The Remote
I look at the painting but don’t recognize it, don’t remember where it came from, some faraway place, an alpine lake in blues, indigo, watercolor. I bathe myself in the sea salts of home. The smell of the pines outside… Read More ›
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Don’t Stop Believin’
Journey, Aerosmith’s ‘Dream On’: in my forming years of the 70s I latched on to these themes. I watched myself in the mirror, mouthed the words, and dreamed who I could be, with no limits. My kids are at that… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 