Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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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 ›
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Bad work day rant, what we do for money
Almost as bad as a bad day of work is reading about somebody else’s. If you can make it funny and I can laugh at your pain, that’s different. If it becomes a form of therapy for you to cut… Read More ›
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A short rant on unwanted pets, a wish gone afoul
My cat thinks she can dazzle me with her stubbornness, but she has no idea what she’s up against. If she wants to stay out overnight and get her internal organs punctured by an owl’s talons that’s fine, as long… Read More ›
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Why Harry Potter Matters
I almost talked myself into taking time off from writing so I could finish the Harry Potter books before Halloween. The first one came out 16 years ago, so I’m a bit behind — but literature is forgiving that way…. Read More ›
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The sound of the rain
I sit by an open window in the dark with the rain, waiting for a picture of a sound, a spark. But the rain is just a sheet of paper crumbling over and over again, not an ocean tide or… Read More ›
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Trying on masks
Here are notes I’m carrying over from my paper notepad for a horror story sketch I started in July. It’s about a boy who gets possessed to do bad things. Benny stood in the road looking up the path that… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 