Author Archives

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

• I hear sadness

  By Bill Pearse on July 31, 2013 • ( 0 )

  You can hear what you want to hear – or if you’re not lucky, you can’t control it. I like the sound of sadness, when it’s based in love and celebration, a last goodbye, until next time. So I hear… Read More ›

• Four years ago today

  By Bill Pearse on July 30, 2013 • ( 1 )

  It hit 103 in Seattle and we got on a plane for Germany, for a three month stay. I wrote my first blog post, featuring a picture of my mom and step-dad and him holding a bottle opener I still… Read More ›

• Dead skin diary

  By Bill Pearse on July 29, 2013 • ( 0 )

  I remembered the kitchen sink was clogged, and knew I couldn’t sleep in, I had to fix it. I don’t know anything about plumbing and was lucky to even find a wrench. I got it apart and emptied the dirty… Read More ›

• “I like the god” riff

  By Bill Pearse on July 27, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  So I’m a fool I don’t believe in god. I don’t believe in your god that is, I won’t even capitalize it. I mean, I do believe in a god, my god – but it doesn’t matter. Not even to… Read More ›

• A cold and broken hallelujah

  By Bill Pearse on July 26, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  It’s hard to go inside yourself and not be self-indulgent. Most people don’t, and leave a lot behind. You need to feel the presence of death on you and the dark that comes with it to fully appreciate the living,… Read More ›

• The Meaning of Existence

  By Bill Pearse on July 25, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  It shouldn’t take more than 20 minutes to figure this out, but it has, and I haven’t still. I walk this same road every day, the same road, but always different. I keep thinking I’ll catch the tail of an… Read More ›

• The crow and the storm water pond

  By Bill Pearse on July 24, 2013 • ( 0 )

  The cats got into a bird’s nest, and now it’s a horror show outside our front door. The newborns plucked off one by one, still alive, Dawn had to finish them off with the shovel. Made us think about eating… Read More ›

• Saved by old times

  By Bill Pearse on July 23, 2013 • ( 0 )

  We miss the old times because we didn’t love them enough when we could, and we know it. We love them from afar, which is easier because most things look better from a distance. Things were better then, because we… Read More ›

• This life is a jacket we’ll take off soon

  By Bill Pearse on July 22, 2013 • ( 2 )

  

  I pulled a Walt Whitman, tripping-out on my back in the grass, with ants crawling up my arms and neck, my ears full of birdsong and dogs barking, something flying by and stopping on my head, plastered to the earth… Read More ›

• The bright, dark sounds of The Red House Painters

  By Bill Pearse on July 21, 2013 • ( 0 )

  

  The grass is going brown already, but I won’t water it. I hadn’t laid on it yet, on my back with the dog in the sun, afternoon wine, nothing to do, nowhere to be. Like the August we went to… Read More ›