Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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The end of words: a brief rant on the etymology of the word DEFINE
We spend a lot of time as project managers defining things. We define things so we can put up borders, confine. Define comes from the Old French, to bound, limit, finish. As a writer, I try to use the least… Read More ›
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A lather of voices
Riding the charter bus uptown from SODO to the Starbucks shareholders meeting, I lost myself in the din of small talk and made myself disappear. I thought of a young guy who used to work for me in a store,… Read More ›
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The way is dark
We live in the country. Actually, we live in the suburbs but it’s a small patch that hasn’t been developed yet, so it feels like the country. The first morning of Daylight Savings Time I walked to the end of… Read More ›
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Chicken crap for the soul
Dawn’s been egging me on to embrace my dark side: no more chicken soup for the soul crap, she said. At some point, you’re going to have to decide if you’re Mitch Albom or David Foster Wallace. When we bought… Read More ›
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Arrêt
We’re playing frisbee on the side of a snow-covered mountain. I look down, and realize I’m on a knife edge ridge. Frisbee doesn’t seem like such a good idea now. The others are gone and I experience the sensation of… Read More ›
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Green, Orange
Moss is emerging in our yard like a new nation, making the trees look like a psychedelic Yes album or a Tolkien book. I relocated the remains of the fruit tree to the back, day-dreamed in the hot tub, thought… Read More ›
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Aping Carver
She talked about him a lot, the ex. Like an instruction manual for how to treat her, but in a different language. Woman Language. If I could figure out what went wrong with him, maybe I could be the one…. Read More ›
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You brought smiles
Balloon on a string in an empty room Head on the ceiling like any other ghost, Just trying to get out The ribbons lose their luster The cheeks start to sag They’ll find bits of you in the trees, Your… Read More ›
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Mirrorball
Pat Dolan and his brother Damien lived up the street. Their dad Mr. Dolan was a cop, a huge cop: he filled the doorway when he stood. We sat on the front doorstep and spat. We had just learned how… Read More ›
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Us
I was making my nest: a studio apartment at the base of Pill Hill in Seattle, basement floor. It looked onto a courtyard no one could access, and the top half of a parking lot. My bed was up on… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 