Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Sentiment, sediment, and what’s at the bottom of it
Alright, so I am sentimental about people, places and things. I keep old notes in my coats, a mish-mash of crap in my sock drawer, and I’ve been known to haunt dead-end streets where I necked with a girl. I… Read More ›
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On Memoirs, Getting Lost in the Labyrinth
I’ve gone back to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man for inspiration, this year. As I suffer through the exfoliation phase of writing and the need to purge my life through memoirs, I hope it will lead… Read More ›
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Public Speaking Nightmares
Public speaking is a dance with fear, a dance you need to lead. It’s the battle with yourself to not look like an idiot, to get out of your head: the challenge to be yourself, when everyone is watching. Where… Read More ›
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Attachments (the transience of creation)
I lay myself open with arms splayed out, waiting. Whatever comes out of me can only come from within. I look at my fingers on the keyboard, waiting to be told what to do. Mind and Eye discuss the look of Hands…. Read More ›
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The Train to Portland
Shana worked at the IKEA south of Seattle, where she met Marne. Marne was with Don, and Don and I hit it off. Don and I made plans to go to Portland over Memorial Day weekend, which is where we… Read More ›
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Temp Work
They reassigned me from the chemical sales group to a new one, in a different building, the main office where the CEO resided. Here in the lobby was a gallery celebrating the company’s history, through oil paintings of all the… Read More ›
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Volunteer Day
Yesterday my workgroup spent the day at a local non-profit food bank distributor called Northwest Harvest. We went to one of their packaging facilities in Kent, where we bagged food items for elementary school kids. The kids are part of… Read More ›
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Getting into fights on email
Rich and I got in a fight on email, in 1996: I had two responsibilities in my job, and one of them was to collect information from secretaries once a month. I sent a form email to all of them,… Read More ›
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In a river the color of lead
We were flying above the Atlantic when the Newtown school shootings occurred, headed to Germany. Eberhard asked if I heard about it and I hadn’t, so he broke the news to us. Various Europeans we met over the next couple… Read More ›
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Behind the Hatred
Len had a lazy eye and was balding, our English teacher. He wrote on the chalkboard and directed us to copy the lines into our notebooks: Behind the hatred there lies a murderous desire for love He didn’t quote the… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 