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

  • Market

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    I visited an Asian supermarket yesterday for the first time, and saw things I had never seen before in a store. There was a Tai fruit that looked like something from a science fiction movie; Mike said it stank bad… Read More ›

  • How’s my driving?

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    I needed an invoice to get paid while I was gone from work. I asked James and Lisa to coordinate. When I came back, a copy of the invoice was on my desk, indicating “paid.” I contacted the vendor just… Read More ›

  • Postcard from Metz

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    The kids have gone through the advent calendars and left the empties on the floor. Laurent is cooking a chapon for Christmas, which he translates as a castrated cock, good and greasy. Eight kids aged 4-11, seven of them girls,… Read More ›

  • Hook

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    The hook is a hold in the rock where I first put my foot when I want to climb.

  • Schwäbische Sunset

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    Creator has put a smidge of pink on the cheek of the sky to dress herself for evening. She does so again in the morning, To cover the sins of the night.

  • Today Is The New Tomorrow

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    Crossing the international date line, thousands of miles above the Earth, time bends again We’ve collected pictures like seashells, like river rocks, and lucky coins each, the promise of a dream, an unspoken wish: speak now or forever hold your… Read More ›

  • Meet The Eye

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    There’s always more to life than meets the eye. Sorcerers, artists, the criminally insane: they all see the hidden meaning in daily life. You can open yourself to the world’s mysteries or drift through it like a ghost, with no… Read More ›

  • Just Right

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    When I was living alone and first writing, I used a Smith Corona manual typewriter I bought on Capitol Hill. If I got stuck, or didn’t like what I was writing, I pulled the sheet out of the roller and… Read More ›

  • Last Import

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    The screen has gone white, and snow is expected to return. The commuters are back, and make sounds like waves against the wall, below. It is just me and the heater, with the tick-tock of a clock, the Christmas tree,… Read More ›

  • Cave

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    I bought a collection by Rilke at Darvill’s bookstore on Orcas Island, hoping it would free me from a year without writing. The store is small, warm, and jam-packed with books. A chime goes off when the door opens, and… Read More ›