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

  • Voice entry no. 1, 4/18/25

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    ‘Alright, first things first. Testing? Is this on. Ok. March — no, April! April what is it, April 18. Too many leftover Easter cookies, not that good. The dog smacking her lips, changing positions for another nap. Some bird makes… Read More ›

  • Burning man

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    Though it was early morning and a strange time to do it I lit a fire in the firepit with last night’s coals and the logs that were charred and dampened by the early morning rain. It could be hard… Read More ›

  • Shadow bandwidth

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    So alright, the mid-morning nap. On a workday. I’m not trying to sound boastful about napping while I’m working from home, or being paid to work but napping, which feels actually foreign and not altogether good. But then the meta… Read More ›

  • Common things

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    The gloves are still there, in the Honda’s hidden storage well beside the jumper cables. The gloves are leather and have a withered look, stiff and bent. They belonged to Dawn’s dad and I’ve kept them in the car since… Read More ›

  • Landscape painting in a dental waiting room

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    Pale river rock of a moon cool to the touch. A notch someone cut in a log as a bench. What am I and this ego out here in the morning dark? Eno has a painting on a post card… Read More ›

  • To provide

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    After the big wind storm last fall and all the downed trees I thought it was time for me to learn how to buck a tree and use a chainsaw properly. I bought the safety gear—the protective chaps, the integrated… Read More ›

  • The Pale King

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    An hour before dusk the birds start going bananas. Clicking their tongues, chirping, tweeting. The pollen is like lime-green cocaine covering everything. I get to the park so early it’s still dark and the little streams reflect the pale light… Read More ›

  • Sunday sermon

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    I went outside and sprayed coyote urine on the tulips to keep the deer and rabbits away. I don’t know if it’s coyote urine but it smells like hell. I don’t know how they get it in a bottle either…. Read More ›

  • Don’t stop now

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    Now they are back at that shady music venue on the edges of town by the freeway on-ramp. Bill and Mike, college chums. A weeknight but they pretend they’ve still got it in them. 2005, mid-thirties. Neither of them have… Read More ›

  • First date, can’t wait

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    First date with a girl, spring 1985. I’m 14, a freshman: she’s 16, a junior. An embarrassment to date an underclassmen but there you go. She’s in the band, but beautiful. Mom says you need a “good haircut” which means… Read More ›