Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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All these ironies we never asked for
The night settled in and we filled the valley with our campfire smoke. It plumed out blue making the hillsides misty like we were somewhere far away in the bush, just me and Neil Young, his guitar and harp.
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Bull of the Woods
All there is today is to take a walk or fix dinner, to take my car and have it fixed. This is a Monday without attachment, a Monday that doesn’t stick to you. And for that it could be any… Read More ›
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We are all under
We are all just trying to get by, living off trash and whatever we can.
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“Weights”
We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
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This much madness is too much sorrow
Everyone wanted to know what Dawn was getting at the store and everyone had something to add to her list. I remember when Sunday nights turned into week nights because people would email and spin up work conversations about the… Read More ›
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The interstitials
Sitting outside as the storm gathers, on the outer edge of it: thinking that all things have their edges good or bad, where they begin.
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Breaking our kids from screens
The stream of consciousness is real, our perception is sharpened by stillness. You can drink from it and feel refreshed.
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Future perfect
It is six years ago now and we are making plans to move to Germany. The kids will be at a good age, we’ll all learn the language. I’ll quit my job and take time to plan our next move…. Read More ›
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The geometry of circumstance and absolute truths
They say the body is the outermost layer of the mind.
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Longing for home
Like passing through the atmosphere and trying to see outside the plane, but it’s hard to make out anything below or know when we’re going to land.
