Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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The last night of the fair
Fried pie, gator kabobs, a handwritten sign that says This isn’t fast food it’s fresh food so thanks for being patient. T-shirts like I got SCONED at the fair (with a big scone). A sexualized version of the little mermaid… Read More ›
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First night with LSD and the police
How can you just leave me standing alone in a world that’s so cold The night ended like all nights, with the dawn. But this was like no other, that first night in Erie, Pennsylvania. The rugby player Grundy drove… Read More ›
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Reconstruction of the fables
I thought I couldn’t slow down any more than I had, but I was wrong. Now taking late morning naps. Not a good look when my wife is working her ass off, too busy to hang her clothes. The house… Read More ›
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This is a long drive with nothing to think about
The land driving east across Washington to the desert steppe looks stretched and spotted like the hide of an old reptile. Just flecks of sage brush, land that looks scarred and weathered, like it’s already been burned or is about… Read More ›
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Long division
When I woke I really didn’t know where I was. Still divided between two places, two time zones, two bedrooms. But there was the clock on the side of my bed anchoring me to this place: home-home. And after being… Read More ›
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Bookending
This is a series of posts written from my mom’s house in Germany that begins here, and ends with this post. I came and went on a Thursday. Took the old walk my last day, the one mom calls her… Read More ›
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Leaving the country
At Eberhard’s we sit outside his mom’s place on a rickety bench with our backs against a stone hut, by the walnut tree. He uses a tree stump for a small table with a crude table top balanced on top… Read More ›
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Last Sunday in Germany
On Sunday we’d go to Eberhard’s house in the country. It’s actually his mom’s house, and he’s been living there for years since she had a stroke and can’t live by herself. He’s also got a house across the road… Read More ›
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The pearly everlasting
We meet mom’s friend Helga for dinner at the Croatian guy Tony’s new restaurant and sit inside at the best table (“without shadows,” Tony says). It’s called Adriatic cuisine, which I take to mean Mediterranean, though my geography and culinary… Read More ›
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One and the same
This is a series of posts written from my mom’s house in Germany. I came and went by way of the side door leading to mom’s Hof, an outdoor patio of sorts. The side door has an old medieval-style metal… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 