Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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The self-care hair problem
This week we all went nuts.
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“Because this moment simply is”
All night long the pitter-patter of rain like microwave popcorn popping in a bag.
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Filling holes
The firepit, my bloody toe. We slept with all the windows open and it felt like camping. Four years later and we finally moved that mound of soil to the vegetable garden. It takes a global pandemic for us to… Read More ›
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I wonder why the wind
The most perfect night. Perfect is a superlative, so it can’t be topped. There’s no “more perfect,” or most perfect, it’s fine on its own, it’s perfect. The first really warm day when everything takes on a different feel. The… Read More ›
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“Insignificance”
A new page on the calendar with its tongue hanging out to either tease or taunt us: our insignificance, a new getting through.
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“And now, release the giant hornets!”
It’s always something, some locust or beetle or “killer bees.”
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Major character syndrome
On Sundays I take more time at the lake and get there early enough I have it all to myself. There’s a rock on the shore where I sit and a Corona beer bottle cap a few feet below the… Read More ›
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18th and Union
I was 25 and alone. I didn’t have a car or plans on the weekends. I got up and made coffee and went out for the day.
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Let’s move to the country
The night falls in pink tones. Streams of pink-gold through the trees, the sound of a newscaster in the other room, a ticking clock. My blanket and the bell from the cat’s collar. Cherry blossoms weighting down the boughs. Moments… Read More ›
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Back and forth, again
I remember it’s the end of April and think back four years ago, when we came back from Germany.
Bill Pearse 