Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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The self-confining myth of inspiration by routine
Call it superstition, that ritual for good luck before you perform. I go to the same spot in our den, put on a record, light a stick of incense, hope that magic happens on the keyboard. After a time you… Read More ›
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Last night on 29th place, SE
We really lived in that house, if it was the wrapping we were the candy, the present, and inside there stirred our souls and the house bore witness and the calendar pages flipped, the seasons passed, our photos on the… Read More ›
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The importance of first impressions and personal grooming
The top of my head, my scalp, felt dry like I imagined snake skin would feel, and I took to it with the perverse interest of dried glue. I was in the tub trying to relax. I had a high-grade… Read More ›
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Stones and bones [cemetery song]
Once you make a major purchase (house, car, major appliances) things invariably start breaking down and costing more money. Things break in multiples, the same with bad omens (in 3’s, 5’s, 7’s, like the number of days you can expect… Read More ›
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One in the same
When the rain came back it was like an old friend we’d become dependent upon who’s not good for your health but at least you know what to expect from them. It triggered the sameness of gray, of winter in… Read More ›
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‘Something out of nothing’
On the twenty-first floor of the Grand Hyatt hotel I stood at the window in my bathrobe looking out at the high-rises and cranes above, mountains in the distance and ferryboats, all the people looking back in at us. I… Read More ›
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White-gray on the color wheel
In the 19 years I’ve known Dawn it was maybe the second time I’ve seen her hungover, one random Friday in February. And though it was set to snow and I tried a new gumbo recipe, built a fire, she… Read More ›
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Dead selves cleft off
Though it snowed, it looked like fake snow, like film set snow, as I walked across the grocery store parking lot, past the primroses for sale all covered in plastic. I checked out a curry restaurant on a side strip-mall… Read More ›
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The fullness of empty spaces inside us
I sat in the den watching Ginger chew the water buffalo horn, the wash of drool that makes it slick and hard to maw. I scratched the webbing behind my knee that’s been giving me trouble. There was a mild… Read More ›
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The Volvo 740 wagon
Likely driven by ego, I volunteered for a new project at work. The announcement I’d be leading it came across as I was sitting in the dealership finalizing the purchase of a new car. The car is a black Mercedes… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 