Author Archives

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

• Poppy field in a hollow, Whidbey Island

  By Bill Pearse on October 10, 2017 • ( 22 )

  

  In the early morning before the sun hits the tops of the trees it’s so quiet on the island it’s like the quiet has its own sound that expands to surround you. Even the clouds appear fixed over the water,… Read More ›

• Late morning early fall, the beginning of the end all over again

  By Bill Pearse on October 8, 2017 • ( 37 )

  I go to nature to heal, I go every day. And though it always feels the same, it never is. I rummage through the past and present, I go looking for what others leave behind. I didn’t expect the moon… Read More ›

• Following false leads down the side streets to identity

  By Bill Pearse on October 3, 2017 • ( 26 )

  Though it would hit 85 in Seattle (the last time for a year) I was sickly, pale and soft, an analogy to a piece of fruit that’s gone bad from the insides. I got off the phone with KLM to… Read More ›

• THE RINGWRAITHS RIDE IN BLACK

  By Bill Pearse on September 27, 2017 • ( 0 )

  

  Peter Jackson’s famous films were not the first cinematic journeys into Middle Earth. American animator Ralph Bakshi visited back in 1978 with rather mixed results. Clearly holding the J.R.R. Tolkien books in high esteem, Bakshi adopted such a respectful approach…

• Portrait of a subject reduced to a thread

  By Bill Pearse on September 26, 2017 • ( 17 )

  The ticking of the clock, the rain drops, the same sound of the wood burning when it pops. There’s no sound like that on digital clocks. And at the traffic light we converge for a time: everyone looking down, in… Read More ›

• Wednesday’s twilight anthem

  By Bill Pearse on September 21, 2017 • ( 23 )

  

  The Jupiter’s Beard is fanned-out pornographic in our front yard, exposed to the root. And the grass is so dead, it’s what Gregg Allman’s beard must have looked like before he died, the same gold-straw color, drawn out thick. It’s… Read More ›

• Then the rain came

  By Bill Pearse on September 20, 2017 • ( 17 )

  The cat knocked the plastic owl off the patio pot and its head separated from the body and rolled away, then lay in plain sight with the rain coming down, too hard to fix. And in the morning I found… Read More ›

• Anthony’s Navel: Chauncy Gardiner on The Fountainhead

  By Bill Pearse on September 19, 2017 • ( 1 )

  This past spring I hosted a guest blog series called Anthony’s Navel, featuring stories about favorite books, films and music by friends and fellow writers. Chauncy just finished his piece (better late than never!), which I’m proud to feature today:… Read More ›

• They know it’s time to go

  By Bill Pearse on September 17, 2017 • ( 16 )

  After 89 days without a good rain it was definitive it would come back Sunday. We were gearing up for the first fire of the season, a stew, some red wine, music. We’d move the patio furniture to the garage,… Read More ›

• ‘Essence of Cessna’ | on success

  By Bill Pearse on September 13, 2017 • ( 12 )

  Thirty-one years ago the film Pretty in Pink came out. We watched it on Netflix but didn’t remember anything: not Andrew McCarthy’s flickering eyes, nor Molly Ringwald’s quivering lips. Nor the scene with the two of them in a library… Read More ›