Right about now the shit would be hitting the fan in my mom’s small village in southern Germany. The Winzerfest wine festival, which only happens once every two years, was in full swing. And by the looks of it the… Read More ›
Creative Nonfiction
On Fifth Street
That first apartment in Allentown was the best. Early twentieth century, high ceilings, good woodwork. I lived on the middle of three floors below the owners, an elderly couple who ran a jewelry repair shop downstairs. An old Czech named… Read More ›
Waning crescent
There’s no point in hurrying to get up now. The thought of an all-cold shower is impossible. But sitting by the picture window in the den at 0500h. the moonlight is splendid, sickle shaped and perched between an isosceles triangle… Read More ›
You know better
It took about two weeks and 12 blog posts before I started feeling good again. I got back to the park and they still had signs up about cougars, probably would ad infinitum. I realized the bear spray made a… Read More ›
Waning gibbous
At the park the grass is bleached out and bald, the color of sand, under the big pines. Several came down in last autumn’s bomb cyclone and they had the park entrance taped off with warning signs but of course… Read More ›
Giant steps are what you take (for DFW)
Both girls overdo it with the perfume; they lack subtlety. The landing just outside our bedroom is now a miasma of sweet, with Charlotte’s BF Rosie living here. When Dawn’s gone I stretch out like a starfish in bed but… Read More ›
August Moon
Walked to the lake in the dark for the first time in a while, sick of being cooped up. Forgot how it looks when there’s fog in the street lamps, a cone of milky light with bugs flapping about. Frogs… Read More ›
The continuing story of Bungalow Bill
Rummage around long enough in the grab-bag of memories and you’ll find something strange. This one, a party in college where everyone was in costumes and on LSD: a guy named Don with a sheet of acid dressed like Captain… Read More ›
Waxing gibbous
Friday is a carbon copy of Wednesday with the post-dinner ice cream at the DQ—same order and procedure pulling into the same parking spot, spooning it with the windows down—except on Friday the queer, wildfire smoke sun is back, the… Read More ›
Why September always starts with fog
I have no idea. But it’s much better than pure gray. The blurring adds mystery, makes Japanese watercolors out of the banal. Took a drive last night for an ice cream, first time in six days outside the perimeter of… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 