I got stuck the last two days trying to write about Lou Reed, but it was me, not Lou Reed, that got in the way. Lou Reed doesn’t really have anything to do with it. He came up on Shuffle… Read More ›
death
When a blogger dies, does anyone notice?
There are many parts of my life I can’t remember and there are many reasons for that. I’d like to think of my brain as a well-organized refrigerator: I can reach in there with my eyes closed, and know where… Read More ›
Dead as a door-nail
I’m sitting in the den drinking beer. The fog won’t burn off, it’s cold like San Francisco. I stood in the aisle at the grocery store with the toothpaste and traveler-size section, and lost myself in the overhead music, forgot… Read More ›
Song for autumn
A piece of fuzz in the air, a seed-bloom, a soul, will-o’-the-wisp leading me to uplit trees, quiet hillsides, hidden peaks. A voice, a dream, a memory, the sunset in autumn and softening light: Who can pretend the angle doesn’t affect… Read More ›
The Life Transfer
I wasn’t sure I wanted to have kids. It wasn’t one of those things on my list. But when Dawn and I got pregnant and I found out at the bus stop, I felt it inside me too, and I… Read More ›
Trying on masks
Here are notes I’m carrying over from my paper notepad for a horror story sketch I started in July. It’s about a boy who gets possessed to do bad things. Benny stood in the road looking up the path that… Read More ›
The hum
A hum started building near the Magic Place, down the dead end road that said No Turn Around. Benny was crouched down looking at the snake, and realized it was dead. That’s why it didn’t move when he saw it… Read More ›
Benny Hopstock
Benny Hopstock was a boy with curly blond hair and big, brown eyes, like a doe. His mom said he looked like Goldilocks, but he didn’t like that. He was pudgy and looked a bit like a pig, like the… Read More ›
The Magic Place
It was a magic place, where we met. The sweet brine of birdsong, a tapestry in the trees, the mystery of light angled through the leaves. There, where the two made love on the ground, in the grass. How the… Read More ›
Why the people don’t come out
If I keep my eyes closed long enough the people come out. It’s an old village in the mountains, medieval times. A woman with gray hair pulled back and a robe peeks out the window. Broken-down peasant men with dirty… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 