Mondays are best for jazz.
writing
Blacking out the friction
Of course I remembered the name Dick Boac, he worked at Martin Guitars as an “archivist,” a Falstaff type. But I couldn’t remember anything more about him because he was John’s friend, and John died more than 10 years ago… Read More ›
Where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life
An odd day I didn’t get out until the end of it. Got up early and went to bed early. Both times with the birds coming on. That building arc in the morning you can’t not-hear once it starts, but… Read More ›
The self-care hair problem
This week we all went nuts.
“Because this moment simply is”
All night long the pitter-patter of rain like microwave popcorn popping in a bag.
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 ›
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 ›
“Insignificance”
A new page on the calendar with its tongue hanging out to either tease or taunt us: our insignificance, a new getting through.
“And now, release the giant hornets!”
It’s always something, some locust or beetle or “killer bees.”
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 ›
Bill Pearse 