That last Tuesday in Germany I had two Xanax I’d saved from the flight last summer and took one when I got back from the artist Matthias’s house, found our place a shit-storm of packing and bad energy and realized Dawn… Read More ›
writing
Fantastic Erratic: on muses, flow, and writing in spurts
When I started blogging, I posted for the first three years without a single visitor, not even my mom. It didn’t matter because, a.) I didn’t really understand (and wasn’t interested in) social media, b.) I didn’t think my writing… Read More ›
Perfect from now on
I got an email from Loren at work complaining about Gilles, the fact he kept walking around Loren and Christine’s apartment in just his bath towel, that it was bumming Christine out as Loren put it — and I pictured… Read More ›
We are all just prisoners here of our own device
I turned right on the N6 past the Klondike Marsh, past Clay Pit Road, past the grate-covered mine shaft, the cave holes shown on the map. I met my hair stylist outside my old building where I worked and we… Read More ›
Not just another drop in the ocean
I took the trail to Shy Bear Pass, the same one in the Issaquah Alps I walked with Ginger last spring, before we moved to Germany. I looked down at my legs, the zip-off trekking pants and poles Eberhard had… Read More ›
‘Is it heaven or Las Vegas?’
On Mondays I’d play Miles Davis driving in to work, “Kind of Blue.” I liked the wordplay and the solemn start to the album that matched the start of the work week, and seemed to be saying you’re fucked, but… Read More ›
Advanced state of Frühling
SAMMAMISH, WA 29th IV 2016 Climbed the dead end road Beth lives on a half an hour before sunrise to walk and write. Our last night in Germany, mom, Eberhard and I laid out the drugs on the table for… Read More ›
‘Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund’
Some of the girls in the beer tent wear their hair braided Princess Leia style and some of them look like nymphs on a Led Zeppelin album cover crawling on rocks, or a Maxfield Parrish print lazing by the pool… Read More ›
Some may say I’m wishing my days away
On Saturdays we only play reggae. I set the iPod by genre, select All, and it starts with Augustus Pablo, 1 of 275 songs, and ends with Serge Gainsbourg. It takes all day. When Laurent and his family were here… Read More ›
Dance of the honeybee’s memories
When I get Charlotte at school there’s an Italian girl who looks big for her age who’s taken to her but in an overly touchy way, scruffing her like a puppy and squeezing her too tight, and we have to… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 