I drove into town to deposit a check around 8, Sunday morning, light fog and no one around.
blogging
When everything matters
It was like I’d just discovered the scale of life, that there was more of it than I could ever consume.
In the last 24 hours, my blog has been targeted by a bot following attack. At first it seemed like a good thing, all these new followers. They come in batches of five or so every hour, about 200 in… Read More ›
Fred and Ted go camping
We went back up the Teanaway, the river valley on the east side of the Cascades that’s one of our favorite camping spots but prone to wildfires this time of year: an 18 mile road with only one way in… Read More ›
Discreet Music | January 8, 2018
Came home from work and washed my hands, poured the last of the white wine. The January bugs are back, gray and plain, looking in at me sideways. A flock of birds like playing cards shuffled, then rearranged. There must… Read More ›
Discreet Music | January 7, 2018
The dog’s hind leg shifts like a coal in the wood stove, stirs, then settles in. It’s Sunday and I vowed to cook, read, build a fire and that’s it. Spent half of it online reading consumer reviews of cars… Read More ›
Do enough drugs and the trees will talk back
I don’t know why I have to drink beer when I brown beef but I just do. Maybe so I’m doing something other than drinking. I went back to my notes from Friday morning on Cougar Mountain with the dog,… Read More ›
Just like the landscape
In the way other people’s minds probably do, mine moved along a band of topics in the middle of the night like radio stations or a wheel at the fair, a big arrow that stops and settles. That’s how it… Read More ›
Spellbound colander of treetops amid bruised cloud aperture
It’s funny, when I think about James Joyce now I wonder how much of his art is judged by what he said vs. how he said it, the fact he freed others to rethink writing: or that his book went… Read More ›
A matter of degrees
Lily’s crying upstairs now but it’s not the cries of a child, it’s the depths of horror, of hormones. She doesn’t seem interested (in an emotional way) in the bedtime ritual, it’s more transactional now—like anything, it doesn’t happen overnight,… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 