This is a series of rewritten journal entries from the summer I spent in the south of France, the first entry here. Allanah and Gregory seem to me a bit bats. It’s more Allanah with her self-taught fortune telling, Gregory’s… Read More ›
Carlos Castaneda
A fair way to go
It is the hour of 4, and the light is best for where I sit on the chaise-lounge, beside the scabby hot tub that’s been dry all summer. The hot tub is kaput because the large fir popped up the… Read More ›
The super, blue, blood moon blues
We got up at 4:30 to watch it, but it was all cloudy. “Discreet music,” I guess. So much for January.
The Death Card | Field notes from the Pacific Coast
This is a series of posts I started in late May and plan to continue for 40 days, with a goal of hitting 50,000 words by July 5. It’s inspired by a three-day solo trek on the Washington coast, with… Read More ›
How the wind played us like an instrument that night
The morning feeding ritual at Mike’s, two dogs, two cats, the quiet crunching of animals chewing, a dishwasher churning, the bathroom fan, the soothing sound of it like rain hitting the roof, going down the drain spouts into the ground:… Read More ›
The French series
COLLIOURE, LANGUEDOC-ROUSSILLON LES BATTERIES 25TH VII 1998 Finally got rid of Sean and Seamus. Sean, my bartender friend from Six Arms but Seamus, some angry Canadian/Irish guy he picked up somewhere along the way in Europe, wears baseball caps with… Read More ›
Just for us
The moon is hanging on by a nail and we are all bound to fall that way too, to rise in the morning and repeat the same cycle: to expand and recede, sometimes close to Earth, sometimes obscured. They make… Read More ›
On wood-gathering and storytelling
The trail description said it gained 700 feet, but I didn’t remember it all happening in the first five minutes. I didn’t read the notices at the trailhead or carry a map because it’s just a canyon, one way in,… Read More ›
You can see why they thought they were spirits
What started off clear became obscured by the cloud’s thickening brow. The night passed on to dawn, this time we contemplate the dead. And we pass down a darkened lane to the end, past the signs and arrows carved in the… Read More ›
Writers, spiders, and why silence wins
It’s hard to argue with silence. It’s what takes over in elevators and locker rooms when we have nothing to say. It’s where I go if I can’t find what I’m looking for, if nothing comes out when I turn… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 