15 Jan 25 Another sleepless trap, tonight in my mom’s 15th-century house, below freezing outdoors and not much different in. She wasn’t joking about how cold it gets. There’s no heat to speak of that makes it to the bathrooms… Read More ›
journal writing
LH 491 to Frankfurt
14 Jan 25 Of course it is impossible to fall asleep on a plane like this. My body, my life’s longest friend, is my greatest foe. Bent in on myself, folded askew, I feel everything. The ankle tendon, the lower… Read More ›
Famous last words
It is hard to imagine things ever being better than this: me in pajamas and slippers with no socks, the days inching out of darkness and peach colored, both my parents still alive and our kids happy, my wife still… Read More ›
On Jackson Street
I used to come down to Pioneer Square over my lunch hour to kill time. When my job didn’t matter much, no one cared if I was there, and I’d roam the side streets and street corners dreaming. Old Seattle,… Read More ›
Long division
When I woke I really didn’t know where I was. Still divided between two places, two time zones, two bedrooms. But there was the clock on the side of my bed anchoring me to this place: home-home. And after being… Read More ›
Last Sunday in Germany
On Sunday we’d go to Eberhard’s house in the country. It’s actually his mom’s house, and he’s been living there for years since she had a stroke and can’t live by herself. He’s also got a house across the road… Read More ›
Found art
Each day was cut from its own pattern and this day was Sunday. Here in mom’s small town in Germany most of the shops were closed. Only gas stations and bakeries were open, bakeries just in the morning. And that… Read More ›
On the plane to Barcelona
On May 1 I took a one-way flight from JFK to Barcelona but when I landed the airport was closed, the workers on strike for May Day, the only occupants a group of young Spaniards in uniforms with beards and… Read More ›
Portrait of the artist as a portrait model
No one smiles in these old portraits. They look stiff, like they’re already dead. Maybe it’s the knowledge only portrait models have that makes them look like that, deciding how you’ll look forever. They look trapped in their own time…. Read More ›
Sand tray therapy
It is here I feel most at home. Oil City. The worst name for the best place. No oil, no city: a developer’s name, a get-rich scheme. There is no imagination in the name only nature here, no boundaries or… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 