How dark the evening with no moon, the dark before the dawn. I did the early morning candle and music thing, as close as I come to meditating. I had to turn the light on in the bathroom though because… Read More ›
stream-of-consciousness
Song for leavin’
It is remarkable to think, the braids of fate that led me here. Up these Roman steps, past prehistoric geckos padding stone. A life of constellations but so often we wander through the dark and can’t connect the dots. Perhaps… Read More ›
Advent of absence
We can curl up with our cats and blankets and books and reheat yesterday’s soup.
Talk about the passion
We got the house we always wanted but sometimes fantasized about having another, smaller one so we could re-experience life that way without the burden of having to do it full time. That happened on my morning walks to the… Read More ›
Book of mirrors
Dappled yellow leaves on the ground and rainwater gathered on trash can lids pooling in the creases. Back to wearing socks and donning my old sweater, funny things in pockets from forgotten times. Robins tugging worms from the scruffy rise… Read More ›
Fair play to you
I conditioned the air because it was clammy inside and we couldn’t open the windows. The ducks were still at the lake and in the morning everything looked ghostly with that mixture of fog and smoke. I slapped my chest… Read More ›
You can never quarantine the past
Labor Day came and went, hot easterly winds. The tell-tale crunch of leaves. In mid September we drove to that strange town in the French mountains, Saint-Pierre des Champs. We rented a Eurovan and I was the only one who… Read More ›
Damn good address for a rat
But for the crows it’s quiet on my walk to the lake. The clouds make it glum with the lawns going brown and the leaves coming down. I jump the gun with fall, my favorite season (the first half). In… Read More ›
When the owls cry in the night
The irony is I always wanted to work for a creative agency and now that I do they don’t call themselves that. I had to wash the day off of me. Two weeks working on the same thousand words. Words,… Read More ›
The intensely masculine act of grilling meat
I just felt detached from it all. A strange summertime with no parties, no hosting. Getting blasted in the backyard instead, staring at the sky, waiting for the first star.
Bill Pearse 