Tag Archives: William Pearse writer

Self portrait under August sky

It is a Thursday night with live music at nearby Pine Lake we can hear from our house. It is also a full moon, the night before we leave for Alaska, the coffee maker set for 3. I’ve shaved my … Continue reading

Posted in humor, Memoir, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

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 … Continue reading

Posted in death, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

Your so dumb Ginger

Trapped inside a black pyramid in Las Vegas for four days, moving through the underground tunnels like mice between hotels, casinos, the convention center. Returning to summertime rain in Seattle and falling asleep to it, the sound of static, of … Continue reading

Posted in identity, Memoir, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 24 Comments

How the house felt after the kids left for summer camp

Outside it was warm and the lupine stalks were bending down, some on their faces like mollusks gumming the ground but not making it very far, frozen mid-suck. The dog smelled bad, a telltale bad like she’d rubbed herself in … Continue reading

Posted in identity, Memoir, parenting, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

Hero’s pose

We waited and waited but it didn’t seem like the marine layer would ever burn off. Lily had a date with a boy we hadn’t met named Colin, and I texted her to come outside so we could talk. And … Continue reading

Posted in identity, Memoir, parenting, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

The long descent through the quarry

I got down on my hands and knees in the shower with a toothbrush and some baking soda paste. The web site said if the drain had a musty smell that was mold, but if it was more like a … Continue reading

Posted in Humor, identity, Memoir, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

Fifty-fifty clown

The crow’s wings are magician hands that flap and disappear through the swirl of animal souls and the gray marine layer of morning. The lake is gray too, ribbed by a breeze or by paddle boats, the same each day … Continue reading

Posted in poetry, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments