The lake level has gone down now and there are kayakers and fishermen out early — the same lake I came to with my dog in the winter months with my German tapes on an iPod shuffle and my notepad,… Read More ›
writing
To be on the safe side
Now that our cats are gone, the native wildlife is starting to re-emerge: rabbits, squirrels, moles, mice, and everywhere, birds. Which makes me admire the cats for how much they beat back the wildlife to the edges. They would never… Read More ›
The eagles are kites without strings
When I drop the dead crow in the compost bin it folds like a puppet with no hand. It feels auspicious, dead birds, and I’m glad I’m not getting on a plane today, laying low. We enter the roundabout swiftly,… Read More ›
No Plot? No Problem!
I bought this book by the guy who started the National Novel Writing Month, an annual project in November to encourage people who want to write a book to produce a first draft in just one month. A 50,000 word… Read More ›
Implied rooms
There is no part of me I can leave without seeing myself still, as I get smaller on the shore. I move about my space wondering at the edges as a toddler fans the border, at what keeps us inside. And… Read More ›
Life is in the margins
People go to blogger conferences for about as many reasons as people blog. I went to the first one hosted by WordPress in Portland a few weeks ago with the simple goal of being inspired, and learning how to navigate… Read More ›
A slurry of scraps and symbols
We drink the blood of Christ from plastic cups and it turns our tongues red, seals us in our symbols and the art of make believe that is faith, belief without proof. And as I enter you I forget myself,… Read More ›
Then I was the remnant of a tale (for Carver)
It is a nothing day, a gray day, a throwaway day and I have disappeared into a crack in the sofa with all those forgotten things, a no-man. I have dream-drafts to send me off, sounds of the dryer and… Read More ›
From the throat, a crow’s hand
We are several hours away in the hills, the desert steppe, a friend’s cabin, down a dead end road that leads to a lake, a quarry, so quiet you can hear the gravel on the shoulder when we pull over… Read More ›
What we keep, who we are
I’ve broken through a membrane in our garage, the garage that’s bigger than some apartments I’ve lived in, where our kids can ride their bikes or scooters when there’s no cars and I’ve cleared the boxes to the side. The garage,… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 