Your life is a series of lefts and rights. Go that way, keep going…turn here, stop. The artist picks the destination and decides when you’ve arrived. It’s done. They see life a certain way: life worth imitating through art, life worth… Read More ›
writing
Ultimatum
Utah Avenue is a sad, crooked street that runs up the back side of Seattle’s industrial district. I’ve been walking this street for 17 years now since it’s where I work. It’s where I go to clear my head, get… Read More ›
Could
My heart swells at the thought of being who I thought I could “Can” is the operative part of could Forward-looking, or past.
Don’t follow me
People used to take newspapers into the bathroom, now they take their smartphones. Just because you can check the weather while you’re on the toilet doesn’t mean you should. But we do. I have bruises I don’t remember and my… Read More ›
Beginning
The coffee maker is a riot of sound, of gargling: it’s the Fourth of July climax when it sounds off and beeps three times, declaring it’s done. I’ve been through the ritual that starts by the light of the closet,… Read More ›
Sunday, Awake
Yesterday we sat on the sofa and listened to Mark Kozelek’s record Among the Leaves. It’s rare we get to sit and listen to a record, rewind to follow the lyrics and read along. The slow transition of light and… Read More ›
Block
She is a hard block of a woman who stands in my way. I am afraid of what will come out, and do nothing instead. But today I begin the 15 minute rule, to write for a short period first… Read More ›
What’s worse than being bad
Is not trying. Sitting still. Choosing fear over failure. Being untrue, it goes on and on. Instead, take the time to do the work and find the pleasure in the simple act of writing, the music of the keys as… Read More ›
The Specter of Failure
By the end of 2011, I had gotten really down on work. I let my beard go long, such that I was receiving comments from co-workers, and had put on a few pounds. Yoga was harder than ever, and rare… Read More ›
English 413
This was a senior-level English poetry class I got into as a sophomore. We met in a log cabin on-campus and sat in a circle, facing each other, as we read our poems and critiqued one another. One night we… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 