I don’t know why I have to drink beer when I brown beef but I just do. Maybe so I’m doing something other than drinking. I went back to my notes from Friday morning on Cougar Mountain with the dog,… Read More ›
writing
Thinking about writing, talking about writing, and writing
I learned there was an artist in our neighborhood who wrote gothic fantasy stories and illustrated them and his name was Brom. It gave me hope there were other freaks in the suburbs like me. His house seemed normal enough… Read More ›
On the Road, with Robert Smith (1987)
God bless my dad, that summer we drove out west and only had three tapes, two of them mine. We took a train from Chicago to Denver where we rented a car and camped around the Rockies, then drove to… Read More ›
The last of the daily monastic offices
There was a problem with the house work I think. I couldn’t stop going between the laundry room and the den and lost track of who I was, I got covered in dog hair and slacks I wore across Europe… Read More ›
Birth rights
Perhaps it was on that day I was very small, I decided what I wanted to be. There was a small satisfaction in that, a place to sit and fit. And we all need that. I remember they were happy… Read More ›
My writing partner, Penn State ’88
Dave Kravetz, his eyes through the smoke watching me read his poems, all those papers in his gunny sack, his camo jacket and cigarettes, his bleached hair a frozen wave crashing over one eye, his bad temperament (some story about… Read More ›
Five leaves left
When I met Shana at the airport it was late October, almost three years since she left Seattle. I still didn’t have a car so I rented one, which seemed nicer than making her ride the bus. The last time… Read More ›
How the mist filled the valley in the morning with the light coming through
Though it’s a Saturday there’s no one at the lake, just some birds on the shore bathing, a kids’ soccer game with shouting in the distance but it’s muted, it goes in and out with the wind. I can sit… Read More ›
The blood in my dad’s beard
The blood in my dad’s beard hardly looked real, more red-orange than ruddy, almost clown-like, but terrifying when he stretched his neck tendons and tightened his jaw, his eyes rolling like an animal in distress to show a lot of… Read More ›
90s nostalgia: Walt Walker | Late night thoughts on a decade
We are winding down a great week of 90s nostalgia, prompted by the 25th anniversary release of Nirvana’s Nevermind. I was hoping my friend Walt would come out of his box for the challenge, and he’s taken a pause from… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 