50 Years of Cold

Not sure how many people realized this, but last weekend (14-15) was the fiftieth anniversary of the Clutter murders in Holcomb, Kansas. The family's brutal end was the catalyst for one of the best pieces of literature in the twentieth century. It makes me think about how old everything becomes.

Newly fascinated with learning 90s pop songs on the acoustic guitar. "Don't Speak," "Sex and Candy," "Bitch," all classics.

I now have an entire pumpkin pie in the fridge to devour. Wish me luck.

Things that make me feel like John Malkovitch

1. Saying my own last name. I suddenly imagine an entire restaurant full of people who look just like me, and it's scary.

2. Asking permission for anything involving animals. Lenny made me overly cautious.

3. Eating Oreos

4. Thinking about my newly started memoir. Even saying the word makes me feel like I'm in Burn After Reading and spilling incredibly trite description of a flowering love. That being said, it wasn't working as a novel. Plus, this is weird, but thinking about it as a novel wasn't forcing me to be honest enough. As a memoir, I have an obligation to be honest, in turn, creating better writing. Getting into that creative trance where the memories don't register in the brain much before they are transferred through the fingertips.

Andreas with his NaNoWriMo is pushing me to be less lazy. All play and no work makes Zack a terrible writer.

Played Apples to Apples last night and I still believe the Cold War to be much more frivolous than Hollywood.

Working on a dark comedy script about a young boy confronting his father's drug addiction. Sounds hilarious, right?

Also working on a series of poems about Sigmund Freud. Title still to be determined. Already have plans of printing a small number of copies.

They have me surrounded

There are these dangerous figures that have encircled me. They click and intimidate me and make me feel inadequate. They refer to themselves as "writers" or maybe it's "righters?" I can't tell, it make take extra research. Feeding almost entirely on crispy packaged wafers of potato or tortillas, they thrive for some force called "NaNoWriMo." I'm just reporting what I hear. I feel a little like Jane Goodall. They use their fingers like twigs to extract Twizzlers and Lay's from their bags, never glancing away from the thing in front of them. Their behavior is contagious, and has left me often leaving my studies to draws long strings of letters at a time. I even submitted one string 834 words long. If you're looking for me, follow the trail of crumpled paper.

No one was killed

From 5 pm to 9 pm a tree was grown in my living room. By 1:30 am, it was chopped down. It was a big tree, and it fell hard. It was in no forest, but was nonetheless heard by no ear. This if for you, tree.

Blank of all carvings
Shipped to Sweden only to
Come back as a desk.

"Reincarnation"

Leave the vodka alone.