Sorry

I apologize for taking my blog down for so long.

I felt self-conscious about the raw emotion and honesty about my life's situations.

When reading my blog, please realize that I am ok.

Some most of my posts are very sad; sadness was a resource for me when it came to writing.

THIS IS MY BLOG. I claim all found herein and am not ashamed of what I have written about (swear words and all).

I am happy, and sad, as are all people. I am so thankful for the kind words people have commented and I encourage you to never ever stop writing. Never stop commenting. Never stop loving.

If you have an addiction to any such things please visit: http://www.helpguide.org/home-pages/addiction.htm

If you are thinking about hurting yourself, please talk to someone. If you're here, I love you. 

thank you for reading my blog and as always:

with so much love and adoration
-Zack / Alex

Excerpt #nanowrimo

The man sits across from me. Rimmed glasses, peeking chest hair, and legs crossed. We've been sitting in silence for at least 30 seconds, we've passed the point at which small talk starts to sound very fake and ice-breaky. The clock ticks. The fan is silent but it's the only thing in the entire room that's moving, so it's very obvious. My mind starts drifting. If someone were to pop in they would have thought they were interrupting something very important and apologize

"How about that weather we've been having?" He says

Goddammit, he did it. I was really hoping he wouldn't 

"Just beautiful, absolutely beautiful" I say

"It's a nice change, from, you know, that cold weather we've had"

"Yes it is... yes it is"

He trails off and looks back at the carpet; yellow shag with visible lint originating sometime in the early 60's. I'm picking at my hands. 

Mom would say that's a bad habit, you need to quit.

Theatre

There's a scene in my favorite movie.

Two lovers holding hands, a sunset

a small house molded to her liking, a quiet beauty.

sapling life a soft vignette.

There's a scene in my favorite movie

the part that makes me weep

his hands grasp the thin bony palm

of the frame of the quiet beauty, asleep

A hospital, chords of fluid, a psalm

There's a scene in my favorite movie

his hands glide along the stone,

the hallowed ground, the grave.
fingers trace the etched-in words
marble as cold as death.

The credits roll.

There's a scene in my favorite movie
Most of the crowds left now
but I know to wait
till the words on the screen have scrolled to the end
and finally you'll see
Two lovers kiss, lips dry and cracked
but only a thought of love.
Together forever no pain, no sickness, no harsh air
that will keep them apart again.

I read it in the newspaper; your obituary.

I read how you fought "valiantly".

They said some things about you in the column.

You're quite the person. Beautiful and gold leafed.

Part kid, 

Part Goddess, 

Part crude oil; 

pumped up from the ground by grasshopper pumpjacks on an open plain.

Your mother was green and she gardens.

Your father is blue, like his collar.

He labors in a refinery at work and at home.

He's always sweaty.

To whom it will concern

Dear Ordinary:

I'm writing a letter to you so that you will stop whatever it is you're doing and realize where you are. I'm writing this letter to you to interrupt the busy life you pretend to live, and to make you look down at paper, instead of you feet for once. I'm writing this letter to you to maybe put into perspective some things. I'm writing this letter to you so you will stop talking and listen to the opening act, shut up and look at the opening band that is trying so hard to make it. I'm writing this letter to you to help bring you back to reality, because I know how you haven't been feeling real lately, and I know how hard that is. You knelt in the sand and asked God to make you real, well hopefully getting a real life letter will make you feel a little like real life.

Things are very limbo right now, and that's OK for now. You're comfortable, and you're early-stale, like when bread starts to get hard crust, but it's still tasty to eat as long as mom makes it. You will start to stink very soon, and I don't want that for you because it's already hard for you to talk to girls. I don't want to make it impossible by making girls not want to talk back. You don't want that do you? Let's now prolong the losing streak. I don't want 6 months to turn into a year, and then into years. That sounds like a nightmare.

Speaking of; Let's talk about those nightmares. Yeah, I know about them. You talk in your sleep. It's OK, don't feel bad. They're just dreams but not the kind you want to follow. Everyone here is following their nightmares these days, when you come back you need to be ready.

Ordinary, you're growing up fast, and you're losing a lot of things. Brain things. That's normal. Stay quiet for the opening act. Watch it. Let them prime you for the main event, let them give you a taste of whats to come, they're very different genres, yes, but you'll love both of them. For now just shut up and listen to the music, watch the guitar player move his mouth weird.

Ordinary, remember who you love, and don't let them go.

Ordinary, you seriously need to start letting people in, and let them stay in your life. But that also means you need to let me in. I'm the most important person in your ordinary life.

I love you ordinary, you'll learn to love me too.

Love,
also ordinary

I don't know why my pictures aren't showing up. Sorry. I can't figure it out.

In The Gorge

The Dishes, who's master grew tired.

Unkempt the bed, wrinkled, feathered.

Pubescent chin hairs quietly long, and transparent, 

like the shabby breathing of solitude. 

The longing is palpable. 

In the gorge; the arthritic ticking 

of a crass, golden-stitched human heart

scorches the cells with life-bread.

In the gorge, dreams strike the tallest trees.

Faint are the whisperings, 

long are the echoings.

In the gorge, blood pumps.

In the gorge, run wildebeest.

Now What/What Now

Why do I always feel like the hands I interlock in front of me, and the elbows on my knees, and the eyelids that go down, and up, and down, and up, don't belong to me. Sensation is such a beautiful and strange thing if you think about it.

I'm trying to be happier, like choose happiness. I figured that, for myself, I have to redefine happiness; in light of my obscured perception of joy, and the sensation therein. I'm finding something out though. I'm a little excited about it. For me now, happiness is very discretionary. It's a little hard to explain so bear with me. Happiness occurs very arbitrarily recently: A moment of haphazard eye contact with a stranger on the bus, or a stranger utters a word from their beautiful lips and I kind of fall in love with them for just a minuscule moment, or a frozen juncture in the ocean where it's enough for me that there is an ocean, and trees, and turtles.

Hopefully I'm being understood. 

I am starting to realize that my expectation for the world is totally off, and that is the root of my problem. I've accepted that life is never a painting for life, uh... let me try again: Life will never feel how you want it to look in a picture (like on instagram) and that's something I've been letting guide me recently. 

Whatever.

“People don't realize that the future is just now, but later.” 
-Russell Brand

(a Revolutionist)

peeling dressers

I laid in the bed of sheetless thinking
I reached back behind the dresser of food, and books of ink
The dresser was a plywood pile of wood in a sellable shape.
Over the plywood is a stensil of real wood making it appear rich
I peel the stencil off the back nervously,
wondering if they'll see this in the inspection at eviction
but not caring that much.
He had a nervous tick, the pile of plywood with satisfyingly peelable stencil was within reach
so it gets peeled.

People who have inspired me.(This is a new years post of some kind)

As I write this I cannot tell you how long this list will be I have the flu and my room is spinning and I'm on the Internet. This is everyone my virus-wracked brain can poop out at the moment. There are many people who have gotten me to where I am today, for better or for worse; both will be included in the following list.

Disclaimer: If you think you have influenced my life in some sort of marvelous way and are not listed, too damn bad. Be cooler. Just kidding. Eat more protein, and send a formal complaint to my publicist Steve Madden.

Andrea: My mother, my guardian, my angel, and the woman I have loved and will love forever.

Val: My Father, my voice of reason, and my cattle prod.

Kenzie: My example of perfect endurance, and non judgemental, understanding.

Curt: My coach, made me feel worth something.

Gabe: My best friend forever.

Nathan: My first, last friend and the epitome of empathy.

Taylor: Got my butt in gear, threatened me if I didn't follow my dreams.

Michaela: My ears, my book of secrets, my quiet, patient sponsor.

Alexandra: My constant friend.

Tessa: My voice of compassion.

Katie: My oldest friend, one of my true loves.

Nate: My pie chart role model, my black beacon.

Meg: My favorite Mormon, beautiful on the inside and out.

Dane: My forgiveness dummy, my comrade in our war.

Natty: My sister, my white beacon.

Daniel: My accomplice in crime, crimes of fun.

Caden: My silver beacon, my secret compassionate guide.

Leslie: My sympathetic, tolerant benefactor.

Drew: You're the psychiatrist, you tell me what you are.
Dallin: My older Brother, my rock.

More:

Sawyer

Soley

Roah

Isaiah

Shantay

Grant

Janelle

Aubrey

Kalli

Sierra

Rachel

Sarah

Zoie

Kyle

Matt

Micah

Cy

Sophie

Brooklyn

Rachel

Lindsay

Tim

Scott Shepard

Parker
Ned

Kobi

Scott

Kyle

Kyle
Avery

This was mushy... But what is the flu and 1:30 AM for, if it's not for writing mushy posts?

This is just me

So, I started the national novel writing month (November) with a flaming passion. It was going great until about the 3rd day. 

Sorry I haven't posted a lot. I have something cooking in my heart. 

Here I am saying this as if anyone other than Mr. Nelson, Allie, and maybe Lauren and Michaela actually read this blog anymore, after all, high school is over. 

I'm moving to Hawaii.

I'm writing a book.

I'm in love with a Mr. Nelson still. 

I'm in love with a woman.

I'm in love with art, and I'm trying to be quiet about it right now, I don't want to speak up something that isn't going to actually happen. 

I write like it's my job don't fret. 

Die Flowers, Die

I have lived in this bubble for 19 years, you should know me better than that. You should know how to hold me you should know I hate being held, and you should know when and where I like to fly away. You should know where I take off and I should know where I land, and you should too. But here I am flying high or low, in the dark with no runway in sight.

I am the son of a warlord and a pacifist, an extrovert and an introvert, a self pronounced Psychiatrist and a self pronounced non-artist who paints and writes. I am the oldest son of 2 people who love eachother. I am the son of a man and a woman(Surprise), Berlin, and Orem, Utah. 

Hands of a writer and logic of a physicist. Brains of a mathematician and motivation of a politician. Too smart to be motivated by carrots. Too dumb to be motivated by passion alone. 

Too bad I don't really love carrots. 

There was a boy who had long arms and freckles.

He walked tall in the night amoungst the universes and proud for the stars.

In the day his knees broke down. In the day he was a wharf in a hurricane. 

He has lost his shit so many times it's a cookbook and all the housewives are reading it. 

Recipe calls for 3 lbs of tears that have matured in the eye without falling, then falling all at once. 

175 lbs of awkward man/boy skin and bones trying to be someone else. 

cooked over a low heat for 30 days approx. and then dumped on the dirt all at once in a rage-fit.

and now you have lost your shit.

congratulations

bravo

I am the son of divine being no one I've ever met has seen literally. I am told who is my father, all the time. 

I am constantly told what this father wants for me and I'm confused easily by this. How do the other people know? and why don't they know what he wants for them sometimes? Seems strange to me. 

Stop being pretentious Zack. 

Get better Zack. 

Be good Zack.

Zack, where do you come up with all this stuff?

"Tell me your symptoms Zack"

"When I wake up, it feels like the morning after something terrible has happened. That's every morning."

"I constantly feel like I should get married but not have kids because I'm scared they'll turn out like me."

"When people ask me questions I have a small heart attack and usually start eating something."

"I sneeze a lot at family get-togethers, which I'm now realizing is probably just an allergy or something."

"Every year around christmas time I get obsessed with Pokemon and Avery Taylor, which is frustrating"

"I hate most kinds of talks."

"I want people to love me and comment on my blog, but also I don't want people to know my secrets, which I just realized is my fault and I can fix my own problems"

That's just some of the things I'll say this tuesday at 9:00 am. Probably. 

Professionals are weird. I haven't even met the guy and I am already answering his questions.

Tinder smoke

I'm watching from behind the one sided glass. I'm watching the laughter and the joy. I'm watching you love and be loved. There have never been words eloquent enough- words loud enough- for you. Never good enough. My laces are untied and it's poetic. It's poetic because my laces are, in essence, like my life.

Actually I just realized, I've been the one on the other side of the glass, padded walls and a straight jacket. You all scoughed and scorned the sinner in the pit. The boy amongst himself and the sinners he is.
I broke the glass down, but now I can't see my reflection anymore all I see is the crowd where my reflection used to be. I was so close to focusing on myself but I lost track of time and I ran out of room on my cell walls for tally marks of the days of our lives. I almost saw my green eyes look back at me. I almost could recognize myself. I was so close I still have the aftertaste of near-success on my tongue. The red hair and shambles of legs and arms almost convinced they were mine. Almost obeying. Near dictatorship.

Something happened upstairs. No, not God, not heaven, not Jesus. Upstairs under the red hair, under the hats that hide the singed remnants of ideas and my good fortunes from the "American Chinese fortune cookies". (Lucky numbers are bullshit BTW) -- No something happened upstairs, my golden strand of future mixed up amongst the golden strands of the trillions and trillions of Zacks that there could have been. I think science had something to do with it. Science is a Bitch and I'm science's Bitch.

I feel like a cruel science experiment actually.

Love always, Zack

Goddamn Heaven.

Song for this post: Boo - Pinback

My air has been pretty thick lately.

And I mean THICK. Black viscous oxygen. 

I've wrapped every finger I have around my chair that I've sat in, watching you all go on with your lives. You all go live your beautiful lives with you beautiful bodies breathing easy air.

White knuckled grasping my chair gasping.

They all left to foreign lands with cleaner air than mine. 

They left me with wracked lungs and bleeding lips.

I am left with my broken ankles and my blind eyes. 

You left me in hell searching for heaven.

I don't think I have anything against any of them, better off they may be. 

I don't even think they are selfish, that's why we're all here right? 

Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. Gotta get into Heaven. 

They're all just tryin' to get into Goddamn Heaven.

I just am so scared and tired of being alone. 

I know no one is really going to read this. Besides me and the big man.

He told me about you darling, the big man upstairs, he told me about your brown eyes and your dark long hair. I know about you and your love and I know what/who I need to be to get you. I've been searching for you literally 24/7. I have a sketch artist picture of you in my head and I cross search every face I see with the one of yours I have. I'm searching every day. I don't know why my feet are molasses and my mouth is old honey. You are the stars and the my world. 

I'm just the space beneath the stairs. 

I'm scared I started looking to early. I don't mean to be like this. 

I feel like I'm trying to watch a solar eclipse but I'm in Alaska and the Sun hasn't come up in 3 days and I'm dangerous. I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

In my closet in the fetal position say over and over again. "Holy Shit, Holy Shit, Where am I and what am I doing?" 

I'm the ghost of the boy I want to be.

I'm the shell of the boy I used to know well.

You're my heaven, and I'm just tryin' to get to you.

But I'm just in the fetal position in my closet. 

Left Behind and Lonely.

Binocular

You asked me what I was looking for, as always, I told you "I don't know." sorry about that by the way. I always don't know, I know it bugs the hell out of you. I sometimes just don't think enough for there to be an answer where I can say "I do know, Let me tell you".

Well, I have an answer, and I know it's a little to late. I know you were never really into me that much and that's okay. This probably doesn't even matter that much. It's really easy to pretend it doesn't matter, I pretend it doesn't matter, wear a smile and act like my heart isn't broken. Broken by someone who was never mine. 

My answer, is I am always looking for something; anything. You asked me what I was looking for. I am looking for a girl who will love me back a little bit... That was a joke, I want a girl who will love me like I love her, the same way the sun loves the moon. 

Undoubtedly you don't think about that stuff, I would have told you that and you would have asked me why I am bringing the moon and the sun into the conversation. I would say I don't know. 

I am looking for a girl with sunkissed lips and the wanderlust brown eyes. 

I am looking for Magic and forests and someone who is just as lost as I am.

You asked me what I was looking for, I told you I don't know.

Now I know. 

I am looking for the ocean in Utah. I am looking for 2 hands just a little smaller than mine.

Smiles with gaps and fingernails that are chipped. Callouses on our hands from the garden and a nose I can kiss.

Now you're gone, and I have answer. You asked me what I was looking for, and the answer is you.

For better or (most Likely) for worse

There is a kid upsidown and backwards. The boy's body is made from street salt.. Hands cracked open he licks his sores every night before sleeping. He's got a bad case of "The Junes", a terrible disease where everything seems so right but he gets into bed at night and he realizes things.

I'm just the ordinary arms and legs of ordinary world living in the shadow of ordinary's arm hair.

All my limbs have an Achilles heel and I'm speaking but the only thing that comes out is ink and ball point pens. His eyes were his scope and his smile was his gun.

"It'll come to ya."

There's not lots I know. I just know that we are all scared.... Of something rational or irrational. Also, I know something else.

we exist. i exist. we exist, whether it be by Cowardice, Or courage, we'll all walk back to our own crime scene with feral claws dripping with revenge and lilacs. Always lilacs.

Love always, or never: Zack