In Cold Blood

I have been having a hard time writing. I can't think about anything to story-tell. I write spontaneously, about subject matter that occurred years ago, or ten minutes ago. But these stories always needed a beginning, a middle and an end, and I can only write when I have all three neatly packaged away into my scripted screenplay of memories.

My garden. I have had lots of gardens. I have squirrels who come and join me for breakfast and brunch, as they expect their daily morsels of sustenanance of granola bars and P&J sandwiches. My stories always end happily when it comes to my squirrels. And if I can't write about happiness, then I must pretend about yours and how you feed your own pets and screenplays.


I watched the movie "In Cold Blood" today. My first thoughts were I didnt't want to watch another TCM 'Turner Classic Movie' this Friday afternoon full of spattering snow melts outside my early Spring window. I've got tulips trying to pop their heads open into the yellow muse, yet they are continuously layered in freezing mist, flakes of angel's tears and convectional smell of dead earth.

They have joined my club, the writer's club of blank walls and murals, the interpretation of black and white movies that are overlooked by the big awards because they were presented in such genius of unconventional, flaming faggots.

I enjoyed this movie immensely, not by the writer's skill, but because of the guy who held the camera and the director who yelled "ACTION". How in the hell did he know when Spring came?