A Proper Burial

So I’ve been blinds drawn, bolt-locks bolt-locked, and cadmium (i guess steel would make more sense but cadmiums cooler) chain shackled away in my artificially lit laboratory scrambling words for my two newest narratives.

It's been a drafty couple of cold Chinese take-out and torn ACL agonized tarassis couple of weeks but I’ve submerged thus far to feel the sun on my face once more with a mess of crumbled papers and marble notebooks of material.

The first piece is something I call Mnemosynesiac.
The plot deals heavily with the concept of having your memories (or a "personality map") reinserted into a genetic duplicate or donor body if nothing else is available.

The delicate purging from whence the contents of a Plexiglas womb with a view
is spilt into the present!

Do byproducts of the procedure possess souls?
At what point does the old you end and the new you begin?
What could the physical, emotional and psychological implications be in a civilization
where such practices are the norm?
Immortality? Total enlightenment? Psychosis? Spiritual abrasion, none or all of the above?

Don't know yet,
but we're ten pages in on a royal and happily flinging hemoglobin, lead paint chips,
static hair follicle's, musky ribbons, and swigs of nut brown ale into
the primordial flux of still shadow and a never-ending wilderness of swirling fractals bathing in the creative aeythr.

Those paint chips tempt me oh so... in the witching hour of my mad key-punching nighttide,
their sapor elicits a delightful tang resembling chilled pineapple or the copper of cooked cows blood chased with Shots of St. Germain (if you haven't had the elderflower liquor St. Germain, stop wasting your time reading my blog and mo-ped over to your local taproom for a tasting.
It's a fine and dandy little sip of deliciousness.)

Who am i kidding? I don't eat paint chips...but Count Ferris Sesquipedalian does goddamn it!

My other literary venture focuses on employing all sorts of different devices such as ad-libs, random sections that can be shuffled and sorted to creative unique outcomes at every reading, and choose-your-adventure style page turning.

Although it hasn't been officially titled I’ve been referring to it as
How to Properly Dispose of a Ouija Board
after some fascinating magical texts i came across written by the late Aleister Crowley.

So thats what i've been so busy with lately, that and my manuel labor job of metropolis-style indentured servitude.

Something tells me i should prepare a will,
what will kill me first, the burden of writing or the heavy lifting work environment.
Anybody up for taking wagers?
All bets'll be collected in the back by lou the chinaman.

Until our next embrace,
do not forsake the rain!