D-BRANE THE HARD WAY
To explain the process of protracted fiction to anyone who has never so engaged is not easy, and I’ve always considered it infinitely preferable to simply offer the result and make no comment on how it came to be, but, since I’ve been missing from the blogworld for a few weeks, I felt a brief justification might be in order. To deliberately set one’s brain loose in a whole imaginary and completely fantastic construct for long hours of each day can has to be, with very little qualification, an exercise in controlled insanity that is not a hundred miles from those individuals who put on the tinfoil hats to prevent the CIA or the aliens from reading their thoughts. Except the author eschews the tinfoil. No hat and no exit, except abject failure of the most extreme and terminal kind. He walks his mind naked like a dog, and often with only a very flimsy leash, at the mercy of a legion of multiple personalities, and an entire cast of characters, operating in a mental state that might, I guess, be called, for want of a better word, polyphrenia. (As in schizophrenia, only with a whole lot more options.) The only real control is in how well you have pre-planned the landscape of imagination, and the environment of fantasy, because all protect must be installed in advance. Before one lets slip Superman it is good to have invented kryptonite, so to speak. The only lifeline to the real world is the process itself, the physical fingers on the noisy keys, punch-drunk with illusion of arthritis, the desperate vocabulary, and the highwire deception of the crafted sentence. One becomes one’s own pimp as, hour after hour, one turns phrases as if they were tricks, to the galley slave drummer of internal quality-control...
"Make it better!"
"Make it better!"
At 120,000 words, the novel Conflagration is long by the popular standards of every one except maybe Stephen King, and in the last 20,000 the author’s mind snaps entirely. Unless it is an exceedingly dull story, the characters, by then, in a high state of excitation with epic psycho-sexual hell breaking out around them. As in old fashioned amphetamine psychosis, time and sleep are the first to go, working against the dawn, leaf-blowers, waste-management, the annexation of crows, the demands of felines, and fear that the marijuana may run out. No one understands you. In the moments that you flag and fall in front the comforting formalism of TV Law & Order re-runs is about all you can handle. Even The Simpsons are too bright and random. One even begins to speak in the third persons and as if the present was already past.
The final collapse is best not described at all. Mercifully the memory is highly selective about both pain and dementia, but the decompression has to be handled with care – like a diver with the bends – and not mutilated or spindled because those tiny, champagne nitro-bubbles of vacant creativity will appear in the bloodstream of the aftermath and wreak havoc in what is left of the brain.
But I survive, all the way to the terrible post-depression when, as usual, I wonder – like the old actor – if I will ever work again. But it the same time, I ravenously need write on regardless.

MARK BOYLE -- RIP

JEFF NUTALL -- RIP

LINK
A awesome piece of animation from Russia that says something about mortality...
http://fcmx.net/vec/v.php?i=003702

CRYPTIQUE – Fill in the next line yourself.

The secret word is Tangled.