RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who publishes zines & physical books & electronic books & music & photography & digital art & just generally whatever feels necessary to survive this deluded earth thru Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts survival systems (Version 69, establish 14 Feb 1973). Comments encouraged.

Tuesday, April 12

The Doogie Howser - 04/12/11


(daily intention kinda thing but who really knows ultimately?)
#1: I'm cooking a new style, exposing a new alias of the thousand feathers to flutter at the world, and I've been concerned about what I am (...is what I am" sang Edie Brickell before Paul Simon's little ass locked her down) so I sat amidst the new growing chickweed next to my pig pen and took a handful of psychotropical matters, and tried to figure out (or in) exactly where this new alias was coming from. First thing that came to mind was I was full of shit, and too old to be tripping out next to pigs; plus, what if they ate me? #2: Initially, I was thinking on Joe Bageant dying a copule hours away in Winchester, and thinking how we are from similar cultural cloths - same state, same "what the fuck"s at the people around us who are our lifelong friends, but I would not tarnish that dude's legacy by associating myself with him. #3: Kinda feel sometimes like Oscar Zeta Acosta and Ronnie Van Zant had a threesome affair one weekend in outlaw heaven's nicest motel with Stacia the dancing chick from Hawkwind (google image search is your friend on that one), and I was their bastard soul child, condemned to life on earth, which is a struggle for me, highly depressing at times where I am overwhelmed by terrible depressions that surround me, but hey, this is my destiny to be here and do what I do, so I wake up and look at the sky and try to let the shine sink into my soul. #4: Then I was smelling the purple dead nettles on my hand that I'd thrown into the pig and thought about how associating one of my nonsense gibberish voices from beyond with anything else was itself nonsense gibberish because there is nobody who is me anywhere in the world. Who else amongst you gives rats clinical brain injuries by day and then steals produce out of dumpsters for pigs by night? Who else amongst you is southern by birth but Raven by the grace of God? #5: I don't believe in an actual "god" but I believe in actual unexplainable things which actually can be explained pretty easily, just you can't prove them using science. But what the fuck man, science and god are enemies, and I'm not gonna get involved in their Drama Triangle. It's better to just remove yourself from their conflict, let them both know you are there if they want to talk to you, and keep yourself from getting caught up in all of it too heavily. #6: I have felt my Scandinavian blood bubbling up the past year or two for some reason, and that seems to be part of this new style, as I have a strong urge to ferment herring. Seriously. We eat a lot of fermented foods in this house, and I just made like a four-gallon batch of kimchi last weekend that will be ready in about three weeks. It is sitting on the kitchen table right now, about 25 pounds of sliced and diced and shredded and crushed and mixed vegetables, sitting in brine, bubbling away. But kimchi is not in my genetics. Shit man, they've committed cultural eugenics so heavily I'm surprised my DNA has anything left in it outside of a predisposition for getting drunk and fist fighting my neighbors over trivial disagreements. But I can feel the Scandinavian blood in me. This of course could be weird Scando-voodoo as my grandmother who is the daughter of immigrants is currently old and in a home and going through another of her crazy stages, back into literal psychosis, and has been writing children's stories about turkey vultures. I told her I wanted to see her stories and have copies of all of them and I think maybe she's shooting things into my brain now, either to check me out, or point me in a new direction. Which is fine. Not nearly enough has been written about how awesome turkey vultures are. #7: There's a lot of distractions in this world, and I have been thinking about a line from an old Solaris Earth Pipeline song about people studying the fingertip pointing at a beacon light shining through the misleading night. Actually a lot of the shit I wrote back then was so fast and without thought that I became a channel for other things, and I'm only now realizing what some of it means. Unlocking those voices is important because they are inside us all, and we cloud and crowd them up with the hummmm and buzzzzzzzz. And unfortunately this leaves the important messages left to be told by people who were not born to tell those stories. That's why most writers fucking suck, because they don't write from pain and misery and tortured voices in their head, or even from the happy bliss that comes from hearing those voices clear enough for it to make sense. They just write because that's what they've trained themselves to do, and it's more like making trinkets for tourists of intelligence to buy and look at. #8: Almost as if on cue, the J.J. Krupert machine shuffled out "Heart of Soul" which was the first song Solaris Earth Pipeline ever did. Thank you robot machines, for being the chorus behind my mind there, perhaps by chance, perhaps by purpose. Good looking out. #9: So while I was sitting back there last weekend at night with my pigs, I kinda zoned out on them instead. Pigs are pretty smart creatures, and there's this whole pig holocaust going on worldwide. Except not only are they being killed, they are being genetically bred to be the exact same size so that robots can do the killing and slicing and segmentation of them. As much as civilization likes to flaunt and tout its high points, that's kinda weird that we do that, not in a simple "you shouldn't eat meat" sense, but in the strangely complicated way humans now raise and slaughter them in completely efficient ways that have no concern for certain interactions, nor do they really want humans involved more than to oversee things because the less people you have to give a paycheck to, the larger the profit, so long as you can keep selling the chops and sausage sluice to people. I am very thankful that last year when I took our two pigs to slaughter, I had to have the neighbor back his horse trailer up to the fence, and we tricked the pigs into it after like an hour, and then drove them to an old school butcher in Buckingham County, Virginia, America, Earth, who did business the old-fashioned way - we stood around talking about what we were gonna do for twenty minutes, bullshitted for about an hour, he wrote down things on a pad of paper, and did it himself. For all the pluses modern civilization has, we forgot how the fuck to do things for ourselves. Little things, like turn left two blocks ahead or don't put poison in your mouth. #10: I have rambled a lot and not really said anything, yet also said a whole lot. That is Southside Virginia pick-up bed style. In real life, I would say right now I have to go, which would mean I leave in about 40 minutes. But this is the internet...

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Did you see that picture is drawn on the back of a State Hospital log

Anonymous said...

I also think its a mother writing to her son. The person looks too much like its a self protrait of herself accidentally. Holding her wolfchild in her womb as the cardinals warn her of who's watching. It's her crown of thorns

Raven Mack said...

Yeah it's electric pencil art from a mental hospital.