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.

Sunday, January 13

sunday morning coming down

Feeling some deep questions today, wondering what the fuck I'm doing. It can be difficult when you see others experiencing success, and you have this notion that on a basic ability level, you're right there with anybody. But it comes back to the realization that this is not a true meritocracy, and there's a combo of ability and luck (aka lottotunities) that come into play, so all one can do is stick with pushing their ability, to control that part of the equation, and fuck man, you are just forced to see what happens with the luck part honestly. I even had a dude who is a famous award-winning literary author type tell me that it takes the ability to tell a good story, and to have somebody be able to see that you can tell a good story. Probably the best one hundred writers in the history of this American experience, I bet at least 30 of them are completely unknown. Not published but unheralded, but un-fucking-known, non-existent in your local library.
A second thing I try to tell myself is to not see myself in the eyes of public knowledge, in other words do not equate success in terms of pop cultural recognition (even within the fringe pop cultural worlds of the internet and literary establishment) but in doing what you want to do. Most of the time when I get hung up on trying to translate what it is I want to to do in something that can pay an electric bill, it becomes compromised. I seriously have no fucking clue how to make those things jibe together.
I do know that what I am doing is not what I want to be doing. And I know what I should be doing is not what I do most of the time. Part of this is my own fault, part of this is the holes I have been dug into by life (which again is partially my fault), and part of it the simple fact where and what you are born into sets the prism for you the rest of your life. It's like that Price is Right Range Game with the green window - if you come from certain segments and circles, your green window is only going to go so high. That's just how it is. I mean, there's shots at bigger endings, but those are the luck (aka lottotunities) half of the equation, and if you are born from certain segments and circles your chance at luck is limited, as you are just not connected.
I feel like everything I'm connected to right now is draining, and only yelling at me about what it is doing, nobody pushing or inspiring me, nobody feeling me. And then tomorrow is Monday, where I sit at a desk, to keep about 3/5 of my bills paid, and give me a hope to keep the other 2/5 successfully juggled in the way modern American creditory systems allow you to juggle as part of their game.
I guess I'm fucking sick of this shit. It's so dissatisfying, and not what I feel inside. When the outside reality doesn't reflect the inside's desires, that's when illness of the mind starts, to try and survive the non-matching inputs and outputs sending bad signals. Mental illness is generally considered to be a bad thing, but shit man, we're so externally-inclined, as well as externally-manipulated, we need to think of the causes of these mental symptoms. We won't though. And I'm going off on another direction I shouldn't be putting inside the robots. Fuck you robots.

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