RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Wednesday, June 8

45s on 33 – #90: “Sin Sangre En Las Venas”

Me and Rey-Rey was sitting there by the creek bottom, comparing our own mental notes about that futuristic me which we assumed might be futuristic us since we’d connected on the level that we were very similar in many unexplained ways, and also connected to that vivicolor tunnel that shot us to Rey-Rey’s baseship for birthing his creative arts (mostly epic space raps) and that seemed might be source of mine as well, though the direct connection had not been made. Rey-Rey had seen a dark fog vision one time with a similar future dude, not an office with giant writing computer but instead a music studio with ancient growth hardwood everything and foam soundproof padding made from the slave cotton dabbed with the tears of innocent children so that future Rey-Rey could have the utmost perfection to his hollow sound’s reverberations when recording. Apparently future Rey-Rey did no actual writing of music and had an minor army of ghost writers – literal ghosts resurrected through dark metasciences – who composed the melodies and music and then future Rey-Rey stamped the output with his name as executive creative controller, and by law this made it his. (The law is fucked up, and protects those who have access to how the law reads, not those who are forced to read by the law’s words.)

“He had dead eyes is how I saw him,” said Rey-Rey about his encounter, “Which I’d seen in me when I felt dying, but never all the way dead like that. It was fucked up to see, because I don’t want to be dead in the eyes like that.”

I understood all too well, as when I’d seen those type eyes in the morning mirror, and thought about how I used to twinkle with hazel blue-green hope in photographs from my youth, it concerned me. What was different? Could I get that glow back?
But all our commiserating must have triggered warnings to the aether, because our conversation was quickly swallowed up by brilliant lime green shade, and here came Ellabell bouncing into our collective consciousness, perhaps there perhaps not because logically I’m not even sure it makes sense Rey-Rey was there, or any of this. (I just can’t think about logic, or at least not psycho-logic of earth, and keep it to astro-logic of unexplainable realms, or else I’ll consider myself lost to the craze.)

Ellabell assured, without explanation, “What you saw, both of you, is in fact future versions of you both. And these versions of you both are versions from the same base, which you’ve begun to deduce. But those future versions were clogged by the dark clouds, and their heart stopped functioning to where it allowed Heart Stars to exist. They still believed they were using Heart Stars, but their actual blood stopped flowing behind the metastasized congeal of stifling blackness. Their veins no longer pump blood, and instead subsisted off the flow of abstract numbers, sharp-edged and immoral little shrapnels of ones and twos and fours and nines and zeros poking through their physical form, not dead in physical sense but no longer alive.”

Me and Rey-Rey both was like “what the fuck”. Ellabell continued, “You have both had these visions, and been brought together not by chance but by purpose. Those future you’s are planning great internal attack, through time, on your shared baseship. It threatens all color to your lives, and could plunge all you know to be real into endless mundane hopeless grey – an eternal dreariness to existence. You will have to fight this future, but unfortunately from the space of the present, to which you are attached, which is not a bad thing necessarily, but does leave you susceptible to the dangers of the future.”

Me and Rey-Rey again, we was like “what the fuck” and stared with hype and fire of infinite activated caveman molecules, full of fool adrenaline.

No comments: