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, June 5

45s on 33 – #93: “Ain’t Nothing You Can Do”

Ain’t nothing I could do – Rey-Rey had snatched me up in his colored fog and we floated off together through blitzkrieg of visuals which was like those roller coaster-like intros to Imax movies where they show you all the awesome epileptic shit they could do before slowing back down to the feature. But we didn’t slow down. It felt like a thousand hours of travel through color tunnels which twisted and turned like tree roots tendrilling down through the dirt, except we were shooting through I don’t know what. I didn’t really have time to think on it, as it all was happening faster than my cognizant ability to process. Rey-Rey floated right beside me, his shaggy cactus jack hair flapping behind him, and it felt like he was holding my hand, firm but not tight, like a stereotypical business handshake greeting, but his hands were visible, held out in front of him, mime-like.

Finally his voice hollered through the rumble of travel we were having, “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” His head never turned nor did his mouth move, but the sound had the effect of somebody yelling at you through tropical depression winds. Our physical movement stopped, along with color blurs along periphery, with cacophonous vacuum shutting off sound, and without plop, we stopped and were standing in some sort of science fictional contraption, but instead of sharp electronic gadgetry, everything pulsed like muscle tissue, even though it had lots of weird brightly colored nodes all over, which seemed like electronic devices but part of a living thing. Again, it had the feel of that dream state where one thing is like another thing you recognize, but not that thing at all, except underneath, built from foundation your consciousness recognizes, but in unconscious ways.

I was about to ask the obvious “Where are we?” when Rey-Rey laughed and pre-emptively answered, “We on my base-ship. This is for me what you have with them raggedy ass campers in the field. One and the same, just different planes… astral planes not aero planes.”

I realized this motherfucker had telepathy on me. Rey-Rey laughed again. “Yes. But we’re the same. Infinite strings twisting around to form the same mosaic set of electrical impulses that we both call ‘me’.”

Looking around at all the throbbing membranes in brilliant vivid colors sidetracked me from my scientific indignation this shaggy-haired Rey-Rey dude was shooting conversation straight talking with my internal brain. That area has normally always been monologue territory. But even having that notion of reality hijacked got lost to all the dazzling pulses of what looked to be organic actual life matter, but in sci-fi spaceship basic structure. But he had called it a “base-ship”…

“Yeah, we call them base-ships, but that’s where motherfuckers like us, well like me because that’s both of us, build our Heart Stars to manifest decoration to fresh universes. Gotta bedazzle all these universes, ya know?”

I didn’t like him calling us all part of his “me”, because that felt subservient on my part. But I thought that in my brain, so Rey-Rey caught it, and corresponded with, “No tops or bottoms to our ‘me’, man. All them different strings twist around together, equally, building the strength of the whole. Ain’t nothing you can do, ain’t nothing I can do either to take ownership of ‘me’. Don’t no known body own who we are. No unknown body either, as a matter of natural scientific universal fact.”

Rey-Rey smiled. His shaggy hair was long but not long enough to have that evened out look of long-hair masculine, but with the shaggy bangs eyeballs could hide behind and peek through like curtains of growing irresponsibility. He had that old school stoner metalhead look, like my own 9th grade yearbook photo.

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