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.

Wednesday, June 1

45s on 33 – #97: “Hit Me With Your Best Shot”

“You imagine you have some questions,” this orb spirit Ellabell said. “You may ask three, before the inspiration disappears.”

Without thinking I asked, “What do you mean ‘the inspiration’?” Other sprite girls were still frolicking in her backdrop, grass still glowing green like unseen aura (when positive charged), a buzzing blurring visual symphony of flips and bounces and somersaults and skip steps of solar gold shapes making blackish shadows as they moved.

“The Inspiration is when against all other needs as a person, against all other demands, a bright light of new being booms with your heartbeat. Some say it consumes them, but this is not correct, because originally it comes from them. One cannot consume themselves. The Inspiration beats with your heart, throughout your body, hoping for life. It then becomes dependent on all the distant parts of your body to help bring The Inspiration to life, or else it dies.”

Again, without thinking about the limitations she had established for our discourse, I asked, “What happens if The Inspiration dies?”

“The Inspiration is what we call it, but in actuality it is a multitude of inspirations that come from that same source, which is inside of each person. When The Inspiration rises up and courses through one’s body, if they do not help The Inspiration be born into existence, use their head and right and left arms and right and wrong legs to give it life, it dies. When it dies, that inspiration loses its fluid shape and congeals into a thick brackish sludge of frustration, which then travels back to the heart. And though the heart, of all animals, all plants, all things is a resilient core to all our various existences, too much sludge of frustration inspirations will start to clog the heart. If left untreated, meaning if The Inspiration is left ignored for too long, the heart can become too clogged, and ultimately kill the source of The Inspiration. At that point, any being is no longer being in any true and bright sense, in any way that carries the purpose of the creation of the universe. At that point, one is essentially dead, though they may continue being alive in a physical sense for many, many years.”

Ellabell’s words tapped at my own inner-depressions, and the green grass started to get a little more dull, a little more earthly. Some of the bouncing beautiful girls in the background started to skip off into the blur of the pines and poplars at the bottom of the field. And it was starting to look more like my actual field, taking the shape again of what was familiar. There were the blackberry bushes that had overgrown that I need to cut back, and the fallen oak that I need to buck up for firewood. The Heart Star’s foggy orb was dissipating.

This time I knew this was my third of three questions, so I thought for a moment, about what Ellabell had said, and didn’t let myself slip out the first question that came to mind.

“How does one bring The Inspiration to life if they are busy, if their days are full of other things they are supposed to do?” Ellabell smiled, and though she appeared to be youthful, it was the smile of a grandmother at a toddler’s unknowing question about the obvious.

“One doesn’t Do anything. In fact, doing is the opposite of bringing The Inspiration to life. You don’t Do your heartbeat, or you don’t Do your lungs into breathing air. In order to bring The Inspiration to life, you don’t Do Any Thing. The Doing you people Do has done too much as it is. To give The Inspiration life, you need to un-do more, and un-do as often as possible.” As she spoke she began to fade, like fog with the sunrise, except instead of brightness replacing overcast grey it was the opposite, with the duller realities of the real world reclaiming my sensory perception from the supernatural brightness of Ellabell and whatever the fuck her realm was.

I turned and walked back up the hill to the house, contemplating my undoing.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

"contemplating my undoing"...this is so good.