RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition who does all types of things, daily. The best place to get it right now is his Patreon or find his books at Amazon.

Friday, December 15

JJ Krupert Dec 2017 number three "buildings and bridges"

Back in the day when the person who is now my wife was just someone I was seeing, a good idea for a date for us was get an 18-pack of Budweiser and drive in any particular direction out of Richmond, where we lived, just getting out to the country. I tended to go hard back then, so it didn’t take long to get elbow deep into an 18-pack, and generally this might have been mix-n-matched with other thangs. More than once in our early dating did I end up slurred beyond self-control, sometimes entirely debilitated into blathering incomprehensible fool. She hung with a number of early militant feminist art types back then as well, thus Ani DiFranco was never far from being at hand. Thus, I have strong blurry memories of being all fucked up and slouched over in passenger seat while she – perhaps angrily, perhaps not – started blasting Ani DiFranco driving us back from wherever we were, or me back from wherever she came to retrieve me from my own chaos. Back then, after I had fucked up us dating the first time round, I sort of held a grudge against all Ani DiFranco music – coming from the Ugh zone. But now, after all this time, the old shit has sort of sunk into my brain as a warm memory of transitional times: disappearing back into the country, eventually finding family, eventually even learning to not make myself all fucked up to deal with how out of place I felt (feel?) in this world.
This is weird counter-balance to the G.G. Allin of last sharing Krupertdom, but they fit together in the enigma of existence. I am good with both those parts, but also glad that I actually live IRL somewhere between the two now. I do not want to be as trapped in own doom as Allin was, but also don’t need to be stuck in the assigned patriarchal roles culture wants to assign me to. I am not that dude, not either of those dudes actually.

Of course none of this matters – not my opinion on the space I occupy as human, or even these words still barely dribbling through the digital viaduct, because external judgments will always be applied, and even enforced, militantly. The self-medicated degenerates and the progressive reformists both are militant about their right and wrongs, with little room for grey area tolerance. All I can do is whatever it is I do, which is still – though not all fucked up and slouched over – mostly unplanned and somewhat incomprehensible. Life is never what you plan it to be, and yet somehow the signs were always there.

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