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.

Wednesday, December 19

SONG OF THE DAY: mY pR3R0G4T1V3 (45s on 33)


Survival is not always pretty, not always photoshop beautiful, not always a meme-worthy mantra that can be printed cheaply to be sold at an outlet store for great aunties to put up on their living room entryway wall. Survival often is navigating the human mine fields, explosions that took lovers and kin, friends and enemies, blew up the world around you multiple times over. Overdoses, over-reaching, over-doing, over the edge and/or top. And yet somehow, some survive through all that, go far past where others got left behind, even though the survivor might’ve gone harder and more stupidly through the mine fields. That’s the fucked up thing about the metaphysical mine fields of Amerikkkan culture – you got no idea what will keep you from getting exploded. You can carefully plot your course and be gone in an instant anyways. You can plough ahead like a drunken fullback, and make it to 69 years or nicer. There’s no explaining it.
Survivor’s guilt gets you, when you’re thinking while standing safely for a moment in the mine fields, maybe even off the worst part of the mine fields, able to be safe more often than not, wondering “why me?” and how come you didn’t get exploded while your people did. The RIP tattoos and picture altars on small thrift store wooden shelves to those who are gone but not forgotten. Why them and not us? How did I get to be here, greyed around the edges, puffed out from more life than others, slowing down, my transmission leaking fluid from the eyeballs unexplainably now and then, but still going? And why did the others not?
There’s no fucking explaining it. You survive. That’s all. Keep going, don’t think about it too hard or you’ll miss avoiding the next explosion.

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