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.

Monday, September 27

SONG OF THE DAY: Having Thangs (chopped & screwed)

Washed and cleaned the fuck out my car this afternoon, for the first time I really did it this well since I got it. A funny thing about white trash culture is you’re not supposed to have nice shit, and if you do, it somehow looks bad on you, like you think you’re too good. Can’t even count how many times I’ve said, “We can’t have nothin’ nice” non-ironically, because it was reality.
This is the only new car I’ve ever owned in my life, got as my last hand-me-down had the clutch go out plus two other things all at once, like right at the same time so that I had to catch the city bus to within half a mile of the dealer and walk the rest of the way to pick it up when I got it. Had less than 10 miles, which I’d never purchased anything with less than like 85k I don’t think (and that might be a low estimate to be honest). Family looked at me funny when I first got it, because my siblings have been in the same environment as me, so we’re not supposed to have nice shit, just broken shit that’s always breaking and we always have to fix and somehow that makes us noble. I don’t know.
I realized I put that out too, that my grown kid got a nice old man’s car a few months back, and it’s full of empty coffee bottles now, and my girlfriend’s vehicle is as much a farm use car as anything, so I can’t really expect that not to have hay blow into your face when you open the sunroof on the highway. But fuck man, my car – just a 2019 Corolla, base model – was brand new when I got it. There’s no need for three years worth of fried chicken crumbs to be between the driver’s seat and the center console. Why do I do this? I’d like to have nice shit. Like I dream of a nice old Cadillac sedan, big wheels, clean enough as fuck inside, riding around on a Sunday afternoon in some fucked up color block Puma tracksuit from 1994, and just vibing. That’s my ideal vibration – peak dirtgod. And yet, I become my own worst enemy towards achieving it, thinking I’m supposed to be fucked up, have rips in my shit, and dirt all over everything. I washed the car down, and it was popping though, even though there’s a scrape on one side from me running over some barbed wire clump at my girlfriend’s compound, and then scratches around the driver’s side door handle from my ex-wife’s untrained lab jumping up on that shit when I pulled up to pick up the kids. Maybe I can’t have nothing nice, I don’t know. But fuck, I’d like to before I die, even if just for a weekend, riding around feeling fly as fuck, not like a goddamned piece of shit dug out the earth to sit in front of somebody’s porch, rusting to death. Let me shine, for fuck’s sake, just let me shine a little bit before I die.

No comments: