A Critical Analysis of Car Seat Headrest's Song "Fill In The Blank" As Suggested By Cody Lumpkin With Appearances From Sarte, Kafka, Munch, Mexican Hot Chocolate, and The Velvet Underground

I'm so sick of "Fill In The Blank"

Accomplish more, accomplish nothing

If I were split in two, I would just take my fist

So I could beat up the rest of me

Obviously, our protagonist has come to an existential crossroads where apathy is threating to create a situation of ennui or stagnation—a paralysis, much like the tale of Buridan’s Ass, the donkey who starved to death because he could not choose between two identical bales of hay to eat from. Being sick of everything (where you could just put anything in the blank) is a symptom of Modern living—at least Munch’s “Scream” painting expressed terror at this thought. However, our singer here, despite the driving and illuminative guitar licks and upbeat percussion (thus creating an internal irony in this anthemic song’s progression), is caught between a duality which is in conflict enough for its dominant half, should it choose, to violently attack its other half…and the debate between what can actually, or actually should be, accomplished is in its own slacker cultural ideology, which is problematic. If all progress led us to this world, is progress really that great? Still, the problem here, mainly, is that the singer knows he is possibly about to be split in two, which acknowledges the lack of unity in being, or that self-actualization has revealed the binary, and the singer was not prepared for the revelation…

You have no right to be depressed,

You haven't tried hard enough to like it

Haven't seen enough of this world yet

But it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts

Although the singer is still in this chorus (he is singing it), it is seemingly sung to the speaker of the lyrics above. Basically, the chorus says “stop your whining, bitch”. If there is more in this world to see, which there most likely always is as long as you can’t breathe underwater and survive the pressures and immense depths, then you can’t make an educated decision about when to “stop trying”. If your one self does punch the other one, as in Stanza 1 above, hopefully, it wakes the comatose other side with its violence so that forward, lateral, or any kind of motion can then once again occur. The declarative “You have no right” is interesting—this suggests an existential responsibility, on a level of Sartre, to the human condition, so to speak.

Well, stop your whining, try again

No one wants to cause you pain

They're just trying to let some air in

But you hold your breath, you hold your breath

“Linger On”, by The Velvet Underground is playing while I write this. It’s 5:02am. I am wearing an old-man sweater and drinking Mexican hot chocolate. In the above stanza, the lyrics address someone who is drowning in isolation, and the possible pain-bringers are really angels and not demons. The healing or transformation is painful, but it must be undertaken. One must “Try again”, or the metaphysical deaths will occur. 

You hold it, hold my breath

I hold my breath

I hold it

The protagonist here, the singer, and the one being “sung to” become one in the same so that the meta-content of the composition is sanctimonious in that the singer does not place himself above the “sung to”. Then, the mirror of shared human experience becomes complete in front of the fuzzing and feedbacking amp as the common garage pumps out its indie rock for the troubled masses (as it should, amen). Also, the implication of “holding one’s breath” is also a metaphor for “holding out for hope”, but waiting in a state of hope too long without action can also drown and kill you. On another note, I could not find the damn marshmallows here for the hot chocolate at my friend's house, and I know I saw some last night—

I've known for a long time I'm not getting what I want out of people

It took me a long time

To figure out I don't know what I want

That's why will be no answer

Then you'll ask for how long? And there will be no answer

Then you'll ask what can I do? And there will be no answer

And eventually you will shut up

And so Sarte said, “Hell is other people”. The protagonist/singer is now realizing the ultimate loneliness of “being with others”, so to speak--the gap which can’t be breached even with the best communication in symbols and language. The irony, as well, of taking a long time to figure out that one does not know because this in itself is a type of knowing. Then, the acts of asking “why” or “how long” or “what to do” become daunting to the singer in the midst of this crisis. Then, silence ensues as a possible answer to the crisis, but this is limp and impotent, and also ironic because the silence being spoken of is being sung to us in the anthem. Also, consider WHO the singer must be expecting an answer from? That could be his problem right there—the answer is most likely intrinsic and not external, if there be an answer at all.

You have no right to be depressed,

You haven't tried hard enough to like it

Haven't seen enough of this world yet

But it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts

Well, stop your whining, try again

No one wants to cause you pain

They're just trying to let some air in

But you hold your breath, you hold your breath

You hold it, hold my breath I hold my breath I hold it

Repeated reminder—see comments above—nothing seems to have changed just yet…

I get signs from the cops

Saying "Stand the fuck down"

I get signs from the audience

Saying "Stay the fuck out"

I get signs from all

Saying "Stand the fuck down"

Now our speaker is being more specific as to why he feels a lack of access to the answers. In this Kafka-esque stanza, we find the singer expressing isolation as a societal imposition—this is more problematic because the weight of the struggle is from sources beyond the singer’s perceived power to overcome. He also refers to the communication method of those paralyzing him as “signs”—he is almost meme-ed into complacency, but at least, in this stanza, there is angst and anger, and where we find that, there could be hope because possibly it is arguable, in the case of this singer, that misplaced energy or negative energy is better than none at all. Still, the child-like tone of his voice and the sunshiney guitars could be asserting a resurrection of sorts—as if the music of the song itself does not want to die with the ones playing it in their descent into malaise.

I've got a right to be depressed,

I've given up all I had to fight it

I have seen too much of this world, yes

And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts

And I will start see the light

That I've seen shining in your eyes

You just want to see me naked

Now, this is interesting—the singer OWNS the experience. This is the responsibility of self-actualization which I mentioned earlier. The sacrifice is alluded to of the fight against depression, and it was ultimate (“I’ve given up all I had”), and the whole world has not been seen but “too much” of it has. Now we are getting more specific; now, we are getting somewhere. The last three lines of this stanza are particularly interesting. The “other” becomes a bit more specific—the “you” is the song’s audience of all of us, but it is also (most likely) addressed to a particular individual—the specific mirror. To say to this “mirror’ being that “You just want to see me naked” could indicate a number of things. 1) It could just be paranoia caused from the psychic break. 2) It could be the singer acknowledging that his confession was elicited from the other. 3) Or, it could be that the other desires to see the singer’s true self, and thus is authentic, and the singer understands that shedding artifice is ultimate trust in the other and maybe a means of salvation (or, in my experience, marshmallows or not, it can also be ultimate destruction).

So I'll hold my breath I hold my breath,

I hold it

Hold my breath I hold my breath,

I hold my breath,

I hold my breath,

I hold my breath,

I hold my breath

Although this holding of the breath would physically or literally result in death for our singer, it is repetitive in such a way that it suggests this particular being can hold its breath for a very long long time—this is a type of anti-heroism and determination, although in the nether or noir sense, like a character in a film who has been poisoned and only has so long to live in the plot but keeps going, but the singer ends the song still alive, albeit not yet functional in terms of completing or participating in the metamorphosis required to leave the state of complacent orbit and enter the realm of explorative propulsion. No more whining, just turn up the amps. There’s a show to be played, always, somewhere.

OVER THE NEPTUNE/MESH GEAR FOX Interpretation By A Guided By Voices Novice—To Be Totally Destroyed By Cody Lumpkin

Traveller's diagram
For where I am, for what I am
Check the provisional codes
It overloads, it all explodes

Interp: So, here we are—trying to decipher a Guided By Voices Song. I will do my best. Please comment, lol. Our singer here has a dilemma—he is being forced to look at diagrams and provisional codes in order to define himself or the situation he is in—I do not think that this is working because it all ends up exploding, and this leads our hero into a self-destructive party-mode…

And hey, let's throw the great party
Today for the rest of our lives
The fun is just about to get started
So throw the switch, it's rock and roll time

Interp: Rock and Roll time kicks in because the burden of self-actualization in the midst of the simulacra of the codes and diagrams force our hero into “epic mode”, and he has to go Dionysian in order to escape the sterile loop of corporate evil…

Special elixirs flow
And then the onion lady blows
Kisses to the crying cooks
With baited hooks and lady looks

Interp: The elixirs come from the endorphins and carcinogens and pathogens and hallucinogens which the hero imbibes to escape the status quo. The “onion lady” is the ever-unfolding Sophia who lures us in as we cry towards truth which burns our eyes, and the truth is a root—the earth chakra which we have indulged in in our hedonism…

And hey, let's throw the great party
Today for the rest of our lives
The fun is just about to get started
So throw the switch, it's rock and roll time

Interp: And now, the party is a bit more cloudy…it’s not the same or as fun as the first party…the irony is seeping in and the mortality and so is the “rock and roll time” a bit more sardonic? Yet still, we must throw the switch, Odysseus—what else is there left to do? 

You must be willing just to ride along with me
You must be happy just to do the job for free
Yours for the taking if you follow simple rules
Such acts of subservience were never taught in schools

Interp: Now, the hero has met his companions—us, who are complicit in the journey through the song, the tale, the campfire dirge. We must be willing, whether we are henchmen or lovers or both, to give ourselves to the vision of the hedonistic purger and splurger who might actually be gaining a sacred shamanic wisdom which we could be privy to….

Spit me out from your cosmos
Draft me into your troops
Set me up for the knockdown
You can watch, come watch
And I'll be back when it's over

Interp: Then, suddenly, he meets his Poseidon and tells him to fuck off! He will be back, because the cycle, god and man, needs this energy to make its Ezekiel wheels spiral at the country fairs of the Annunaki!

I'm much greater than you think
I'm a swimmer in the drink
I'm much greater than you think
I'm a swimmer in the drink

Interp: Then this—the poem—the manifesto—the declaration—the gods fucked up this time! They made “a swimmer in the drink”—the Great Flood can’t drown us! We are formidable! We breathe underwater! Under your catastrophe!

And oh, mesh gear fox
Put out another bag of tricks from scientific box
Time's wasting and you're not gonna live forever

Interp: A mesh gear fox, if you ask me, is an inhuman smart-machine hellbent on technocracy. However, our analog intrepid HUMANIST hero knows he can outlast this A.I. singularity with the olden ways.

And if you do
I'll come back and marry you
No use changing now, you couldn't anyhow and ever

Interp: However, our hero is open to the singularity, in the lyric sense, at least. If the way of the machine works, maybe he is open to the singularity? The gods need him? The machines? Is there a difference?

It's not the way that I feel, that I feel
It's the way you act
It's the way you look when you're near me

Interp: Then, as the hero arrives home, and drops his keys to oblivion in the bowl on the shelf by the door he just closed, he remembers human love, and nostalgia kicks in hard. Machines hum in the background.

It's not so hard to conceal, to conceal
It's the things you say
It's the things you do, go right through me

Interp: Then, as we end our odyssey, the hero, who is YOU, sinks back into the loveseat sofa cryogenic pod luxury smartbed and closes the glass dome with a telepathic command because it has all gone right through All of Us. Then death or star travel in the fading feedback.

On Flipping Randomly Through Who’s Who In Classical Mythology, Bought For $2.50 At A Library Sale

I don’t know about you, but when I was a kid, I was OBSESSED with Greek and Norse mythology. Of course, this would eventually fuel my addiction to comic books, then to literature, then to teaching and writing literature (if you will please forgive my hubris in calling what I write “literature”, or even “literate”…). My grandfather, Papa Joe, would take me to the local library and turn me loose for hours. I was obsessed with books about ghosts, dinosaurs, the Loch Ness Monster, mythology, space travel, fantasy, Arthurian legends, samurai, Celtic runes, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Genghis Khan, Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Magritte (I found the images by accident but never understood his art until later…hell, still don’t understand it…), and I remember a particular obsession with Jacques Cousteau for quite a long time. In any case, I had no idea, until college really, how amazing and deep myths were, and until I had to teach the Iliad and the Odyssey, on a collegiate level, I did not really understand the depth that I had been barely delving into for thirty years of my life. Myths, especially the Greek ones, were not just entertaining “cool” stories—they were the fabric of what it meant to be human. Now, before you think I am going to go all Joseph Campbell and Jung on you, and then you click off of this page, don’t worry—I know all of that ground has been covered. I am, however, going to flick randomly through the Who’s Who In Classical Mythology and see what strange things I find which I have never heard of. This text is organized alphabetically…here we go…come with me…

For example, the name “Agenor” means “very masculine”, from the Greek “agan” (very) and “ager” (man). Poseidon had a son bearing this name. If you meet a manly-man, he is an “Agenor”. Or most likely, a bore.

Boreas was the god of the North Wind—son of the dawn and the stars—“boros” (meaning devour) plus “oros” (meaning mountain).

Cinyras had an incestuous relationship with his daughter Myrrha, and she subsequently gave birth to none other than Adonis. Because of this “crime” of hers (really?), she was turned into a myrrh tree.

Deino, whose name means “terrible”, was a sister of the Gorgons, of Medusa fame…

Empusa was a shapeshifting beautiful female monster who devoured her sexual partners (her name is said to be derivative of “insert”, or insertion…you fill in the gaps…).

Faustulus was the shepherd who found Romulus and Remus in the she-wolf’s lair. His name means “lucky little fellow”—yet, those who would then experience the ROMAN EMPIRE may have not been so lucky…

Glaucia was the daughter of a river, Scamander.

Hemera was the daughter of Erebus and Nyx (Darkness and Night)—the word “ephemeral” derives from her name—a combination of darkness and light which only lasts a short period of time…

Ialysa means “wailing woman”—perhaps a Greco-banshee? I mean, this name even seems Gaelic to me…

Jocasta was the mother of Oedipus (more incest…ugghhhh).

There is only one “K” word in the Greek that we apparently have—“Ker”. This word means “destroyer”, and it is linked to the ValKERies, or “choosers of the dead”, apparently. Ker was born of Nyx—the abyss, without a father actually, and she was a female spirit much like one of the Furies. Scary shit.

I must say here, though, before I proceed to the “L’s”, that there are a LOT of pissed-off and monstrous female entities in the Greek pantheon, but rightfully so. The male was not kind to anything female very often in Greek culture, it would seem…

Laverna was the Greek goddess of thieves. So, if you name your daughter Laverne, she might be prone to getting into a bit of trouble…

Marsyras was a satyr who challenged Apollo to a musical contest—flute versus lyre. He lost, and so Apollo flayed him alive and hung him from a pine tree.

Nephele’s name means cloud. She is a daughter of the ocean, Oceanus.

Ophion was a Titan, and his name derives from “ophis”, or snake. He was known to be covered in scales and to reside in Arcadia. Arcadia, like, I don’t know, Eden? And this scaly thing…? Sound familiar?

Phemeus was the minstrel at Ithaca in the house of Odysseus (just a shout out here to minstrels and poets, etc.).

There is only ONE “Q” word in the text in question here: Quirinus. This is the name Romulus was worshipped under, by the Romans, after he became a God. His name is a derivative of “quiris”, or spear, which was a Sabine word. We all know how it went for the Sabines, of course…

Rhexenor means “breaking through the ranks of warriors”. Apparently, this guy was a battering ram.

Sciron was a notorious thief and charmer—he would lure passing travelers up to a cliff and make them wash his feet—once satisfied, he would just kick them right off the cliff. Then, a giant turtle would devour them. Eventually, the Greek hero Theseus showed up and kicked Sciron’s ass into the sea. This is the moment in the movie when the pervasive asshole finally gets what is coming to him.

I just love the word “Terpsichore”. She loved to dance, this one. She was also the Muse of lyric poetry, which, to me, epitomizes the link between physical and intellectual expression in the act of poetry, which I associate with a type of meditative breathing. “Terpo” means “to delight”, and “choros” means to dance. Then, as “choros” becomes “chorus”, through history, we see the link between sound and what the body does with it—poetry!

Udaeus means “of the earth”. If a man is salt of the soil, tried and true to the land, he is an “Udaeus”.

Voluptas was the daughter of Cupid and Psyche. Need one say more? I recently broke up with her. Actually, she dumped me. Volumptuous.

Xanthus is associated with the color of a Palomino horse, especially the mane.

There is no “Y” entry here to speak of. The Greeks never said “you”, apparently, lol. They avoided the second person—it was only “I” and “We”. Interesting…

Zeuxippe was a river nymph, or Naiad. Her name means “yoker of horses”—she had twin sons who tended to misbehave.

So, this book in front of me has myriad things to present, but I just wanted to revisit with you all my obsession, and maybe your current or revitalized interest in myths. I remember what the library smelled like. I tend to stick my nose in books, into everything really. My ex, Voluptas, always made fun of me because whenever I encounter something new, I sniff it—I actually hold it up to my face and smell it. The word “smell” is an Old English one derived from the word “stenc”. Stench. I know that the sense of smell is tied into our memories more powerfully than any other sensory experience. We are all searching for the birth and death stench of our timelines, I think.

Maybe my whole life has been a chorus of sniffing out the ancient inside of me?

Maybe I am trying, through writing and my senses, to smell some origin inside of me closer to the people born of gods, rivers, gorgons, trees, winds, oceans, journeys, tragedies, quests, and horses than I feel as a man born of my own biological parents?

Of course, this is grandiose—I was born of man and woman, all flawed, all tragic and comic. I study the Asclepius, but I am mainly just an olive tree who hopes to give. 

Lucid Classroom Dreaming, Centaurs, Podcasts, and Onset of Winter

I just woke up a few minutes ago from a pretty strange dream.

I recently accepted a new teaching job in North Atlanta, and I think that my dream is a combination of being anxious about that and also worrying about the dependability of my crappy car which I just purchased a few months ago, for cheap, from an old friend.

Hell, the car is paid for, so I should not complain, right?

In any case, I was walking into my classroom, which is what I will be doing tomorrow morning for the first meeting of this one particular class which I am facilitating--a simple ENG Comp I (ENG 106). I've taught this class dozens of times over the years, but I have never taught it at the new place, and it is a private college which does things a lot differently than what I am accustomed to, but hey (gabba gabba hey), I am happy to be back in the classroom after teaching primarily online for the past few years.

Well, in the dream, I can not get the students to do a damn thing I ask. I am writing on a chalkboard, and there is a big screen TV above and behind me in front of the class whose content I can not control. It is playing the World Series of Poker live from Vegas, and many of the students are enthralled. There is a strange host of students in the room, and the demographic is pretty well-represented, but odd. The lead guitarist of the band Chavez is there. There is an African-American female ballerina who insists on dancing during the whole class. There is this guy Lou who my ex in Savannah left me for, and he is getting frustrated about the dancing girl. There is this seven foot tall jock who reminds me of a guy who wanted to kick my ass in high school--a quintessential redneck. There is this tiny little white girl who looks like a pixie and is constantly applying her glittery lipstick. From "dream memory", which is like sand in the wind, I do remember that there was a random host of other students, all of whom would not pay attention to a damn thing I was asking them to do or not to do.

The general din of the class keeps getting worse, and when I try to raise my voice in the dream to reprimand them, it will not work. It's like sleep paralysis of the vocal kind. Then, I feel a draft across my crotch. I look down in the dream, and I am a centaur.

I immediately think, now while typing this anyway, that the famous teacher of Hercules, Chiron, was also a centaur.


I am wondering if I made this association in my dream or not because I have not thought about this mythical figure in ages. I mean, according to the Greeks, Chiron taught Patroclus, Actaeon, Theseus, Achilles, Ajaz, Jason, etc., just to name a few. If you are abreast of your Greek myths, you know what a big deal this aforementioned list here is. However, why would my sub-conscious conjure up me as a centaur? According to one dream site I visited, the centaur could actually represent a need for me to find union between the male and female aspects of my psyche.

In any case, I think that the centaur motif in my dream, which the students did not even seem to notice (the fact that I was a centaur all of a sudden, that is) might be more about me worrying about transportation to work (as a centaur, I would be my own vehicle) than Classically training a group of students to prepare them for epic and heroic deeds or the Trojan War. Also, I am a Gemini, so I LIVE constantly with my dueling female and male aspects. I am used to it (whereas many around me are not, lol).

So centaur dream leaves me awake at 2:23am, and there is no way I am falling back asleep. I get up, check my classes, do some freelancing, and start writing this. The room is cold, and I am acutely aware that winter has ensued. Am I still just recovering from daylight savings time? I am still up and that was 8 hours ago?  So I guess that counts as insomnia.

I am listening to a podcast about Skinwalker Ranch and the crazy shit that goes on there. I think about the nature of the skinwalker, which is a type of shapeshifter, if you did not know, and the nature of the centaur. When the class got out of control, my animal nature kicked in in the dream, but my voice and power were still suppressed. The skinwalker, on the other hand, is a terrifying creature which can rip you apart with psychotic fury and powerful and proficient ease. These two creatures of primal energy, the skinwalker and the centaur, represent, to me, the transformation some part of me is trying to achieve. Of course the skinwalker could epitomize the dark side of this and the centaur more of the Appolonic or positive aspect. However, at 45, I am not so sure how much more change is in store for me. I can just try to be a better person, but my metamorphosis days are over. Still, in dreamtime, and accidentally by podcast, I am being reminded that some part of me really desires change. I don't really think I want to be young again, but I damn sure don't want to get any older.

Being middle-aged in the winter and having paralysis centaur dreams. I know, First World problems, right? Chiron lived somewhat vicariously through his epic hero students. He was even killed eventually by a poison arrow shot by one and then placed into the night sky by Zeus as a constellation, but I will let you look that up yourself. I wonder if centaurs sleep standing up? Rambling at this point.

All in all, I will have to transform into the good professor by 8:00am tomorrow for 29 students. May the insomnia and the winter bite just abate tonight, because I have to brave Atlanta rush hour all the way to Dunwoody. The third piston is mis-firing in the old wreck, and that needs to be fixed, but I think I should be able to make it up there, Zeus willing. I am hoping to exhaust my mind sufficiently today through writing and class prepping to the extent that I can properly pass out tonight.

Let's hope none of the students bring any poison arrows. Hell, unless they can find an app on their cell phones for that, I should be just fine...

BUILDINGS FROM HIGHWAYS

counting every window of the high rise ornate sky lancer at 75 miles an hour as a gifted savant hellbent of knowing who is behind every glass

when the ex lover’s breast is more like the sun than the one above your head and the moon is more like you looking at yourself

cliff jumper into the over the next to last new adrenaline top this or that until your mortal coil is what chokes the engine so that it cuts down jungles efficiently

all the crayolas melted into the clock gears so that before they congeal you at least get a glimpse of how your memory is a child finger-painting

you were a child finger-painting things that became autumns for others and they were finger-painting winters for you so that you had to stay inside and out of the cold in order to finger-paint or else there would never be futures for any of us again but that is the history the swirls celebrated

did you know that I could only walk on water when I tried to carry your heavy ass?

from every window of the high rises, thousands looked down upon me in a little car with my friend driving me home and they wondered about the glass in my eyes

all the world’s a cage…we are just re-enactors

in order to get to heaven or hell, we all had to walk up to a grand piano and play the chord, with the choice of left or right hand, only one hand, and play the chord which matched our best frequency—if out of key, well, you didn’t even get heaven or hell. imagine the alternative…

in the faculty breakroom she stirs her coffee and seethes about the Venetian blinds and leaves her coffee stir on the brown paper towel on the tile counter so that some evidence of her has passed through this room

I’ve only known true love once. I ‘ve known the lying loves many times. the lye love (it melts you as well). the lie love (it puts you down). the liar love (you lie in its lair). there are four chambers of the heart: spring, summer, fall, Her.

did you know that, when you walked on water, I was just your wings, so you felt no drowning?

Current Distractions

GolfCoursePromotionNuclearThreatChurchShootingGlenGaryGlenRossVictims

If I did that I must have been drunk but come to Jersey for the malarkey in the country clubbing of the Navy Seals as soon as the covert leaves the content steined with wine so that celebrity becomes the lipstick flavor called Victim and Koreans are great caddies?

GlenGaryGlenRossChurchShootingGolfCourseNuclearThreatPromotionVictims

CIA which is acronym for Cretaceous Insurgent Atheists who claw about the catacombs of underground media and you must bring out the brass balls when distributing the leads & aren’t you all victims when A.I. units deploy the nanobots or your acid-reflux?

ChurchShootingGlenGaryGlenRossNuclearGolfThreatCourseVictimsPromotion

Archonic ooze puddling about the ankles of those lingering in the pews and blood for the red stripes to paint the flag with must tech nine or AR Ruger 556 or psychic raygun or golf club of President nuclear bomb of corporate or victim patriotic narcotic template

PromotionVictimsGlenGaryGlenRossThreatCourseNuclearGolfShootingChurch

Where we go to kill each other at the altar of CEO trophy licking isotopes radiating from our indignant buying and selling but the podium is the skeleton of the last spokesperson who was only victim to apple pie and pornographic happiness smuggling

Faustian Insomnia, A Sleep Technique, and Poetry Reading Jitters

Since my recent break-up after a six year relationship, insomnia has been a pretty bad problem. My mind is restless, for a variety of reasons (starting a new job, car troubles, being in my mid-forties, writing projects, missing my daughter, etc.), and I have a hard time quieting the rocket factory that is my brain no matter how tired I am. I am not pining over my ex—that’s not the issue—it’s just that I like to cuddle, and it soothes me to sleep, so I miss that.

Now that I have given you a paragraph break to clean up the vomit you projected from the last emo sentence in the above paragraph, I will continue. I was thinking last night, while I was having insomnia, about my insomnia in general (I know; I am so meta.). It occurred to me that I actually have had this issue ever since I was a kid. I remembered a trick, which I will get to in a moment, that I once used to fall asleep as a boy. Maybe it will help you as well. I tried it last night, and it still works for me.

I was listening to a podcast last night about Faustian characters throughout history. These characters would generally employ alchemical, magical, or ritual practices to communicate with an entity and to ask for favors or services from this entity. These entities could be nagas, crones, djinn, demons, elementals, etc. depending upon the culture you are studying. Generally, dealing with these beings, as a mortal, came with a heavy price—usually, one’s soul or the loss of something precious or beautiful. I remember jokingly thinking to myself that I would “sell my soul” for a variety of things, not just sleep, at that moment. I guess I would have to cut a deal with Morpheus for that one, and in exchange, he would have some sort of control over my waking life…

The podcaster then said the old adage that, “It is always darkest before the dawn”—he was basically saying that Faustian characters cut deals with demons when they are desperate, and if they could just ride the storm out, through personal faith or their own guardian angels, then they would not employ the deals with the devil. I will come back to this as well…

I am doing a poetry reading in my old alma mater college town tomorrow night, and I was thinking about that a bit too much and really getting myself all torqued up. What am I going to say? What am I going to wear? Who is going to show up? Is anyone going to show up? Which poems will I read? The cacophony continues, but I won’t bore you with further documentation of it here. Then, I remembered something I did, all the way up through high school, in order to fall asleep. I think I started doing it around six or seven years old.

I grew up on hand-me-downs and cheap-ass clothes in a pretty low income family. I was the oldest, and firstborn before my sister and brother, so when I say hand-me-downs, they came from all over. Male and female clothing from across the board of peripheral family members. Clothes of ALL sizes that I was supposed to “grow into”. New articles of clothing would be bought here and there each year, but, for the most part, I always remember being poorly swathed and embarrassed about how I looked all the way up until college. I remember this being a cause of anxiety for me—what I was going to wear to school in the morning? Then, I started to fantasize, as I lied in bed, my outfit from shoes to hair on my head. I would fantasize about the cool clothes I would wear if I could have access to them (now, bear in mind that a lot of these fantasies happened during the 80’s, so I was probably, in reality, better dressed than most of my cohorts at school). I would always fall asleep before I finished “getting dressed” in my mind. I even started to use this trick to fall asleep, like counting sheep, over the years. I am not sure why I forgot this until my forties, but it just came back to me last night while I was trying to figure out my poetry reading issues.

So, in my mind, I started to dress myself. The nicest pair of shoes I have (remember to polish them up). My Sasquatch socks from Port Angeles, which symbolically put someone under my feet, but that’s another issue. My favorite slacks…my….ummmmmmmmmmmmmm…………ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

Then it was morning, and I am writing this blog. I am going to try to use this technique again the next time I have insomnia (tonight, most likely). It is a type of induction, and I even remember thinking, while I was doing it, that it was not going to work, but it still did. I think it was a type of self-hypnosis that I accidentally learned when I was a boy and going through a lot of family and heavy psychological “stuff”. What is interesting to me about this whole thing is that the neural pathway to my subconscious is still tethered to this old juvenile technique about not having a Member’s Only jacket. Or parachute pants. Of course, if you were not born in the 70’s, you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about. Think Michael Jackson in “Thriller” to get yourself started.

Faust was in search of the ultimate knowledge. Or experience. Gretchen was lost in the process, but, in the end, he was admitted into heaven. I am not sure this is such a happy ending for him considering Part One of Goethe’s epic. Gretchen’s mother DIES from a sleeping potion given to her so that Faust and Gretchen can have sex. Gretchen drowns the child from this copulation. In this way, there are many passages towards terrible kinds of “sleep”. However, creating our own ways into our subconscious, without the deals of the devil or the pleasures of the flesh, well, I think that’s the best way to go.

Dear readers, take the time to dress yourself well, but as you prefer, with your own style, before entering the dream world. You might fall asleep before fastening the last button, but that’s ok—someone on the other side might be waiting to fasten it for you. Don’t sell your souls for any type of dream, but horde that soul and use it as your own rocket factory. A lot of us just have to learn to deal with our lack of somnus through a use of hypnos—the Latin and Greek terms here ARE closely related. When we all finally do die, they tend to dress us very well for our “dirt-sleep”, as it is crudely called. Then again, that adornment is for the living’s waking dream because the sleeper has long last left any idea of sleeplessness.
Faust Presentation

WHY IS WALKING TERRORISM IN DOUGLASVILLE, GEORGIA?

Let me set the stage—I have a car now—it works—I have a valid license—I have wheels. Otherwise, I can take an Uber, a Lyft, a taxi. I have multiple friends and a roommate who will drive me wherever I please (I have no idea why). I can teleport and astral project. On a full moon, I turn into a centaur and gallop across the southern suburbs of Atlanta. I can shapeshift into other animals and crawl, fly, slither, or saunter to my destination and then re-assume my human form. I can even, during the Spring of the year, turn into a spore of a dandelion or similar flower and then float upon the wind to the closest convenience store, restaurant, or entertainment venue. However, when I CHOOSE to walk in my neighborhood, in Douglasville, Georgia, I am verbally and otherwise sonically abused by passing drivers. If this were just a one time or ten times thing, I would not bring it up; however, I decided to try to analyze this in front of you today after a minor incident just occurred.

I have written about this catcall culture in another blog here, so I am sorry if this is redundant, but I decided I would try to just figure it out on a deeper level. Obviously, if I were wearing fatigues and jogging in military boots, no one would disrespect me. If I was just in work-out clothes, no one would mess with me. I know this sounds like I am whining, but I am not—I just think it brings up an interesting sociological question as it pertains to where I am currently living. If I were walking in downtown Atlanta, no one would howl maniacally from his car.

All that happened today was someone rode by with their windows down, in a large truck, and honked the horn multiple times while whooping at me. Maybe I should take it as a compliment?

I was wearing Nikes, jeans, a button up shirt under a black sweater, and a crocheted skull cap (black and silver-striped). This, as I walked down highway 5 in front of a wooded area, elicits a hoot and holler response. I think it is a basic form of bullying—“Hey, Ime in mah truck and you gots da walk places look at my penis whooooooooooohhhhhhhh!”. Yet, I started to think about it a bit further based upon the small town I am living in—it’s even more complicated than this.

When I was recently in New York, I stayed for two weeks in Astoria with my friend, Ang. She gave me a key to her place, and I roamed freely for days, by foot and by subway and had an amazing time. No one seemed to give a care about how people got around—they just cared that they got there relatively on time and safely. Just yesterday, a terrorist rammed a truck down a bike path in Manhattan killing several people, so this is one reason I am writing this blog entry.

I think that the adult walker who looks like me on the average Douglasville, Georgia road represents a type of terrorist to the surrounding populace. It’s like an attack on the entire economy. How dare you walk places when I am making car payments, hitting drive-thrus to slowly kill myself, going to work, paying for gas and car maintenance, and even if I am NOT paying for these things, how dare you have the audacity to just stroll on by like the cock of the walk, like you are special or something? It’s as if you can only categorically walk upon a treadmill, in a park, or in some other designated areas, in the minds of some of these Redneckotards, and if you overstep those boundaries, you should at least be hollered at. Stay off our public streets you sweater-clad bastard!

Also, maybe it is just fun to scream at someone from your vehicle while they are in quiet contemplation just to see if he or she will jump or acknowledge you. That makes is acceptable.

What I am saying is this—there is an impetus in the person who hollers at the stranger that comes from a possibly sociopathic place. I also think that this place is generated by any sense of the “other” that might permeate the space of people who have fear of “The Walkers”. The WALKING DEAD series has popularized this term, sure, but people like me see the walkers as mindless, soul-less consumers, and people like the hoot-and-holler-truckboy see them as anyone who looks different from him. It gives him an opportunity to feel superior than. The current culture itself, with white supremacist animosity, sexual abuse scandals, intense government corruption and litigation, etc. is enough to split us all into radical factions. Still, there should be common decency among citizens in general, but now I sound like some kind of utopic asshole just popping out into the world as an idealistic embryo.

Look, I am a middle-aged, heterosexual, white cis-male, so don’t get bent out of shape that I am sounding “victimized”. I don’t feel victimized. I just don’t get it? Why would a white guy be messing with me anyway? I probably taught his mom or girlfriend the Odyssey online last week for all he knows. Hell. I might end up teaching him in the future. The culture of aggression is growing while the culture of education has long been gradualized into no child left behind outside of a pick-up truck.

There will always be fratboys hazing nerds. I just like walking to my store, getting my coffee, talking to Mike about weather and business, and walking home with my Alka Seltzer, Powerade, pork rinds, a lottery ticket, and the occasional boiled peanuts. Can you imagine if I screamed, as a walker, at every car that rode by me with its windows down on my daily stroll? How soon would Douglasville’s finest be questioning me with handcuffs dangling?

I do think, however, if hoot-and-holler truckboy and I ever played pool together, drank together, or went bowling together, and if he knew I was from Alabama and have always been country and poor, that he would calm down a bit. He’d be hollering with his left arm around my shoulder and his right arm lifting a beer in some sort of salute to “Dixie” that he does not even historically or culturally really understand. I would be able to talk all day and night to him about what it is to be white trash—I know that world—I was forged in it. Could he talk to me all night and all day about Baudelaire? Blake? Joy Division? Matisse? Chuck Close? Waylon Jennings? Do I crave or want that affirmation?

Hell to the power of infinite no.

He would end up wanting it more from me. That’s why he screams at me from his vehicle. He has absolutely no idea what he wants or who he is, and he can tell that, by the way I walk, I know exactly who I am and where I am going.

He can also tell, and this is why he howls, that he could never walk my paths.