Two Peaks of the Same Magnet: A Literary Analysis of A Space Cadet Trip
The shape of soul, the way of my shape, the shape of my way.
A thesis: sometimes you can get so astronomically z-oo-ted that your consciousness and subconsciousness swap places and begs you to understand your center.
Preface
Christmas Eve, 2023. My wife and I indulge in a new Christmas tradition that involve cookies that taste terrible and gummies that are only mildly better. We misjudge the amounts, and we are taken out one by one.
“It’s giving me the business,” my wife says before retrieving a trash can and inevitably falling asleep with her cheek pressed against its wicker rim.
“Oh, there it is,” I say shortly before this, as a crawling sensation drops from my elbows to my fingertips.
I laugh at this, and I feel terrible for my wife, wishing that we were playing in the same place.
Last year, she sat across from me and took small eternities to crack open nuts, all the while making noises akin to a circus performer pulling off deft flips and flings. This year, we sit in lonely boats, drifting in separate seas.
I, too, come to regret the gummy.
Phase 2
I know something’s wrong when it becomes a chore to speak. It’s always a chore to speak, but this time my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, and something clogs my throat.
I’m standing behind my wife, rubbing her back and retrieving dampened paper towels to wipe her mouth. I’m making a valiant effort to pretend that I’m listening to my brother-in-law recounting his personal history with a group of people that I do not know and of whom he only refers to by nicknames. I nod, I laugh inappropriately, and I try desperately to make eye contact. He understands, thankfully, that I am not present.
I take a break from my nursing duties to sit on the stairs and fiddle with my phone. I snap a picture of my wife’s slumped form; I send it to a friend, who questions what’s happening.
I have the vague notion to record my thoughts; something inside me grows desperate. She wants—no, she needs me to know these things. These are vital to my understanding of myself, and I’ll never get another opportunity (god-willing; I am not doing this again) to peer behind the curtain.
I open my notes app, and I keep a record of my evening.
A Translation
Alright, so upon review, I can sort of understand what Unconscious Me is trying to communicate through word mush and typos, and I thought it would be a fun exercise to translate the thoughts of someone in the midst of a pseudo-spiritual awakening.
Over the course of two hours, I churned out 757 words with impaired vision. I traipsed around, eating oatmeal crème pies and making an enemy out of every mirror in our house (that’s a lot of mirrors).
So, without further delay, let me introduce you to Unconscious Me and her desperate pleas and disparate ramblings.
[Editor’s note: misspelled words have been translated to the best of the author’s memory.]
Title = [Untitled]
“Every dog is a triangle like that” = I was looking at my dog sitting pretty with her snout pointed towards the ceiling.
“I felt every fiber of my hair fall forward” = I moved abruptly and whipped my hair forwards, and I could feel every follicle strain.
“I am medic fairy flittering about” = I was rushing back and forth to fetch trash bags and re-wet towels for my sick wife in what felt like a swift, whimsical manner.
“I can’t remember what thought was before” = I lost my train of thought.
“I could be a better fairy if I had headphones” = The sound of my wife retching was getting to me.
“Salt water eye on the ocean fuck” = My eyes were watering severely due to the fits of laughter, and makeup was getting into and burning the fuck out of them.
“Every second a small eternity” = Time was passing slowly.
“God that’s a good book line” = I have definitely read this cliché multiple times.
“Hoot news ejected by the circus dircus” = I think “hoot news” was intended to be “hot news,” and I believe I was conveying excitement at the Totally Original Line I had written above. I am the circus dircus (I thought the rhyme was funny).
“I can feel the components of my body merge seizure rocking” = I would briefly arrive back to reality, which felt as if my body had abruptly snapped back together. I was moving uncontrollably, rocking forward.
“Sway. cam” = I’m swaying; I’m making a “smack cam” Vine reference. I know this made me laugh for ten minutes.
“Rocking horse dog sensory mode” = I was aggressively petting my dog and scratching her spot, which caused her back to ripple. I suppose she reminded me of a rocking horse.
“I’m hundred hinges for” = Uh. This was an unfinished thought. Context suggests I was describing a movement, potentially folding into myself.
“Thousands steps to leave across my lips biting eeeeeek” = My lips were numb, and the pins and needles sensation felt like a thousand bugs marching along them and biting me.
“Flower pepper shaker head with bow boww hard fought your own wonderful” = Alright, so here is where I start to realize that I’ve seen what my soul looks like and begin scattershot attempts at describing it. It’s rounded like the shape of flower petals, the top of a pepper shaker, and the two loops that create a bow. I’m also commending myself for realizing this, as it was difficult to wade through my swirling thoughts.
“The word is so nostalgic I see through the loops of windows” = Everything around me appeared softly tinted with nostalgia, and I viewed them as if through arched windows.
“Clown rag plagiarism” = I’m describing the infinite handkerchief trick, though I’m not sure why. I think I’m leaning into the clown motif (I love clowns with the very base of my soul) but accusing myself of having unoriginal thoughts.
“The swirl is my tongue shape my teeth my teeth my teeth” = I’m describing my soul again, comparing it to the tip of my tongue and the shape of my teeth.
“I my sky” = I was thinking of clouds, and of Bliss.
“I see you wait till vertigo hill” = I was looking at my wife, who was sick with vertigo and nefarious gummies, and thinking of that damned Windows XP default background.
“I feel my skull picking the high thief thoughts” = I felt myself trying to sort through my thoughts, with an underlying worry that my thoughts were stolen from someone else.
“I’m magnetized magnetized” = I was really having trouble spelling “magnetized.” Remember magnets; this will become a new motif.
“Yeah my reality becomes it’s puppet retro mouth multilinear” = I was describing my soul as the shape of a retro puppet mouth—a muppet, most likely. “Multilinear” was intended to convey “dual.” Two mouths, two peaks. I swear to god this makes sense to me.
“Purple white strip afghan” = I have a strong visual memory of a crocheted blanket matching this description, draped across the rocking chair in my parents’ living room. Childhood nostalgia is also a motif here.
“I feel the shape of my words old dusty sweet vintage magnet yellow but cream internally” = My words and my soul have the same shape because my words are at the core of my being. The shape I’m describing is an old refrigerator magnet on grandparents’ refrigerator, dusty from being in the garage, initially white but now yellowed with age.
“A villain! coffee creamer cream color do you understand I am villain gentle sweet ribbon this is the essence of my soul my description is IMPORTANT TO YOU” = I’m describing duality: at once I feel villainous (in a cartoon kind of way, hence the exclamation) and gentle and kind. The ribbon is representative of this duality, as ribbons—when tied into a bow—have two peaks, two arches. I’m screaming because it’s important for my sober self to understand this.
“I AM SO VINTAGE MINNIE MOUSE!?!! DECLARATION DECLARATION DECLARED” = Minnie Mouse was my chosen symbol of childhood, just like circus clowns. And what does Minnie Mouse have? Two rounded ears that form two arches.
“oh my God my reflection is not me” = Yeah, every time I peered into a mirror, I was a familiar stranger. It tripped me up.
“Ribbon caps - shape of my words, beige yellowed bow” = Describing my words/soul again. They’re two rounded peaks, yellowed with age, but silky like ribbon.
“My reflection fucker” = I was MAD at my reflection.
“I see the dirty shape” = I was seeing the villainous side in the mirror, and she was mocking me.
“This is the closest I’ve been to understanding myself I believe” = Man, I hope not.
“They’re not mickey mouse ears they’re cutouts from blues clues like two ballet slipper pink peaks and there’s ribbon it’s soft your core is soft and worn loved silk bursting with fluff” = I’m contradicting myself with the Mickey Mouse thing, but I believe I’m making a reference to Blues Clues specifically because of Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper. Remember the pepper shaker reference from earlier? I’m referring to them in a pair as their caps create two rounded peaks when they’re together. Something, something, duality, I suppose. My soul is a a soft, faded color like ballet slippers, silky like ribbon, and worn like a loved childhood toy.
“It’s the shape of my upside down smile, gummy toothy innocent sweet” = I’m describing an upside down view of my mouth smiling—not frowning. My cupid’s bow creates the peaks; my front teeth, too, create the peaks.
“I need to tell you that I’ve seen my true face and I’m only okay with it the shape of my soul is worn and soft” = I’ve peered into my soul and, eh, she’s alright. I like that—deep down—I am worn but still soft. Perhaps that speaks to a soft weariness.
“The stoner crinkle face is the other half” = I’m just making fun of myself now. But I could also be describing the so-called “villain.” If my soul is two-fold, as suggested by the recurring motif of doubled things/peaks, and one side is represented as a soft, worn thing, then the other side must be the “villain” with a crinkly, laughing face.
“She’s goofy internally” = The villain is not a threat. She’s goofy. She’s the cartoonish facsimile of a villain.
“A doll with no frill button black eye” = I had taken my makeup off a this point and was remarking on my hollow tear troughs, which look as if I have permanent dark circles or—as one kid told me in elementary school—two black eyes.
“Humanity’s gotta see your bright red brown soul she is kind” = I was yearning to be understood on a base level. Not even the very core of my soul, which I have been attempting to describe, but a layer above it. That’s why it’s bright red/brown. I’m describing musculature.
“Ahh vintage corn magnet plastic dirty every one sees eternity in my face all of me one merged soul” = God. Okay. So the “vintage corn magnet” is one of the aforementioned magnets on my grandparents’ refrigerator that I distinctly remember from childhood because it had a pair of dusty plastic eyeballs. I’m specifically recalling the grimy parts of childhood, harkening back to the worn nature of myself I’ve been attempting to convey. I contain multitudes, and people can tell that at a glance if they bother. Such is the nature of all humans.
“Good luck Fucking finding a through-line here” = Bitch.
“Evil queen swoop arm woosh when does she see jewel doll queen?” = This is a question for the evil queen, an analogue to “the villain,” that’s briefly interrupted by my physical body nearly falling over and windmilling her arms to prevent that. The question: “when does she see the jewel doll?” What’s the jewel doll? Shit, this is getting harder and harder to wade through. I think the jewel doll refers to a fashion doll I once had, whose eyes change colors with the click of a button. Her eyes reminded me a big, shiny jewels. What’s the significance of this in the grand, overarching themes of the narrative? It’s a childhood toy, denoted by glamor. It’s a representative of the queen, the villain, the side of me that’s not soft and worn.
“It’s wrong” = I’m echoing a message from earlier, stating that the situation is strange.
“face is a minefield” = I was in the middle of an acne outbreak that appeared amplified under the vanity lights.
“I’m a-begging and a-screaming hot jazz” = A half-remembered, probably-entirely-misremembered song from an old cartoon—Merrie Melodies or Looney Tunes, perhaps. I can hear it echo through my skull with a degraded, sort 1960s or ‘70s audio quality. The music is jaunty. Why this? Well, things are turning into agony, and I think my agony is best represented as humor.
“Shape of my soul shape of my soul this is like dreaming when I’m awake” = “Shape of my soul” recurred in my brain like a chant for at least a week. My thoughts were as wild and as incomprehensible as my standard dreams are.
“I feel every vibration from chewing rattle my teeth like a train track falling a’piece” = I began munching on gingerbread cookies by the fistful, and when I chewed, it felt like I was gummily chewing my own teeth, and it was terrifying.
“Why would anyone like this I feel like I’m mis-cooperating wrong” = I was questioning my decisions at this point; I felt as if I was in a state of malfunction, and I did not like it.
“My words echo long and quiet like silent hill” = I never knew when I was speaking and when I was thinking. Thoughts lingered through my brain in a fog, like the mechanic Team Silent used to hide the short draw distance of their seminal video game classic, Silent Hill (1999).
“My through-line is shape of my soul and how this captures its curvature, what you look like spiritually, and the shape of your muppet maw” = I’m attempting to explain my thesis; I have seen what my soul looks like, and my ramblings are my attempted at capturing what my spirit looks like. Ah, the muppet motif came back. Remember the retro puppet mouth? That’s what my soul looks like, apparently. Same curvature.
“The way of my shape is that they ai generated my hair” = I was angry because I took a selfie with portrait mode on and it looked like part of my hair was AI-generated. (It was not.)
“this can’t be forever you are not a slapstick clown” = Again, I was lamenting my state. I was scared this wouldn’t end, and I would remain a clownish caricature of myself forever.
“this way doesn’t snooze your rattling pocket change teeth” = I switched to eating oatmeal crème pies instead of gingerbread cookies, which was easier on my mouth.
“I’m ovular made of ovals ohvals” = I’m describing the arches again and emphasizing how they’re not perfectly round.
“It’s knock-off Betty Boops in black and white VHS tapes” = I’m attempting to describe half-remembered VHS tapes from my grandparents’ house. One short was Betty in Blunderland, another was Musical Mountaineers, and my favorite Stop That Noise!
“Inky Little Lulu, Little Audrey video tape Dreamland made of whipped cream and little peaks, children bustling from mountain to mountain trying each dessert and I think they’re punished by an authority higher than dream babes in Cupid diapers” = I’m referencing more black and white VHS tapes at my grandparents’ house, which included Little Lulu and Little Audrey (titles unknown; I didn’t watch them nearly as much as the Betty Boop tape). The other tape I’m describing is Somewhere in Dreamland, which, upon re-watching, I grossly misremembered. The kids are being punished by capitalism, though, so I suppose that’s the higher authority I could be referencing. Oh my god. This is so desperately sad. Why did I watch this so much?
“Eating cookies is violence” = I ate my second oatmeal crème pie.
“they put blush stickers on him that’s so cute it’s soft arches. Ghosts, soft ankles, and high beds with HBO princesses bunked aloft” = I don’t know who “him” is, but I must be thinking of an anime boy from my youth, just based on context. The blush stickers would be ovular, forming twin, curving arches. The latter half of this statement is likely referencing “The Princess and the Pea” of HBO Family’s Fairy Tales for Every Child series. The image of princesses sitting on giant stacks of mattresses has always stuck with me. It seemed hopelessly cozy and precarious.
“Buzzing of a Pepsi Coke vending machine ran by an old man on an old painted porch” = There was an old man in my grandparents’ neighborhood who had a vending machine outside his house, which I thought was so cool as a kid. I walked there every Saturday to get cans of Pepsi-Cola products to bide me through the night.
“You remember your youth” = I do. Desperately, I do.
“Stuffed animals poking between white net, suspended in a flat floral pastel wallpaper, white fur straining through the net, fluff rough” = Here, I’m describing a suspended net that stored my stuffed animals. It hung in the corner of my parents’ bedroom until I outgrew the need for that many stuffed animals. I recall tipping the net once to hide myself in the avalanche.
“I need my old Barbie jewelry box to find the golden clown necklace it’s there or that pale yellow pale pink box patterned like nursery wallpaper” = At this point, I had put myself to bed. I sprung up with the sudden memory of a clown necklace my mother once got me—a dainty gold thing that was too nice for a child that ended up gnawing on it and bending it to pieces. I thought I was remembering its hidden location—my Barbie-themed jewelry box or a latched box my mom stores extraneous items in—but I checked, and no dice. That necklace is gone, and that makes me extraordinarily sad; I have the capacity to appreciate it as an adult.
“I’m warm and sleepy now have fun unconscious mind see you next year when you come out to play again this was intense but I love your plastic stained glass window that needs dusting sticking to an old yellow buzzing refrigerator that’s the soft arches of my soul” = I huddled underneath an electric blanket and turned off the lights. My wife was asleep on the couch downstairs, refusing to move lest the nausea return. My brother-in-law had left at some point between her moving and my upstairs mirror standoff. I reflected on my trip and bid my unconscious self goodbye. She had seen the yellowing plastic of my soul, viewed through a plastic dollhouse window by a woman with a brief moment of omnipotence. It buzzed like my grandparents’ refrigerator; it needs dusting. The arches of the exposed mechanical components behind it hummed; I was always afraid when I dropped magnets back there. I was told it would electrocute me if prodded. That, too, forms soft arches.
“Like soft, green taffy in its squished, waxy wrapping.” = I’m describing sea salt taffy—the kind you buy in kitschy souvenir shops at the beach. When I was young, I would always be sure to bring a box back to my parents, even though I didn’t like it myself. Sometimes, I would take a piece and squish it between my thumb and forefinger, still encased in its wrapper. It was moldable, like a soul.
“Soft arches created by the flared bows at its ends” = Final emphasis on the arches. The double peaks with differing faces, denoted by the flared bows—a softness inherent to my being.
“Kissed and regards” = Aw, that was nice.
What does literally any of that mean?
Alright, let’s tighten up here. Now that I’ve explained (for the most part) the context of my high mind, what’s my grand conclusion?
Let’s consider a diagram:
The nature of humanity cannot be defined by charts and graphs, nor can one’s soul be reduced to a list of things—no matter how abstract those things can get.
But duality is a consistent theme in philosophy: public self versus private self, mind-body dualism, the bit in Plato’s Symposium about soul-mates. Humans are full of contradictions, and often we seek to reconcile those contradictions just to make sense of ourselves.
The recurring theme of two, two peaks or two arches not dissimilar to one another but each reflecting a different self, appears throughout my ramblings. I’m desperate to capture it. The duality of self has never been laid so bare before me, in such explicit ways, as it had while I was one goofy gummy and a quarter of a catatonic cookie deep.
My conclusion is thus: I have a deep nostalgia and yearning for the simplicity of childhood; my softness is weathered, broken in, innate. I am a flat pillow to rest your head upon. I am a villain but no threat to anyone but myself. I have a certain degree of imposter syndrome that I’ll likely always struggle with, coated with the sheen of glamor. I am magnetized to retro frivolity and the follies of overthinking. I think of myself in equal measures of seriousness and dismissiveness.
What have I learned? If you’ve started with the cookie, don’t take the gummy, okay? For the love of god, DON’T TAKE THE GUMMY—
