Somewhere, In Between: Seeking the Rapture and Exploring the People, Places, and History of the Lower Mississippi River Valley and Beyond

About

About the Author
James G. Barbee, M.D., has been an avid photographer since the age of twenty-one. A psychiatrist by training, he was Professor of Pharmacology and Neuroscience at the LSU Behavioral Science Center in New Orleans, where he was named the George C. Dunn Professor of Psychiatry in 2001, and before he entered private practice in 2009. Barbee has lived in Miami, St. Louis, and San Diego before finally settling in New Orleans, and he credits the lessons learned from each of the places he has lived, as well as the experiences in his personal life and work with patients over many years, as being powerful formative influences upon him and a source of boundless inspiration for his creative work. His photographs have been displayed in juried exhibitions, and his previous book is Sin Sombras/Without Shadows: A Search for the Meaning of life if There is one, in the California Desert in Photographs and Stories (George F. Thompson Publishing, 2018). Barbee and his wife, Kathleen, own and operate Gallery Huracan in New Orleans.

Slideshow

My Place

In order to understand my choice for “My Place,” a bit of a digression is first necessary. If there is one aspect of human nature that defines us, it is restlessness, desire—the drive to attain that which we do not have. (Make a mental note of that word: drive.) We always want what we do not have or want more of what we do have, and when we get it . . . well, that was nice, but . . . next! Know the feeling? Sure you do. It causes one hell of a lot of the trouble in this world, because (almost) everybody is chasing after an illusive state of mind (satisfaction) that none of us is capable of attaining more than momentarily. And we’re not all just snapping up Cadillacs or purses by Prada in our mad drive for gratification—oh no, we’re also busy stirring up some major trouble for ourselves and others in this quest, coveting neighbor’s wives/husbands or killing folks in the name of God. Not to say that the targets of our desire are necessarily bad—the possibilities for dreamed-of gratification are as varied as the human imagination and include worthy projects such as feeding the hungry and saving someone’s soul. But whether talking saints or sinners, the inner narrative runs something like “If only I change/get whatever (e.g., the biggest house in the ‘hood, a fatter paycheck, a cute gerbil, world peace or domination—whatever trips your trigger), then I will be satisfied.” It is the first law of human thermodynamics (here, the study of hominid energy) and can best be summed by the following simple mathematical equation:

s = d + x

where “s” is defined as “satisfaction,” “d” is one’s current state of dissatisfaction, and  “x” is that which one fantasizes will “make me happy.” Now “x” as a variable has two important properties, it is both:

(1) something the person in question does not now have, and it has an

(2) infinite number of solutions and yet none at the same time.

It’s those last six words that cause so much trouble and constitute the genius of capitalism. (and by the way, about the equation: it is very tongue in cheek–no Nobel Prize nominations, please . . . I’m just trying to have a little fun).

The inner experience of always wanting more is a product of the way our brains are wired. The reward pathways that enable us to feel pleasure involve a variety of neurotransmitters (the molecules in the brain that enable brain cells to “talk” to each other), but one of the most important of these is dopamine. So, rather than getting “lost in the weeds” with the complex details of brain function, let’s keep this simple and focus on dopamine—”joy juice” for the brain. Novel events (such as change or acquisition) give us a little “squirt” of the good stuff. The “Devil in the loins” spotted by Dylan Thomas (in If I Was Tickled by the Rub of Love) is actually more accurately described as “the Devil behind the eyes” (of the beholder) from a scientific standpoint. It is the quest for dopamine that lead even the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius to plead some 2000 years ago in Meditations if one could “Ever be fulfilled, ever stop desiring—lusting and longing for people and things to enjoy?” (Section 10.1). And let me point out the validation of my concept that his example provides, as being Roman emperor, I would assume, he could obtain pretty much anything/body his stoic little heart desired. Let us hope he is in a happier place. In his era, Marcus Aurelius could only urge us to “Stop being jerked like a puppet” (Section 7.29), and observe that “what pulls the strings is within–hidden from us” (Section 10.38). So a couple of thousand years later science has called out the Devil and given it a name, and that name is dopamine. Dopamine is the reward, no matter what we construe as the object of our desire or what we believe motivates us. But, alas, a splash, then poof—gone, and it’s ”hey, bartender, hit me with another round” (dopamine is also widely believed to be involved in addictive disorders, quelle surprise!), as many of the changes in brain function that the events in our lives produce are relatively transient (except for tasks such as memory and experiences like trauma, but these are topics for another day).

Now the fact that we are dopamine junkies is not, I believe, some flaw within our nature . . . it is the “juice” ex machina of our nature. It is perpetual discontent/longing by design. It compels us to keep striving, thereby upping our attractiveness to potential mates. In this manner, “wanting” is the driving force of evolution—as, according to evolutionary biologists, my fellow puppets, our sum purpose in life can be reduced to one task: passing on our genes. Our individual happiness is irrelevant to Nature, other than to the degree that happiness makes babies. Personally, I find no cause for indignation in the idea that I am but a vessel for my DNA and the rest of me is just lagniappe, consciousness included—I’m just glad I got invited for the ride (‘cause it’s one hell of a fine ride), even if it’s only for one DNA cycle. A discussion about “God” and the “meaning of life” (I personally don’t think that understanding the designs of nature defines us) is lurking in here someplace, but, for now, let’s just play the cards I’ve dealt and save such topics for another day.

And so, speaking of “drives” and “rides,” back to the topic at hand: My Place. If inner peace cannot be achieved through means of obtaining what one desires, then perhaps it can be found in other ways, by means of a complete paradigm shift. For example, discovering a world where one’s desire is met with an equal and opposite absorption of that desire—creating a state of equilibrium, much as one would lose the burden of one’s weight in the act of falling endlessly downward . . . or sideways (among other advantages, falling sideways entails reduced risk of a nasty splat when the ride’s over). And just where might one find the opportunity to fall perpetually sideways, you ask? I propose that such an experience is to be had on The Endless Highway. And that, my fellow travelers, is My Place, for I have learned that, if I drive long enough and far enough, I can almost outrun yearning. This state of “contentment” becomes most complete when the miles have rendered me absolutely tapped out—deep into the burn, having driven great distances into the small, hollow hours of morning that lay well past midnight and long before the first light of dawn.  

In order to understand better the intent of Sin Sombras and explore one of my favorite places, come with me. We haven’t met before (so no hugs, please), but hop on in my car, there in the passenger’s seat—you can ride shotgun until I get too sleepy to drive (at the moment, I get to drive, ‘cause it’s my fantasy). Let us pretend that we are westbound on I-10, hair-on-fire, hell-bent on driving nonstop from New Orleans, where I live, to Barstow, California, where I roam. There’s about, oh, 850 miles behind us and more than a thousand more to go. We are somewhere way the hell out in West Texas, around Fort Stockton, one of the loneliest places on Earth. In a prior incarnation, what we now call Fort Stockton was a major watering hole from which the Comanches launched raids on their way down from the Llano Estacado into Mexico (a “road trip” from another time?). Back then, if they’d caught us here, we’d be dead meat, our guts staked out in the dirt, just so we could linger in the moment and have plenty of time to plan the next Big Road Trip to meet our maker. But it’s 2018—no pissed-off Comanches now, only their ghosts. And damn! We’re making good time, cruising down the road at around ninety miles-an-hour-plus, no cops in sight. Peculiar thing about speed limits, isn’t it: that it feels so delicious to exceed them? What do you think . . . the lure of forbidden fruit? ‘Course the speed limit is posted at 80, but we don’t want to get rear-ended. I mean, what the hell, this is Texas, baby! The kind of place where the rules are “more like guidelines” (stole that from Pirates of the Caribbean) and besides—ain’t nothing out here to hit anyway or anyone to see us if we did.

We’ve been driving for what seems like an eternity, and somewhere past 3:00 a.m. we arrive at our destination: the pit of the night . . . like that space between the clavicles at the bottom of the human throat. Deep. Vulnerable. Mysterious. Our other companions in the car (more on who’s back there in a moment) are fast asleep, either dreaming or in the blissful mindlessness that is the deep sleep to be found in the space between dreams. Their gentle snoring is relaxing but a bit surreal, the steady roar of the wheels rising from the violence that is our movement as we hurtle down the highway that lies only inches beneath our feet.

The countryside through which we are passing is also fast asleep, like our companions, and just as vulnerable. And so we will pass, unacknowledged, other than by the sporadic appearance of this or that lone coyote blinking angrily back at us, having been discovered in their mischief by our headlights. On the rare occasion when there is a home visible beside the highway, only the front porch light is left burning, a lonely challenge to whatever threat lurks in the enveloping darkness. I think of the occupants of those homes now snuggled deeeeply down into their warm, safe beds, and I wonder about the lives they lead and the stories of those lives that they will never have the chance to tell, at least to you or me, for on this night we have obtained Nirvana! We are now perpetually falling sideways—our discontent completely absorbed, our presence or absence witnessed by no one.  

A few hours ago, I stuck in a soundtrack of the original recordings of Robert Johnson, made way back in 1937—the only evidence the man was ever alive. You see what I’m saying? We endlessly loop “Got Ramblin’ on My Mind,” ‘cause that says it all. But I wonder, was that recording by RJ done in the Dallas or San Antonio session (the only two he ever did)? We just passed through San Antonio a few hours ago—does that put us any closer to him, despite the years between us? I do not say this aloud, for I treasure the lack of conversation between us, as my thoughts might otherwise become tethered by your presence.

“Hey, man, I’m exhausted. Let’s stop and stretch our legs, get a bucket of coffee in one of those big Styrofoam cups—the kind that release long-chain hydrocarbons and other unknown pollutants into whatever it is that you call coffee. The cup adds to the thrill. Anyway, we gotta’ stop, ‘cause we’re runnin’ a little low on gas. Out here, it can be a hundred miles between stations, especially at this hour. Let’s pull off at that truck stop I see up ahead at the next exit.”

We draw closer. Foot comes off the gas for the first time in hours. From here, looking ahead through the bug-splattered windshield, the twinkling Milky Way looms above us, lying draped like a cosmic, sparkling feather boa across the apparition of this transcontinental oasis (at this moment the term “truck stop” seems far too prosaic) bathed as it is in artificial light.  The place is virtually deserted at this hour; the pungent smell of gas and burnt motor oil slap us in the face upon opening the car door. A cold north wind (“nothing between Texas and Canada but a few strands of barbed wire,” my Old Man used to say) bites hard as we stand beside the car, filling up the tank and trying to work the kinks out of our legs left rubbery by the long hours of sitting. The only attendant at the cash register shuffles about like one of the bleary-eyed undead, a refugee from a cheap zombie movie, due to lack of sleep. Okay, she is not a zombie . . . because now she struggles to mumble a “thank you” as we hand over a couple of bucks and some change for a big go-cup of cheap, bitter coffee, no doubt left to age to perfection from the prior shift.

We eagerly jump back into the car, now turned road rocket. She cranks easily. As we pull back out into the night and on to I-10, we are once again inexorably drawn by that irresistible undertow, the one that is the wild call of being somewhere else, anywhere else but here. As we gain speed, we take back the Milky Way, which glitters above us once again, the universe drawing us into it with all the gravitational force its billion-plus black holes can muster. Under the spell of such titanic forces, we start to go totally nuts, as we are so very small and inconsequential.

“Oh, shut up! Am I hallucinating? Was that the ghost of Jack Kerouac I just saw beside the road, thumb up, trying to hitch a ride? Should we stop and pick him up?” “No way!” you say. “What are you, crazy?” (a rhetorical question). “You pick him up, next morning they’ll find our mutilated bodies lying next to our burned vehicle.”

My only response: “I do believe we just drove by the grave of the Good Samaritan.”

A full moon is now sinking to the west before us, and it is in this guise that the Goddess of the Highway chooses to fully reveal herself, prostrate, lying naked before us—our gazes locked (as we have become lovers), she and ours, through the windshield. We push where she offers herself between the white lines, her only response to our labors the staccato of the center stripe that just keeps coming . . .

beat (pause),

beat (pause),

beat (pause), 

each stripe released tenderly by her from a bottomless well, from which there is an infinite supply of such stripes and their sisters. Like arrows spilled from a quiver, they fly, straight and true, rushing silently to meet us—mute testimony to our utter insignificance.

And thus set free, we—that’s you and me, and the folks sleeping in the back—Robert, Jack, and the souls of all the long-dead Comanche who once roamed this place—rush down the endless highway to embrace the lost, agitated, eternal night, as if the faster we go, the more of it all we can greedily scoop up into our arms and clutch forever, if only in our memories. We plunge onward, despite our imperfect knowledge of where our choices will lead us and away from all  the opportunities lost for the many places we did not choose to go. We will not stop until we have reached our own warm, soft bed there in Barstow. But that is tomorrow, and in this moment in the rush of our senses, it is as if our minds might explode. We’re living a dream like no other—The Great American Road Trip!