Exclusively in the new print issue of CounterPunch

HOLLYWOOD AND THE CIA — Film historian Ed Rampell details Hollywood’s entangled relationship with the CIA and the Pentagon; HOUSES OF THE DEAD: Nancy Kurshan exposes the cruel human rights offenses taking place inside America’s vast gulag of Control Unit Prisons; BROTHERHOOD OF SUMMER: David Macaray charts the history of the most powerful union in the US: the Baseball Players Association; TAR SANDS COME TO AMERICA: Steve Horn explains how the Keystone Pipeline debates have diverted attention from Big Oil’s other plans to transport Alberta’s oil into the US. PLUS: Jeffrey St. Clair on CONSTITUTIONAL ENTROPY; Mike Whitney on HOW THE BANKS TARGETED BLACKS; Chris Floyd on THE RISE OF BRITAIN’S TEA PARTY; Kristin Kolb on THE NEEDLE AND THE DAMAGE DONE; Kim Nicolini on the FILMS OF WILLIAM FRIEDKIN; and Lee Ballinger on POETS VS. THE ONE PERCENT.

Weekend Edition August 31-33, 2012

Too Much Motion

Sleepless in America

by MISSY BEATTIE

“I’m going to move.”

“You’re going to move?”

“I should move.”

“Why should you move?”

“Where will I move?”

“Where will you move?”

“Am I serious?”

“Are you serious?”

This is the dialogue Frisbee-ing through my mind when I’m attempting sleep. These are some of the thoughts and questions that twirl like a hula-hoop, hitting the interior of my skull until my head feels as if it’s moving with the motion already in motion. Finally, finally, when the playground quiets to a couple of shudders from badminton shuttlecocks, I dream for a while and then awaken to a blaring alertness like someone’s taken a croquet mallet to my chest. Occasionally, I chant a trail to a couple more hours of tranquility.

As I keyboard, my left eyelid twitches from fatigue and maybe stress. I tell myself it’s similar to a wink and not unattractive. Despite this involuntary spasm and those dark, sunken crescents underneath the lower lids, I go out to run through the Kingdom of Mixed Signals. Have to exercise soon after drinking espresso. If I wait, I won’t. Odd thing is that even when I’m sleep deprived, I seldom shut up and shut down to relax.

I am “one of the seven million Americans that have [sic] trouble sleeping and feel [sic] tired all day long.” This is what Ann Williams told me (actually, she asked if I am one of the seven million) minutes ago when she spoke to me from the computer after I did a search for natural sleep remedies and found Somnapure. I responded, telling her, despite the lack of sleep, I don’t “feel tired all day long.” In fact, I drink from the drug mug, slap on some sunscreen, tie my running shoes, and take off, almost soaring. Later, a little raggedness descends, but I don’t nap. My body says no-no to napping. Then, fast forward to night. This is when the ready-to-rumble announcements begin. The voices in my head that comprise team sports are breaking news of the weird and woeful: greed and Fukushima and shrimp without eyes and war and inhumanity, and what the future holds for our children. Plus, my own small world of aloneness and what I’ve done with that—including some disturbing choices. This leads to thoughts of escaping, moving, and angst-ing about where, when, and why.

Okay, I wrote the above and waited. To watch and examine hours walk by, so I could assess how tired I am after tending to my bedtime ablutions. And my brain is ablaze as if someone’s striking matchsticks. I started to write: rubbing sticks of dynamite together, but it’s not that explosive. More like strobe lights.

I am one among seven million Americans who has trouble sleeping, but I don’t feel tired all day. I am wide-awake when it’s time to approach the memory foam mattress. I look at some of those words, turning them into memories foment. And therein dwells a problem.

Missy Beattie lives in Baltimore. Email: missybeat@gmail.com