Where the Pyramid Meets the Eye [PT 3]

"I know the Hole in Baby's Head" by Roky Erickson [13th Floor Elevators]

I know the hole in baby’s head. I know the hole in baby’s head. I know the hole in baby’s head. I know the hole in baby’s head.

I live together with my family in an old house. I have a big family. I have lots of brothers and lots of sisters. I have lots of baby brothers and sisters all over the house crying, screaming, crawling, and playing in dangerous areas...moaning and wailing like dirty disarrayed toys (they fall down a lot).

My mother and father fight all the time, my mother leaves the house dirty all the time, always feeding the babies, always leaving the babies crying and screaming while she cries all the time. And then she looks up from the bed screaming at the top of her lungs, hoping someone understands her. We ain’t got much money to buy much electricity and the house is always dark and old.

My dad thinks he owns the house and I’m so afraid someone’s gonna get tired of him coming and going and walking real loud and owning all the house, rattling drawers in his bedroom, slamming doors all the time, leaving all the time, staying out late all the time, coming home real real real real real real late at night.

I’d like to think it’s normal in my old house. Our old house is in the middle of about 7 or 6 vacant houses in the woods, off an old deserted road in the neighborhood in the woods. I like to think everything is alright in my old house, my old dark house, but I know it isn’t.

I always had bad feelings about all the garbage and dirt and darkness and spider webs and bad smells, and bad feelings scare you. Bad feelings about the kids never being fed and being too cold and not having any toys. Not having enough toys, fighting over the toys, screaming and crying over the other kid's broken single toy.

My mother, always walking around in her robe and crying and never having any soap to wash piles of dirty dishes that she’s always too mentally too upset to wash, and my dad always coming in and out of the house night and day and never speaking to anyone. Never speaking to no-one. And never speaking to anyone.

So when I first had these bad feelings, I had the bad feeling something wasn’t right about the atmosphere in the old house. I thought that things could be pretty weird in the old house, the dark old house. That things had too much tension, that things were a little wilder than I thought. As time went on…my feelings about that, the atmosphere could be weird, grew into scary, scarier.

Then as more time went on I started thinking that maybe there could be weird things that could lay dormant in the old darkness of the old dark house. So I started thinking that maybe there could be other things, other strange things that I didn’t know about happening in the old house. So I tried to think what these things could be.

I started thinking things could be getting dangerous and I started wondering, what weird could be happening in the darkness? Why would the big family exist with nothing to have..exist on, other than just the family? Than just the big family, than just the family, I wanted to be my brothers and sister’s friends but they were very unhappy. I started wondering what was weird or extra strange about the environment of the crowded poor family. Why would they just exist on nothing but themselves and the feeling around the kids and the dark and darkness. How could the kids exist on so little and be just like flora and fauna. Just fixtures, like furniture and objects in the dark old house, the house was dark in the daytime. 2 just single objects with 1 or 2 broken toys my mother always kept to herself. Always worried. My mother always worried. Always worried my mother was always worried. Always worried. My dad always leaving the old house and coming in the old house a lot all the time.

Then I got to thinking that maybe something had happened, something more than that...they couldn’t talk about it. Something that they were too stupid to understand and something they were too quiet of to be knowing of that it was bad. My mother always kept to herself, my mother was always in her own world.

My father was always extremely, real introverted. My father never thought an outside thought. I went on thinking what could be wrong or strange? Was it that there was just something flora and fauna or unfurnished about the large poor transient family?

Why was there nothing but darkness and space, nothing but the big poor family in the old house and just air, space, and clear, dirty, dusty, musty, moldy, squeaky, spidery, webby, stale, bad smells, bad smelling hair, an atmosphere dark, like all outside.

The family figures. Now I thought there must be something terribly wrong with them. They were too alone and a big poor family. And I would thought they must had done something terribly wrong, something that they were too stupid to be unharmful in what they had done.

So, do you think they had killed someone? Do you think they could have gotten along through the tension and hysteria between them to have successfully together killed someone? Someone they knew was still with them? Someone that was still and quiet now and calm? And they just carried on their everyday life, unthinking of anything different. What’s happening? Like nothing ever happened...

I went and thought they had killed someone, and I got real scared, I got real scared and went into vertigo at the thought. I went and thought that they had killed someone. And then I thought they had killed this someone, then I thought how had they killed this someone? Who was this someone had they killed?

And then to reach and thought, then I reached and thought I snapped that they had killed one of my brothers, or sisters. One of the many, one of the babies. One of the many, one of the babies. One of the many. One of the many. One of the many.

I thought they had killed one of the kids. One of the babies. They had…killed…one of the kids. They had uh…killed the kid. Like one of their poor, broken little toys. They had killed a kid.

And then I got real paranoid. And I started thinking, and I got to feeling someone’s thoughts on mine, and I got to feeling their thoughts on mine, and I could feel that they were thinking of me, and thinking of my thoughts. And I got real paranoid.

Oh my god! [whisper] I know the hole in baby’s head...

F.O.I.A. DOCUMENTS RELATED TO THE DEATH OF ROGER KYNARD ERICKSON

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CLICK HEREto read part 1

CLICK HEREto read part 2

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SOURCES:
Wikipedia
Archive.org
Lama Workshop - by Patrick "The Lama" Lundborg
Demon Angel: A Day in the Life of Roky Erickson
13th Floor Elevators - You’re Gonna Miss Me: Psychedelic Reprise, by Claude Mathews
theragblog.blogspot.com
austinchronicle.com
The MHMR tapes, filmed 1986 Austin State Hospital
Freemasonry.bcy.ca
You're Gonna Miss Me - A Film About Roky Erickson (2007)
F.O.I.A.