Order Into Chaos
Everything is getting too overwhelming and confusing now. I just do not know what to do.
But first, let me put this in chronological order. That is, if I still know what time is...
As I was lying in bed last night waiting for the Ambien (a sleeping pill) to take affect, I reviewed the recent happenings of this past week. I felt so foolish, like a scared little boy. What really had happened this week? Theresa, a lady friend I haven't heard from in years, called. She made a lunch engagement with me but failed to appear. I felt paranoid because an elderly man looked at me in a restaurant. I had some vague nightmares. I got an odd book from her in the mail. And I've received a series of hangup calls. So what?
It's all very simple, actually.
Theresa probably was about to do some research in my area. She wanted to see me, catch up on some old times, and she would have mentioned that she mailed a book to me, probably because she was in transit. That would explain the lack of a return address. Something must have come up and her plans were altered, and she never got around to calling me. The stress of my friends' illnesses and frustrations at work probably affected my dreams. As for the hangup calls? I could simply be having problems with the phone line, or maybe a new business in town has a similar number to mine and people quickly hang up when they realized they had dialed the wrong number.
I thought about how today's movies feed the public's neurotic fears. Hang up calls? "The Mothman Prophecies." An occultic book? "The Evil Dead." I must just be another victim of Hollywood's hysteria machine.
And with the security of my rationalization and pseudo-intellectualism, the Ambien kicked in, and I fell into a deep sleep.
This morning when I awoke, I was still a little bit groggy from the sleeping pill, but I was alert enough to quickly get out of bed, shave, shower, get dressed, and go to the kitchen for a bite to eat before heading into work.
As I sat down, I looked at Theresa's book resting on the table. I chuckled at myself for secretly feeling so superstitious about the book last night. As I drank my coffee and ate my bagel with peanut butter, I started looking through the book again.
Assuming the book is read from left-to-right, I noticed that the illustrations started out rather simplistic at first and became increasingly complex as the book continued. I also noticed more of Theresa's handwriting throughout the book, which seemed to increase further into the book. It surprised me a little that she would write in such an old book. While she didn't believe the supernatural or occultic subjects she researched, she still was respectful and wouldn't deface such an old book. Perhaps the book was very common or was completely worthless.
I noticed the time and knew I had to get going before I was late to work again. So I closed the book, grabbed my wallet and keys, and took off to the video production house.
The morning was very uneventful. I watched tape after tape of a college president waving to this group of people or to that group of people or giving out an award or receiving an award. On and on it went. Luckily, there wasn't any video footage of him from the 1970s, but as the 1980s progressed and video recorders became cheaper and more common, it seemed that every repetitive move he made was recorded. It seemed that he had more photo-ops than the average Senator. It was so boring.
But as the morning turned into noon, an uneasy feeling began creeping into my consciousness. Vague at first, more annoying than frightful, it keep pestering me as I viewed the endless library of dull tapes. And then suddenly, as if an icicle were stabbed into the back of my skull, the realization struck me!
What was Theresa's book doing on the breakfast table?
I know I had put it back in its original packaging and had placed it in the storage chest in the spare bedroom last night before going to bed! How did it end up on the breakfast table, right in front of the chair I normally sat in? I know I didn't get it back out last night. And even in my Ambien grogginess, I was definitely awake enough to know that I didn't take it out this morning. Could I have sleptwalk? How likely was that, given that I had taken a sleeping pill?
I hit the stop button on the tape deck. A sick feeling overcame me. My mind could not rationalize this quickly enough to soothe me. Something was terribly wrong.
And it only gets worse from here!
As I sat in the little video editing suite, Dave, a coworker, came in and asked if I wanted to go to lunch. I must have looked ghostly white, because he immediately asked if I were all right. I just told him that I had a lot on my mind. Another coworker, James, also came into the room ready for lunch. I just wanted to be left alone.
While they were discussing lunch plans, I had a quick inspiration. Maybe the older gentleman at the Dal Cuore Italian Restaurant knew something. It was a long shot, but I had nowhere else to turn. Besides, Theresa chose that restaurant, and he had watched me throughout, so maybe he expected to see her with me. So I quickly interupted their little debate and said we should go Italian and eat at Dal Cuore.
Dave and James just looked at me for a second before Dave laughed. I will never forget this part...
He said that would be hard to do, since Dal Cuore has been closed for nearly three weeks! He asked me if ever read the papers. (I didn't.) I started to protest and was about to say that I had eaten there last Sunday, but before I could, James added that the owner committed suicided and they had shut it down.
And it clicked into my brain. I turned my back on them, minimized the video editing software, and searched online for the obituary.
Vittorio Tabellini. Age 72. Death by self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
And I recognized the photo immediately.
My sense of santiy was screaming for help. I told my Dave and James that I had to go and ran from the office, ignoring my boss calling my name from behind me. I could not - cannot - deal with anyone right now. No one knows what has been happening - Not even me!
My first instinct was to drive to Dal Cuore and see for myself if it were closed, but I just wanted to go home. I wanted to get away from the outside world for awhile and try to process all of this. I'm still in shock now as I am typing away, documenting what might be my last days alive. I just don't know...
At first, I felt a brief sense of relief as I pulled into my driveway. But as I got out of my car, I noticed a package leaning against my door. As if in a dream, I walked up to it and picked it up. It had no return address - Just my mailing address in Theresa's handwriting. I stumbled into my apartment with it, quickly locking the door behind me.
I look at the breakfast table. Theresa's book wasn't there. I ran into the spare bedroom, checked the chest - Still no book. So I carried the package out back into the living room and opened it. An old book fell out, the corner landed directly on my left big toe. Déjà vu was nothing compared to this experience.
And so hours later, sitting alone in a darken apartment, no lunch or dinner, ignoring all phone calls, and trying to enjoy a few shots of Johnnie Walker, I am logging this experience, not knowing what to do next, not knowing what to think. My "victimhood of the Hollywood hysteria machine" theory no longer comforts me.
But first, let me put this in chronological order. That is, if I still know what time is...
As I was lying in bed last night waiting for the Ambien (a sleeping pill) to take affect, I reviewed the recent happenings of this past week. I felt so foolish, like a scared little boy. What really had happened this week? Theresa, a lady friend I haven't heard from in years, called. She made a lunch engagement with me but failed to appear. I felt paranoid because an elderly man looked at me in a restaurant. I had some vague nightmares. I got an odd book from her in the mail. And I've received a series of hangup calls. So what?
It's all very simple, actually.
Theresa probably was about to do some research in my area. She wanted to see me, catch up on some old times, and she would have mentioned that she mailed a book to me, probably because she was in transit. That would explain the lack of a return address. Something must have come up and her plans were altered, and she never got around to calling me. The stress of my friends' illnesses and frustrations at work probably affected my dreams. As for the hangup calls? I could simply be having problems with the phone line, or maybe a new business in town has a similar number to mine and people quickly hang up when they realized they had dialed the wrong number.
I thought about how today's movies feed the public's neurotic fears. Hang up calls? "The Mothman Prophecies." An occultic book? "The Evil Dead." I must just be another victim of Hollywood's hysteria machine.
And with the security of my rationalization and pseudo-intellectualism, the Ambien kicked in, and I fell into a deep sleep.
This morning when I awoke, I was still a little bit groggy from the sleeping pill, but I was alert enough to quickly get out of bed, shave, shower, get dressed, and go to the kitchen for a bite to eat before heading into work.
As I sat down, I looked at Theresa's book resting on the table. I chuckled at myself for secretly feeling so superstitious about the book last night. As I drank my coffee and ate my bagel with peanut butter, I started looking through the book again.
Assuming the book is read from left-to-right, I noticed that the illustrations started out rather simplistic at first and became increasingly complex as the book continued. I also noticed more of Theresa's handwriting throughout the book, which seemed to increase further into the book. It surprised me a little that she would write in such an old book. While she didn't believe the supernatural or occultic subjects she researched, she still was respectful and wouldn't deface such an old book. Perhaps the book was very common or was completely worthless.
I noticed the time and knew I had to get going before I was late to work again. So I closed the book, grabbed my wallet and keys, and took off to the video production house.
The morning was very uneventful. I watched tape after tape of a college president waving to this group of people or to that group of people or giving out an award or receiving an award. On and on it went. Luckily, there wasn't any video footage of him from the 1970s, but as the 1980s progressed and video recorders became cheaper and more common, it seemed that every repetitive move he made was recorded. It seemed that he had more photo-ops than the average Senator. It was so boring.
But as the morning turned into noon, an uneasy feeling began creeping into my consciousness. Vague at first, more annoying than frightful, it keep pestering me as I viewed the endless library of dull tapes. And then suddenly, as if an icicle were stabbed into the back of my skull, the realization struck me!
What was Theresa's book doing on the breakfast table?
I know I had put it back in its original packaging and had placed it in the storage chest in the spare bedroom last night before going to bed! How did it end up on the breakfast table, right in front of the chair I normally sat in? I know I didn't get it back out last night. And even in my Ambien grogginess, I was definitely awake enough to know that I didn't take it out this morning. Could I have sleptwalk? How likely was that, given that I had taken a sleeping pill?
I hit the stop button on the tape deck. A sick feeling overcame me. My mind could not rationalize this quickly enough to soothe me. Something was terribly wrong.
And it only gets worse from here!
As I sat in the little video editing suite, Dave, a coworker, came in and asked if I wanted to go to lunch. I must have looked ghostly white, because he immediately asked if I were all right. I just told him that I had a lot on my mind. Another coworker, James, also came into the room ready for lunch. I just wanted to be left alone.
While they were discussing lunch plans, I had a quick inspiration. Maybe the older gentleman at the Dal Cuore Italian Restaurant knew something. It was a long shot, but I had nowhere else to turn. Besides, Theresa chose that restaurant, and he had watched me throughout, so maybe he expected to see her with me. So I quickly interupted their little debate and said we should go Italian and eat at Dal Cuore.
Dave and James just looked at me for a second before Dave laughed. I will never forget this part...
He said that would be hard to do, since Dal Cuore has been closed for nearly three weeks! He asked me if ever read the papers. (I didn't.) I started to protest and was about to say that I had eaten there last Sunday, but before I could, James added that the owner committed suicided and they had shut it down.
And it clicked into my brain. I turned my back on them, minimized the video editing software, and searched online for the obituary.
Vittorio Tabellini. Age 72. Death by self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
And I recognized the photo immediately.
My sense of santiy was screaming for help. I told my Dave and James that I had to go and ran from the office, ignoring my boss calling my name from behind me. I could not - cannot - deal with anyone right now. No one knows what has been happening - Not even me!
My first instinct was to drive to Dal Cuore and see for myself if it were closed, but I just wanted to go home. I wanted to get away from the outside world for awhile and try to process all of this. I'm still in shock now as I am typing away, documenting what might be my last days alive. I just don't know...
At first, I felt a brief sense of relief as I pulled into my driveway. But as I got out of my car, I noticed a package leaning against my door. As if in a dream, I walked up to it and picked it up. It had no return address - Just my mailing address in Theresa's handwriting. I stumbled into my apartment with it, quickly locking the door behind me.
I look at the breakfast table. Theresa's book wasn't there. I ran into the spare bedroom, checked the chest - Still no book. So I carried the package out back into the living room and opened it. An old book fell out, the corner landed directly on my left big toe. Déjà vu was nothing compared to this experience.
And so hours later, sitting alone in a darken apartment, no lunch or dinner, ignoring all phone calls, and trying to enjoy a few shots of Johnnie Walker, I am logging this experience, not knowing what to do next, not knowing what to think. My "victimhood of the Hollywood hysteria machine" theory no longer comforts me.
posted by Drake at 7:34 PM
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