Altered reality
Beyond Topsy-Turvy
Something Strange is Going On
After decades of same-old routines no longer working for me, when the monotony has boxed me into a state of non-feeling, I long for nothing more than ‘the blahs’ to turn into ‘the blues.’ Since sadness is certainly better than this supreme shrug of apathy, this expressionless ennui — I notice a change in the visible universe: the number three is backwards.
Equilibrium’s disturbed; nothing will ever be the same again.
Did the actual upper case, cursive ‘E,’ became lost in a herd of numbers?
If this were the only sudden difference, maybe I could settle into the dullness of my prior existence, but it’s not.
Also, no one knows what I’m talking about when I bring up music or dancing. I sing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle,’ sway my hips, and do a little hop to the left, then right. They think I’ve recently arrived from another planet. I most certainly didn’t. How curious that all the CDs in my hall closet are gone and radio stations broadcast either the news or insipid interviews with celebrities.
It’s weird that no one’s mentioning this new normal, that no one’s missing what now seems permanently lost. My hands are clammy, plus there’s a lump thickening in my throat.
What next?
***
A couple days have passed. Except for backward 3’s, the human voice monopolizing the air-waves, and no one singing or dancing — not even the children, everything else is as it’s always been.
And then I’m walking in a garden of tall flowers with a man who keeps bumping into me. He kisses me, and I know he’s my lover, but not the one I remember. I almost recall his name, though I don’t admit this to him. Instead, I ask him if I have amnesia. He laughs. When I mention the number 3, he does this full body bump, laughs, tossing his head like a horse. Then he kisses me again.
I next find myself searching through drawers for something important. I don’t know exactly what, but I’ll know it when I see it. I ransack my life, but don’t come up with a single clue.
***
On another sunny, warm afternoon — weeks, or maybe months later, I’m strolling through that garden again. This time I’m alone. Birds flutter their vibrant plumes above equally colorful flower blooms, then take turns diving from branches into an adjacent pond. Have I been transported from the Midwest to the tropics?
And then one of my sisters is missing. Maybe she’s with my parents, whom I haven’t seen in years. Also, it’s been days since I’ve last seen either of my two cats.
My search continues and I’m back inside, rifling through the drawers again. It helps improve my mood. Beneath the socks and underwear is a photo of an aunt who recently passed away. Lately, no one’s been talking about her; it’s as if she never existed. Whenever I bring her up to someone, they put index finger to lips.
Way too many mysteries. My head spins.
I’m wandering through the garden again, accompanied by two barn owls. I enjoy pretending they’re my pets. I like how they watch me, each other, and the world at large. They know things. Maybe they even know why former friends are pretending not to know me. Sure wish they could talk.
Other matters, matter more. Something strange is going on. This is beyond temporary topsy-turvy.
I drive my car in circles, trying to recalibrate its compass, but it keeps pointing west no matter which way I drive.
I wake up in a lake cottage and can’t find my shoes. A man, sitting in a rocker in the next room, greets me with a cool, “Good morning,” then says nothing. Shadows blanket his face and I can’t tell if he’s the same one from the garden. I don’t think so, as this one isn’t friendly.
Does he know about the sudden change in the way the number 3 is written? He raises a brow, shrugs, and wanders out of the cottage. No point following him.
Somewhere in one of the drawers is an essay I wrote about the meaning of life, but I’m unable to locate it. My deceased aunt (Mary or was it Barb?) would remember it, and I have a feeling the owls know — not about the essay — but about life’s meaning. There’s something in their hooting, something more than a sad hollowness. If only I could translate it.
Clearly, people and things have gone missing. Still, there are more birds, especially tropical ones. Plus, all the flowers are at least five feet tall and spindly. Most topple over by the end of first day’s full bloom.
