has grabbed off the coffee table.
“How the hell did you find me? I thought after I switched stories, themes, genre … I mean hell—this is a story within a story; I figured that would definitely toss you off my scent.”
The BLONDE exhales cigarette smoke. “Eddie, you are not in control here. I’m not in control. It is, in fact the fate of this plot-line—no matter the story, theme, genre or format—that we be together. They want us together, don’t you see? Relax and be a content character. I’m here to help you.”
“That’s a lie. You’ve been sent here as a spy to infiltrate and sabotage my—I mean this—story.”
The BLONDE stuffs her cigarette into the half-empty can of beer that Eddie had yet to finish. “This is not your story, Mr. Bikaver. Don’t you understand the big picture? You’re not the only one living here—there are other characters here besides you to help evolve and accomplish this tale. Your place is crucial—both as author and character—to the outcome, but this universe does not revolve around you. You revolve within it.”
Eddie’s consciousness suddenly drifts out of his body, out of his apartment, above the city, upward, off the planet, out of the solar-system, out of the Milky Way, out of the known Universe.
“I remember writing that. I can at times remember you. But chronology of time is … hazy and scattered at best….” I rubbed my head.
“Just take it easy, Eddie … you have enough intelligence to over-come this mental oppression. Remember, I am here to help you. You will have to trust me.”
I thought about the word trust .
Trust, at this point seemed irrelevant. Whether I trusted anyone or not, the world, the powers that be, this gal, the doctor, or whoever the hell was running the show were going to do what they wanted with respect to me. All I could do was ride along and try to guess what was coming up next. The company of the Blonde was greatly appreciated, that I knew.
She sensed my appreciation and returned it with a smile.
FOR TWO and a half months the Blonde (who had “reminded” me her name was Mona on more than a few occasions) and I spent “quality” time together: going out, hanging out, making out and simply enjoying each other’s company. I liked her, and she liked me.
Day by day the loose shards of memory and fragments of my identity re-interconnected, little by little, making the picture of my life’s jigsaw puzzle more lucid.
Mona and I had met in a bar a few years back. She had found our conversation to be strange and fascinating, but abruptly cut short by her jealous boyfriend’s beer mug thumping my head, which rendered me unconscious.
That’s right. He wore a black three-piece suit. I never thought I had a chance with her; maybe that’s why I seemed comfortable talking to her, because I wasn’t even trying to pick up on her. But he figured otherwise. That’s why he cold-cocked me with the beer mug. What was a guy in a suit doing in a dive bar anyway?
“He had issues.” That was the extent of Mona’s assessment of her former beau. After the knockout, Mona broke it off with him and decided to take a chance on me for reasons I still can’t comprehend.
Anyway, the trauma of that blow later induced randomly recurring blackouts and hallucinations. That’s what was wrong with me: the hallucinations and delusions were so vivid, my mind was convinced they were valid aspects of lived reality, as though dreams and waking life were integrated. My time with Moroni. My drunken stupors. My work-in-progress. And of course, Mona.
When the mind cannot decipher between “reality” and “non-reality,” the human being winds up in very lame circumstances. If everything is real, then nothing is real (because nothing is included with everything). Such trivial paradoxes are rather amusing philosophically; to actually place a living, breathing, thinking, shitting, eating, rationalizing, linear time-oriented critter into such a
“How the hell did you find me? I thought after I switched stories, themes, genre … I mean hell—this is a story within a story; I figured that would definitely toss you off my scent.”
The BLONDE exhales cigarette smoke. “Eddie, you are not in control here. I’m not in control. It is, in fact the fate of this plot-line—no matter the story, theme, genre or format—that we be together. They want us together, don’t you see? Relax and be a content character. I’m here to help you.”
“That’s a lie. You’ve been sent here as a spy to infiltrate and sabotage my—I mean this—story.”
The BLONDE stuffs her cigarette into the half-empty can of beer that Eddie had yet to finish. “This is not your story, Mr. Bikaver. Don’t you understand the big picture? You’re not the only one living here—there are other characters here besides you to help evolve and accomplish this tale. Your place is crucial—both as author and character—to the outcome, but this universe does not revolve around you. You revolve within it.”
Eddie’s consciousness suddenly drifts out of his body, out of his apartment, above the city, upward, off the planet, out of the solar-system, out of the Milky Way, out of the known Universe.
“I remember writing that. I can at times remember you. But chronology of time is … hazy and scattered at best….” I rubbed my head.
“Just take it easy, Eddie … you have enough intelligence to over-come this mental oppression. Remember, I am here to help you. You will have to trust me.”
I thought about the word trust .
Trust, at this point seemed irrelevant. Whether I trusted anyone or not, the world, the powers that be, this gal, the doctor, or whoever the hell was running the show were going to do what they wanted with respect to me. All I could do was ride along and try to guess what was coming up next. The company of the Blonde was greatly appreciated, that I knew.
She sensed my appreciation and returned it with a smile.
FOR TWO and a half months the Blonde (who had “reminded” me her name was Mona on more than a few occasions) and I spent “quality” time together: going out, hanging out, making out and simply enjoying each other’s company. I liked her, and she liked me.
Day by day the loose shards of memory and fragments of my identity re-interconnected, little by little, making the picture of my life’s jigsaw puzzle more lucid.
Mona and I had met in a bar a few years back. She had found our conversation to be strange and fascinating, but abruptly cut short by her jealous boyfriend’s beer mug thumping my head, which rendered me unconscious.
That’s right. He wore a black three-piece suit. I never thought I had a chance with her; maybe that’s why I seemed comfortable talking to her, because I wasn’t even trying to pick up on her. But he figured otherwise. That’s why he cold-cocked me with the beer mug. What was a guy in a suit doing in a dive bar anyway?
“He had issues.” That was the extent of Mona’s assessment of her former beau. After the knockout, Mona broke it off with him and decided to take a chance on me for reasons I still can’t comprehend.
Anyway, the trauma of that blow later induced randomly recurring blackouts and hallucinations. That’s what was wrong with me: the hallucinations and delusions were so vivid, my mind was convinced they were valid aspects of lived reality, as though dreams and waking life were integrated. My time with Moroni. My drunken stupors. My work-in-progress. And of course, Mona.
When the mind cannot decipher between “reality” and “non-reality,” the human being winds up in very lame circumstances. If everything is real, then nothing is real (because nothing is included with everything). Such trivial paradoxes are rather amusing philosophically; to actually place a living, breathing, thinking, shitting, eating, rationalizing, linear time-oriented critter into such a
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