The last few weeks have passed in a flurry.

I’ve been to too many markets, bookstores, and vendor stalls to count, and I’ve come away with nothing. Nothing! Not a single book or manuscript to add to my measly collection. Irritating, to say the least.

To bide my time between these fruitless endeavors, I’ve been slowly reading House of Leaves, messaging back and forth with Sarah as I uncover different messages. Once I finished it, I started again, sure that I missed something or another amid the bizarre story. I even listened to the music by Danielewski’s sister. I caught too many amused glances as I sat there in the library with my ancient headphones perched on my head like some ridiculous crown. The music wasn’t my taste, but I suppose it adds to the story on some larger level.

Other than reading that difficult book, I have occupied my free time with the most dreaded event of the year – spring cleaning. I am not much in the way of a domestic woman, so the only time I clean out cabinets, dust, scrub the floorboards, and what not is this time of year.

While I was sorting out the many “junk drawers” that occupy dressers and desks throughout my house, I came across a letter I completely forgot about. I found it sitting in a drawer of rubber bands and old phone books, looking so inconspicuous I nearly tossed it in the garbage. You might remember it from one of my earlier posts. It was the strange letter I received when I found out about Sarah using my identity for her book destruction project. The letter had no return address or postage, and I do not recognize the hand writing. In my anger over having my identity stolen, I had completely forgot about how unsettling it is to have a stranger deliver their letter directly to my house.

Looking at the letter now, I am filled with unease. Who is watching my life so closely that they were aware of someone using my name as a blog alias? And why would they care about notifying me? I want to find out who sent me this letter, but how on earth would I even go about doing that? I suppose now is the time to take a brief break from my book collecting duties. I believe I have a bit of sleuthing to do.

It is a pain in the ass.

To clarify, I am talking about that book I received, House of Leaves. I started reading – or should I say, decoding – it the other night. Almost everything in this book is layered with messages to uncover, and it is also very unsettling. I do not recommend reading this by a dark window, shades still drawn from admiring the sunset, with only the solemn ticking of a clock to keep you company. You’ll catch a glimpse of yourself in the window and think the House has come for you now.

After I picked the book up (having flung it across the parlor in terror of my own reflection), I decided I needed to stop for the night. But, of course, I could not stop thinking about it! There are a number of frustrating things about it (i.e., the bizarre layout of text, Johnny’s drug filled sex-capades, and tedious rabbit trails), but I found something eerily familiar within the ciphers and endless footnotes.

As I grow older, my mind is becoming less and less my own. Age has a funny way of moving into your mind, unpacking its belongings atop your own memories, and making itself so at home you begin to forget what was there before it moved in. It’s like a dark, endless corridor, spiraling down until you forget why you walked down that corridor to begin with, until you lose your sense of self.

I feel weirdly sympathetic for Navidson and his friends. Of course, they want to know what is behind the mysterious door, but the psychological journey that occurs is not pleasant. While my nice, little home here in Italy does not have suddenly-appearing rooms and shifting dimensions, I feel as though I can relate to their experiences in the house, only mirrored in my own deteriorating mind.

Age is a damn terrible roommate, that’s for sure.

(PS: That book collector’s First Folio was a hoax, and so crudely forged I would be ashamed to ever try and pass it off as anything more than garbage!)

This morning as I was sitting down for toast and tea, the doorbell rang. I quite dislike early morning visitors – after all, I was still in my robe and slippers! – but I peered out the window and saw the postal truck so I was relieved I wouldn’t have to be entertaining any guests. And better yet, the delivery man was holding a suspiciously book sized package. When I opened it, it was in fact a copy of House of Leaves!

My new friend Sarah had stuck a Post-It note to the front cover, saying, “This book is a pain in the ass – good luck!” Now that is not the best way to encourage someone to read a book, but I was curious to see why it was apparently so difficult. When I skimmed through the pages, I immediately understood what she meant. Mostly blank pages, strange footnotes, and bizarre amalgamations of text and shape – it is really quite odd!

I haven’t endeavored to actually read it yet because I have an appointment with a German book collector in about an hour. She claims to have a rare copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio (although I am very skeptical about its legitimacy). Once I get back from our meeting, I think I shall dive headfirst into this strange book.