"A Feeling of Abnormal Meaningfulness"

Like I needed another psychiatric disorder.

It began with time.

With my watch, with my phone, with the clock on my laptop.

One day, I began to notice with blood-quickening dread that whenever I looked at the clock, it was always 9:11.

There were other times over the course of the day, of course - less meaningful, less fraught - but it seemed like every 9:11, twice a day, every day, I happened to look at the clock.

This is what I thought when I did:

Fuck.

I was raised with strict religion, with what Kurt Vonnegut referred to as “hocus-pocus.” Nothing, I was taught, just happens. Everything is a sign from God – that something bad is going to happen, that some sin has been committed, that some terrible punishment was around the corner.

It seems a foolish system for a perfect Being – why send signs to we who cannot possibly interpret them? Coyness seems beneath You -  but though I am no longer practicing, I am still possessed.

“It’s always 9:11,” I said to Orli when I first noticed it.

“It can’t always be 9:11,” she said.

“I know how time works,” I replied. “But it seems that whenever I look at the time, it’s nine eleven.”

“So?”

“So it’s an omen.”

“An omen?”

“Yes.”

“A good omen?”

“There are good omens?”

“Yes,” she said. “You just don’t see them.”

“I don’t see how it being 9:11 all the time could possible be a good omen.”

Lately, it’s been getting worse.

Lately, everything is 9:11.

How much time’s left on the microwave? 9:11.

What time does the bus leave? 9:11.

What is the cost of the car repair? “With tax… that comes to $911, Boss.”

How long have I been on the treadmill? 9 minutes, 11 seconds. The model number of the treadmill is Model 911, the sign at the front of the cardio section says “In case of injury, dial 911” and there’s a Porsche 911 parked next to my Prius.

I try to discern what it’s all supposed to mean. Should I avoid Lower Manhattan? Financial districts? Planes? I know what you’re thinking, because it’s what everyone I tell this to thinks the same thing:

“He’s bananas.”

But there it is:

Only two people I ever told about this ever reported the same experience.

One is a filmmaker from Canada. We had been trying to connect for a while, and one day he phoned and asked, “Is this a good time?”

I checked the clock.

It was 9:11 PM.

“Not really,” I said. “It’s 9:11.”

“It’s always 9:11.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Whenever I check, it’s 9:11. Maybe I should call you back.”

That was in September of last year. Six weeks later his sister was kidnapped and murdered by Hamas.

The other person who understood is a writer named Ramzy. Ramzy is a fourth-generation Palestinian in the Jenin refugee camp. We met at a festival in Australia.

“Oh my God, yes!” he said when I told him it was always 9:11. “Always!”

“It’s an omen,” I said. “A bad omen.”

“Of course,” said Ramzy. “All omens are bad omens!”

Three months later, just after the October 7^th Hamas attack, an Israeli rocket destroyed his home. Two of his nephews were killed.

Apophenia is the tendency to find meaning in otherwise random patterns, defined by psychiatrist Klaus Conrad as “unmotivated seeing of connections accompanied by a specific feeling of abnormal meaningfulness.”

What's interesting about that is that "the tendency to find meaning in otherwise random patterns" is not just an accurate description of religious belief, it is also, according to Conrad, an early sign of schizophrenia.

That sounds harsh, both to the devout and the schizophrenic, but I don’t mean it to be. In fact I wonder if perhaps, up to a point, this is not a disorder – if this is simply what it means to be human, if it’s simply a part of what we humans are, terrified souls trapped in physical bodies, desperately trying to find a pattern, a meaning, a message.

That’s not to suggest that we should take these patterns seriously. I don’t believe my microwave foretold October 7th, and that’s not Jesus Christ on your toast, it’s just some burn marks.

But when I look around at the world today, I suspect that Conrad’s “ feeling of abnormal meaningfulness” might be less of a problem than a feeling of abnormal meaninglessness. Trust me, no one is happier about the death of God than I; but I’ve begun to wonder if in the drive-by that took God out, Mystery and Magic took a few bullets, too.

All I know is that after saying goodbye to Ramzy in Australia and getting to the airport for my trip home, I noticed my flight was Flight 11.

Departing from Gate 9.

Fuck.

Yours in the fetal position,

S.

Note: This post has 911 words.

Note 2: It doesn’t really - but admit it, that freaked you out.

illustrations by orli auslander