Saturday, January 11, 2014


No Sleep by Milosaur

It’s 11:11 p.m. Sometimes, it’s 12:12. And other times it’s 3:33 or, maybe, it’s 4:56.  These clock times engage my imagination. They happen mostly the dark hours, when I wake up, check the time, shake my head and either stagger off to the bathroom, let the cat in or out, or wander around the house for a half an hour until my old joints unkink sufficiently so I can go back to sleep.

I suppose I shouldn’t waste time thinking about whether this means anything, but the problem is that during the '60’s I dabbled in numerology, and that years earlier, sitting on the floor to the off-stage right of a Barbadian bar, this little girl read books about aliens visiting earth in ancient times, which accounts for most of our mythology, or about prehistoric collisions of the earth with Venus, or about contemporary African tribes who somehow or other know all about the invisible-to-the-naked-eye-red-dwarf companion of the blue giant star, Sirius. I’ve been soaking in this other-worldly, one-brick-shy-of-a-load content since I was a post war precocious child, with predictable results.

Whenever I wake up at night, I always look at the clock, and because there is usually some variation of what I take to be a “meaningful” configuration, I’ve begun to imagine these are messages—from somewhere about something. Don’t ask me what, although I’ve spent plenty of 2-4 a.m. hours wondering.

Are these omens, messages from a hitherto uncommunicative universe? 

Is the TARDIS land going to appear in my bedroom? (Cool!)

Is some Nightmarish Being from an occult Lovecraftian dimension with three toes and a long snaky snout lurking just behind the bedroom door?

Is my ship—so long awaited—about to come in?

Or is it all simply a series of unrelated events, just “random chaos ”(as one of my friends has it), business as usual on this particular plane?


Juliet Waldron
Author of Mozart's Wife, Roan Rose, Nightingale
and other historical novels.

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