Art by Milosaurous
It’s 11:11 p.m. Sometimes it’s 12:12 a.m. Sometimes it’s 3:33 or, maybe, it’s 4:56. These are clock times which snag my imagination. They happen mostly the dark hours, when I wake up, look at the glowing dial, shake my head and stagger off to the bathroom, or to let the cat out, or to wander around the house for a bit until my old joints unkink sufficiently so I can go back to sleep. I suppose I shouldn’t waste time thinking about whether these readings mean anything, but the problem is that during the 60’s I dabbled in numerology, and that even earlier, sitting on the floor to the off-stage right of a Barbadian bar, I read books about ancient aliens visiting earth, prehistoric collisions with Venus, or African tribes who knew all about the invisible-to-the-naked-eye-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 child, with predictable results.
Whenever I wake up 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 nights wondering. Are these omens, messages from a hitherto uncommunicative universe?
Will the TARDIS land in my bedroom?
Is an escapee from some hideous Lovecraftian dimension with three long fingers and a long snaky snout waiting just behind the door?
Is my ship--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) which would be, in my experience, business as usual on this particular plane.