Among the many weird things that happen to me, looking at the clock is often one of them. No matter where I am, or what I'm doing, I always seem to look at a digital clock when the time is exactly 10:40. It doesn't matter if it's AM or PM--I'll manage to look, see it, and feel a sense of remembrance and, at the same time, a cold shiver. 10:40 seems to haunt me (not in an entirely bad way). Think about it for a moment: what forces in the universe have to be working to get me, several times a week, to see that particular minute? It only happens twice a day, it only happens fourteen times a week--and I manage to catch about half of that.
When my father died (25 years ago today), I was only thirteen years old. I was bitter about it--the reasons aren't important--and it took me years to finally accept the situation for what it was and move on. He had been ill for about two years, and he spent roughly eight months at UCLA Medical Center. The last thing he said (well, spelled out) to me was "I am very proud of you." Although I didn't realize at the time that these were his final words to me, I have recalled them often. I can remember with great clarity the period of his illness as well as the years prior. I can remember UCLA Medical Center and its layout (at the time) in great detail, and I can close my eyes and picture his hospital room. His room number?
1040. Weird.
Observations, rants, and plausible
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
The Village
I AM WRITING!
My Screenplay -- Draft Three
I'm currently reading:
On my Kindle 2
I'm listening to:
iTunes Radio
I'm driving:
The Honda FCX Clarity
Sunday, December 16, 2007, posted by Q6 at 10:40 PM
