I woke up at 3:50 a.m. at the sound of my name.
No one had actually called me. This happens sometimes — I hear my name as clearly as though someone had said it in my ear, loud enough to wake me up, but it is imaginary.
I know the exact time because I turned, as I always do in these cases, to check the exact time on my husband’s digital clock.
Why? Possibly in case this is a matter of psychic thought transference. I will discover that something important happened, and be able to say that I heard an announcement at exactly 3:50. Someone will have died, perhaps, and I can say that it was exactly at 3:50. This last one is no good, though. Anyone close enough to me to be saying my name at the moment of death would not be an intriguing example of psychic transference that I would want to exclaim over later.
It doesn’t actually make me worry, though, because my children don’t call me by my first name and my husband was there, sleeping. I don’t worry over anyone else. We are actually commanded not to worry in the Bible, but for my immediate family, I haven’t quite been able to follow that commandment.
However, if you were up at 3:50 a.m. my time, know my first name, and suddenly thought “I should tell her about this excellent new book” or something, please let me know. It could be a good example of psychic thought transference.
The problem about waking up at this hour is that it isn’t late enough to get up, yet it is too late to go back to sleep easily. I got up and read for a couple of hours, and then drifted off to sleep again just at dawn for half an hour. So I will be a bit groggy all day.
An afternoon nap is called for, I think.
Housework and gardening are also called for. My gardens are becoming excessively jungle-like, and my house is nearly in a jungle-like condition as well. I am also shaping up to miss all this month’s KAL and sewalong deadlines. Fortunately, these are sort of hypothetical imaginary deadlines and no one will care if I miss them.
The Summer Reading Challenge is the one summer -a-long that I am keeping up with, though I think I have not always remembered to post about all the books I am reading. My last two books, a novel by Jennifer Crusie and a Miss Zukas mystery, were entirely what you would have expected them to be. Well written, light, nice summer reads.
I am currently reading Ibid, by Mark Dunn, a novel of sorts consisting only of the endnotes to a lost biography. It is a little reminiscent of S.J. Perelman, when he went past funnily absurd to absurdly stupid. It relies on quirkiness for its humor, but it doesn’t seem to me that things become automatically funnier as they become quirkier. There is a point at which the relationship to the reader is lost, and the reader is left merely admiring the spoofs and allusions — or, in my case, not admiring them.
The critics thought a lot of this book, but I think you would be better off reading the Miss Zukas books, which are filled with quirky people, but only plausibly quirky ones. They also have the advantage of having plots.