Hidden Places in Time

I don’t have any trouble sleeping. But over the last few months, and probably because of the heat, I’ve woken up near midnight-1:00 a.m. quite a few times. Typically, I’d just lay there until I fell back asleep. But somewhere in there, perhaps on a particularly restless night, I got up, got a glass of milk, and went out to my balcony to smoke a cigarette. There, I sat, smoked and listened to the radio while sipping on a tall glass of milk. I’m something of an NPR junkie, and it just so happens that my NPR station broadcasts the BBC World Service in the wee hours of the night. Anyway, it’s a bit like discovering a hidden spot, a place in time when a combination of diverse elements coincide, and I know when and where. I enjoy it so, that if I happen to wake up during that special time, I no longer try to go back to sleep. I get up, get my milk, and take in the BBC, the night, and a cigarette on my balcony. And I’m not even a milk drinker. But the milk is important. So is the cigarette, and the dead of the night, but the BBC, those English accents half a world away, are what’s most important. They are the hidden ingredient. The sound of them is what turns my balcony in California into a God’s perch where I can survey the world. *