Pareidolia, hypnagogia, hypnopompia – and coincidence

It's dark in my bedroom as I wake for a wee. The only light in the room is from the soft digital glow of my thermometer/clock. I'm not wearing glasses. As I return to consciousness I look across at the device. It looks like a negative image of an old yellowed newspaper, shrunken to a tenth of its size and turned anticlockwise... Can't be...! As my eyes adjust to the light and my brain adjusts to being conscious, I make out the three digits separated by a colon: it's 04:44. It's 17.8°C in the room and -6.1°C outside

I look down. I see two kittens on the floor... no, it can't be kittens. They're in the kitchen. It's my sheepskin slippers. I return to bed. There's a cat on my pillow? There isn't. It's my pyjama top... 

The mind plays tricks on you in those liminal spaces between wakefulness and sleep, sleep and wakefulness. Not only what I see, hear and feel, but within my stream of consciousness. I wrote recently about waking up with the name 'Sylvia Bossack' (with that exact spelling) on my mind. This is quite a common phenomenon. 

One I had on Monday night as I was dropping off to sleep: 'Mount Shasta'. I returned to wakefulness to note it down. Later that night, waking up for a wee, the word 'Carrevolins' and the placename 'Bassetlaw' pop up in my stream of consciousness. It is 04:30.

I drop off to sleep again. I dream that I'm back in West Ealing, having my electric scooter serviced at a shop on the Uxbridge Road. (I don't have, and never had, a scooter, electric or otherwise. The shop is where a barber's is currently located). I chat with the young bloke who's looking at my scooter and agreeing the price for the service. He's done the work on this scooter before, and says he still remembers my address, which he's about to jot down on a piece of paper. "44 Rosebank Road," he says. I correct him, giving the Cleveland Road address. 

Waking up on Wednesday morning, 'Puget Sound' floats into my stream of consciousness. Why?

I get out of bed and the first thing I do is to consult my 1973 editions of Kemps Ealing and Hanwell Directory for 1973. The owner of 44 Rosebank Road back then was a Mr A. R. Casseltine. Not a precise match for 'Carrevolins', but – you must admit – close. 

I consult ChatGPT. "Casseltine is an extremely rare surname worldwide – forebears.io estimates there are only 70 individuals with that name globally, with the highest incidence in the United States and only two in England."  Puget Sound? Mount Shasta? Searches revealed people with that surname connected with both places, but spelt 'Caseltine'.  No precise match, unlike the Sylvia Bossack case.

What could such a sign... mean?

And the algorithm gives me the answer, in the form of a talk by Alan Watts, which appeared today, by coincidence, about coincidence, in my YouTube feed. Listen to this, for it is purest gold...

This time last year:
Sleepy time, Christmas to Three Kings

This time last year:
Trains in the snow around Chynów

This time seven years ago:
New football pitch for Jeziorki

This time eight years ago:
The Winter Sublime

This time 14 years ago:
Long train running

This time 15 years ago:
Most Poniatowskiego

This time 17 years ago:
Warsaw well prepared for winter