Lost Numbers Day

It’s official, those numbers have returned…but I lost a day so lets make up for it now!

Yesterday, April 8th 2015, marked Lost Numbers Day…a day when the Lost hatch numbers fell back into alignment.

4   8   15   16   23   42


If you don’t recognize those numbers let me explain.

Lost (2004–2010) was a television series, created by J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof, about the aftermath of a plane crash on a mysterious tropical island somewhere in the South Pacific.

So why was April 8th 2015 Lost Number Day?

April 8th 2015
April 8th 2015

The first three numbers in the sequence relate to the fourth month (April), the day (8th) and the year (2015) but how do you explain the next three numbers? Well it’s the time 16:23:42 as shown in 24 hour clock mode as the Hour:Minutes:Seconds

The Numbers

In 1988, slightly more than 16 years before the crash of Oceanic Flight 815, Danielle Rousseau’s science team picked up a mysterious short-wave transmission from the island. The transmission was merely six numbers repeated over and over again: 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. She wasn’t the only one who heard them. The same transmission was also picked up by a U.S. Navy long wave transmission monitoring station where Leonard Simms and Sam Toomey worked.

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Poem: Vagabond’s House

Vagabond’s House 

by Don Blanding


When I have a house . . . as I sometime may . . .
I’ll suit my fancy in every way.
I’ll fill it with things that have caught my eye
In drifting from Iceland to Molokai.
It won’t be correct or in period style,
But . . . oh, I’ve thought for a long, long while
Of all the corners and all the nooks,
Of all the bookshelves and all the books,
The great big table, the deep soft chairs,
And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs
(It’s an old, old rug from far Chow Wan
That a Chinese princess once walked on).

My house will stand on the side of a hill
By a slow, broad river, deep and still,
With a tall lone pine on guard nearby
Where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry.
A flagstone walk, with lazy curves,
Will lead to the door where a Pan’s head serves
As a knocker there, like a vibrant drum,
To let me know that a friend has come,
And the door will squeak as I swing it wide
To welcome you to the cheer inside.

For I’ll have good friends who can sit and chat
Or simply sit, when it comes to that,
By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze
And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.
I’ll want a wood box, scarred and rough
For leaves and bark and odorous stuff,
Like resinous knots and cones and gums,
To toss on the flames when winter comes.
And I hope a cricket will stay around,
For I love it’s creaky lonesome sound.
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