Dedicated to Those Bumps in the Night.
The Boy Who Saw True (the Classic Diary of a Young Boy Who Was Clairvoyant). Metaphysical Fact or Fiction?
A Victorian Child's Clairvoyance
Just finished a fascinating 1950′s metaphysical classic, The Boy Who Saw True. Written by Anonymous and published first in 1953, this is the story of a young Victorian boy (perhaps 10 years old) who writes down his unusual experiences in a diary. In his diary, which is some times day-to-day and later, more infrequent, he explains how he sees colors (auras) around people; gnomes and fairies, and how he is later contacted by an Elder Brother (EB) who helps him discover his extraordinary talents for Clairvoyance. At first, the boy thinks every one else can see the muddy colors surrounding people (like the family maid), but later he is told, this is extraordinary. A tutor, hired by his family, writes down the boy’s visions, and the tutor’s story becomes another story within this story. I found this book so compelling, as the boy grows older, becomes quite ill, explores the unknown, dabbles in art and music. Not only is this a fascinating look at Victorian days (pre-1900), but the famed musical composer/poet/writer/metaphysician Cyril Scott has written the Introduction, Afterword and the Notes.
The book concludes with Anonymous’ wife publishing his last diary entries (several years after his death). The book also contains notes and spelling mistakes corrected by Anonymous who re-read his diaries before he died – yet, another layer added to this many-layered book. The book shown, at top, is 248-pages long, a 3rd printing from 1969. Noted on another site as a classic Metaphysical book, you can find it on Amazon, and I urge you to do so, if you are interested in ESP, Clairvoyance, Cyril Scott, or the Victorian age.
It is hard, these days, for me to find a book I am reluctant to put down – but I was both amused and amazed by the complexity of this work: on its face, a simple diary, but underneath (or above), a detailed journey of spiritualism and self-discovery. Whether Anonymous existed in true life or in Cyril Scott’s vast creative imagination is the question left hanging. But to tell True, it matters not. The book is a literary wonder in a sea of mundane.
Afterword: Many thanks to @Missenscene for gifting me this book discovered at The Last Bookstore in downtown Los Angeles.
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* You can follow me for more insights on Twitter @Psychicchic
A Nissan Moment – a Cosmic Intervention
A Nissan Moment
There was a full moon this past weekend and the moon seemed tinted pink, likely due to the lingering cloud cover over the ocean. The moon was pale pink, the color of a salamander’s tongue and it seemed auspicious, especially because we’d just had an uncommonly good day. We’d been able to put together a purchase of a charming older Nissan compact Versa that had just been marked down on the car lot. There was an interested couple ahead of us, and, as luck would have it, neither that couple or two others that followed snapped it up with cash while we did paper work. So we ended up signing a contract first. We got the car and thanks to a cracker-jack salesman, it went smoothly, for once and would soon be in the hands of a family member who needed it.
On the way to dinner Saturday night, the day before the Nissan was to be picked up, we were driving C’s old beater car, a Chevy Malibu, (the trade-in) and C turned on the radio. We had recently picked up grandma, who is recovering from a stroke and, as she beside me, in the back seat, she was singing, “I once had a Nissan now C has a Nissan,” and so on. When, all of a sudden, after grandma quit singing, C noticed the word “Nissan” on the Malibu’s car radio screen, where the name of a band and the song playing usually goes. The radio was inexplicably tuned to a Spanish station, so C fiddled with changing the channel, ultimately deciding to put it back to the Spanish station. “You won’t believe that it just said ‘Nissan‘,” she repeated. We probably wouldn’t have believed her, since she alone had seen it, but then the word “Nissan” appeared again, and we all saw it, while the Mexican music played in the background. “This is quite strange,” I said, reflecting on the juxtaposition of a large pink moon in the sky and my elderly mother sitting in the back with me, singing about cars.
Finally, when we were seated at the restaurant for dinner, as luck would have it, a Mexican restaurant, C used her phone to search the word “Nissan” to see if there was a band by that name. No band by that name appeared. So, thinking of the pink Moon, I said, “Wouldn’t that be funny if you looked up ‘Nissan’ and it meant ‘magic’ or ‘miracle’ or ‘great good fortune.’ That was a psychicchic kind of joke, but I made it anyway, because things like that happen, from time to time.
“But it does mean miracle” C swooned, as she scrolled down her cell phone. “Nissan” has the same root of the first Hebrew month ‘Nissim’ when all good things, like miracles, happen. Some people say the name of this month is Nissan.”
Without a thought to what the other diners might be thinking, I got up from the table and did a small Happy Dance, mid-room, thanking the Universe for the Nissan and for the affirmation of cosmic intervention (via the Chevy Malibu car radio) broadcasting that small miracles are always possible, if you believe.
And so I say, Thank You, Universe, once again.
The Food and I
I admit it. If it weren’t for Gordon Ramsay and all of his various Food TV shows, I would have toppled over by now. The world is spinning like a wobbly top and I am tuned into those energies. Maddening! The only way I can avoid the frenzy is to watch television shows about Food. I really don’t care who “stars” in the show, hosts or cooks, so long as the main feature is food. That means, over the past few weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time perusing Rocco’s Dinner Parties and Gordon Ramsay’s hellacious kitchens. I’ve watched so many Gordon Ramsay shows, I rather feel like Gordon and I are cousins by now. But I don’t show favorites. I’ve watched Chopped and Next Food Network Star and even Sam the Kitchen Guy (although I may have mistaken him for Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs). I’m so crazy about food, I don’t even care if the TV shows are any good. Rocco’s Dinner Parties are stiff and unappealing, but, hey, so long as there are close-ups of the pork tenderloins, who cares.
The reason I can lose myself in food is that food pays attention to all 5 senses, leaving the 6th sense free to figure out who’s going to win the inevitable contest. There’s always a contest, except for Sam’s show and some times he’s contesting to see if he can reach his personal cooking or baking best. Unlike shows about hoarders or pawn stars or botoxed housewives, shows about food can be quite rapturous. Imagine dollops of caviar spooned freely on your plate, as Rocco offered at one of his parties; or 5 different versions of Gordon’s venison cooked to his Michelin Star perfection. As a sensitive, I can smell and taste the dishes without ever having to leave my couch. That’s one of the many benefits of clairvoyance, but we need not go into that here.
Suffice to say, even if you don’t care a fig about ESP, you can still lose yourself in a cooking show – and believe me, that’s a lot better than being lost in space.
The King of Food
The Fabulous Sir Dr. William Crookes and the Eyeglass Coincidence
Having moved, and totally re-arranged my life, I’ve been more silent than usual lately. The majority of my psychic and paranormal books are still packed in storage boxes. I have just a few on hand to inspire me. Watching the Science Channel’s “Through the Wormhole” has triggered a bit of energy, but not until my coincidence researching the fabulous late British Scientist, Dr. William Crookes, did I come full circle back to the signs of Psi that I experience from time to time.
Below, you will see, a box of colored glass Crookes lenses, sold by Bausch & Lomb likely around 1920. These were part of an antique optical store inventory that we bought about 12 years ago. As I began unpacking, I wandered onto these, and listed them for sale at internet auction. Before I did, I researched their origin, and learned Dr. Crookes developed colored (shaded) lenses (which heralded the development of sunglasses) because he was trying to protect the eyes of glass blowers. The eminent scientist had once blown glass in his younger days and he saw the damage the white-hot flames did to the eyes of glass-blowers (causing cataracts, for example). Using a spectroscope, he found a way to block infrared light – and some optical companies marketed them later (circa 1910-1920). But Sir Dr. Crookes, who discovered the element, Thallium, was a highly decorated scientist, who also believed in Spiritualism. Rigorously testing what he saw and heard from his own meetings with Mediums and from other observations, he staked his reputation, in the late 1800s, asserting the reality of the unexplained as coming from “outside forces.” As a result of his views, he was strongly criticized by the Scientific community and forced to tone down his opinions until later in life.
Today, the world is much more likely to remember Dr. Crookes for his contributions in chemistry, physics and even optics than his belief in the paranormal. But what a coincidence for me to unearth his story – a story I could not have retold if I hadn’t stumbled upon our small box of antique Bausch & Lomb eyeglass lenses. Certainly, it uplifts me that Dr. Crookes, a rigorous researcher, believed science should investigate Psi phenomena. And that was 140 years ago. Still waiting.
Words for the Day: My Obsession
Lately, quite out of character, I have been super-obsessed about a reality TV show that ran this Summer, seemingly without advertisement or promotion of any sort, but on a well-known network.
Obsession as Mystery
Even so, sounded promising, yes? Reality TV, this era’s genre-of-choice can be a star-maker.
I followed, as best I could, the pr for this show, which consisted mainly of the cast members tweeting and face-booking a few months before the air date. The network managed to send out a lukewarm press release, like the kind of City of Los Angeles used to post when they had a street-name-change hearing. No billboards. Very little cross-promotion on any of the network’s other shows. This under-the-radar pr caused my feet to grow cold. From experience writing and promoting, I knew this nearly non-existent marketing was a Sign the network hated the show. Compare and contrast the above absent promotion with Fox’s total adoration- promotion of an upcoming comedy starring Zooey Deschanel. They must run an ad for “The New Girl” every other paid commercial. It is clear Fox Believes in the promise of that program.
Not so with the reality show that flopped like a just-caught carp on the river bank. There was no Love for the reality-show-that-was and the old reporter/pr/psychic in me was wondering Why. This was aMr. Moto Mystery. The show’s premise was good; 80% of the cast was first-rate; the audience was waiting for something to take their mind off their problems (i.e. 1930s Depression; 2011 Recession). But as the program tanked, as sure as Hamlet, I knew some thing was rotten in Denmark, (or shall we say, closer to home). The reason for the show’s failure eluded me, at first, but then my investigative reporter/psychic subconscious went into action. I intuited the producers and their editing team had reduced the show to e coli. for their own benefit. They cut out many of the good story-lines, fabricated some really bad story-lines, and shoved one cast member almost completely out of the picture (literally and figuratively). I know very little about TV production (nothing), but I do know about writing and story-lines and bad editing tricks. I could intuit what the producers did was criminal; it hurt people and doomed the program to failure. As it aired, it was like watching a murder show; death by selective editing.
But why was I so obsessed? It was just a bad TV show.
The roots of my over-focus stemmed from meeting one of the cast members several years ago (and that is all I’m allowing myself to say). A charming personality who deserved to be recognized widely. That in itself, I know,was not enough for trigger an obsession. There had to be something else behind it. As I followed the program, I saw more and more that something was glaringly wrong (at least in my view). The injustice was palpable. And that injustice fueled my obsession.
If we examine our unusual obsessions (so long as they are not focused on bad romance, which is another story), we are likely to see psi at work. My obsession about this program was fueled by the purposeful humiliation I could feel – and later, see. Earlier, I posted an observation that greed (because I think that greed and envy were involved) always turns back on itself and bites the butt of the greedy and the envious. I felt Psi-wise, down the line, the evil-doers would certainly get paid back in bad karma. I didn’t know how or when, I just knew their pay-back would come.
And so it already did. It came quickly, to my surprise, this week, quite publicly, and it is just beginning.
Obsession over.
Are You Living the Sci-Fi Life? Welcome to the Land of Na Nas
Na Na - a big fat zero
My mind ignited today while I was on Twitter. I started tweeting, in successive tweets, a short-short Science Fiction story about Na Na Land, drawn and animated by six-year-olds. This story tells how the six-year-olds have robbed the Na Nas of their brains and turned them into suit-wearing Zeros. Na Nas can do nothing but add zeros to an already long line of Zeros. Na Nas have no other numbers, because they can not think. They are fat heads and the 6-year-olds rule them. The Na Nas do have an Anthem which they march to. It goes something like this, “Hey, hey, goodbye. Na na na na, Na na na na, Na na na, Goodbye.” You might have heard this Anthem in your various travels, here and there, and not known its True importance, until now.
One reason this Na Na story is so short is that 6-year-olds have not yet developed longer attention spans. So they draw a big fat head, wearing a suit (with tie) and then they disappear to ride their bikes or play with their IPhones or whatever 6-year-olds do these days. The story grows no longer. The drawings are the thing.
Since this Na Na tale is so short, I have invited any of my followers to Graffiti a Na Na person on any available wall and leave it as a message and a Sign to others to be wary of what happens when you do not think about the consequences of letting juveniles run your world. Let this be a lesson. If you neglect to use your brain, you too could become a fat head. In other words, a Na Na.
Note to Paranormal Curtain readers: I am currently writing a volume of science fiction short stories. This is not one of them. But it was inspired by our current events.
Peace
How Long Does a Psychic Intuition Last? If You Know, Please Tell Me
It was on the last day of June this year, when I began to receive troubling indications about the health and well-being of one of my daughter’s best friends. He had gone on a trip to Hawaii with a close friend whose father is prominent on the Big island. J couldn’t decide if he should take the all-expense paid trip (everything but the airplane), but, in the end, he went. On July 1, I got this nagging feeling that he was having a really bad day; that he was in emotional, if not physical, trouble. I kept swatting away the feeling like a nosy gnat, but it kept coming back. I wrote down the date “July 1″ and tried to send protection to J. Well, the feeling passed the next day, and when J returned in a week, he reported to my daughter he’d had a wonderful time. No problems, just a vague discomfort about 
snorkeling, which he didn’t like. There always is the possibility J wasn’t telling my daughter the entire story; that he had a spat with his friend that made him uncomfortable. J is so private, I would expect he wouldn’t say anything about that, especially if the fight was resolved. As this pertains to me, however, I rarely, if ever, get such intuitions about people outside my family. I thought it was worth remembering this one, because it was so persistent and I am not related to J.
Fast forward to last Friday, July 22, when J was biking to work. He had decided (probably in Hawaii) that he wanted to bike more often, living the life of a hip biker (in L.A.). At some point in his trip, he fell off his bike and broke his foot. It’s a nasty break, requiring surgery today, and putting him on the couch, with foot elevated for 2 weeks, and then 4-6 weeks on crutches. He needs to work, but obviously can’t for a while. My daughter reports he’s quite depressed about his circumstance: the costs in money and time let alone the pain. I’ve sent healing energies his way, but, as I do, I am drawn back to that feeling of danger I had about him exactly 3 weeks before his accident. If my intuition was a warning of danger, it certainly had a large (to me) window of time: 3 weeks to the day.
And so I ask you, and the Universe, if we receive a psychic warning, exactly how long is its window of time? Three weeks seems too broad for me to count as precognitive, but maybe not, since I subscribe to the theory that all time (past, present and future) is now. Maybe for a psychic it’s difficult, it not impossible, to pin down exact time and place. I’d like to ponder this while J heals.
Back in the Saddle – Holding onto the Horn, and Getting What We Deserve from Washington D.C.
After a long absence, while I packed up and moved out of the house with one or more ghosts, I am back in the saddle. I’m a rusty rider these days; I must hold onto the horn as my phantom horse heads for the hills. The horse knows the way, but my psychic indicators are still fogged up, so I can’t be sure where we will end up. My guess is Anywhere but Here, metaphysically speaking, of course.
The two sides of my brain are at war: the old political reporter sparring with the seer. I’m a big believer in the surreal, but I never thought it would become reality. I missed the psychic boat on this one, that’s for sure. While I was busy figuring out which American’s Got Talent, I thought the chicken-playing government leaders would get on with their jobs. After all, that’s what even Taco Bell expects from its employees – something like “spend your work day productively”, even if than means wrapping burritos and beef and bean tacos in paper sleeves, endlessly. Apparently Taco Bell is a better employer than we are.
This Washington D.C. crisis is/was a good metaphysical lesson for me. it reminds me how fallible my skills are; it’s impossible to hit the old psychic nail on the head 100% of the time. Some of the people I know, who claim to be psychics, think so. But they are fooling themselves, the way we fool ourselves when we think a female singer who looks like Justin Bieber has talent and we should support her. Well, allrighty then. If that’s your priority; if you would rather vote for a reality TV show contestant than your Congressperson, than you are getting what you deserve.And, so am I, because although I’m not consumed with voting for people and things that don’t matter, I haven’t been attending the Town Hall meetings or writing letters or signing petitions when I’ve had the chance. If I only have a wooden nickel to spend these days, well, then that’s what I deserve for taking my third eye off what really matters. 
