Archive for the ‘Psychic’ Category

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“OMG, I am musically psychic,” said the text that I sent to my friend today.  She wrote back that I was scaring her.  Scaring her, because she knows the history, knows the evolution of my declaration.  She knows that my sister co-signed for me in June so I could lease a brand new car and rid myself of the claptrap used VW I bought when, a year earlier, a texting FedEx driver creamed my awesome Subaru Forester.  She knew that my new ride came equipped with six months of free Sirius XM radio and that, punky 80s DJ that I used to be, the first thing I did was tune that sucker to First Wave, the channel that plays all the new wave I used to love so much back in the day.  I told this friend, after driving my new car off the lot, story after story of songs that would play on my favorite channel immediately after I had been thinking of something related.

For instance, I drove past a building in my town one evening.  It was the building that housed the office of a woman I used to know.  She was a tad “out there.”  She fancied herself a tamer of men.  A “Dom” in the world of BDSM.  She even claimed to have the hots for me at one point.  As soon as my car passed the front door of that office building, The Dominatrix Sleeps Tonight floated out through the speakers in my car.  I just had to laugh.  And laugh and laugh and laugh.

About a month before that happened, I was driving to Montclair to visit an awesome woman, who doesn’t fancy herself as anything except what she really is:  a gem.  A lovely person.  A true friend.  The clouds to the north were whimsical and bright, glowing in the setting summer sunlight.  One, directly ahead of me, looked incredibly like an angel with wings.  As soon as I thought to myself that I could really use an angel right then, to help me find a job and get my life back on track, my trusty radio delivered.  Send Me An Angel by Real Life came up, right on cue.  It was so freaky I couldn’t even cry.  But I wanted to.

In early October I was in the car and stopped at a long red light.  Someone finally answered a text I had sent earlier and, because I knew I had a moment, I peeked.  The text was simply that omnipotent, one-word expression of incredulity.  “Really?”  Quickly, while the light was still red, I typed back a response.  “Yes!  I kid you not.”  Send.  Green light.  Radio?  A nice segue into Would I Lie To You? by Eurythmics.  I reported this freakiness to my friend when I saw her ten minutes later.  She got shivers up and down her spine.

Today I drove my sweet new car to Newark, NJ.  On Broad Street, I passed a fried chicken place.  I don’t know why, but I thought of all those chicken bones.  Some of them end up on the sidewalk.  It’s kind of disgusting.  My mind maintained the disgusting theme and drifted to all the rats that must be attracted to the discarded chicken bones every night and it would have immediately drifted to a more pleasant thought had it not been for that crazy radio.  Right then it chose to play Rat In My Kitchen by UB40.  That’s when I decided, as soon as I was safely parked in a convenient spot at a convenient lot, to text my friend about my musically psychic abilities.

In Brooklyn, I used to walk under streetlamps and they would turn off, if they were on, or on, if they were off.  At CBS, when I was a stage manager at The Early Show, I would get a tingling feeling and know that I would soon be asked to travel for the show, usually when I happened to look up at the sky and see, first thing, a jet heading somewhere far away.  I would just know.  And then it would happen.

I don’t really feel as if I am gifted with psychic abilities.  I don’t even know if I believe in psychic abilities.  But I do, definitely, believe in the interconnectedness of all things.  And I believe in the math of everything, the universe as numbers, music as a beautiful representation of the simple and complicated Mathematics around us, within us.  Numbers are important to me.  I have more than two dozen softball jerseys with the number 17 on the back.  Do not try to give me the number 6!  I truly dislike the number 6.  For the rest of my life I will wish I had never seen the movie The Omen, or read the book, because I’m sure the number 6 is a very nice number.  Just keep it away from me!

One of my favorite bands is Heaven 17, who took their name from A Clockwork Orange, from the scene when they all go record shopping.  The date 7/17 means a lot to me because it sounds like the name of the band.  My friend, the one who gets freaked out when I tell her of any new radio coincidence, was born on 7/17 so I have told her it is a sign that we were meant to be friends, that we will always be friends.

And now, it’s the number 42 popping up everywhere.  First it was the awesome movie about Jackie Robinson.  Then it was Mo, one of my favorite Yankees of all time.  It was the summer of Mo as he was celebrated, wherever he went, as the greatest closer the game of baseball has ever seen and likely will ever see.  Then 42 popped up somewhere else important, but because I’m 13 years past 42 and getting forgetful, I can’t for the life of me recall where it was or what it meant.  Scary.  No, I remember now.  A friend was working on a blog called 52 faces.  She was posting pictures and words of and about people she thought were interesting, once a week.  She had called me and asked me to participate and of course, self-centered egotist that I am, I said yes.  Then my piece appeared.  I was person 42.  Here’s a link:  http://52faces2013.blogspot.com/2013/10/52-faces-week-42-kim-miller-storyteller.html   And then a friend said he was thinking of buying a new house, where my girls and I could live with him and his family, that it was big enough for all of us and that the address was, of course, 42 Something Street, in a lovely part of town.  But why 42?  Well, I had just recently returned to one of my favorite novelists, Douglas Adams and according to Adams, in his 5-book Hitchhiker’s trilogy (yes, a 5-book trilogy), he explains the planet Earth as a giant computer, an experiment built by ancient and super-intelligent aliens to help them discover the meaning of life, the universe and everything.  The answer, finally?  42.  The meaning of life is 42.  I had read that decades ago and completely forgotten.  42.  Of course!

Where am I going with all of this?  If I were truly psychic I would know.  But I don’t.  Because I’m not.  If I were I would make a living at it, to generate an income and get out of my unemployment rut.  But I have no idea what might happen tomorrow, or next week, or next year.  I only know, for certain, that we are all connected and it takes all our collective energy to drive this blue-green marble wherever we want it to go.  We should all start paying better attention to the messages we’re sent, in all kinds of freakish ways.

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