Psychic Phenomenon

Normally I don't give much credence to psychics.

Nostradamus might be the notable exception. But then, given the number of years that have passed and the vagueness with which his predictions were couched -- due, no doubt, to the need to not be sounding like he was actually predicting some Royal would get his eye put out with a spear while jousting . . .

Jean Dixon claimed to have foreseen JFK’s assassination, albeit with the need to translate “A black cloud hovers over the White House” into Lee Harvey Oswald firing magic bullets from a warehouse window.

My feelings weren’t dissuaded when I found myself living on Kauai with someone who claimed to channel Mary -- as in the Mother of Jesus.

Happily, she didn’t try this at home.

Her self-assigned name was Aurienna Astara -- admittedly flashier than the one her mother gave her. I first encountered her as a disgruntled customer of SuperPhone -- the first-of-its-kind phone attendant, similar to, but better than MCI's, in my humble opinion, that I had developed while living on Kauai.

Being able to have someone reach you when you had no phone is what attracts Aurieona. She’s temporarily living on the beach. This particular beach has a pay phone. Great for making calls. Clumsy for taking them -- that is, until SuperPhone came along.

Once you set up your account, you could give SuperPhone the number of a phone you would be near -- even a pay phone.

That’s just the sort of thing a beach dweller could use! -- that is, of course, if one were able to successfully set up one's account.

I thought the instructions were clear enough. Apparently not.

She spent next to her last $9.95 for our starter kit. Every time she called the system and entered her password, it told her there was no such extension and suggested she try again. This necessitated putting more quarters in the phone. After exhausting her supply she was fit to be tied!

Aurieona comes storming into my shop accosting my nephew who worked with me. He has no idea what she’s talking about, so he punts -- sending her to me.

Turns out when the instructions said to press the asterisk when the system first asks for your passcode, she thought that was a footnote reference.

I walk her through the setup, then say, “Your account is now set up. I’m still happy to refund your purchase, if that’s what you’d like."

“No!” she all but yells. “I need that! It’s my lifeline until I get another phone or get off the beach.”

This is the first I’ve heard about the beach.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing living on the beach?”

I’ll spare you her 30-minute explanation. Suffice it to say, the company that shipped her car from Oahu to Kauai managed to drop it off in the ocean -- along with all of her worldly possessions, packed to the ceiling inside her car. While waiting for a settlement check, she had no place to go.

I say, “If you’re not above couch-surfing, you’d be welcome to stay at my place until your check comes through.”

And that’s how I found myself living with Aurieona. From her beach days she had already made friends with similarly-minded new-agers on the Island. Within weeks of moving in, she asks if I would drive her an hour and a half up north to attend a Friday evening “session.”

* * *

It looks more like a séance than a meeting. A dozen or so people -- mostly women -- sit on cushions on the floor around a floor-to-ceiling pole, candles providing the only source of light.

Thankfully, we aren’t required to hold hands or chant. After introductions, everyone gets quiet for a moment. Then -- what appears to me to be spontaneous -- one of the women starts speaking.

Her eyes are open.

She talks maybe a bit slower than normal, but in her own voice.

Aurieona leans over to me to whisper that this lady is channeling the Mother Mary.

How nice.

To me, the thoughts are simply a bunch of bumper-sticker platitudes strung together -- not unlike the ones in the movie, Life of Brian.

Be nice to your mother.

Look both ways before crossing the street.

Make sure your shoes are tied -- but not together.

That sort of thing.

The word love figures prominently in the short discourse.

A couple others take turns channeling who knows who.

I’m a bit taken aback when Aurieona takes the floor.

She, too, is apparently channeling Mary.

Somehow this seems like a different personage than the “Mary” we heard from before.

This one is giving very specific admonitions to very specific individuals.

After a few “do’s” and "don’ts,” this Mary gets prophetic, telling specific people what they can expect to have happen (or not) in the very near future.

Polite smiles all around.

Aurieona is a tough act to follow. No one else feels the urge to channel after that.

The meeting breaks up. Pleasantries abound.

We drive home in silence for the first 45 minutes. Then Aurieona starts evaluating the various channelers -- giving particular attention to the other Mary.

This is just like after church, I think to myself. Critiquing the message and/or the messenger must be a universal trait . . .

“She’s faking,” Aurieona says, matter-of-factly.

“Did you notice she never says anything specific?

"It’s all a bunch of mush.

"You don’t see me doing that. I say whatever comes to me.”

I can’t help rephrasing that last bit to read comes to mind.

I don’t have the heart to ask how much of what comes to her or her mind is verifiable.

I did notice that the group feel was more one of tolerance than admiration when she had the floor.

* * *

On a subsequent channeling outing, we come back earlier than before.

Aurieona says a group of students from some Scandinavian school of astral projection is midway between where we’re coming from and where we’re going. They’re offering readings for $5.00. It gives them a chance to practice on real people and real people a chance to experience what a reading is like.

She says, “They’re trained to view the astral plane where there’s no such thing as time. That’s how they can reach into the future or see into the past.”

“OK," I say, "I’m in.”

The group has acquired an upper room of sorts. In addition to a main lobby, they’ve curtained off private consultation “rooms” at either end.

Aurieona pays for both of us. She immediately goes off with a woman who seems to glide, as opposed to walk.

A younger girl -- maybe 17 or 18 -- approaches me.

She reaches out with both hands as if I need help getting up.

No sooner do we sit down -- she on one side of a small table, I on the other -- then she says, “What are you doing with that woman?”

Quite an intro, I think to myself.

“What woman?” I ask. I’m not entirely sure who she might be talking about.

“The one who brought you," she says.

“She’s my roommate,” I clarify.

“Get rid of her! She’s no good!” she blurts out.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, a little calmer. “I probably shouldn’t have phrased it like that. I should have said, ‘She’s not good for you. You should consider making other living arrangements.’”

This seems odd, coming from someone who has just gotten paid by the one she’s now bad mouthing.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say.

“She’ll drag you down. She’s only interested in what she can get from you. She’s playing you. She's a gold digger.”

“And how might you know this?” I inquire.

“I can see it in the astral plane.”

Naturally, I think to myself, but instead, say, “OK, I think we’re done here,” a little offended that someone I’ve never met before is so willing to disparage my friend.

I wait nearly an hour for Aurieona to finish her reading.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“Not my cup of tea,” I answer.

* * *

That was not my first encounter with a psychic.

For that, we’d have to turn back the clock by a number of years.

We would have to meet my oldest brother, Bud.

He had started a computer company -- Advanced Business Systems -- doing business in Northern California. There was some question as to whether it was properly registered. He had set it up as a Delaware corporation, but in order to do business in California, some paperwork had to be submitted that would allow him to be -- Doing Business As.

He says his lawyer must have dropped the ball.

Whatever.

Whoever dropped the ball can take the rap for the State of California issuing a Cease and Desist order regarding further sale of Advanced Business Systems stock.

While it was addressed to him -- CEO of Advanced Business Systems -- and delivered to his address, the company he was ostensibly the CEO of was listed as Advanced Business Systems, with an address more than 800 miles south of him in San Diego.

He tracks down that Advanced Business Systems, only to discover that it is a purely California corporation.

He thinks to himself, No problem. I’ll be more than happy to honor this cease and desist order which forbids me from selling stock in Advanced Business Systems of San Diego. That leaves me free to continue selling stock in my own Delaware corporation doing business in California as Advanced Business Systems. And that’s what he does.

The State of California is not amused. They hold him in contempt of court, charging that he violated a direct order from the court. Bud’s court-appointed lawyer is overworked and underpaid -- delighted that Bud wants to assist in his own defense.

When testimony is introduced to the effect that the State of California determined Bud’s company was not properly licensed, by running the name of his company through its computers, Bud wonders exactly how that process works.

After court recesses for the day, he makes his way to Sacramento, where the computer that allegedly pointed the finger at him and his company is physically located.

It’s 4:35 when he gets there. The door is locked. He knocks anyway. Persistence sometimes pays off.

A geeky-looking, acne-enhanced, close-to-a-teenager comes to the door. “We’re closed,” he yells.

“I know,” my brother yells back. “I just need to ask you something.”

Apparently the difficulty of communicating through thick glass prods the guy to unlock the door and invite Bud in.

“If you were to run a check on a company that filed for a license four years ago, what exactly would be the procedure?”

“That’s easy,” the geek says. “We couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Couldn’t run a computer check.”

“Why not?”

“We just got this system two years ago. We’ve been loading it with current filings first. We haven’t even loaded the records for the time frame you’re talking about.”

“No kidding . . .”

Bud thanks him for his time and makes a beeline for his lawyer’s office.

Lucky for Bud, his lawyer is working late. Bud tells him of his find and suggests that they subpoena this geek to counter the testimony of what turns out to be his boss's testimony given that same day.

If they move quickly, they can serve him the next morning and have his testimony by the end of the week!

The next morning when the sheriff goes to the office in Sacramento to serve the geek, he’s told he can’t.

The kid died in a car accident the previous night when his car ran off the side of a mountain . . .

Hold that thought.

My brother considers himself to be a man of words. He fires up his computer and gens up a 400-page document, telling the judge everything Bud thinks the judge has screwed up so far regarding his case.

For starters, defendants aren’t supposed to have direct contact with judges. Any communication should be directed through counsel -- that’s before specifics in the content of the document are even considered.

Long story short, the judge -- well within his rights -- ostensibly wants to make sure my brother isn’t crazy. He orders him to spend 90 days in Chino for psychiatric evaluation . . .

* * *

Here’s where things get interesting . . .

During this period, family members are not allowed to visit him. He isn’t allowed any outside calls. His own lawyer can’t interact with him, inasmuch as he’s there for psychiatric evaluation, not for some legal infraction.

But get this: A woman, holding herself out to be a real estate agent, visits him four times while he’s there! Bud is released into her custody after the 90 days is up.

As frosting on this cake, when he gets back up north, the judge summarily dismisses all charges in his case with prejudice . . .

What’s with that?!

Her name is Margaret.

When I ask her what gives, she tells me she had a dream.

In this dream she is instructed to take care of my brother for the rest of his life -- which, by the way, she does -- right up to the day he dies of a heart attack some years later.

She pays the rent on his house; pays for his food and clothing; pays for expensive office space (at $50,000 a month!) in Victorville where they live.

She hires nearly a dozen people to help him establish and run the Oversoul Foundation -- the only church/foundation combination recognized by the IRS.

She pays for him to go to Rome, to go on cruises, and to bring his son down to Victorville for the summer.

She pays for a limousine to take him to his youngest daughter’s graduation in Paradise, California, as well as presumably for the white tuxedo he wears -- all because of this “dream.”

Included in the dream is a powder-blue Rolls Royce and two Delorians.

Bud thinks the dream is funded by Uncle Sam . . .

Say what?!

As it turns out, there is another court case going on in California at the same time as his -- dealing with the exact same issue. Someone is purportedly selling stock in a company that is not properly registered -- a four-year-old company that presumably comes to the attention of authorities when they run the same type of nonexistent computer scan . . .

This other defendant -- unrelated to Bud’s company or case in any way -- has a highly recognizable last name.

Happens to be the same as the then current president of the United States, who at the time, is Ronald Reagan.

Interestingly enough, Mr. Reagan’s case is summarily dismissed on the same day as my brother’s . . .

It’s Bud’s contention that had this issue of California’s computer not being able to run scans on thousands of companies come to light, a whole lot of cases would have to be thrown out.

A lot of wrongfully convicted CEOs would doubtless be filing a lot of suits -- or one whopper of a class action suit against the State of California.

It wouldn’t make for a pretty picture.

In his view, the State of California had already demonstrated its willingness to dispatch the young programmer who unwittingly let the cat out of the bag.

It’s my brother’s considered opinion that Margaret -- who Bud thinks actually works for the NSA -- insures that Bud won’t spill the beans, in exchange for the State of California agreeing to allow him to continue breathing -- a not-so-subtle thank you for inadvertently helping young Reagan.

It’s at least a working hypothesis . . .

What’s this got to do with psychics?

Well, I’ll tell you . . . Margaret -- who is, in fact, a realtor -- visits a certain psychic once a week. Bud thinks this is how she gets her working orders. He thinks the real estate angle is just a cover . . .

* * *

Margaret invites me to a pre-paid psychic session on a number of occasions.

I respectfully decline. Psychics give me the heebie jeebees.

Finally I relent, when she says I can just get up and walk out anytime I’m uncomfortable. She pays for the session and tells me she’ll pick me up in an hour.

A squat, pasty-looking man sits behind his desk.

I sit in the chair in front of him.

After sizing me up for a minute or two, he leads off with: “You don’t believe in this stuff, do you?”

Good intro!

I don’t say anything.

He continues, “I’m certainly not going to try to change your mind. I do, however, have something I’d like to share with you, if you're interested. If not, that’s fine too.”

I figure, What the heck -- I’m here. I may as well listen. I nod for him to continue.

“You’ll be meeting three men in the not-too-near future,” he begins.

“They’ll make you richer than you can possibly imagine.”

“I don’t know,” I venture, “I have a pretty vivid imagination.”

“So I’m told,” he says. “Pick a number.”

I think for a bit, then say, “If someone gave me $100,000 that’d be more than I could imagine.”

He scoffs with a nasal laugh. “You can do better than that!”

Encouraged by this affront, I say, “OK then, a million -- If someone gave me a million dollars, I’d be blown away.”

He maintains his somewhat cynical composure -- piercing through me with a steady gaze: “Think bigger -- Much bigger.”

By this time, I figure him for a total whack job. Why he’s doing this is beyond me. “Well, if you say so,” I say, checking my watch.

“No need to believe,” he says. “Just remember what I told you.”

With that, he gets up to see me to the door.

I don’t give it much thought -- until nearly 10 years later -- when one man gives me seven-and-a-half million dollars. Another nearly three million, another, one million and 180 others collectively all told give me more than 16 million dollars . . .

* * *

Ten years hasn’t happened yet at the time I’m living with Aurieona.

One day she comes home all excited.

Some guy from Germany is going to be on the north shore. Her new-age buddies have invited him to their place for his first meeting.

I have to smile when she says everyone needs to bring a $30 cash donation . . . Right! . . .” as Bill Cosby used to say in his Noah bit.

At the appointed time, we drive up north. The meeting is in the same private house with the living room designed around a center post about a foot thick. Thirty people take their places in a circle around the post.

Our guest is introduced.

With no chit chat, he begins.

Starting with the first person to his left, he opens with: “You and your sister have been at war with each other ever since you were kids. You're both 70 now. It’s time to bury the hatchet.”

At this, the woman, under his almost kind stare, bursts into tears.

“I know what she did,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve suffered a thousand fold from fighting over this these many years. Let it go.”

The woman has an almost pleading look on her face.

“I said Let go. Tell her it’s over.”

Without waiting for a response, he moves directly to the next victim -- my nephew.

“You’re not from this planet, are you?” he says, more than asks.

“You’re from Pleiades. That’s why you never feel like you fit in.”

I can see what he’s saying is resonating with Young Dave.

One by one he says something so specific, it’s hard to believe he could have researched each case. He hits the nail squarely on the head -- every time.

I’m near the end of the circle. Aurieona hadn’t confirmed that we would even be attending until the very last minute before we left home. She and I aren’t close enough to divulge much about me in any event. I’ve only met one other person from this group before this evening.

He sizes me up as if wondering whether he should even broach the topic. Finally he turns his head quizzically and asks, “Why does your mother hate men so much?”

That isn’t what I’m expecting at all. I think about it before saying, “I don’t know that she does.”

“Oh, she does! Believe me,” he says, laughing at my disbelief. “I’m asking you why.”

“Possibly because her first husband -- my dad -- left her, me and my two brothers for a 16-year-old girl?”

“That would do it,” he grins.

A few days later on a flight from Kauai to Oahu, I find myself sitting next to you’ll-never-guess who.

He’s acting like a kid in a candy store.

He’s combined ten or more of his $30 gift-donations to buy a pair of Maui Gem sunglasses. Admittedly they’re pretty cool. They have something like 17 layers in each lens that cuts glare like there’s no tomorrow. But the way he gushes over them seriously reminds me of a little kid. I can’t get him to talk about anything else for at least 10 minutes!

Finally, I ask him: “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” he asks innocently.

“How are you able to be so specific?”

He says, “The astral plane.”

Oh boy. Here we go again with the astral plane

We happen to be flying over some low cloud cover. He looks out the window.

“It’s a lot like those clouds,” he says. “You notice I asked everyone for their birth name and date of birth?”

“I did. What’s with that?”

“As soon as I focus on a name, it’s like a beacon turns on on top of a flag pole sticking up through the clouds. I can consciously go to that light and get a total readout of that person in as much detail as I care to.”

I say, “I heard there’s no time there.”

“There isn’t,” he confirms. “I can see what's happened, what’s happening and what’s going to happen -- what’s happening inside that person’s brain right now.”

“But you do more than just tell what someone’s done or will be doing,” I persist.

“I’m Gestalt trained,” he says. “Usually that involves hours and hours -- sometimes months or years on a couch, trying to figure out what the problem is. The astral plane shortcuts that whole process. I can know instantly why they’re where they are. Gestalt tells me what they need to do to get out of their present predicament.”

* * *

So am I a believer?

I can’t dismiss it all out of hand.

The astral student,

the pasty psychic,

and now this guy from Germany -- they seem to have more than spin or clever turns of a phrase going for them.

I haven’t called any of those 900-number psychics at 99 cents a minute — Nor do I plan to.