Being Psychic

Escapade At The Pink Hotel

Tuesday, May 29th, 2012

My Sister Polly At Home Before She Shot Me For Writing This Blog

My sister Polly calls me, breathless about something.

“Venus” she says,  “you have to drive me down the mountain to the hospital. There’s a bird in the van and I have to bring him home. And, I have to drive the van home, too!”

It’s 5:30 PM. I am naked, wrapped in an old bathrobe, and lying on my bed. I am tired.

“What bird?” I ask. “What van? Why is the bird at the hospital?”

Polly always says whatever is in her head at the moment and she seems to assume that you have been in there with her and have been following along.

“Well, the bird can’t stay in the van,” says Polly, reasonably. “I’m coming right over to get you.”

Now I won’t get to eat dinner or watch the news or take a rest. And, I can’t go down the mountain naked. I will have to get dressed.

“Polly, you aren’t making any sense,” I say. “How did some bird get to the hospital in a van?”

Okay, Dear Readers, I will spare you what I went through trying to get the full story. But, before I got the gist and the punchline, I did end up screaming and shouting because Polly kept throwing out the details in no order whatsoever.

I will save your patience and tell you what happened and why and how a hunting raptor with heavy, sharp talons and a thick yellow beak, wearing a brown cloth hood, ended up in a white van at the hospital an hour away from us.

Polly’s forty-year-old son, Josh, has fallen off a two story hotel roof.

Yes, that’s what has happened and now I suppose you want to know the rest of the story. (more…)

Mother And The Chinese Doctors

Monday, April 30th, 2012

Mom's Chinese Doctor


My mother and I thought it was a good idea at the time.

I say, “Mom. Let’s go down the mountain and see a Chinese herbalist and get me some Chinese herbs to mix up and brew. I know they’ll make me feel better.”

“Good idea, honey,” my mother says. “You always have such good ideas.”

(This all happened many lives ago, while I was divorcing my second and last husband, and I was a physical and emotional wreck. I needed a cure.)

Off we chug; down the mountain to a quirky place called Hillcrest where I quickly find just the right little shop for me. It’s dark inside.  From the ceiling hang swaths of  dried plants. Glass jars packed with ground, pulverized, and shaved herbs (and probably beetles and dung and dragonfly heads), sit on shelves.

Oh yum. I forget all about my unhappiness with the Bad Husband.  (more…)

Dead Man Talking

Tuesday, February 28th, 2012

I’m asleep when I realize I’m having a dream within a dream.

Bruce is here and he’s talking to me.

Bruce is dead.
I know he’s dead and I know in my dream that he is dead. He tells me he has some messages that he wants me to give to his wife, my friend and art painting partner, Regina.
“Why can I talk to Bruce when I can’t reach my mother,” I hear myself whining at the bottom corner of the “dream.”

My mother died over a year ago and I have had little contact with her since.

Bruce died five years ago, when he was fifty, after a ghastly run with colon cancer.

It was a long run. He had been a handsome, strong, vital man. A brilliant man. We were friends.

Toward the end of his life he lay like a waxen, hairless skeleton on his couch. I sat beside him in a chair and rubbed and soothed his bald head. He told me if he could change things he would never have had chemo.

When Bruce was in hospice and hours away from dying Regina called and asked me to go into his head and tell them what he wanted. He was restless, she said. He desperately wanted something and he couldn’t talk.


contact me now to get a reading CONTACT NOW