I often determine whether or not I am “going in the right direction” depending on the level of coincidence and synchronicity I find in my life at any particular time… this past week or so, it’s been off the charts, I thought I’d share some of it, and invite you to share your own synchronistic experiences with us!
I have a cat. He is a ridiculous cat, whose birthday falls five days after that of my boyfriend. Cats I’ve always found aloof, but the Orange Baron is special. He appeared in my living room, with a woman named Michelle, a foster mom to abandoned kittens rescued in various locations around Los Angeles, about a year ago.
It was her deceased brother who had helped me get my first $1 a word writing assignment over a decade ago. She passed on the news that his long-time companion had recently passed away in his sleep; that fellow had been very close friends with a now-dead former room-mate of mine, by coincidence
Some nights ago I scanned an ancient interview with psychedelic researcher, Terence McKenna. Nine pages in, at the very end, my co-author pokes fun at the fact that Terence is trying to set my up with his only son, born the same year I was. His name is Finn. So is my cat’s.
Just the other day, I asked for a guest list spot for a friend’s lecture. No problem, he says, and asks me when Cheap Trick is coming back to town, who we had seen together last year. I go online; they’ve got a one-off show in Boston. No local luck, even though they play 200+ shows a year. In the morning, I click on the radio. Cheap Trick ticket give-away coming up; a local show had been announced that morning. No tour, just two random gigs, one a mile from my house, the other in Boston.
A few hours later, I get a call… from Boston. My boyfriend had been the victim of a hit-and-run there, asks me to price out body shops. I post a plea on Facebook, and get one and only one response, from a fellow whose acquaintance I first made when he was doing publicity for a band I was writing about.
The band, of course, happened to be Cheap Trick.
I get tea with some friends that come to Mr. Cheap Trick’s lecture with me. Around us, tables have numbers on them–78, 53. The waiter places #9 on ours, my long-time lucky number. The next night, I meet my uncle, his Illuminati/Masonic conspiracy friend, and the singular, mystic entity known as “Stevie D.”
There to see Terry Gilliam’s fantastic new film, The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus, it’s playing in theatre #9, of a possible 12. Stevie D hands me my ticket– #23, as my uncle’s friend comments on the black and white checker motif in the film’s trailer–23 being an interesting number, whose significance is far-reaching, “the magic synchronistic number,” as its called by some.
Earlier in the evening, I posted my first thing on this very blog. (Luddite that I am, I had been having our webmaster post everything for me.) “Did you notice,” he writers, after I return from the theatre. “…that your first post was the 23rd? And also, I added a translator widget… the 23rd widget… how’s that for Erisian synchronicity?”
Last year, I got it in my head that I should become a Mason, although I am female. After a handful of conversations with a member of a major local lodge, I lost interest.
A few nights ago, Masonry crept back into my consciousness… I don’t recall exactly how. I get a call from the road, would I please check the temperature in Denver over the course of the night (Denver airport, of course, being a major spot of Masonic speculation). I go online; the temperature is and continues to hold steady for the next dozen hours at 33 degrees.
The next afternoon, I stumble upon a lodge practicing co-Masonry, or Adoptive Masonry, which is to say, it includes women. I am elated, as they have three lodges in the U.S., and the only one on the west coast happens to be here in Los Angeles. (Say what you will of the Masons, my opinion is that one cannot condemn what one is ignorant of.)
Out of the blue, someone reminds me of a lecturer I am going to see this Sunday. “He is very kind to the neophytes,” I read in one screen on my computer as I write the organizer for a special ticket discount for LOWFI. Tickets for us, she writes, will be $33. I think that odd, and write her back to clarify. “I meant $35. Don’t know why I wrote that!” She said.
Chores finished, I got for a stroll down Melrose, and in front of a rack of women’s dresses in the window of a shop I frequent, was this t shirt:
(It was designed by the same fellow who created the Obama HOPE poster, although I’m not trying to make a connection between the two, of course.)
The germ of this post began the day after Thanksgiving. My family is fractured and strange. My grandmother had a sister, who had a daughter, who I learned lived in southern California. In the two years I had her number, I couldn’t bring myself to call. What would I say? I am no fan of awkward pauses.
I call her the night after Thanksgiving, leave a message at her home number, even though the outgoing message explains she’s out of town, please call there. I don’t want to bother her, and wax poetic about the passage of time.
Much to my surprise, she calls me the next day. “We do not suffer from insanity, we rather enjoy it,” a theatrical voice tells me. Oh, yeah, we’re related! She had been holding onto her mother’s ancient checkbook cover, and it told her to check her messages at home. She had been looking for me for seven years.
We speak on the phone, and meet at her friend’s Christmas party. Too long to spell out here, the encounter would be better suited to celluloid–it was THAT funny. She has embraced our Indian heritage, tells me many things; yes, I am related to the McCoys (of the Hatfields and McCoys), yes, my grandfather was a visionary and did want to be a priest, until he met my hot grandma; yes, she really is a sage farmer… On our way out, she follows my boyfriend and I banging a native American drum and chanting.
I had asked her what her birthday was; she was born the very minute the bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. When I get home, I leaf through a pile of clippings someone had sent me; on top of the pile is an article about Lucile Ball, for no apparent reason. Her birthday: August 6th. Funny, that’s my relative’s birthday, as well…
I crack open one of my favorite books, The Secret Language of Birthdays, a fabulous astrological resource which has a detailed, metaphysical and practical astrological profile for each of the 365 days of the year. When ever I do an interview, I consult The Secret Language for insight into the character of the individual I am about to interview.
I am curious about this wacky relative of mine, turn to her pages, and discover that her day is said to be “The Day of Unique Happenings.”
My eyes drift to the right hand corner, for it is there that I scribble names of people born that day, that I know, love, admire, have interviewed, or despise. Who do I find shares my crazy relative’s birthday?
My patron saint, my favorite philosopher, and the inspiration for this group… Charles Fort.