“Why is intuition superior to reason? Because it does not depend upon experience or memory and frequently brings about the solution to our problems by methods concerning which we are in entire ignorance.” — Charles F. Haanel, The Master Key System
After decades of channeling, I’ve come to accept that there are opportunities, patterns, and possibilities we may never recognize if we insist on approaching everything through logic alone. When I have a question, I ask for guidance, and then I watch to see whether what comes through has any relevance to whatever I happen to be focused on at the time.
I don’t take the information as written in stone. I see it more as a glimpse of things already in motion — energy flowing toward a potential outcome under the conditions that exist right now. The future, from that perspective, isn’t a fixed destination. It’s weather.
And weather changes.
A Forecast From 2018
In December 2018, I asked the Guides what they saw developing between 2019 and 2029. What challenges were coming? Their response was less an answer than a mood:
Trends — upheaval and change in the world market. Uncertainty, instability, and much realigning. Investment shift to commodities and energy. There will be massive change and extraordinary intervention — a huge divestment from business as usual.
You will see institutions thought to be solid and enduring evaporate and dissolve. The old and entrenched methodologies are no longer viable — a dinosaur requiring enormous amounts of labor and funds to maintain. Streamlined and high-tech are the new trends, requiring a hands-off approach that lets the market settle before expanding into areas that have become unsustainable and outdated.
When I asked for words that might illustrate the larger trends, the list came fast:
Efficiency. Minimize duplication. Innovate. Focus. Acknowledge instability. Instability: geographical and social. Population shift as continued earth changes illustrate the vast redistribution of population. Reduce footprint. Rethink energy. This is the decade of inconvenience and redistribution of resources. Speed bumps on the horizon. Plan wisely.
Reading those words years later is interesting. But hindsight is a trap. Once something has happened, almost any prediction can begin to look more precise than it actually was. So I try not to ask, Did they predict this exact event? A better question is: Did the imagery describe a pattern that later became recognizable?
The purpose of these impressions may not be to hand us tomorrow’s newspaper. It may simply be to make us pay attention.
What Do You Wish to Manifest?
There was another element to that 2018 message. It was a question turned back on me: What do you wish to manifest?
Sustained attention matters. Whatever the mechanism — spiritual, psychological, energetic, or some combination we don’t yet understand — we reinforce certain possibilities through what we give our attention to. Worries and goals. Dreams and fears. The possibilities we keep circling back to.
I can sometimes see this reflected in my dreams. Whatever occupies my waking thoughts starts appearing in the nighttime scenery, occasionally shifting as my perspective changes. Daydreams and night dreams alike may reveal what I’m intending — or inadvertently reinforcing. So I work with a simple reminder: Your thoughts, your results. Thoughts are fuel.
Leonard Cohen once put it this way: If I knew where the good songs came from, I’d go there more often. It’s a mysterious condition. It’s much like the life of a Catholic nun. You’re married to a mystery.
That works for me. Because mystery doesn’t always arrive wearing robes and carrying sacred symbols. Sometimes it shows up as a cartoon.
GOTCHA!
March 7, 2020.
I was still in bed, just between sleeping and waking. Then — Ow!
A sharp tap, directly on the top of my head. The closest comparison I can make is an acorn falling from a tree, striking your scalp and bouncing away. Except I was indoors. And the angle made no sense.
At the same instant, I heard a word and saw a flashed image. Bright banana yellow. Jagged cartoon edges. Bold black letters, one word: GOTCHA!
Then it was gone. That art blast bookmarked the report of the first local COVID-19 case. Precognitive? I can’t prove it. I can only record the sequence: the experience came first, and my interpretation came later. Newsflash.
Almost a year later, the cartoon telegrapher returned.
The Court Jester
January 6, 2021.
Again I was in bed. Not asleep, not quite awake. A quick vision appeared: a man on the steps of what looked like a courthouse or public building, wearing a dramatically striped black-and-white suit. A blonde woman stood beside him. The image was fleeting, and I couldn’t identify either person.
Then came the words: Court Jester.
The scene seemed to be a deliberate exaggeration. Over the top. A circus — a cartoon playing itself out on the world stage. And then two more phrases, close together: Something has been set in motion. And: Why so serious?
That last line was a tease — the Guides’ familiar reminder not to let apprehension overwhelm observation. When I wrote the vision down, I had no idea what would play out later that day.
Hours later, the U.S. Capitol was breached while Congress met to certify the Electoral College votes from the 2020 election. People forced their way into the building, police officers were assaulted, and the proceeding was disrupted — all extensively documented in court records and federal prosecutions.
Step back from political allegiance. My interest is timing. I had seen the cartoon before I knew the story.
The Cartoon Becomes the Clue
That’s what continues to interest me. The March 2020 experience didn’t give me epidemiology. It gave me GOTCHA! The January 2021 experience gave me Court Jester. A circus. Something set in motion.
Maybe that’s the limitation of this kind of communication. Or maybe it’s the point. Detailed information could alter our choices; symbolic information leaves room for interpretation, participation, and free will. The Guides rarely hand me an answer. They hand me a clue.
Replaying the Tape
There’s another reason I’m revisiting January 2021 now. In 2026, the story itself changed again. The White House published an official January 6 page (whitehouse.gov/j6) that reframes the day entirely — casting the crowd as peaceful protesters, describing the prosecutions as Deep State entrapment and media deception, and presenting the presidential pardons as justice restored.
It’s a sharp departure from the record laid out in the criminal cases, and lawmakers, historians, and news organizations have scrutinized its claims against the video and investigative evidence. I don’t raise this to relitigate January 6. I’m interested in something else: the continuing transformation of the story.
Facts occur. Narratives form around them. The narratives compete. And, eventually, memory itself changes. Suddenly the phrase Court Jester feels less like a description of one afternoon and more like a symbol for an entire era — one in which spectacle, politics, media, and competing realities keep overlapping.
The cartoon keeps being redrawn.
Something Else Is in Play
Which brings me back to the acorn thump on the head. I am not claiming these episodes prove precognition. They are my experiences. I record them because the information sometimes becomes more interesting later, once time supplies the context that wasn’t available when the impression occurred.
That’s also why experiencer accounts continue to fascinate me. John Foster, for one, described decades of anomalous encounters in which he believed he and others were being taught or directed toward projects whose significance they didn’t fully grasp at the time. Whether or not you accept his interpretation, the pattern raises an intriguing possibility: what if some anomalous experiences only make sense retrospectively? The experiencer receives one piece. Life supplies another. Recognition comes last.
Maybe that’s why contact accounts are inconsistent. Rather than one standardized message for humanity, experiencers describe material tailored to their own symbolism, vocabulary, and history. Different receivers, different translations, possibly different sources.
Or perhaps we’re simply trying to force something nonlinear into a language built for straight lines.
Then Came Forrest Gump
Recently I asked for another image — a clue about what might be coming. What arrived was unexpected: Forrest Gump. And immediately with him, the line everyone knows: Life is like a box of chocolates.
It didn’t feel like a warning that one specific disaster was approaching. It felt like a reminder about uncertainty itself. You can see the box. You know something’s inside. You may even have a general sense of what you’re dealing with — but you don’t know which piece you’re going to get until you pick it up. That may be a surprisingly good model for precognition. You receive a glimpse. A symbol. A mood. A probability. But not necessarily the event.
And there’s another layer to it. Forrest keeps moving through enormous historical events without quite recognizing their significance while they’re happening. He doesn’t control history. He encounters it. Meaning comes later. That sounds familiar.
The Programmer’s Invisible Thread
If contactees and experiencers are right that there’s a co-writer — a hidden hand shaping the material — then maybe some things are fixed. Not weather after all. Script.
But even that gives us no edge, because we’re never told which things are fixed. The clue arrives. The answer key doesn’t.
Philip K. Dick circled this his whole life. In his 1977 Metz speech, he made an interesting claim about déjà vu: that the sensation is a clue — that at some point in the past a variable was changed, “reprogrammed,” and an alternate world branched off and became actual in place of the one before it. The people caught in the change get, as he put it, moved back a square on the board. We live the segment over. Only the programmer — “whom we call God” — sees the difference, because we are inside time and He is not.
Which reframes the title of this whole piece. Déjà vu isn’t just a mood I’m describing. In Dick’s telling, it’s the seam — the faint residue left when the track gets altered and you’re set to run the same stretch again. And it suggests a harder reading of the Forrest Gump clue.
What if this second date with destiny isn’t random? What if it’s a scene set in motion to produce a specific outcome? We still wouldn’t get the script. We’d only recognize it once we were standing inside it. So maybe that’s what the cartoons are for. Not comfort. Not prophecy. A seam we’re meant to notice — enough to make us look up, not enough to let us cheat.
Which leaves exactly one variable the script can’t fix in advance: What we choose to do next.
Déjà Vu on the Horizon?
Which brings me to now. The Guides are vague again. That’s typical — nothing is ever presented as fixed, and there always seems to be room for improvisation. But the feeling is familiar. We may be approaching territory that mimics something we’ve already lived through.
The same kind of instability. The same sensation of competing realities accelerating around us. The same reminder that what looks solid may not stay that way. And maybe the Forrest Gump clue is the better instruction. Not brace for one specific thing, but stay observant, stay flexible, and don’t assume you know which chocolate comes next.
Maybe precognition is good for recognizing the weather before the storm is directly overhead. Not knowing the script. Recognizing the genre.
So yes, I’m replaying the precog hits because something about the pattern feels familiar. We may be about to reenter that same territory — and if the last engagement was a practice run, I’d rather recognize the real thing before it arrives. Chaos is an understatement.
Life jacket. Raft. Anchor. Align with something solid. Find whatever keeps you centered when the scenery starts moving. And keep a sense of humor. Because apparently the Guides do.
The future comes assorted. And if the cartoons are starting again, I’m paying attention to the next frame.
Coda: The Narrow Miss
Night of August 27, into August 28, 2026.
I’m writing this as the moon crosses into shadow. Almost all the way. Tonight is a deep partial — Earth’s shadow draws across the full Sturgeon Moon until only a thin bright edge remains, one line of light the dark can’t quite close over. Ninety-six percent gone. Copper and rust and the deep red of a threshold. Close enough to pass for a Blood Moon. Held back from totality by the width of a breath. Almost there.
I only had the date: August 28. A shift. No clue about the eclipse. Now the sky is spelling it out. Not the whole shift. Not yet. A near-alignment. A dial turned nearly all the way and left one notch short — deliberately — as though the pattern is being loaded but not yet released.
A preset for the coming shift. That is what this reads like to me. Not the event. The priming. The field quietly arranging itself into position while we stand in the yard thinking we are only watching a moon. The Guides have been circling a rehearsal I couldn’t name, and here it is, drawn in shadow and light: the almost. The tuning fork struck before the note.
If I’m going to read an omen into a rock and a shadow — and apparently I am — that’s the one. Not the darkness. The sliver.
Because the darkness is the part that feels fixed. The spectacle arrives on schedule. You can set a clock by it. The almanac had it down to the minute centuries before any of us were here to look up. That’s the script. That’s the ninety-six percent.
The sliver is the rest. The uncovered edge. The one variable the shadow was never going to reach. And the timing seals it. This is the deepest the shadow will go until the last night of 2028 — when the moon finally slips all the way under and a year ends in total dark.
So tonight is not the culmination. It’s the setting of the stage. The breath drawn before the word. Which returns me to where I began. I don’t get the script. I don’t know which piece the box is holding. I’m handed a clue — a banana-yellow GOTCHA, a striped suit on the courthouse steps, a thread in the track, and now a moon that goes nearly all the way under and keeps one thread of light burning at the rim.
So here is the outlook, such as it is. The alignment is almost complete. Expect the theatrical. Expect the color of alarm. Expect it to look, for a while, as though the whole face is going dark. But watch the sliver. It’s the tell. The part the shadow was never going to take.
Life jacket. Raft. Anchor. Align with something solid before the field finishes setting. Keep your humor — the Guides still have theirs. And when the shadow moves — and it is moving — remember what it cannot claim: the light that’s left, and what you choose to do by it.
Discover more from Conscious Living & Wendy's Coffeehouse
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Conscious Living & Wendy's Coffeehouse 