Heebie was my spiritual adviser in London. Those were heady days.
I was employed by the wealthy financier by day and writing a screenplay
at night. The film's about a man who discovers that he has the power
to see into the future and the burden borne from such knowledge.
I began the script after an incident late one afternoon that sent
my psychic seams unraveling. I had been out for a stroll near Piccadilly
Circus when I saw a building on fire. No one around me seemed the
least disturbed. The bloody thing was absolutely raging. I spotted
a constable down the way. "That building looks tip top to me," he
said. "Move on, mate." I was simply another deranged American to
him. But the next morning there it was on the front page of The
Times. The building had caught fire in the middle of the night and
burned all to hell. Woah. I'd noticed a sign for psychic advisement
in a window a few days before and went there straight away. "Do
come in, M," said Heebie, before I'd spoken a word. She held her
hand close to her heart and stared at me for a long time before
speaking. "Psychic perturbations such as yours are initially very
unsettling. You've received a vibration from the Third Mind. You
may never receive it again or you may have this sort of thing happening
to you for the rest of your life. If you have further experiences
of this kind don't panic. Place your hand close to your heart just
as I am now. Let your heart embrace the experience."
I'm still working on the script, The Man Who Saw Tomorrow. You
know me, the great procrastinator. Perhaps I'll finish it during
this underground sabbatical. And not destroy it. How refreshing
that would be.