Psychic Knitting

I woke up early this morning and looked at the clock. It was 6:30am. (If this were a text I would insert the emoji with the Z’s here to indicate I went back to sleep.)

And I thought of my brother, who’s in town with his wife. I thought they were probably up, because they’re two hours ahead. They’re on Texas time.

And I figured they went to breakfast, maybe at John O’Groat’s on Pico, because my brother likes to stay in West L.A. I pictured where they would sit and what they would talk about in that dreamy way where you know it’s a dream but you’re kind of making it up yourself. And you know it.

And somehow two words got attached to that thing that happens: “psychic knitting.” I’m not sure about the psychic part, which would technically only apply if they actually did go to John O’Groat’s and do all that. Which really isn’t too far fetched. Or very psychic. It’s more like a good guess.

For the record, I would have preferred “psycho knitting.” It’s sounds way more interesting and urgent. Like someone may have self-imploded.

I wonder if there’s a term for what happens when you guide your own dream. If there was, it might be in the “Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.” Which has stuff on there that is so totally melancholy you will want to self-implode after you read some of it. Perfect example:

Degrassé: adj. entranced and unsettled by the vastness of the universe, experienced in a jolt of recognition that the night sky is not just a wallpaper but a deeply foreign ocean whose currents are steadily carrying off all other castaways, who share our predicament but are already well out of earshot—worlds and stars who would’ve been lost entirely except for the scrap of light they were able to fling out into the dark, a message in a bottle that’s only just now washing up in the Earth’s atmosphere, an invitation to a party that already ended a million years ago.

Ends up, my brother and sister-in-law are staying on Rodeo Drive and they had coffee in the lobby of their hotel. They didn’t even go to breakfast. I’m not psychic at all. But I’m quite sure there’s something to this. Maybe a bizarre premise for a movie like “Jacob’s Ladder” where someone’s sad, ill-fated reality becomes indistinguishable from their worst nightmare and they’re somewhat in control and they end up making surprising choices as far as family and first loves and such and then there’s some kind of twist ending. It’s a mind-bending psychological horror movie (clearly). More on that later.

Written by Anne Clendening
Anne Clendening was born and raised in L.A. She's a yoga teacher, a writer and occasionally slings cocktails in a Hollywood bar. She could eat chocolate cake for every meal of the day. She has a huge fear of heights and flying. And fire. She wishes she could speak French, play her guitar better and make cannoli. She's probably listening to The Dark Side Of The Moon right now, kickin’ it with her boxer dog and her hot Australian husband ★