Sunday, December 4, 2016


In the last few minutes of this video, Lucy says things about her marriage to Ricky that are exactly what I figured out about my marriage to Tom, which I have written about in FIFTY SHADES.

Barbara Walters says people don't understand what went wrong in their marriage. Ricky drank and cheated. Lucy poignantly says that she couldn't understand what went wrong, either. They had everything. What more could you ask for? This is exactly what I felt when I found out that Tom had been a lifelong cheater. Why? We were so happy. We had everything. But I got my answer from the world of spirit. No, I'm not crazy, just a little bit psychic. Lucy obviously still loves Ricky every bit as much as I still love Tom. But.

Lucy says that Ricky was a loser. Nobody knows better than Lucy that Ricky was about the smartest, richest guy in Hollywood, so he was anything but a loser. But she adds, "He had to lose. He won at everything and then he had to lose. He had to fail. Everything he built, he had to break down."

Tom was just like that, too. Everything good that ever happened to him, he had to throw away. Finally, he threw away his life. It was mystifying, until he started showing me things in dreams to explain why.

Lucy then says something that I have also felt so strongly about my marriage. She says that with her new husband she has a home that is lived in. She and Desi had lots of houses, but they didn't have a home.

We didn't have lots of houses, but the same is true. We never had a home, a place where we loved and supported each other. Tom always seemed to have one foot out the door. He was always running away from home.

It took me many months of thought and research to finally understand why Tom why did these things, because, like Ricky, Tom was a smart guy who could have had it all, but he had to throw it all away. It's a psychological complex that seems to persist in the afterlife. All this is explored in FIFTY SHADES in greater detail.

I am so grateful to Lucy, not only for her brilliant comedy, but for her honesty about her love for Ricky/Desi and her experiences. Sometimes I feel very alone with my strange memories of a man I loved who did such self destructive and difficult to understand things.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016


The thing about getting older is you’re looking at life through the other end of the telescope. The things that seemed very big from the point of view of youth are barely visible now. The really important things that were happening to you when you were young were as imperceptible then as a tsunami at sea. From the other end of the telescope, your life story turns out not to be what you thought. Not even close.

I’m a Baby Boomer, part of that wild and crazy generation which rose like a Phoenix from the ashes of World War Two. You remember us; we were the Woodstock Generation, the ones whooping it up to the dulcet tones of Hard Rock, tossing our clothes off, yelling epithets, and taking to the streets to stop the war in Vietnam. We started the sexual revolution and dragged sex out of the closet along with our father's copy of Playboy. But my generation was just getting started. Urged on by that red-haired reprobate and Francophile, Thomas Jefferson, we pursued happiness fervently in every way imaginable, blazing new trails into every kind of experience, relentlessly questioning everything and fearlessly throwing tradition out the window. My generation has been written off many times as merely frivolous libertines, but my backwards telescope sees something very different.

What drove the baby boomers on this quest to understand every ism, overturn every given truth and put all our faith in science? We grew up in the dark shadow of the deadliest bloodbath and wanton slaughter mankind has ever perpetrated on itself. Those events were part of our family’s’ histories. We saw the way our parents avoided dealing with so much and how they suppressed or ignored their desires and emotions, happy to be just like Dick, Jane and Sally in our first-grade readers. They were shell shocked. Just as their childhood ended and they were ready to start lives of their own, it turned out those lives were already forfeit. The whole world exploded in a rage of death. All our mothers had lost their first young loves in the gruesome war, or knew someone who had. In the first bloom of youth, all the fine young men had been dragged from the comfort of home and thrown into a fight to the death against a merciless horror and sickening evil that had suddenly erupted. Life became a desperate struggle, just when it should have been sweetest. Millions of those young men and women endured terrible hardship, injury and disease; hundreds of thousands never got to come home.

When it was over, the lucky ones who survived just wanted to forget. The good life was a TV dinner, a new car, and a cookie cutter house in the suburbs. Their only safety was in everyone doing their part and pulling together. Big ideas were anathema; they wanted Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens. They knew something terrible lurked in the hearts of mankind, something that could flare up and condemn millions to grisly death; something which no amount of talking or excellence or tears could stop. Only killing could stop killing. And that must be avoided, at all costs.

The unimaginable horror our parents had lived through and witnessed firsthand was terrifying and permeated all our youthful perceptions. It reared its frightening head in television shows and news programs, in the newspapers, the movies, and in the parades where the veterans marched. War was the wound that was just starting to heal. It was the chilling and very recent past we heard so much about and never wanted to repeat. It haunted us like the monsters that lurk under a child’s bed at night, threatening always to leap out of the dark and devour our happiness and our very lives, the way it had done to our mothers and fathers. Only science seemed able to provide real and tangible benefits that might outrun the devil. Progress was the buzzword; better living through chemistry; see the USA in your Chevrolet.

It was left to us, their children and consolation, to try to figure out what had gone so terribly wrong in the hearts and minds of humanity to make them viciously and eagerly kill tens of millions. We looked for reasons everywhere, in history books that spoke of economic woes, racism, nationalism, fascism, and communism, in churches to find out where God had been hiding, and in our own homes for signs of incipient violence and discord. But we knew there must have been something deeper at work to cause civilization to nearly self-destruct. The great question was why; why had the world descended into mass murder on such a gigantic scale? That was the question we urgently needed to answer.

And our answer was science. Science was life examined, a discipline capable of deactivating all violent emotion. Pure rationality was the tonic that could cure the deadly war germ. Consequently, we disowned emotions, explained them away and longed for a world subject to the far superior artificial intelligence as our salvation. Humanity was flawed and ugly, only science was pure and clean. Human hearts and feelings were excess baggage that intelligent people should wisely discard. We saw people who didn’t seem to know what was best for them and imposed scientific solutions. We developed a monomania for rationality, rules and scientific studies, believing that anything with numbers must be truth.

Only science could save us from ourselves. Scientists were the new gurus. We were all going to be Scientific Americans. Too late, we realized that if science could save us, it could also destroy us in startling new ways scientists had only just devised. Science had conferred unlimited power on mankind. We needed one science to obey and believe in, one rationality that all must submit to, or the monster would come out from under the bed. Before we knew what had happened, we were right back where we’d started, at the crossroads of kill or be killed. And so, we went the way of all flesh.

Just like everyone else in my generation, I had a vague fear of a worldwide cataclysm breaking out again. But other than that, my youthful ambitions were fairly normal and modest. Of course, I wanted a taste of adventure, to see some of the world, and to do great things. But I would happily settle for doing work that I was proud of, falling in love with a good man and having a happy family. Those really didn’t seem like impossible dreams, not for one of the children of progress.

However, by the beginning of the third act of my life, the plot was mired in calamity, and nothing had worked out. My contentious family was an ongoing disaster. My husband and I had spent most of our life in what we called survival mode, trying to do what we loved and barely getting by. Then, after thirty-five-years of marriage, Tom passed away, and I got lost in a dark night of the soul. I couldn’t figure out what had happened to us or why. Then, just when it looked like the final curtain was about to ring down on all my hopes and dreams, the end of the third act had a plot twist that turned my world upside down for a surprise ending that I still find hard to believe.

You have to be old to write a story like this. If you were young, no one would believe you.

Monday, August 22, 2016


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This "make a memory" kick started because I read about how important it is to make good memories with those you love in a book by Allison Dubois. Something about that got me thinking. I am so often caught up in just getting through the day that the idea of consciously making a good memory had never occurred to me.

Maybe we're all like that. Or maybe I'm just too goal directed and don't know how to enjoy life. Or did I just forget somewhere along the line that life is supposed to have happy moments? Maybe I'm just getting old and grouchy.

But the spiritual psychic value of doing things that are special with those in your family who you love somehow had gotten lost over the years. (See my book "Fifty Shades of Gray Hair - Second Sight" for a full explanation of what happened to my marriage.) My son and I do see each other quite often. He stops by for his dinner break from his job. He keeps some of his wardrobe in my closet. But doing something special and something that we would always remember as a fun time seemed very important. Mom wants to make a memory together.

I mentioned the idea to him and he was very enthusiastic, got on the computer and got us tickets for the Seattle Symphony, Rimsky-Korsakov with their Grammy winning violist soloing. The son was lucky enough to be in a school where every child had a music class every day from fourth grade on. He learned the cello. It was the very best thing that he ever studied. Consequently, he loves music and especially string instruments. I love music and as son pointed out, Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade is a very romantic piece of music, something you'll love mom. Well, he has me pegged as ridiculously romantic, and he's not far wrong. But how perfect. Violins and Scheherazade.

So we're on for a big adventure with my twenty something son overnight in Seattle. Got the hotel, a nice, reasonably priced one within walking distance of Benaroya Hall, got Amtrak tickets for early trip down and back the next evening.

And then I had a "Tom" dream. The son and I were in a taxi cab going up an extremely steep hill. Walking the other way on the sidewalk, I saw Tom in his Hawaiian shirt. He didn't look at us, I was about to call hello to him, but our cab took off up the hill and it was too late. When Tom appears in my dreams, I always sense him as a presence, feel his spirit, or something like that. But it's always very different from dreams of just passing images. This dream had that psychic impact that often tells me to pay attention. Well, I thought, he's glad I'm doing something good with our son. The marriage may have been a bust, but we both loved being parents.

Everything goes great. Eight am Amtrak ride is delightful. We go to Pike Place Market. Great lunch. Aquarium. And when we are exhausted, at the bottom of the very steep hill that leads to our hotel, miraculously a cab drops off a passenger right where we are standing in the middle of the street. We grab it, and head up the 45 degree hill, just like the dream. I laugh to myself. Hi Tom.

As we walk over to Benaroya Hall, I share with my son very good memories of before he was born, when Tom and I used to go to the opera at Lincoln Center. His opinion of his father goes up. In later years, Tom gave up on all that kind of thing.

Concert is fabulous. We have an incredible time. Great late supper after the symphony, much intellectual discussion of music, culture, and our new lives on the west coast. Son and I bond; we're still trying to figure out what happened to us when Tom died, but we rarely touch directly on that topic these days. Too heavy. This is fun trip.

Next morning, hotel was perfect, but neither of us slept that well. We're tired out from our big day yesterday. And then we realize we have to check out of the hotel by 11 am. The train home doesn't leave till seven something. Houston, we have a problem. The idea of spending eight more hours bouncing around Seattle, even if it means the Space Needle and the EMP Museum, is just more than either of us can manage. I've made a mistake. I should have booked the bus home at 11 something am.

We're both getting cranky and I am in a panic. Are we going to be vagabonds carrying our backpacks around Seattle for the next seven hours? Yesterday was great, but this is going to spoil the "memory" I was making.

We are trudging along when suddenly I notice that I'm pretty sure we are on the street where the Bellaire Bus that goes to our town has a stop, if they have passengers to pick up or drop off. It's almost 11:30, but I don't remember the exact time the bus is due at this stop, just that it's around 11 am. And I don't remember exactly what building the stop is in, either, but I've taken that bus several times from the airport and am sure I can find that building where the bus pulls off the street to pick up passengers. I think.

I race up the hill followed by son. Then, miraculously, I see the bus ahead of us. It turns into the entrance of a building a little further up the hill. If we hurry, we can catch it. We charge in after it. It stops. They are running twenty minutes late. They have room for two unscheduled riders. We get on. Thank you Tom. I don't know how you do these things. But coincidence? I don't think so. My son and I had a great memory of a great day in Seattle doing things we love and enjoying life and each other. We miss our guy who left us a lot. Even if I can't totally forgive him, I guess I still love him. We both do. And I am sure he was there with us on our "make a memory day" in Seattle. In fact, he saved the day. And wearing his Hawaiian shirt, no less.

Model with Eileen Ford - Sex and Spirituality

I notice a lot a people claim they were Ford Models, but offer very little proof. So I decided that I'd better show you that I wasn't just blowing smoke. Below are some samples from my modelling days. I was a model before I was psychic, or even married to an actor. Even though I may look a bit dreamy in some of these photos, if you'd told me someday I would see the spiritual world behind this real world, I wouldn't have listened to you for a nanosecond. Ah, how very wrong I was about so much.

Notice THE FORDS logo in lower right hand corner
Photo by Richard Noble for Revlon
Hiro for Harper's Bazaar
Same shoot - Hiro for Harper's Bazaar
Hiro for Harper's Bazaar
Hiro for Harper's Bazaar
Concord watch Ad
Vogue Beauty Issue
Composite head shot
Vogue Beauty Issue
James Moore Harper's Bazaar
James Moore Harper's Bazaar
Hiro for Harper's Bazaar
Elizabeth Arden

Saturday, April 9, 2016


As I read more about mediums, psychics and consciousness research, it seems to me that my psychic experiences and communications with my husband after his death weave all those realms of insight together into a unique vision of life and God working with each other. I started from absolute zero, believing the Christianity I was taught in Church to be nothing more than a relict of Western culture. Religion and faith were interesting only as widespread social supports that seemed to have useful meanings and functions. Neither I nor anyone in my immediate family believed in anything supernatural, including God. The people I did know who believed in God or any other spiritual hocus pocus, I considered charmingly eccentric. And in my job as a fashion model and an actress I met many eccentric people of varying degrees and types of faith. I don’t think it’s an accident that most artists have some sort of faith in higher powers. The very act of creating art can be interpreted as a gesture to the unseen and unknown all around us and inside us. Creating art also requires faith that human feelings and insights are valuable, in and of themselves.

So the journey of my life has been from what I considered normal person to confirmed eccentric believer. Since my habit was always to dismiss or rationalize away all the psychic and ghostly events that happened to me, it was only when I started seeing the future while I was wide awake that I was forced to confront the reality that something scientifically and physically impossible was happening all around me.

But it didn’t stop there. Having no preconceptions of what the universe consisted of or what might be going on, I approached the things that happened to me from a very analytical point of view. The working model I have created of the universe and God is based solely on my life and my experiences, which proved to me that in this real world there is another equally real world all around us. It is a spiritual universe where there are secrets to success and happiness, as in the popular book The Secret, but these are secrets more likely to be found in your understanding of your heart, which you gain from Grimm’s Fairy Tales, The Tales of the Arabian Nights of Scheherazade and all the various religious books and traditions that quest for the spiritual life and God. There is also a scientific Field of Intent, as in that book The Field, but that intent is much more elusive and more likely to be discovered in a movie or in the story of your life than what you think you intend.

It seems to me that in order to believe in God, you have to believe in the supernatural. Once I accepted that supernatural things were happening to me, all Christ's miracles and his resurrection were believable as real events in this world, not dusty mythology of dead cultures.

Finally, I have learned to believe in a universal Santa Claus, but it’s a very long and difficult trek to find him. He doesn’t live at the North Pole by accident. Therefore, it’s very beneficial that he comes every year at Christmas to give us gifts and remind us that while it may be more blessed to give than to receive, it is frequently more difficult to receive than to give and almost impossible to trust that you made his good boy and girl list.

It’s been a long, sad, laughing, happy, tragic journey in this world for me, but my life has been rich beyond imagining. My experiences have been crazy unlikely, but have proved absolutely that we do survive as ourselves in the great beyond, and that there is more to our being than we even know as we live our lives. I have tried to share these experiences in Fifty Shades of Gray Hair so they will have the same impact on your consciousness as they had on mine. Like the rainbow inside of crystal, I see all the colors and feel them, too, now.