Belief, Telepathy, and the Magic in the Everyday

Welcome back to Aphantasia Experiments. Today’s episode came to life in the most unpolished, beautiful way—recorded in the car, on the way to pick up my dog from the groomers. The sound quality may not be studio-perfect, but sometimes, the most magical thoughts arrive in the messiest moments.

This episode was inspired by a late-night surge of thoughts—3 a.m. style. You know, the kind where everything clicks and your mind suddenly wants to solve the mysteries of the universe? Yeah, that kind. Lately, I’ve been absorbing a lot from the Telepathy Tapes, particularly their “Talk Tracks” episodes. They've sparked so many epiphanies about the nature of consciousness, memory, and the mysterious ways our minds connect.

One theme that keeps coming back to me is Alzheimer's and dementia—not as purely biological conditions, but as possible shifts in consciousness. In my past work delivering cremated remains, I noticed a recurring thread: so many people at the end of life had memory-related conditions. But what if they weren’t just “losing” their memories? What if their consciousness was transitioning somewhere else—somewhere our current science can’t yet see?

The Telepathy Tapes dives into how individuals with apraxia or non-verbal autism can have deeply vivid, intelligent inner worlds. Despite their physical limitations, they possess minds that are, in many ways, more connected than ours. And that makes me wonder: are people with Alzheimer's similarly accessing different states of awareness, ones we simply don’t understand yet?

That leads me to belief. Gavin DeGraw’s song Belief floated into my mind the other night, especially the lyric: “Belief makes things real, makes things feel all right.” That line played on repeat in my head, reminding me how powerful belief is—not just as an emotional anchor, but as a tool for unlocking unseen realities. I’ve lived a life full of magical synchronicities and unexplained moments. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think it’s because I believe those moments can happen.

Like the time I walked into a dome for my son’s football game and felt a strange tickle in my ear—like a whisper or a nudge. Suddenly, an old memory came flooding in, one I hadn’t thought about in years: passing out on a carnival ride called The Zipper. That memory became a clue in understanding a current health mystery. These flashes, I believe, are puzzle pieces from a deeper part of ourselves trying to help us make sense of life.

Then there’s The Hill—a concept from the tapes that describes a peaceful, otherworldly place accessed by those with deep telepathic abilities. I’ve been somewhere like that. Since I was a child, piling blankets and pillows over me, hiding under them and feeling like I was in another universe—calm, safe, and full of potential. Recently, I felt that same energy in the ocean in Cuba, snorkeling with a full-face mask. It was serene, like returning to a place beyond time. But when I got out, I felt disoriented—as if I'd just re-entered the “normal” world from somewhere far more profound.

So here's a thought: maybe certain shapes—like domes and pyramids—amplify this kind of non-local communication. Maybe these structures help tune us into something greater. After my dome experience, I even meditated with a metal salad bowl on my head (yes, really!) just to experiment. I asked five questions, counted to ten, and let my mind drift. Why not try something a little weird? You never know what doors you might open.

What ties all of this together—telepathy, memory, intuition, even architecture—is belief. You have to believe in the possibility of magic to recognize it when it shows up. And if you’re paying attention, it will show up. Even if it’s just a goose landing right in front of you on a rooftop at the perfect moment (yes, that happened too).

So here’s my invitation to you: experiment. Play. Believe. Try a meditation with a salad bowl or sit in a pyramid. Ask questions and trust what comes through. And if you’ve had experiences like this—strange flashes of memory, intuitive whispers, moments that felt bigger than yourself—I’d love to hear them. We’re all trying to make sense of this life together.

Until next time, keep looking for the magic. It’s always there, just waiting for you to notice.