"If you don’t talk about it, if society doesn’t allow ESP as a topic of conversation, then by not verbalizing you forget – and it didn’t happen."
I was seventeen and had many small ESP experiences over the years – forgotten in time. It is something like the philosophical question about a tree falling in a forest with no one to hear it. If you don’t talk about it, if society doesn’t allow ESP as a topic of conversation, then by not verbalizing you forget – and it didn’t happen.
One of the things that always puzzled me was that my mother never returned to me. I know that after her death I was extremely sensitized and was inordinately tuned to ESP, most of which I intentionally blocked after one particularly strange incident that really frightened me – which I relate now.
One year after my mother died to the day (I was attending the Academy of Fine Arts by then) I was crossing through Rittenhouse Square  by myself; it was one of those strange nights that has a supernatural aura and lighting. The bare limbs of the trees appeared blacker, barren and more threatening than ever; and the wind was truly whistling through the Square. It was one of the rare nights I approached the Square with trepidation. I had walked no less than fifty feet on the sidewalk-way leading to the Center when I heard a man’s voice repeatedly calling “Rebecca, Rebecca”. The way in which he called was haunting.
Now, you must realize that all my friends and family at that time called me 'Ricki', and the only one to call me Rebecca was my father.  Yet, the voice wasn’t his.
Hesitantly, I continued to walk through the Square because I didn’t want to follow the walk to Chestnut Street where the voice was coming from. When I reached the other side of the Square there was a man sitting in a pink Cadillac just like my father’s. Now, there were only a couple dusty rose Cadillacs with black convertible tops and black leather upholstery like that and here was a man sitting in this unusual car just like my father’s and calling me Rebecca.
For a second I thought maybe something is wrong and I’ve been sent for, but at the same time I realized that despite appearances this wasn’t our car. “I need to talk to you,” the man began. “How do you know my name?” I asked. “You just seemed to be Rebecca as I saw you walking. I knew that was your name,” he answered. That seemed particularly strange since it would be far more logical for a man to call any other common name (Susan, Laura, Sheila, etc.) if he were trying to pick someone up. But who would respond to Rebecca? In all my years I had known only two other Rebecca’s and both were cousins of mine. Certainly in all my years of school and other social activities I had never even casually bumped into another Rebecca. In fact, the first Rebecca I ever met other than them was a black nurse who began working for my O.B. Gyn, Dr. Kissler, in 1970. At any rate, I digress. And my point is made.
I was baffled and my curiosity was piqued. If he could know my name intuitively, what else could he know? I remember explaining the coincidence of car look-a-likes. He was a little skeptical until I told some hidden features in the car. As I remained on the sidewalk and he sat in the car,we talked.
He began to say things like, “I don’t know how I know this but ...” And he would say things about me, about my art, about my future. Both of us were baffled by his flow of knowledge about me. Neither he nor I knew from whence these insights came. But we spent about three-quarters of an hour as this flow of consciousness came from him. We politely said good-bye and I headed to the Gilded Cage  where I was going to meet my friends.
Many of his predictions began to take place.
The art and writings of Rebecca Bucci are Copyright 1989-1998.
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