Déjà vu

By Joe Pegasus

© 1988 – rewritten in 2007

This revelation first gained print in 1988 as a document intended to aid professionals hired to explain the phenomena. To date (2007) no one has offered any practical suggestions.


1) Author’s Profile


I have tried to practice astral flight ever since I first studied and learned about it during the 1960s. To this day, I do not fall off to sleep when I hit the sack.  I first spend an hour or so within my head, so to speak; with the intention of getting out of my head – so to speak. Over the years and especially due to the issues explained in this essay, I have introduced two other nightly endeavors: scrying and self-hypnosis. To date, I’m very certain that I never actually succeeded with astral flight save for some dubious trips around the bedroom. I am not a piker when it comes to scrying and if I have trouble dozing off I find hypnosis a sure fire remedy.  Enough unusual nightly trips were taken, however; just enough to keep me trying to achieve such a flight for over 45 years now. Yet, if you were a child or student of mine my recommendation to you would be not to bother (or toy) with so called paranormal phenomena like astral flight or scrying unless you hit it right (and fancy it) from the start. Both these practices require unweaving discipline and an acute ability to meditate. If you must try it then learn meditation before both crafts and – as corny as this sounds – buy yourself a good crystal ball for scrying; it will save you the headaches often resulting from staring endlessly at fire, water and mirrors. I also suggest that you put aside the idea that you’ll foresee the future in your shinny ball. Although scrying is a platform for some to do so – or think they can do so – the craft is best employed to peer into yourself rather than who’s going to be the President next term. Self-hypnosis is another level of mindscape altogether, and I do recommend anyone to practice it; especially during times of stress.  

            Before I continue I will answer the most likely question roaming your mindscape right now: Why would I even want to project myself or scry?  Good question. Now that I’m all of 58 years old, I cannot ever figure out why I wanted to do such things in the first place. We’re all a bit mentally unstable.  We all have an inclination to poke a stick into a hornet’s nest or change our scenery from time to time. To stretch, wash and/or pull pranks on the mind seems, and probably is, harmless if not taken too seriously. To poke around into the recesses of one’s mind is not the best of habits to be chained to. I’m sure that at first, as a young man growing up in the 1960s when the halls of my school echoed with stories from Edgar Cayce and Jane Roberts, when every teen wanted to be a witch or warlock before being sent over to Nam to be butchered, when the Catholic Mass went to the liturgy of the people, when we were young enough to believe in ghosts, being able to ascend above the  body seemed at the time a very groovy idea.  As life put years on me and I discovered how lucky a person I am to make it to 58 those childhood fantasies fell away; sometimes quickly. Nowadays,  I don’t think Cayce knew what he was talking about.  I stand amazed by Jane Robert’s SETH, yet wonder why SETH ever spoke at all? Right after high school I got caught in a real warlock’s web. I am certain, after that unfortunate experience, that most are demented and the real ones are a must to avoid – and probably avoid us like a cat would a stray dog. Nam taught me that even the red, white and blue are not dedicated to my pursuit of happiness. All organized religions rub me wrong although my entire career revolves around the study and collection of religious art. And, yes, I have three chilling ghost stories, but I do not believe for a moment that ghosts are the spirits of the dead.  I also grew up in and around cemeteries; no one was saved.

            I have only one reason to continue my pursuit: Déjà vu.  Bona fide and witnessed Déjà vu.  Not a premonition. Not a loop of memory. Not a feeling that I have been here before. What happened to me in 1972 happened for the first time in 1981, eleven hundred miles away. The information of what had happened in 1981 transferred itself back to (or over to?) 1972. 

            The history books are filled with marvelous premonitions – go search the Net for details – but mostly you’ll find that so and so foresaw a murder or another dramatic circumstance a few hours before and warned others about it; things along those lines.  Very rare are the premonitions which stretch over distances and long spans of time. And almost never does the seer get to tell those involved before hand where they will be at such and such a place and be doing what they are doing.

            I did.

            I’m going to, of course, tell you my déjà vu and the circumstances around it.  As best I can from my original writings and present memories.  But first I want to clarify why this essay is even posted and published. To date, I have no explanation for what had happened to me. The cause very likely has something to do with my toying with my mind, granted. Still, this actually happened.  I more than foresaw a future event. I affected the event. In short, I was there and returned from 1981 back to 1972. And I have proof. I had and have witnesses.

            This proof is largely insignificant for two reasons. None outside the witnesses can have first hand experience of the event. So far, this is not science fact except for a few others and me. Because I cannot prove the validity of the déjà vu to others has nothing to do with the issue at hand. The issue is that someone – me and a few others – know that a form of time travel or information exchange is very possible. So, why can’t I find anyone who is willing to help me figure this out?  Secondly, it’s not proof that’s needed here. We need the science of the thing. There are moments in life that very odd things happen to us all. I mentioned my ghost stories. I also once had an inter-dimensional experience; just to mention two. But, as I see it, ghosts are there, too many of us have encountered them to deny this recognition, yet does it really matter if they are there or not? No ‘ghost’ has ever suggested a cure for cancer or a method for time travel. They are flukes, like suddenly having a presence in a separate dimension or reality; even if we could explain and replicate the thing it would do little but fill a spot on cable TV. I’m not going to argue the proof about my experience. What I want is someone to show me how to do it again. How? I think a concerned professional – especially a hypnotist can get to the bottom of it.

            Perhaps the trail is now too cold. Perhaps.  I did not get over the excitement of what had actually occurred until as much as 10 years after the actual event took place. I was living one of those long, lost weekends that lasted 10 years. Mostly I told the déjà vu story to get attention from my peers, pick up chicks and just wonder over it with a bunch of fellow drunks. Until I realized that, yes, I had actually visited the future, affected it, and returned into the past. And, by golly, why can’t I do that again?  Since that awakening from my long lost weekend in 1992, I spent a small fortune on psychologists and hypnotists in order to retrace my tracks. The good doctors listened politely, some even studied my journals. All of them dropped into the godless rhetoric that the memory could play a trick called looping. That is until they realize that there are witnesses; people who were told in 1972 about things they would experience in 1981.  Then the head shrinks just shrug and bill me for their time. The hypnotists, being, for the most part, religious in a New Age kind of way, get into a mystical retort about other dimensions and stuff that priests and politicians have been fooling us with over the centuries. You can’t get away with that kind of chicanery when you’re talking to someone who scries daily. They might have a pocket watch swinging lazily at the end of their chains but I got a crystal ball, remember? 

            Bottom line is that I know something happened to me in my sleep that placed me nine years into the future, eleven hundred miles away from my bed, among strangers except for two others near to me in 1972 and I caused a change to take place in 1981 that could not be altered until I lived another nine years to see that I did in fact alter the future-present. How did I do that? And why can’t someone tease the conditions I was under then to jog my memory to have it happen again?

           This is what happened:


2) A Mid Summer’s Night Dream – 1972, West Islip, NY


I awoke to a sunny day. For me that meant that the conditions were right to pick up a cool $500 or more by jumping in my sandblasting truck and heading off to St. Charles Cemetery to engrave inscriptions (additional names for recent burials) on headstones. Before I hopped out of the bed I noticed the way my covers rolled over an air pocket I had caused when I sat up. I immediately fell back into a dream I was having where a few others and I were making fun at a rug waving from the breeze of a large fan. I recalled the image but what went through my mind was that I could stop the waving just by saying so. I did say so for no apparent reason then jumped from bed to wash and get off to work. The dream, like most dreams carried no sense and it slipped my mind until an hour or so later.

            Dave Bliss was my sidekick in those days. He was a fifteen year old cousin to my wife who I was grooming to grow up to be a stone cutter and make me rich by taking over my chores. (As an aside, our antics can be viewed at the JrSB comic page.  We were hard workers. Our days, the days we had sunshine, started with me picking him up from his parent’s house then heading directly for the cemetery and with very little conversation we would start our chores of cutting stone. We could work only during daylight and while the cemetery gates allowed visitors. But that morning, while turning into the cemetery gates, I turned to Dave because that dream from the night before flashed back upon me. I related the dream to him while we drove to the first grave over in section 2, setup our equipment and I was laying out the work. This is what I told him: “Dave, I had this dream last night. We – you and I – were in Florida.”

            He interrupted, “We’ll never ever be in Florida, JrSB. That was certainly a dream.”

            “Dave, “ I huffed, “It’s only a dream.  Anyway, we were in this hotel in Fort Lauderdale. We had met up there. I was there to attend a wedding. Mike and Maryjoe’s wedding. And you were married to a dark skinned gal, named Tina. I was married, but not to your cousin rather to some girl with short curly hair, her name was Dottie or Dorie, or something like that. This chick and me just flew in for Mike’s wedding. We were at Disney World, a park named Epicot that had just opened or was being built or something.”

            We had come to the gravesite. Dave replied, “JrSB, who the hell is Mike and who the hell is Tina?  Maryjoe? That some kind of cowgirl name? And there’s no Disneyland in Florida, that’s in California.”

            “They got one in Florida too now, Dave.”

            “And you’ll get there sooner than you’ll get to the other one, pal?”

            “It’s a dream, Dave. A dream.”

            “Let’s get to work, JrSB.”

            “In a moment, this dream was super clear, real like.”

            “OK,” Dave grumbled. “Then what?”

            “This Mike guy was a close friend.”

            “Mike Tolda?”

            “No, I don’t know this Mike. Had black curry hair.”

            “Like the Dorie chick?”

            “No, my wife’s hair was light brown, almost blonde and very, very short. This Mike guy was marrying a very tall gal, dark hair but not curly.”

            “We were at their wedding?”

            “No, they were already married. You too. This was some kind of get together at a small restaurant or bar, or something.”

            “Bar?  JrSB, you’re 23 years old and you never even been in a bar in your life. How can you even dream of a bar? It had to be a restaurant. And you can’t afford a restaurant, my friend. Damn, you can’t even afford to clothe my cousin or your three kids!”

            “Whatever and wherever it was it had this rug that was wet. The management had this big fan blowing on it to dry it out and it was waving around. Mike wiggled his hands as if doing magic to make the rug wave around and we all laughed at his antics. We had then turned away from the fan, we were at some kind of table that had this mirrored ball turning around above it with light reflecting off it.”

            “I saw one of those in Casablanca,” Dave remarked.

            “I never seen such a thing but in my dream I knew what it was and Mike had something to do with that ball.”


            “Don’t know, he just is connected to it in my dream. And we started congratulating him on his marriage and I decided to give a toast to Mike’s marriage and also to yours - apparently you were getting married too, I guess.”

            Dave grew anxious to get to work as we paid by the job. “Hey, JrSB, it’s your dream. Call it anyway you like.”

            “Well, I rose my glass to salute you guys, I had a drink in my hand, you know, alcoholic. And when the glass rose between me and that mirrored ball the light blinded me and I woke up.”

            Dave peered strangely over at me from his side of the truck. “That’s it?”


            He opened the door and demanded I get a move on and forget the stupid dream.

            I did.  But not before telling my wife Patty and two close friends about it over the next couple of days. Then I did forget completely about it.

            Until it came true in 1981.


3) Saint Patrick’s Day, 1981


Damn I was thirsty and needed a 7 and 7 badly. I found the bar in a glorious lounge that over looked Brody Mountain at the Brody Mountain Resort’s St. Paddy’s Day Gala in upstate New York. I was there because the company my wife Dotti worked for had over run the resort that year. Her company had laid all the carpet for ‘A Night of Hundred Stars’ in Manhattan that previous year. The folks at Pioneer Carpet were the VIPs of the season. And I was married to their comptroller. We were jet setters. She flew mostly on cocaine and I never was quit sure of where I was unless I had a drink in my hand or a computer to stare at. But in those days, I was pretty sure I was the only person on earth who owned a computer. 

            By my third whiskey the place was packed. Wall to wall people and music while everyone watched all kinds of festivities bustling over the mountain. The late night skiers carrying torches were excellent! But I was bored. Usually I danced my nights away as the John Travolta of Long Island, but not that night. There was no room for dancing and I just found a cozy bar stool and chatted with company personal and with Dottie as she returned from snorting snow flakes. Three male children of the two owners of Pioneer Carpet, all young men in their twenties – found me of interest. I knew them all and we often joked around. Big, strapping Irish lads these three. And this being St. Paddy’s night, they just had to challenge me – an Italian stallion – into doing shots.  I told them to skip over it. I have a metabolism that doesn’t allow me to get drunk. They’re lose and I’d just get high and eventually sick.  But they insisted, sighting all kinds of logic why Italians can’t drink. I told them about my grandfather who also got challenged and the challenger died, while papa just slept it off. They weren’t impressed or just didn’t believe me.

            18 shots a piece of peppermint schnapps later, the youngest lad was horizontal and the other two were claiming that I blinked them. We were doing these shots at the end of the long bar, where the waitresses piled their serving trays. Gathering up the youngster from off the floor, I noticed the lights went dim. By the time I had him up and leaning on the bar we all took notice of a special line of skiers lighting up the mountainside along with accompanying music. One of us four thought it a great idea to grab a bunch of serving trays and hit the amateur slope.

            But when we did make it up the small hill, we realized we had only taken one tray with us. Unfettered we all piled onto the one tray and started down the hill. When we hit our first obstacle we went flying in all directions. Crushed, yet thankful to be at the bottom of the pile, I slide all the way to the bottom of the hill and to Dotti’s feet. She didn’t seem amused. Instead she alerted me to a phone call, an urgent one from our friend Mike Mazzarella, the owner of a night club (Poor Peter’s Pub) where Dotti and I danced many nights away into oblivion.

            If I was tipsy, my mind got clear as I realized Mike wouldn’t be calling me near midnight unless something was up.  I rushed back to our room at the lodge and took the call. “What’s up, Mike?”

            “Joe, Maryjoe and I are getting married.”

            “Maryjoe? And You? When? Long engagement, I hope?”

            “Tommorrow, Joe. At the Watermill. I want you and Dotti to be there. I know it’s sudden but someone forgot to put your name on the guest list and I just found the error. Be there at 4.”

            “Mike, I’m upstate.”

            “What kind of party would we have without you there? Get your ass down here.”


4) Join Us On A Honeymoon


Mike is no poor Peter. He is thrifty and is a hard workingman. A bit on the cheap side, perhaps, but that’s relative. Isn’t it? Still his folks and Mike himself spared nothing to give Maryjoe a nifty wedding. I felt lucky to get in a dance with the bride and to finally get to chat with the couple near the end of their reception. While Dotti, the couple and I chatted, Mike got this crazy idea for us to join them on the honeymoon.  I’m sure the girls’ thought the idea repulsive, but us guys liked the notion. Then Dotti and Maryjoe altered the plans a bit. Dotti decided that she and I would fly down to Orlando. I had been to Florida for the very first time only months earlier. Dotti’s friends Ronnie Azul and Phil Durnate were executives at WABC and were sent down to Florida to cover a rocket launch. They invited Dotti and I along. I fell in love with Florida the very moment our plane touched ground at Orlando International. Revisiting the place - and Disney World – sounded wonderful. The plan was that Mike and Maryjoe would start their honeymoon down in Fort Lauderdale. A week later we, Dotti and I, would fly down to Fort Lauderdale, spend a day or two with them, then we would all fly back to Orlando. The happy couple would then spend a week site-seeing with us. Epcot had just started accepting visitors and it would prove a highlight of their honeymoon. We would then all fly back to New York together.

            On separate planes going to separate destinations we left the very next morning. I have little or only vague memories of what Dotti and I did to occupy our time until we caught up with Mike and Maryjoe a week later. We were booked at the Hilton on the Golden Mile (I believe that is now called the Hilton Beach Resort.) I phoned Mike the moment we got to the room. We met for diner at the Crab Shack and planned to get together the following afternoon for a whirl around Fort Lauderdale.

            The morning of that day I decided to hit the beautiful white sands of the beach where the Hilton rose up from. I was just laying out on the beach when I heard someone call out, “JrSB!”

            Very few people ever called me JrSB.  Only Dave Bliss. I hadn’t seen him since 1978 when his cousin and I divorced. His family had scolded him for even trying to remain friends with me and in my employ. In a huff, Dave left home and few ever heard from him until, “Hey, JrSB, what you doing here?”

            I looked up and had to look twice. It was really Dave!  A bit heavier with age with a healthy tan, yet there he was. “What are you doing here?”  I turned the question back at him.  He confirmed that he left home, although he was presently in touch with some of his family and on shaky but good terms. His defense of my character still gave him some trouble  -  his cousin Patty and I had the most awful divorce, because I could not bear the thought of living without her. Fact is, I fell into shambles when she got the divorce. I am not that person anymore, not by a long shot. Dave had moved to Fort Lauderdale and took up stone cutting at Broward Monuments. He also found a tanned beauty named Tina and married. They had an infant girl named Amy.

            I explained that I was now married to a chick named Dotti Ziegler and that we were in town to celebrate the marriage of friends of ours.  Dave had no idea who Mike and Maryjoe were. Nonetheless, I invited Dave along with us later in the day. Besides, living in the area he could show us some sights. 

            Tina, of course tagged along. She had heard so many wonderful things about me from Dave and so many horror stories about me from Dave’s family. She had to check me out for herself. They joined us and immediately I sensed an issue of pride.  Dave had a skill I taught him, but he barely was making ends meet. My close friend and old student had no idea, except rumors from family, what I had been up to over the years. I couldn’t even explain to him what a BBS was (electronic Bulletin Board Service) or explain to him about a new device called a computer which (incidentally Dave’s father George was the person who first introduced me to a computer at Sperry-Rand some 7 years earlier) and how I had developed a computer aided program that could make stone cutting much easier. Add to that that I was married to an executive who rubbed shoulders with politicians and hot shots, and I’m on honeymoon with a couple who owned a fleet of limos and Long Island’s premier night club.  So I left the intros at Dotti, Mike, Maryjoe, Dave and Tina. The night was long and fun filled



5) Then It Happened


Dotti and I felt lucky to have the others decide to end the evening at our hotel. We were all beat and ready for sleep. Not wanting the night to end, I insisted that we all enjoy a nightcap at the Hilton’s lounge before calling it a night. Entering the lounge there was a large fan running to our left. Apparently the rug covering the floor leading into the lounge had gotten wet. Being late, the management felt secure in running the loud thing in order to dry the rug.  It was obviously near dry as it lifted in the fan’s breeze. Mike led the group and when he spotted the rug waving, he wiggled his hands as a magician would. We all laughed and moved on. We entered the bar area. It was not much at all. We sat at a long table that had a disco ball rotating slowly above it. We chatted awhile and ordered drinks. I ordered a 7 and 7. When the drinks arrived I raised my glass up to toast all my good friends. Just as my glass caught the rays of the disco ball it all came back to me. Immediately, I shouted to Dave, “Dave! St. Charles cemetery, 1972, section 2, I told you about this night! About Mike, MaryJoe, Dotti, Tina! Remember?”  His jaw dropped and he turned pale as a ghost.

            Mike, being known as somewhat of a psychic himself, thought nothing of the déjà vu. Apparently he experienced them all the time and the others just let it roll off their backs.  Conversation and our good-nights went as expected except for Dave and I.

            When we left the bar to leave Mike made mention that the rug wasn’t waving. It was too heavy with water to do so. We thought absolutely nothing of that. In fact, that very important item did not strike me until years later when I remembered that, as I was waking from my dream back in 1972, when I said I could stop the rug from waving by just saying so.  I did.  I had affected that present situation after we all had seen a drier rug being lifted in the fan’s breeze. I affected that change 9 years earlier. It took affect, however, not until after the déjà vu.

            Why? How?  I’m still seeking the answer.



HOME | Literature  | Art Work | Comics