Everyone Asks If I'm On RFK's Payroll, Really It All Has To Do With A Bird

"Synchronicity Is An Ever Present Reality For Those Who Have Eyes To See."

— Carl Jung

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Every journalist I've spoken to in recent months asks after or alludes to me being on RFK's payroll. 

Repeatedly, I tell them, “I'm here because of a bird.” And yes, I know how that sounds. 

Let me start by stating that a psychic in New Orleans predicted everything happening in my life right now, back in July of last year. Among her forecasts, she warned that that the “floodgates” would open around March. After that, she stressed, “No one would be off limits.” Anyone I had an interest in would be a realistic possibility. 

Excerpt from Nov. 25 Kennedy Post

On a sweltering July afternoon, I'm sitting beside Denise in a flimsy folding chair, shielding my face from the sun, sweat dripping down my back. It's peak season in New Orleans, and I'm nervously awaiting my first psychic reading that someone I know only faintly pressured me into. My motivations are partly journalistic, partly touristic…

The psychic, a 30-something brunette in a coral-colored tank top, prepares my cards. I ask whether this work is her “calling.” She reveals she previously worked as a nurse and could sense when patients “wouldn't make it.” She would prepare families for their loved one's passing. Once she embraced her psychic abilities, the dead started communicating through her, just as they had with her mother, which ultimately drove her mother crazy.

My demeanor shifts with her explanation — death readings I wasn't anticipating, death readings I'm not excited to be paying for. Instantly, I regret this decision.

Looking at my cards, she fires off a string of fairly generic projections: I talk to a lot of different people, take on their energy, am weighted by secrets, motivated by truth, trusted by many, but often sacrifice tranquility by lending too much headspace to outside forces — all typical of any writer's lot. She describes me as “career-focused” and notes that I'm riding a “new path” into a divinely carved avenue where everything will happen “as it should” as long as I don't succumb to superficial “distractions.” My focus is hooked.

Her next batch of interpretations is even more precise. She sees my house filled with “a lot of boys” and surrounded by male energy in a “circus” style home. This is true. We live in a smallish home near the beach with four boys who thrive (and often crash and burn) in their quest for thrills. Our home serves as a hub for the town's teenagers who pass through with broken bones and newly healing injuries from skate and surf accidents.

Her readings indicate outrageous good fortune on the horizon. For 4–7 years, she says my “passions” will remain on an incline. Big money will come. Everything I “ever dreamed of,” every person I ever wanted or needed to meet, will happen for me. “Around March” of this year, she says, the floodgates will open, and everything will “start to explode.”

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The floodgates did, in fact, open shortly after February. I was buried by incoming sources and an onslaught of political gossip, valuable advice, and insight, with unexpected connections falling into my lap almost daily. I would sit in my office every afternoon and think: I can't believe what I'm living right now.  

But the start of this mystic embrace — or at least the shift in me turning my attention towards it — transpired two years earlier when an owl on my back deck started to appear obsessively during the winter of 2021. At the time, I was debating my return to New York for the Maxwell trial. I had never covered a trial before; I was inept in this genre, and we couldn't afford it financially. With it being the holiday season, the back and forth between the two coasts seemed entirely impractical.

I had nearly talked myself out of it when this big, beautiful bird started showing up on a metal pole in my backyard, landing 5 feet above me, demanding my attention. I'd never seen an owl on our property in the 6 years we'd lived here. His sudden touchdown on a moonless night left me awestruck. Oddly, he was not spooked when I took a few steps closer. 

That first meeting struck me in an inexplicable way. My whole being felt knocked out of alignment and paralyzed under his green glowing eyes. I was slightly scared, but more enthralled than fearful. If you’ve locked eyes with an owl, you know what I'm saying. At close range, there is something otherworldly about them: their eyes flicker with ancient wisdom and mystery. Their intricate patterns of plumage range from mottled browns to dotted snowy whites. The severe posture, slight head tilt, and deep contemplative gaze are regal, indicative of an enigmatic pride on stealth display.

The visits soon became incessant. He showed up every time I was home at odd hours: midday, midnight, early morning during my bath, out of nowhere as I was out back folding laundry in the sun. Other times, he woke me at 3 am, hooting loudly until I got out of bed and walked over to his pole to acknowledge him. After securing brief eye contact, he would fly away. He came for me and me only. He wasn't interested in anyone else. 

After each visit, I noticed a jolted charge in my consciousness. I felt armed by sharpened clarity, energized by an unfamiliar force. I told no one about it. Instead, I jotted down the date of each landing.

Amused by his stalking, I began filming his visits. A few times, I went live to give followers a glimpse of his majestic presence. I had never examined the symbolic meaning attached to objects in nature before. The only other time I was intrigued enough to research something similar was when I was 20. I ran regularly and started seeing dead crows in the gutter or sidewalk on every jog. I figured something in the area was killing them off, but no one ever seemed to notice anything odd about it whenever I questioned people in town. The sightings went on for months. So many lifeless blackbirds in my path, with no apparent injuries. 

The sight haunted me.

Eventually, I decided they would serve as metaphors. I started weaving them into my poetry in a creative writing course. The dead birds replaced the continual reference to rotting plumes I was otherwise attached to. My professor applauded the edit. 

The owl information I uncovered initially alluded to a foreboding fate manifested through a winged warning. 

“What's with the owl visits?” I asked Instagram. “Is this a sign of death? Am I dying?!”

Followers were quick to quell my fears. They shared excerpts from ancient folklore passages and online fodder dissecting the meaning behind repeated sightings. They assured me it was not the death of the body but the death of delusion — the owl was an omen designed to push the recipient toward intuitive development, inner wisdom, transformation, good luck, and self-actualization. In other words, good things were on the way. A flood of encouraging excerpts came at me for weeks. 

“Owls are true messengers of the spiritual realm. They can appear as a symbol during challenging times as a guide. Unlike any other animal symbol, they relay truth, understanding, patience, and wisdom to us when we need them most,” one follower noted.

“Keep seeing owls everywhere? They could be giving you a sign related to a decision you're facing. Here's what to know about owl symbolism and what this wise animal may be trying to tell you in your dreams or in daily life,” another shared.

They went on, “Owl sightings are rich with symbolic interpretations across various cultures and belief systems. Often associated with wisdom and knowledge, owls are revered for their ability to see what others cannot, both in literal and metaphorical darkness. In many Native American traditions, the owl is a messenger or protector, guiding souls through the spiritual world and offering insight into hidden truths. In ancient Greek mythology, the owl symbolizes Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war, embodying a sharp intellect and strategic thinking.

“Owls are also linked to intuition and the unveiling of secrets. Their nocturnal nature and silent flight evoke a sense of mystery and the uncovering of hidden realities. Seeing an owl might suggest that one should trust their inner voice and pay attention to subtle cues in their environment. In some cultures, owls are seen as omens or harbingers of change, signaling the end of one phase and the beginning of another. This duality of perception — wisdom and mystery, guidance and change — makes the owl a powerful symbol in personal and spiritual growth, urging individuals to explore deeper truths and embrace transformation.”

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Amid decoding all this peculiar bird symbolism, I decided to stick it out with the trial. It was the only point of contention in my life, so I choose to take the leap and lean into my intuitive senses rather than cave to fleeting budget concerns. I offered my Venmo (once) for public donations to help fund travel fees. My followers donated generously. I raised $50k in 3 days to make it happen. They, too, were desperate to know what was going on inside that courtroom where the ghost of Epstein had been conveniently replaced by his ex-lover and darked-eyed co-conspirator, Ghislaine Maxwell. For weeks I sat and watched her. The trial, as we know, proved a pivotal point in my life and career. I returned to the federal courthouse with renewed confidence to see, now with full transparency, the corruption shaping the trial and how colluding media will agree on one narrative and mangle the truth in doing so. Was I willing to go against that narrative? 

Ghislaine Maxwell had already been convicted in the eyes of the public. She was, by all accounts, a soulless monster — the most hated woman in America. Could I challenge it? As one of the biggest cover ups of our lifetime, it begged for smarter dissection, but the question was: Was I brazen enough to humanize a “sexual predator” when I could easily ride the wave of mainstream outrage and deliver sanitized recaps of the trial to appease people? After all, people had paid me to be there. Would they loathe me for turning over a problematic take? For sharing honestly as I saw it all unfolding? 

One day, with just a few of us alone in the courtroom after the others had filtered out for a break, she turned back to the empty benches I was seated at and glared, unblinkingly, at me. In this flash of contact, I felt the same dynamic the owl had sparked: slightly scared, but more enthralled. The power of her stare had a seizing quality. A detail I would struggle to describe in my notes days later.

In seeking a more nuanced angle — one that painted Epstein's right-hand woman as a tragic and severely damaged Freudian nightmare — I was labeled a rape apologist. A man at the New York Times warned me this would happen. He told me in the cafeteria one rainy afternoon on lunch break that I would ruin everything I'd built for myself if I showed any sympathy for Ghislaine.

“It isn't worth it,” he said, even though all the journalists, in quiet corners off-camera, agreed with me.

I argued it was. The problem with modern times is too many writers cling to safe and sanitized opinions over anything and everything else, whereas I crave ugly, ragged truths that almost hurt to unravel.

As uncomfortable as it was and as long as it took to defend, my coverage of Maxwell ultimately served as a defining factor that set me apart from the rest. The controversial take was initially rejected but gradually appreciated because it forced people to question their knowledge of the case and reexamine biases built on a fraudulent scope — a scope narrowed to place all focus on Ghislaine. Thanks to personal sources from her past, combined with evidence largely excluded by the media, the trial allowed me to see (and show) how one-sided and lazy legacy media is. Through this realization, I was able to expose the power of paid narratives that benefit the billionaires (some of them her past clients) backing most of these outlets.

Is that who should decide our heroes and our villains?

If I could successfully shift a portion of the public's outlook on Ghislaine, I could surely do the same with others shadowed and shunned by scandal. Ultimately, my stance on Maxwell paved the way for everything that came after her, including Johnny Depp, which I promise we'll delve into in depth eventually.

But for time's sake, let’s skip to a June 6th feature: how the owl led to RFK. It's a life script that now reads like an Eat Pray Love rip-off that J.K. Rowling and Nancy Meyers collaborated on. Afterward, you can decide how crazy it all sounds.

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So, with the owl permanently on my radar, the numbers started next. Suddenly, everywhere I turned, I saw 666. Once again, I documented the trend on Instagram. I held off on buying decently priced tickets to England because they were $666, and it felt like too grim a risk. (We ended up paying much more.) Thanks to a few unpaid medical bills, my once-high credit score returned to me at a somber 666. I sat and stared at it for a good 10 minutes, wondering how. 

666 started jumping out at me in supermarket checkouts, on TV, and in emails. The list went on and on. All these random sightings shoving 666 in my face until I couldn't escape it. 

Like the owl, it started to freak me out. I have never been a numbers person, so the sudden frequency of this ominous number in my path was disquieting. As far as I knew, 666 was some satanic emblem. Given the chance, it was not a number I'd choose to be followed by. 

Then England happened. 

I planned to be there for the first time to celebrate Queen Elizabeth's platinum Jubilee. The purchase of a vintage Commer was something Mike snuck by me and then threw at me just before our trip. He had come across an old English bus for sale on Instagram and bid on it without my approval. He said we could visit it in the English countryside before it was pulled onto a boat and shipped back to us in the states. I was furious. We have way too many old cars. I didn't care how cool it looked or that the Beatles once owned one, too. 

The bus splurge became a sore talking point, so we avoided it. We didn't discuss it much until we made it to London and hopped on a two-hour train ride to Ledbury to see it in person. Past a long highway lined with traditional hedges and ragged cobblestone walkways, we met Austin, a handsome, bearded gentleman with a giant dog, at his workshop where the bus was parked. He poured us tea in his warehouse. The license plate was the first thing I noticed. It read, in bold black letters, RFK 6668. A photo posted to Instagram caught a follower's eye instantly. She noticed right away the plate's markings matched the death date of Robert Kennedy. I googled his bio: He was shot on June 5th and passed on June 6th, 1968. 

Another follower noted that we were picking it up on June 6th. We were visiting this new wheeled addition on the anniversary of RFK's death. 

All trust in coincidences had dissolved by now, so the alignment was a semi-shocking reveal. 

“Synchronicity!” someone else wrote. 

On the slow drive around the country, I googled the word. An image of Carl Jung popped up, bringing back vague recollections of a college course I took where the notion was first introduced. 

“Synchronicity, a concept popularized by Carl Jung, refers to the meaningful coincidences that occur in our lives, events that seem to be related by meaning rather than causation. These synchronicities often act as signposts or messages from the universe, nudging us toward a particular path or understanding. Numbers play a significant role in this realm, often appearing repeatedly in ways that capture our attention and prompt introspection. Known as angel numbers or numerology, these recurring numerical patterns are believed to carry specific vibrations and messages. For example, seeing 11:11 frequently is often interpreted as a signal to focus on one's thoughts and intentions, while the number 7 is associated with spiritual awakening and introspection. By paying attention to these numerical synchronicities, individuals can gain insights into their life's direction and purpose, aligning their actions with a deeper, often spiritual, understanding of their place in the world. Embracing the significance of these numbers and the synchronicities they represent can lead to greater clarity, purpose, and fulfillment in one's life journey,” the Internet explained. 

I googled 666. 

“The number 666 is most famously associated with the ‘Number of the Beast’ from the Book of Revelation in the New Testament, where it is depicted as a symbol of the Antichrist and ultimate evil. This biblical reference has led to a widespread cultural perception of 666 as a harbinger of doom, malevolence, and moral corruption. In Christian eschatology, it is often interpreted as representing a profound opposition to God and divine order.

However, interpretations of 666 vary significantly across different contexts. In numerology, 666 can be seen from a more balanced perspective. Here, it is considered the number of materialism and earthly concerns, often suggesting a need to find harmony between the physical and spiritual realms. It can serve as a reminder not to become overly attached to material wealth and to seek a deeper, more balanced existence.

In Eastern philosophies and certain occult traditions, 666 might be interpreted through the lens of its individual digits, with the number 6 often symbolizing nurturing, responsibility, and community. The repetition of this number can be seen as emphasizing these attributes, potentially indicating an area of life where these qualities are being neglected or overemphasized.

While 666 carries a heavy burden of negative connotations in Western religious contexts, its broader symbolic meanings can encourage a reflection on balance, material attachment, and the alignment of one's actions with their spiritual values.”

Intrigued, I dived into Jung's bio. His death date: also June 6th, 1961.

From then on, the owl and the 6's stuck.

While researching owls as guiding forces in other’s lives, I came across a documentary about Dominick Dunne. In it, he recalls holing up in a cabin far away from LA after the brutal murder of his daughter. Lost in grief, he found himself “talking to birds,” but eventually reemerged at 50 something with new purpose and direction. He pursued trial coverage, becoming, in the latter half of his life, the lead voice for Vanity Fair tracking high profile court cases. The most compelling and trusted in this vein. His career, in a sense, was born out of death.

Picasso, too. I read about him finding a wounded baby owl in his studio. For two years, he was so obsessed his art transformed into endless variations of the bird he rescued.

Picasso’s Owl

Picasso's chance encounter with an injured owl profoundly influenced his artwork.

How did Picasso's fascination with these birds begin? 

“We may never know if it was just by chance that the owl also happened to be an ancient symbol of Antibes; perhaps Picasso simply attracted fate. Yet he was well aware of the mythology associated with his nocturnal friend. A Greek symbol of Athena, suggesting courage and wisdom, Picasso would have encountered the bird time and again while drawing inspiration from the ancient Greek vases that inspired him. This interest in Greek pottery was arguably the defining factor in Picasso's obsession with his ceramics. It shows Picasso taking up the mantle of his artistic forefathers, creating a dialogue as he so often did between the ancient and modern. It was not just ancient artistic production, but also the philosophy underpinning them that fascinated Picasso – most notably the great Roman poet Ovid's interest in the metamorphosis of humans into animals. As the vase transforms into an owl, the portrait of a lady morphs into that same owl. Is Picasso hinting at his interest in Ovid's Metamorphoses? 

Picasso was aware of the owl-like quality of his own face.  This combination of the personal and the intellectual, summed up by owls and Ovid, highlights the whirlwind of associations he drew upon.”

“Pablo loved to surround himself with birds and animals. In general they were exempt from the suspicion with which he regarded his other friends. While Pablo was still working at the Musée d’Antibes, [Michel] Sima had come to us one day with a little owl he had found in a corner of the museum. One of his claws had been injured. We bandaged it and gradually it healed. We bought a cage for him and when we returned to Paris we brought him back with us and put him in the kitchen with the canaries, the pigeons, and the turtledoves.” — Life With Picasso

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RFK’s Death Announcement

“From Attorney General, on to Senator from New York, presidential candidate, and now as presidential candidate on the heels of a California primary victory, Senator Robert Kennedy is dead at the age of 42 Years.”

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THE COMMER: RFK JUNE66EIGHT

Fast forward a year. 

Courtney Love tips me off about RFK Jr. announcing his presidential run. I ignored it the first time, but took note of the second. I knew very little about him other than that he was heavily censored during Covid like me. His Instagram account was permanently deactivated. Many friends of mine followed him as a light, cutting through dark dystopian times during that period, so I was pleased to hear he would be running. But politics was not my thing.

A couple of months after his big Boston announcement, I came across a photo of him a bit younger, standing in front of a white shingled estate (what I recognize now to be the Kennedy compound) with an owl — identical to the one that visited me — perched on his forearm. The image stopped me in my tracks. Without much thought, I reposted it on my Instagram feed as an inside joke. “Someone is working hard for my vote,” I added as caption. 

The post was shockingly popular, pulling in 19K likes and over 1k comments on June 29th — months before much of the public was aware that Kennedy was even in the running. 

"The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why." — Mark Twain

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Days later, RFK thanked me for sharing the post and included two photos of his youngest son training hawks at a property in New York (while I’m driving around town with a license plate dated with his father’s death). 

From there, I was bombarded by an influx of unexpected RFK intrigue. I had no idea he was so beloved by my following. That one photo opened up a safe space in a corner of the Internet for supporters to voice their adoration of him. They rushed to share their hope for him as a respected if controversial candidate. Suddenly, every selfie he took at the gym or on a plane with a follower of mine was sent to my DMs. At every dinner or cocktail event I attended, someone in the mix had a story they wanted to share about him; many involved his love of birds. One woman told me he was easily distracted by bird sightings. She noted he was unfocused at times in outdoor settings even with prominent forces in attendance, if certain breeds caught his eye. At a hotel in Laguna, an interior designer told a story about him arriving late to a shoot years ago because he had stopped to rescue a wounded bird on the highway. The bird ended up in the photo. “If you want to see, I have a magazine copy,” she offered. 

In hindsight, I was not planning on politics until the bird photo lured me in. Organically, I started to learn more about Robert Kennedy through various acquaintances. Week by week, month by month, their tales helped build an outline for his character that kept me interested. 

Essentially, it’s what brought me to Philadelphia and kicked off the campaign coverage. I wanted to see for myself what he was all about. And, I wanted to test the waters to see if a political shift might be something I should consider.

After the announcement, I got a text from someone I had recently befriended from the campaign inviting me to the after party.

“I can't. I'm already halfway to my hotel,” I responded. 

“Then meet us for a drink later?”

“Ok. Where?”

“The Red Owl Tavern on Chestnut,” they said. “You’ll find us there.”

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Consider:

Kennedy Calls for Secret Service Detail on Anniversary of Father’s Killing