The Curse of Knowing

This show reflects on what it means to see the future too clearly and the cost of carrying that vision alone.

A few weeks ago, America burned on the monitor behind me. Cameras rolled in Santa Monica. Steve Drobny, founder of Clocktower Group, advisor in global hedge funds, told me to sit straight, but I didn't care. We discussed the future and America’s possibly undead economy.

The previous night, a girl at a Venice Beach bar asked where I’m from. “The future,” I replied. She was 30, blond, beautiful blue eyes, an image I haven’t shaken off. When you return from the future, you’re never whole. Details are too sharp, too strange. People blink. They don't want to hear it. That’s why I wear goggles. That's why they call me unhinged.

Knowing what's next doesn't give control. It gives doubt. It exiles you from Main Street.

I vibed on John Buchan’s The Gap in the Curtain. A country house, a strange German professor, a handful of guests glimpsing a year ahead. One sees a financial headline. Distant words that unravel everything. Once you've seen what's coming, you carry it like a tumor made of light.

I drew a line from that story to Saint Peter in Gethsemane. His denial wasn’t betrayal; it was fear dressed as certainty. The same fear I see in markets, politics, people I’ve loved. We say "impossible" when scared. But the future doesn't knock. It slides in through the back door. Think of me as The Back Door Man.

That's the curse, not that no one believes you, but that eventually, you stop believing yourself.

Our conversation shifted between memories: Blanc Bleu, my house in St. Barts, Bitcoin, bond markets, old debates with giants like Niall Ferguson. Moments I stood and said what no one wanted to hear.

Being early feels like being wrong until the chart catches up.

The Curse of Knowing isn't about money, it's about myth. Trading safety for clarity. Leaving comfort to speak truths no one’s ready for. It's about friends reunited, because ultimately, the only constants are those you love(d).

Hugh