Brownstonelit's Blog

1/30/11

It saddens me that I am now at the end of the first full month of this year and while so much is happening in all other areas of my life that the momentum for this has slowed a bit. In my eagerness to get all things in motion on my mental calendar, I have been annoyed at the lag- but understand that this is exactly how it is meant to unfold. I am being allowed space to get all other things in order and so while it pains me- it frees me. Yesterday as I was walking the dogs with my husband I watched a cardinal and his mate flit from branch to branch- wished a fair hello to my parents who are synonymous with such spirit guides and questioned the lack of their audience of late. Today I was presented first off with an article about Cardinals as possible spirit guides; their association and the meaning of such visitations. It was reassuring.

In like token… I filled my hours away from this blog in work pursuits and carved out an hour the other night trying to prepare for an upcoming speaking engagement and in doing so decided to that I would use the first book- The Danburg Diary as basic foundation to discuss research and academic processing issues- but bring the new book- Charley (WORKING TITLE: The Coffee Pot Conspiracy… an Exercise in Evil) into spotlight by reading several pieces from the blog. In doing so, I rummaged through some of the sessions with R and much to my surprise… rediscovered several clues left untapped or un-quantified thus far.

Clues like;
Route 44
The energy referred to as, Kowalski-train/railroad/thick rimmed black glasses-male who worked for RR and knew Hazel
321 and 342 NW out of Valdosta- rail road hauling moonshine for JF and cronies
Initials K and J- tied to Futch and moonshine running
Ace of spades-black
Seven of spades
Two missing crime scene photos- only 6 of 8 remain
Gold boxes- lining a wall- long corridor- looking around to see if he is being watched
Seeing something so horrible-blood on his hands- taking a bath
The white kitten- the man who was giving Charley a white kitten to give to Julie
Hotel/motel- they did tricks there… starts with the word Red…
Man whose son had trouble with one leg- a brace, could not run fast; one of two siblings-boy/girl
Who owned Sam Daily’s back then- who ran it for the owner?
The cheese cutter there- lacerations on Charley’s arms by G and RW- tied to the store
The MOT’s daughter-J

Who is the man with the three legged dog? He has a bad eye?

I need to find him. I need to find the connections to the other clues and I will… but it is becoming increasingly obvious that there is more I must learn first. I pause in between school and packing to read from The Legacy of Barbara Marx Hubbard and the Future of YOU by Neale Donald Walsch and know that on some cosmic level… Barbara Marx Hubbard and I have already met.

Until later then… the Cardinals have returned!

1/27/2011
I listened the other day to a very accomplished, but down to earth author. While he slathered bits of literary wisdom atop generous amounts of olive oil paste onto chunks of artisan bread … I sat patiently eager to absorb whatever he had to say. In professorial style, he pontificated for several minutes on the history of theatre, his short stint as a theatre critic and then launched into a bio on his writing career. When finished, he turned the tables so to speak and invited similar heritage from myself. We discussed parts of my background in both theatre and writing and then sallied forth into a debate about this blog. His stance was that I should not continue to engage in this way; for blogging is perceived by many like minded veterans as too casual a format and little more than incubator for inferior writing. And truth be told…he is right. In this age of moniker and anagram- the art of literary crafting is sacrificed for expediency and rampant consumption. Still, this blog was in truth a response to my frustrations with the current landscape of the publishing industry. Thank God for such recent forays in Historical Fiction by Dan Brown and Steve Berry- or this genre would be all but extinct. It was also a manner in which to process that frustration- discipline my focus of research and engage daily with my higher intellect. He is worried I shall loose sight of the story while writing the blog- but I tried to tell him. I do not wag  this tale- it wags me. This blog holds a mere fraction of what the book will entail and is but elongated outline until Charley becomes silent… till then I cannot write outisde of this. I write here what I can afford to publicly speculate — the rest remains private till validated.

We discussed other technicalities of the literary life as well. I know that I will need an agent and in part that was what the blog was originally intended for. Remember the Christmas before last- the one of ’09? That was the year this began- when I watched the movie Julie and Julia and became discouraged that  flan and stuffing chickens out meritted my cause. But I am patient. An agent will take note when it is time. Some NY/TV folk have seen fit to ponder its value and so I will get to marketing such in due time. All is copyrighted and safe till then.  Right now… it is still about the case and the investigation. The story will come full circle and when it does- it will be those who understand the impact of this experience who I pray will be hoping for audience. For now the private tuteledge of those crossed over is enough. As you can see, this is not going to be just another “hokey-pokey” book …but the chronicle of a writer who was chosen not only to be this man’s voice, but his pathway to seeking justice as well.
Often I have stated that I prefer Historical Fiction, and I do. But this story now represents a perverse, reverse genre I like to call Fictional History– in that all the parts that they have tried to convince me as true history- will be proven to be the fictional portion. I have pondered this phenomenon for months and realize that in order to divine the proper POV for this story; I must first follow it to its end and second I must decide how much of my own voice needs to be either removed and/or imbedded within. It is a heady question.
After a lengthy drive in the rain the other day I realized, though Charley and I do not speak as one… the undeniable imprint of his death upon my life is so great, it leaves no visible seam one can unravel. So, how do I market such a story? Once you get beyond the NY–TV and/or Hollywood marketability of the CSI pop-culture allure and deal with what this really is… the humanistic side bleeds through and touches the heart in a most profound way. This is the story of a man whose honor was besmirched and his legacy left in limbo along with his soul and his cry for justice and recognition so desperate, that it pierced the veil to be heard. How do you describe this experience/narrative to someone and not have them think you are a crack pot?
Some days you don’t… and I’m good with that. If they think you are crazy- they are less likely to pester you for advice. I am a writer who talks to an 8×10 photo of a man who died 44 years ago. On good days- I intuitively understand the shorthand of his responses. On other days, I beg R  for bigger bread crumbs so as not to lose the thread. My responses to this relationship are as real as the ones I share with my husband and children. I get angry when Charley ignores me. I get sad when I spend time with his daughter and grandchildren, knowing he cannot do so in the same way. I get chills when he calls me on the carpet about silly things I do that seemingly make no sense from afar. I get frustrated when he thinks I can read his mind. I cry when he acknowledges my private moments of compassion for his loss, but most of all… I thank him every day because he has given me back something no organized religion never could.
The gift of faith.
So what does this say about me… the fact that I talk everyday to a man that died 44 years earlier? Even more importantly… what does it say about Charley, that he has taken time out of his eternal journey to talk to a writer he has never met- so to speak?
It says this:
He needed someone to listen and I was willing to hear. It is just that simple and just that complicated- all at the same time. Do not let the whole of your human experience define the margins of your universe. Be open…Our understanding of this plane is so small and its mysteries so great. When God said he created us in His image and His likeness… He meant what he said. Ponder that for a minute or two.

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death. She died several years ago and with her for a time, she took my internal compass.

I thank Charley for bringing it back to me.

1/25/11
Again with scattered dreams…

I understand that not all the work can be done during my days. With career and other responsibilities sloshing about my consciousness and spilling over into the un, my receptors have been clogged of late with irritating bits of unresolved viral minutia. Desperate not to loose the thread, I have gone to bed frustrated at my loss of umbilical- imploring Charley to find segue in whatever fashion need, so that I am not left too long at metaphorical bulwark with no impending directive. Last night exhausted with my own frustrations, I wished him goodnight and plunged into caverness slumber confident I could do no more than offer vessel to be filled.

I believe I received information last eve.

Only this time, they were pulling information for more recent and concrete experiences. R had recently mentioned another name, although she thought perhaps that it might be a connection to either current law agency personnel or possible future law agency personnel. The catch? I cannot fast forward my life enough to see the connection- so I must remain within the only realms I can decipher. In the sleep state- rigors of timelines do not seem to inhibit and a collage of readings begin to align. The name R has given continues to present itself, along with the image of the shovel and the number 7 floating above it. I know the shovel is for Jessica. Jessica is fixated on her face. Jessica of medium build and light brown hair, whose face was bashed in with a shovel. The exact meaning of the #7 eludes me still. Then other clues R has given which have yet to find mooring begin to sail into the picture.

“Ace of spades- black-tell her that…” they insist. “Do you understand- black, ace of spades?” she pushes.

I understand the overall significance, but cannot make a direct connection and sidestep, reminding her of another card clue from almost a year ago.

“Remember the seven of spades? You said that before. I have no segue for either-what do they mean? What do they have in common other than the obvious? Why won’t they just tell me? Why?”

She is redirected. We return to information about the MOT.
“You know this is what the murder was about… the MOT. The rest is part, but the MOT is why. Do you understand?”

“I understand… I understand. I just can’t piece some of these other things. The playing cards… the lock box. The #7…”

This conversation follows on the heels of more information given that day on the lock box, #8____; the lock box that contains documents, rolled up inside. The lock box located at 2223 East Thun___________. Specific building. Roof- wood- thick shingles- a hut or shack like appearance- has to do with lock box…the documents…”

Does this now have to do with connection between politicians and New Hampshire, the loose diamonds, G and the only significant event that happened that year in new Hampshire?

“One red ruby… one red ruby…”

I return to the name; L_________.

I search my internal files, knowing that I have run across no such name in recent or distant past repertoires. I lay quiet in the blackness and try to remain open to what was coming through. As my mental Rolodex begins to flip backwards, I am cast back into several other random impressions that have been without tether. The speculation by one that Jessica may have lived in a trailer at _________’s Trailer Park. Which segued into another remembrance about research on recent real estate transactions? A transaction that showed the transfer of a specific lot located in a trailer property. This transfer was between the Grim Reaper and another association, whose last name was very much related to one of the other players in this case. Could this #7 indeed be the number of the trailer lot in ___________ Trailer park that might have housed one or more of the victims under Grim’s watchful eye?

Intuition is never as random as appears on surface. Odd…how even in slumber, I rationalized I had not thought about that information in over 7 or 8 months- so why now? Using the shorthand of the dead, I am always suspicious of things that simply ferment in the recesses of my mind and then suddenly float to the surface. Why now indeed? While trying to parse in half sleep the importance of such a reintroduction, I was introduced to something new. What if this new name is not attached to law enforcement as part of law enforcement itself- but rather as something else attached to law enforcement?

In slumber’s conversation with Charley I asked… what if?

As a final bid of intriguing adieu, I see this girl’s name appear to float onto another list. It crosses over 4 badges and lands right under two other names I have become intimately familiar with:

Jessica
Roxanne

A thought?

If the four in flannel had a club…If this is about fraternal protection and the seeming rite of initiation to this twisted club was to murder? And their trail of tears thus far includes the two names listed above…

Hmmmm…You do that math.

That leaves me… two short!

1/24/11

Not every day is meant for writing. Some days are meant for listening.
Today is one of those days.
Talk to me Charley. I’m listening…

1/23/11

Another night full of random dreams that held images of men, cosseted in secret conversations…rooms full of butch haircuts looming above mantles of thickly rimmed black glasses that adjusted themselves as they lowered their gaze to survey the murky sea of other dark, store-bought suits that lined the walls and remained stoic with their thin ties and tight lips.

Information is on its way.
I can feel it.

Talk to me Charley… talk to me.

1/22/11
I was just looking at my dry erase board filled with clues and impressions, names and numbers… timelines and deadlines- the one Charley likes to call my black board with magnets.

Let me explain.

When I was just at the beginning of this- chronicling the first blush of revelations from Charley, he would often redirect. Phoenix was one such redirect. This was another. One day during a session with R he redirected to ask a personal question.

“I’m sorry… he’s redirecting. He wants to know why you don’t like your black board?”

“What black board?”

“The one with the magnets?”

“The one with what?” I asked.

“He is showing me magnets. Do you not like them?”

She drew a large square in the air. “Do you understand, black board?

“Yes… I understand black board. Who doesn’t understand black board?” I drawled. “But my black board? I don’t have a…”

“Yes… your black board. You haven’t put it up. Why?”

Suddenly I realized what he was referring to. It was a monstrous dry erase board my husband had bought for me at Office Depot 3 weeks earlier that I had simply abandoned and left still in its cryovaced cocoon hidden in my dining room- debating its demise.

“The magnets?” I stalled.

“Yes…he’s showing me magnets” she reiterated.

“Well…” I explained the purchase. “And, well… we thought the silver trim on the darn thing was metal. So my husband bought me magnets to go with it. His bad… because it turned out it was only plastic. So the magnets don’t really stick to it, see? The fridge, yes… the board no.” I answered and was ready to move on.

“He’s still obsessing about the magnets. But wants to know why you haven’t put the board up?”

You must understand one thing. A year and a half ago, I would have literally been a bit freaked out about a disembodied entity grilling me about my bedroom accoutrements. But since Charley seems insistent on entering anywhere at any time… and truth be told… it is my fault that he does. You see… Charley’s 8×10 sits on my writing desk and he is a part of my daily reflections and heartfelt conversations. My writing desk is tucked inside an alcove of my bedroom. The area where my husband wanted this monstrous thing to go- was just to the right of that on a wall that at the time held an oil painting.

“He’s waiting…” R smiled.

“Fine!” I blurted. “I cannot believe that I need to explain to… him… why I will, or will not put something up on my bedroom wall. But here goes…”

She nodded, smiled and waited.

“Ok… because I don’t like it-that’s why. My office is in my bedroom. It’s where I write. I have a beautiful writing desk that I slaved 6 months for at a crappy job- it cost $499.00 when I was 17. It’s gorgeous- made of wood, carved…just gorgeous. It reminds me everyday of what I am aspiring to be and it has traveled with me wherever and whoever I have been since then. I am 52 and that’s a lot of reminding, traveling and whatevering. I have wooden bedroom furniture- I have oil paintings in wooden frames on every conceivable inch of wall space and while it was a thoughtful present- it does not go with the rest of my décor! There! See? It’s simple! I simply cannot- no! Will not… accessorize with plastic! There. I’ve said it… happy?” I managed to squeak at the end of my diatribe; all the while cognizant that in the eternal scheme of things Charley most likely could have cared less really why. He was merely making ethereal small talk.

Her lips gave way to a grin that gave birth to a smirk and in between those thinned lips that held back a well deserved chuckle, she managed to squeak back… “He was just curious…let’s redirect.”

Embarrassed that I had felt so defensive, explaining my irrational response to a man who shares my life and apparently my bedroom too…I laughed.

It’s like that old black and white show on TV- Topper. If you are old enough to remember that… then welcome my dear, dear antiquated friend!

Now, can you understand why he has become my best buddy? Because friends will call you on the carpet, when you make little sense and applaud you when you do! They delight in your idiosyncratic behaviors in the same fashion that they share empathically in your angst. Friends will prod you into moving on or letting go when you have tarried too long in a space too small for who you are. Friends want to know what you’re thinking- even about the most mundane of things. Things like plastic dry erase boards and while they may never understand your irrational explanations- they still smile at your ridiculousness and then… as my psychic medium says…they redirect you to get back on track.

Sooooooo my dear friend, Charley…
Let’s redirect.
Where do you want to go to now???

1/22/11

I heard a line in a movie this morning that gave me great pause…

“True greatest comes from compromise.”

I understand compromise- it is called marriage.
I understand sacrifice- it is called motherhood.
I understand surrender-it is called love.

What is your understanding?

1/21/11
I have a speaking engagement coming up in the next few weeks. They have titled it, “So You Want To Be A Writer?” If you were to ask me that question today… I would say yes. If you were to have asked me that question ten years ago, I would have said … yes. If you would have asked me that question forty years ago (now I’m telling on myself) I would have told you…no!
Why?
Because forty years ago- I knew I already was a writer! So, forty years ago… what did you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were? Why is it that the older we get, the less convinced we sometimes become of who we are? This is an epiphany that struck me 7 years ago. I was a writer and yet hadn’t written other than journaling in decades. Why? Because things like, mortgage bills, marriage and motherhood took precedence. I was so busy living my life; I forgot what it was I wanted to do with my life. Then God looked down one day and saw me amongst the fray and decided that I needed a reminder. A wake up call if you will… an alarm clock! Ironically it came in the form of a tumor, but then who said the good Lord doesn’t have a sense of humor!?! And so, somewhere under the knife… the great architect of the universe told me to get about my business, smiled a huge smile- slapped me on the butt, sent me back and told me to get at it!
I did… and I continue to do it every day. Why? Because for me, ink is no less than oxygen. I must write in order to breathe. Now, here’s another clue as to how I got where I am and what it is that I do. When I was a kid, I used to pray to be the first kid on the block to have a vision of the Blessed Virgin. Why? Mostly because I grew up in Iowa and there wasn’t a lot else to do there! Beyond that, I was jealous of those three kids at Fatima. Here they were talking to deity- getting information directly and there was I…lost in parochial limbo.
A pig-tailed, plaid nightmare sitting in the third row listening to it second hand from Sr. Angelita while writing JMJ on the top right corner of my papers wondering why the Blessed Virgin wouldn’t share her secrets directly with me. Didn’t I go to confession? Hadn’t I done all the right things and said all the right prayers?
Decades later my mother died… and when she did, she suddenly became the only mother I wanted to hear from on the other side. When my father joined her, I ached for the sound of his voice as well. And so, hard as I might pray–I heard nothing.
Until… I met a man in an 8×10 photo. His name was Charley. And while he is a man of few words, he tends to say a lot.
One of his first words was… Phoenix.
Until today… I thought I knew what it meant.

1/20/2011

Some days it is difficult to understand the messages being sent from the universe and some days it’s just damn impossible. Today might be one of those days. I have found that it is imperative to try and broaden my scope of accepting; to try and keep the bigger picture in mind and know that the universe… in all its infinite wisdom has imminently a much better seat from which to view than I.
Some days… a person can feel so small.