The Coffee Pot Conspiracy and its exercise of evil!

2/6/11

I know you’re looking for something more… I am too. Charley has fallen silent for the better part of this month while I deal with more earthly issues and much as I have hated the loss of thread- it was better to clear these kinds of issues from the docket so that I can move forward with a new outlook and a cleaner slate. Also, the course I am currently taking may be just the edification and margin of guidance I need to do this right. It is a continual struggle to keep mindful that he has greater scope and understanding of the necessary process to bring this to successful fruition- but I remand myself daily of such to bargain away the perceived pain of unintentional slight. In one sense it is always hardest to be both teacher and student, as I invoke the impressions of my higher self to guide where my consciousness might blunder. Therefore, with patience and a keen eye towards learning I must tarry behind and ask that the lesson be both clear and swift when most appropriate. I do miss the banter and frantic nature of some of the information. I can liken it only to the poignant parting scene at the end of Dorothy’s visit to the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz, when with tearful reverie she tousles the curls of the Cowardly Lion, telling him that now that he has found his courage… she is going to miss the way he used to blubber and cry for her help.

Charley too has become brave enough to help himself and begin to walk away… and he should. For who would wish to be condemned to an eternity of such silence and heart wrenching existence as he has suffered for these last 44 years?

Last night in tender angst I sought his marbled eyes of gray and asked that he not wander too far as I still- with tether in feeble hand- have great need of further mentoring. The case is beginning to wrap around itself; the bulk of it’s mystery now known and tucked in both my head and plastered amongst a million notes and papers that dot this cottage floor- but there is something still not right with all. I have need of further insight about the finer details of execution- the words just prior and the circumference of involvement involving the peripheral threads of those who pulled the strings from the shadows near.

The man of counsel who allegedly got a young girl pregnant and then faded into the night while others took care of his problem. The same alleged man who grew into his black robe as quickly as others pulled him out of it. The man who cried foul play for Hazel from the rooftop while he wallowed in the shadows of hidden guilt within his own. The man who borrowed the truth and then twisted it for his own use to protected others, in order to protect himself. Who built the walls of suspicion opposite of common denominator, then applied the gavel to its mortar of lies in an attempt to tear it down one brick at a time to construct something else. Files that went missing in the night…pages that no longer saw the light of day and the awkward shred of decency played out from fingers begging for redemption from beyond the grave who gave them back.

The long walk to the house of love and the even longer walk back from the halls of justice. The man who counseled the men who wore suits by day, then donned rubber boots at night while brandishing stainless steel shovels like swords against the damsels in their last moments of distress. He, the blind face of justice with contorted smile and weighted scale, who protected the men who would roll female bodies in the moonlight for passion, then roll them silently back into water before the dawn for protection. Men who were bought and paid for…women who were just bought and killed. The scale of justice that was tipped low enough for the men who took the law and warped it into something evil and seductive…whose currency flowed from stills and road the rails NW out of Valdosta to buy more power and influence in town after town. The men who sat in gilded chairs in the city of Margaret Mitchell, who fondled woman the same way, they fondled diamonds and rubies with  calculated measure and cold  fingertips. The courier who acted both as pigeon and bait- whose web was so wide and so thick that men got stuck in every corner and bled freely for her gaze-oblivious to every other anemic victim at their side. Weak, greedy men who thought with their manhood and lived by their guttural interpretation of the world they surveyed.

Route 44…
The four in flannel…
The necklace…
The diamond and one ruby…
The small white kitten…
1439 blue oak…
The black dog…
The red fingernails…
The long and winding road…
The red sports car…
The two bedroom house…
The lake beside the road…
The pool upon the hill…
The card with his name written clearly in ink…
The golden box…
The hut with shingled roof…
The rail cars that rush NW…
The three men at the rails…
The blood on his hands…
The bloody shovel and compass…
The Fort …
The Daniel Ashley Hotel…
The special fence with the carving is burning hot…
The coffee grounds upon the floor…
The thermos full of coffee three weeks after…

Then man who stands at the fence beside the hay roll… he has more information for you!

The Coffee Pot Conspiracy and the exercise of evil!

Come back to me Charley. We have much work still to do!

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