Archive for January, 2015

A white feather…

January 26, 2015

1/26/2015

Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death, but I intend not to mourn but to celebrate her life as it is now…ethereal and perfect.

Last night I was shown a white feather, which I instinctively knew meant that a message of great importance or some significant piece of information would be brought to me within 24 hours. This morning my husband caught up on the mail and brought me a small package…something I had ordered from my last session with R.

It arrived, wrapped in cardboard piping with  eons of packing tape to protect its wayward edges and precious cargo. At first glance it said little to me other than the melancholy doodling’s of a man lost in his own demons and phantasies.

It was written in 1965…just after and just before. On its cover a road map to his kills. It was so clear that I almost missed it– so blatant that it was almost insult…so fiendishly clever that no one else has ever made the segue…until now.

Why?

Because fools of another nature were naive enough to think the dead do not display their deeds. Because they believed in their infantile megalomania that the poetry of the soul could disguise as it divulged the deeds of the demon. That it could protect the architect of the trinity and the engravings in blood.

Every year they came up and died upon the rocks.You used her finger…traced it with its bloody stump… a perfect match to the purple mountain’s majesty, sent out into the world by envelope and postcard to announce the arrival of all things red.

Not so clever now are we?

The tapestry has begun to unravel and X marks the spot…or shall we say…spots. So many I can barely keep count of them. Like a traveling Dalmatian who wandered the nation in search of a safe place to rest you have finally come home…not to where it all began, but it it all was inspired.

The Green Man would be pleased.

 

Advertisements

It is difficult…this parsing and rationing of intellect.

January 13, 2015

1/13/2015

It is difficult…this parsing and rationing of intellect. One part to my job, one part to my higher education, one part to spirit…and one part to the dissection of evil.

There is the sense of destiny to this year, that we have culled that which no longer works and now wait at the shores of our next big adventure with heightened pulse and baited breath. With the holidays past, my urge to nest is abating and being replaced by that cyclical restlessness that always fills the void between winter winds and budding flower.

Fascinated with the discovery of another opportunity, I have mentally taken on a new challenges that have wet my appetite for change and new discoveries. But is this just the seasonal wanderer in me talking… the frustrated traveler, or is this the harvest cycle of my life that is setting off bigger alarms that warn I am  running out of time to be daring? Is this the 999– an end to one chapter and the start of another?

2015 is meant to be a year for huge expansion; it is the numerical equivalent of 8– a year of attracting abundance, testing our grit and asking us to push the envelope open wide and walk through new doors to different spaces and attitudes. But are we…am I…prepared for what the universe is willing to offer? The romantic in me thinks so, but the reality is I have real bonds and ties that have not the same egotistical elasticity to make the distances and the sacrifices not matter.

My envelope as it were, has been stretched in a myriad of ways and even as I explode the margins of my world- I feel penned by the constraints of my own abilities and doubts. With the eruption of academics back into my life for a brief stay- I find myself mapping out the parameters of my experiences in terms of inches, not feet… in terms of papers, not passions and wonder…

Have I done myself an injustice to be so tied to scholastics at my age?

The desire to learn still burns, but the deadlines put me in a box, which hides within a bigger box of ambition…and its larger counterpart of gainful employment, encloses and cages them all. My life has become a mission, inside a mission, inside another, until it feels endless… this thread of obligatory responses and responsibilities and cycles.

Is it the endless fog this month, that blankets the lake and shields myself from the reality of my surroundings and my station in life? Is this what and where I am meant to be? And what is so different between what I have and what I seek, beyond distance and novelty? Why does fleeting security both comfort and condemn me?

I have watered views, blackened rock, rugged shoreline and shingled bunker…so what is it I need that I do not already share? Salted tongue and lobster traps? Painted houses that sit atop historic villages and kiss both sky and shore with histrionic flair? And what happens when that is not enough? Is this about a relocation of the body or a relocation of the psyche and the soul, and am I not already adept at both without even leaving this desk? Or is this more about the fear that I have not the internal fortitude to do and be the grander things in life? Am I simply baiting the universe as a way of taunting myself… to see if I still have what it takes to own my existence? For what is it I really want; change or the chance to discover I still have the confidence in my ability to change?

Am I reaching the point in my life where I balance the scales of my existence with comfort and stagnation, or do I fear I can no longer handle the dips and dumps of true and radical change… am I living or just counting down my days? And is this message even for me or is it spirit’s way of delivering such for somebody else who must receive it through me?

Something in the fog calls to something far more ancient within me that I cannot seem to name. Perhaps it is merely the cycle of frustrations that winter gridlock breeds familiar, the romanticism of internal alienation– the love of tainted verbiage or of the rallied frustrations  against the additional self-imposed rigors of academia, or…could it be the perceived stalemate in this case that begs dramatic and drastic movement? Energies build then back load and build again.

So how do I paint the canvas of this day? Shall I with bold strokes and wide brushes or with crafted tips and finely detailed feathering make this portrait of my 24 hour destiny my own? Or shall I forgo all vehicle of controlled expression and throw full cans of self against blank walls and see where the paint falls without my impending guidance? How daring that would be, to do so- without taint of agenda, without hint of control…without demand of expectation? And am I strong enough to be so brave as to release such a destiny to the universe- without so much as a moment’s consort? Am I that brave… or that naive to trust that the universe understands and shall play by the same rules- when I know inherently that it does not… cannot and should not?

Have you ever shared a day with a frustration you cannot name for it seems to invade every pore of your being and yet defines nothing of rational meaning?

Is this greed of ego or denial of soul? Is this reaching or settling? Is this forward motion or calculated retreat?

I have what I have and yet feel I am being asked to wait for something more- something far more tangible than what spirit has already gifted… in this case, in this life, in this moment. It is as though standing at the edge of the tracks and being asked which ticket I will buy when the train comes, all the while hearing the oncoming screams of its engines and yet without visual to confirm that this is my train to begin with. Can you hear it? The future rushing your way- unapologetic and hell bent on taking you with it or leaving you behind, buried within its dust?

The boards of the depot have begin the slight, almost undetectable shudder beneath my feet… the vibration of destiny approaching…the distant smoke of its engine just topping the horizon of trees in the distance and the need to make the decision of boldly becoming passenger or passive spectator before it reaches the dusty tracks before me.

Have I baited the universe with something I have no intention of following through on or has my subconscious seen fit to bypass ego’s doubting filters and do in the fog what I am unable to do in the clear? Can you reinvent yourself without real change… or is change just the trappings our mind needs to reinforce our ability to be what we already are?

Close you eyes…without being trite, where would you be this day in your perfect world? What would you be doing? Who would you take with you on this adventure… this journey? Now quick- write that down. Do not get bogged down in doubt and obligations of what you perceived yourself tied to. Now sit there for a moment and ask yourself…does it resemble where you are? If not… why?

Have you reached or have you settled?

I have been blessed in that my husband and partner in life continues to amaze me with his flexibility and desire to be wherever I am…no matter the confusion of my internal compass. It is a curious thing- this blind allegiance to my need for adventure and I applaud his wonderful calm of commitment and am always broadsided by who I think he is and who he really is.

We are the culmination of the thoughts and the decisions we have made and I am comfortable with what has transpired in my life– but I am not finished yet and stand at the edge of something I can feel but not yet grasp. We manifest that which we truly desire, so be careful your thoughts this day… this week… this month, for the universe might just surprise you this year with exactly what you have asked for. Are you ready to receive the gifts? Or have you asked for  something because you were certain you would never receive it? Or, because you counted on not receiving it? Have you planned for stagnation?

As you read, I hear your whispered concerns. Is she talking about the case…is it about her…is it about me?

Have you never had a day when you ask the shadows of your life to step into the open and be counted amongst the clarities of your life? When is it you are the truest to yourself… when you do what you do or when you do what you dream? And if you are lucky enough,as I have been to have it all and that much more…who the __________ are you to question it anyway?

The fog brings more questions this day than answers…and yet, I love the confusion it causes within my soul. It reminds me that even unguided or misdirected, the passion to be authentic still burns deep within and that the fantasies of youth, or the subconscious ties to another life do not fade with the patina of age or the temperance of obligation.

What has the fog brought you this day? What do you dream in the mist that you are afraid to outline in the clear?

Just a thought…

Our curiosities about one another are equal…

January 6, 2015

1/6/2015

A most happy and prosperous New Year to you all.

This past holiday season has been a very…how can I say this? Excellent escape, from my day to day life…from payday work…from office politics and from stifled thinking. While the weather was less than touristic, the lack of sunshine brought its own gifts with marvelous fog-scapes across the surface of the lake, enough rain to make the inside more inviting…just perfect for hours and hours of research and writing. It created the perfect atmosphere of, “I don’t care because I’m on vacation’ and yet, ‘everything matters, because I also know it will never last’.

The book is now at 400 pages and we have yet to finish scratching at the true surface of the ritualistic style killings of our unholy triad. Much to my surprise, another set of new names have graced the overlay of this case. How many more victims will surface before we finish with the Route 66 tour of our demented docents?

Do you know a Glenda…or a Dreanna? Apparently they did, although shortly after introductions…nobody ever would again. The more I learn the more of 20th century law enforcement, it frightens me that their seem to be those behind the badge who are truly gifted investigators and then there are the rest of them…doing the job, marking time…missing the finer points of intent. But then again, killers are not the same these days; their intents are more basic- primitive-banal…devoid of intellect and inspiration.

I may have been wrong about these killers in one sense. One has to almost awe at their staying power…their sense of dedication to detail and dogma. Unfortunately for them, it will also be their downfall. Dedication to detail breeds obsession…obsession breeds repetitive actions…repetitive actions breeds opportunity for patterns…patterns gifts us with segues…segues to identities. This is the chain of investigation; the chain that binds the victims to their killers and in turn provides those with keen enough eyes a chance to pick at the chinks in their armor.

Armored histories made of tiny bits of metal that connect motive to desired outcome…outcome to desired destiny… and destiny to divination. This is what will hang these men- those who still breathe and walk this earth. To them…think of your long life in the sunshine of freedom as Hell’s greatest gift; the longer you live free, the more you have to remember bound. Torture is always about confinement, but it can end that way.

Scholastic endeavors beckon next week and a new production calls–together they will eat away at the time I have to wander amongst my notes. Normally that would bother me- the crimping of time and yet, I have been promised that this lull will provide the space to make further discovery and connections that I can add to a larger arsenal of evidence for when the true battle begins. Thank God for attorneys and ideal readers- they keep the manuscript alive and in circulation behind the veil of full disclosure.

Looking at recently retrieved evidence, the patterns remind me of the punched slots on old time piano players scores, but the tune this piano plays will be like the sirens call to those who missed it the first go around. You see ritual is a double edged sword; sometimes quite literally.

You see…life is a series of ritualistic behaviors: brushing our teeth, tying our shoes, wiping ourselves when we’re done with the refuse of our existence. Killers are the same- they have patterns too- especially when they are done with the refuse of their existence.

That being said…I was warned that I will be be under somebody’s watched this month- spied upon if you will and I expect that, with so many agendas in the mix.

Our curiosities about one another are equal… the outcome I leave to spirit.


%d bloggers like this: