Brownstonelit's Blog

2/23/2015

This morning as I pulled into the parking garage I heard my angel song and knew that an important message would be arriving within 24 hours.

Oddly enough it took less than 5…now I know why!

Gotta love this stuff!

2/18/2015

Today I received a new request…another person in search of answers to the murder of a loved one.

I find it amazing that God has chosen such a life for me and feel humbled that others are being led to this site for relief. If I were able, I would work them all and yet I too have a life that gets in the way of my living and have limitations I must work around. It was funny though…yesterday I listened to some astrology that asked the question, “What of you could get up every day and do what it is you thought you were meant to do, without concerns for finances or perceived obligations?”

So, is this what I would do?

It’s not that easy…

I have a wonderful career as a professional theatre director and it also feeds my soul in a way that few other careers might. It allows for the excess of creative overflow to have purpose…it heals when loss or frustrations besiege this world, but would I give it up to work through spirit alone?

Tricky question… why? Because spirit works through me in the theatre as well as an expression of my creative joy.

I wish to speak to a person who came to me in the earlier stages of this new life adventure- to a woman who came to me for help after the loss of her son. Try as I might, it was a case I was ill prepared for and was not able to satisfy what she needed.

Was it her fault? No…

Was it my fault? No…

Sometimes we are led to things for reasons not of our making and sometimes we are sent places that have healing elements specifically meant for us to discover. That case…her case was not for me to solve at this time. Why? Perhaps the journey was meant for her to walk alone for a bit longer…perhaps her son was trying to help her learn something from the other side I could not or should not have mediated for him.

What I wish to say to you all, is that spirit brings to you what is best for the greater good and sometimes what is good for another is not good for me, or vise-a-versa. My trepidation in allowing others to hear from me has to do more with my fear that I may not connect with their case and that they will see this detour as a negative. Sometimes I am not meant to connect with a case…sometimes it is not meant for me to journey. Does that sound harsh?

When I began this case…the Stocking Strangler… I was in the middle of another book/case and yet the pull to this case was so strong, I could not walk away. That doesn’t happen with every case, but when it does—it is undeniable that spirit is prompting for a reason. What I am required to do is to remain open and to intuit the messages being sent.

God has given me a great gift, but this gift is but half of the combination needed to bring fruition. As those of you who have read the books and followed the blog, I work with a gifted Psychic Medium Detective and she is an essential part of what and how this all happens. Blessed? Yes… I am blessed in ways many of you are unable to appreciate at this point in your life.

What I wish for you to know, should you bring to me the loss of a loved one…where spirit blesses, I will follow with blind fidelity and stay the course without concern for safety or sanity. But for me, I must have that connection and that will be different in every case. I am but one…the other half of two. As always, I will listen and if spirit deems so, will follow and pursue with relentless energy.

This current case has captured heart and soul, but just like the childhood game of, “ring around the roses” it must eventually come to an end. Secrets have been revealed and the devil is in the details, which is exactly what the unholy trinity designed to distract.

However, just like every psycho and sociopath… the ego is the greatest weakness and true to their nature they cannot resist to shout their accomplishments from the rooftops, even as they must bury their triumphs. In this case, quite literally. Your greatest accomplishments will be your undoing and once in print, clues cannot be taken back. I see what you never meant to show, read what you never meant to write and understood what your ego was screaming in between the lines and scrolls.

The triangle is complete…

Do you understand the red key, my dears?

I do…

2/8/2015

Last week I wrote a blog and curious followers, including an attorney commented how they didn’t understand its cryptic content. “Good, for you” I say. For any who did understand, then every word I write from here to eternity will have you have you sitting at the edge of your seat…waiting for the other shoe to drop…specifically a size 10.

For two days I sat and listened to what can only be called, the precursor to the final chapter. But it was sooooooo much more than that…it was informative. This is why it has taken so long to write here. Other words more valuable have been spent elsewhere…other eyes have seen their worth, as is fitting and just.

Do you understand…the Jenga Effect? (Which I will now copyright here!)

The Jenga Effect (according to the gospel of TA and Glele) in this case, is when a story that has been told and carefully built up over time; each layer being added by another and crafted into a tight fit, so that all the joints of the lies are perfectly dovetailed into the other… begins to fall apart, piece by piece…it stands for a time… then falters…then finally gives way as the foundation has so many holes… it can no longer support the weight of the collective.

What I witnessed the other day was the slow and deliberate removal of a peg here…a peg there and the first hints of a wobble within the carefully crafted tower. For those of you involved–and I mean, “involved” you already understand the connection of the Tarot to this case and all the others in the tower that must fall when the Tower card appears. The Tower card shows only two that flail away from the burning capstones…the two of the unholy trinity left. But who will be buried beneath the rubble of their collective lies after they are all dead?

“Change,” they say…555’s abound!

For years, those in command for the defense–not of the suspect, but of the lie, have done their best to keep the pegs at the bottom solid. “Let them pull from the top” you whisper, “…we can survive that.” But now, it is the bottom pegs of the tower that have begun to falter and so you begin the count.

How many more can be removed before the tower falls and who will be there…crushed beneath it?

How do we hide the skeletons in our closets? The ones we so carefully buried under the roses… the ones that got out and walked about the streets as night- safe in their overcoats of furry blackmail? Or the ones that scratched with their pens or cruised the halls of edification with another kind of teaching in mind?

Murder makes for strange bedfellows they say and business partners as well… and all the professional temper tantrums in the world cannot put this Humpty Dumpty back together again. The egg is rotten…its contents already spoiled. Can you not smell the stench? The back of the lie is broken and now has but months before the shell completely cracks and the collective deceit oozes out and fries upon the heated concrete of public contempt.

What would not be believed in times gone by, has found new ears to listen…new eyes to read and it is an epic and inspiring tome that would make it’s subject proud.

The word is like a dagger…it cuts both ways; for even as it hides the household, it reveals the city.

I have a poem too, says the messenger.

I sat upon a bench and watched a murder of crows dance within the walls of justice today- doing their best to hold back the truth. Their banter banging about in my head, same as the screams that bounced between the rocks…and echoed into the canyons, the grove and the opened fields were the sentinels gathered and witnessed your calling. Too late, too late…they cry into the night. The watchers have already seen you. You try to hold back the dam of emotion, but do you not know the wave has already crested?

The plugs that were needed to keep the dam strong have been deciphered and will not be used to save you…rather, they will be used to free the others who can no longer speak for themselves…the victim’s.

The bell has begun to toll.

2/3/2015

Again they showed me a beautiful white feather… a message is coming… or has it already come?

A curling iron jumped out of my hand, as I prepared for the day and with coffee in hand, read a poem about a rose.  “A rose, is a rose, is a rose… unless it’s you!”

A rose of pink and white, plucked from it’s stem and  multiplied four hundred fold to form  the outline of a grave…could it have been hers– the lovely Maiden’s– or yours?

‘Tis 12 days since last she spoke.

Silently in black, she lays upon the rock- forever waiting for your hand to throttle.

What is that about her neck?  The weight of your collective deeds… caught in a barrel, locked in a drum?

She sends you greetings…but where to send your fan mail? I asked, but you were so angry…the freckled face one did her best to get me the information I needed and I thanked her from where I stood, but still you cried afoul. Or was it… a fowl?

So angry you were crossed…so crossed you saw red…. so red you saw pink.

What it is the number now?  Twenty-seven you say?

Nay, “Can it be so ?” the masses whisper, in adoring disbelief.

Ahhhh… but the eyes have it right! “Twenty- seven and not a day more,” they scream… having counted out each day since! They too thought so much more time had passed and yet in the blink of an eye, while the other remains closed…they wished you well on your journey to the sun.

Nothing lasts forever they say…not love, not hatred, not envy…not even a legacy.

You stand at the crossroads and sigh, beside them. This is not at all what you expected? Nothing but the inside of an endless circle! What? No angels…no paradise… no one to comfort me?

Rest not on your laurels, nor your haunches you son-of-a-bitch, for I am on your trail(s) and carry with me the strength of those you murdered!

My secrets are buried, you say. Where, I might ask? Under a meadow… a grove…an open field…a broken tree or a craggy shoreline beside the sea?

Your silence is duly noted…cat got your tongue? Your familiar?

Your insolence cuts me to the core…but you like it that way. Neat and clean from stem to stern.

What’s that your victim’s say?  “Quote the raven–nevermore–for only the owl and the falcon truly know.”

So I asked them once again…are his secrets buried for all times?

And the falcon closed his beak, with bated breath… but the owl the pussycat remanded, as the cow jumped over tonight’s full moon…

“They are buried under pretty pictures, pretty words, pretty letters and sacred geometry. Just not far enough…just not far enough!”