Brownstonelit's Blog

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.

1/18/2011
Usually if I make an appeal to Charley… he answers. So I will ask him this.
Why did the MOT go to you for protection, Charley?
What was it about you that the MOT felt he could trust?
Why did he think you could keep him safe?
Was the MOT involved with everything… or just the porn and prostitution end of the criminal activity?
Was he involved with the railroad deal… or the loose diamonds?

One thing’s for sure.
He must have been in deep. All those who were systematically taken out were in too deep. The MOT knew too much. He had to die, but not before they got their information. Too bad the four in flannel got a little too enthusiastic in his beating. Poor man suffered a heart attack right there in that hotel bed. Not far from the restaurant they all sat at. Not far from the railroad lines. Not far from the county jail. Not far from the courthouse. Not far from… well. I can keep a secret-can you???
So dear readers, did he go to Charley because Jessica and Roxanne had been to see Charley? Because Jessica had told Charley about, _________, who was the father of her child? A man who was married for one and a __________ for another? A man who liked his status. A man who enjoyed his_______ game and his membership at the country club. A man who thought he was going places- and did. A man who thought he had gotten away with murder?
But let’s back it up a bit. So how and when did the MOT find out about Jessica and Rox? Who made those introductions? As stated before; Jessica and Rox worked together. Girls talk. They took out Jessica and then kept things on the down low-waiting for things to quiet down. Listening for the rumors… the ones only a few had the guts to whisper about. But they knew. They all knew where Jessica had gone, but too many of them could have been fingered for other misdeeds so they held their tongues. They sat and watched and waited… and they might have gotten away with it, until Rox made a terrible mistake. She started asking questions. Then the people she told started asking them too.
When the four in flannel decided Rox had to go… well? The MOT was there. They threatened. The MOT was going to be framed. The MOT needed an insurance policy. He got one. He shared it with Charley. Charley shared it with ___________. Then __________ turned his back on Charley and turned the information over to the Grim Reaper, who in turn set him up for the kill.
The poor MOT.
He really never stood a chance, did he?
And my friend, Charley?
Well, Charley never stood one either… until now.

1/18/2011

They are telling me to go back over information that I disregarded earlier as unimportant. My gut instincts tell me this may have something to do with the MOT. There is a possibility that there is a relative still living. I will research my records and go back through his death certificate.

There is a tie to Tifton… a tie to Augusta and a tie to Valdosta. He was there the night Roxanne was strangled. He is the key to information. He was beaten to death because he would… or rather could not tell the four in flannel where “IT” was hidden and how many more were made.

Time to do a little digging of my own… reporter style.
Did he live or just work in Tifton?
Why was he in Valdosta?
Why was he at the Daniel Ashley hotel?
When did he contact Charley?
Why did they beat him?
Who else knew about “IT” other than the four in flannel and  Charley who was murdered 6 days before him?

I’m tracking your moves, Grim… I’m on your trail!