Brownstonelit's Blog

2/22/2012

Again, the Numerology in this day astounds and the plethora of 2’s is a good omen. Yesterday I spoke with someone, who had spoken with someone else and so on…and they had much to stay in between the words they spoke. Just like the mathematic values hidden within the date, the hidden values in the escalating numbers on my readership is of a curious nature of late as well. Why? Because there has been an interesting spike in the last two months. Not that the numbers weren’t impressive before, but now? Now it amazes that this case has caught so much fire. People from everywhere now follow the twists and turns of this case, but my interest lies a bit closer to home.

So how many Valdostans now read about the sultry past of their fair burg and am wont to make the connections between the descriptions of the players to the players themselves? How many notes have been taken and names and associations been bantered about in the many café’s and grocery stores that dot the tree lined streets and shady hot spots of your little town?  How many eyes follow you and ask, “Are you the one? Are you one of the 4 in flannel? How much do you know? How much do you hide?”

They ask questions behind your back. “Are the impressions for real, Grim? How do you hide the scar beneath your left eye? Make-up…glass rims? What tale did you tell to cover for its arrival?”

Or Mr. Einstein… how about you? “Where are your rubber boots?” We know your moniker is just a sham. The real Mr. Einstein was a brilliant man, so how do you hide your lack of intelligence, but not betray your passion for the perverse? It’s tricky isn’t it? To be normal, when your sense of the norm is so far outside of the envelope that it cannot be found.

Or how about you; the farmer in the dell? How do you look into the eyes of your loved ones and not see the eyes of Charley’s widow and his children starring back at yours- burning a hole in your truth?  How do you look at your prodigy and not know that you have squandered his integrity by betraying your own?

Do these things not haunt you all?

And what of street signs and amusement parks that border your world? Nothing more to laugh about there is there now? So sad… how all the places that once held sweet memories now have become all those places that cannot help but ooze the last impressions of the lives you snuffed out? Such innocuous landmarks; an intersection here or there, a country club…a hotel room and a shady shoreline or two. Nothing more than walls and windows, trees and air that hold the bounty of your secrets. Once the site of perverse titillation, now all places that you cannot abide.

But what to do? Where to hide?

Hmmmm… If you stay they will eventually put the pieces together and find you out, and if you run- they shall all suspect the same and know why.

Questions, questions…suppositions, suppositions.

Who knew you could learn so much from the dead? Now that is a question I would have proffered over the last two years and not had a problem with answering with positive concurrence. But lately? It is the living that has the more interesting tale to tell. That’s right Grim. I no longer have to chase for the occasional interview… now they come to me to ask the questions- offer their answers. You see this has become the great hunt- like “Where’s Waldo” they now read the clues over and over… map the city, trace the details and move the pawns back and forth across the board of your debauchery- convinced they know the who’s and the why’s of this case.

I must confess, I have been a bit loose with some information here and there, but such is the art of fishing. You chum the waters with the scent of a victim’s blood-toss out the evidentiary bait and then reel in the line nice and real slow… tempting and torturing those who know more to want more and inch by inch they follow the bait back to the boat.

So let’s see… what do I have in my tackle box for today? Some kind of lure that will attract, but not betray.

Hmmmm…

R likes to run and sometimes when she runs she is shown things. Things like someone being boxed into a corner. Someone who knows what I know and now has no idea what I don’t and that freaks him out.  He tries to hold his tongue, but his ego overrides his brain. Where is she? What does she know? Why won’t she let this go?

He fidgets in his chair. He paces in his window. When will they come again? It eats at his constitution. He is someone who has played the game too long and no longer writes the rules. Some one whose security blanket passed away a year or two ago. Someone who now has no immunity to fall back on. Someone who thinks that toilet paper and his shirt sleeve are one in the same… as if Charley could not tell the difference. He is foolish enough and mortal enough to think that you can wipe away a victim’s blood and escape its taint as long as you change your clothes and your demeanor.

Think it can be done? Ask the shooter- Mr. Russian roulette.

Do you know how he is spending his eternity? He stands at the water and dips his hands in and out- vomiting and cursing that no matter how many times he washes his hands- the blood reappears and he can never get clean. Again and again he dips his fingers in the water and when he pulls them out, the water that drips from his boney digits runs red and this drives him to madness. Every pool… every river… every lake he submerges his hands in produces the same effect and he can do nothing but wail in his agony. There is no forgiveness for what he has done.

Don’t believe in Hell, Grim? It is a real place. Ask the shooter to show you where it is…for it follows him everywhere and now he is following you. Can you feel the flames? You may want to check on the others… somebody’s feeling a bit squeamish. Somebody’s ready to spill the beans and I’m not talking about the MOT. The MOT has his own agenda and his day is coming soon too.

2012 is not the end of the whole world, Grim…just yours.

Have a nice day!

2/21/12

Interesting numbers in today’s date.

Even more interesting?

My office smelled of pipe tobacco this morning.

I don’t smoke a pipe…nobody smokes a pipe here.

Roxanne’s favorite clock is in this office. Perhaps the pipe smoker from the “4 in flannel” has found his way here too.

Who else has found their way to this place?

Charley?

Your photo is here… are you?

2/19/12

Today marks the end of a chapter in my life and I said a quick farewell to the house that a year ago had cradled my hopes for a new beginning. Once cleared of last minute clutter, I latched the door for the last time on the old me who held onto everything…furniture, paintings, old pots and pans, fear, doubt and regret. If I had left by boat it would have taken me less than two minutes to get to my new life and my new home, but that wouldn’t have allowed me the chance to purge.  Suffering under the weight of a soft Spring rain and a few final trinkets and boxes of pictures I’d found of the children when they were young, the farm and my parents… I felt both heavy and light at the same time as the distance gathered in my rear view mirror.

It was an odd epiphany, but as I drove my husband and myself away from one door and down a lovely long drive to another, the weight shifted and the transition was over. Though the drive took only 8 minutes, in another way it had taken a good ten years. The last time I felt such peace in a home lay in a place tucked inside photos at the bottom of a box at my right; photos of the farm. The first place I met Julie.

Isn’t it funny how life works? We try so hard to evolve and bring new adventures and meaning to our lives, only to turn over one small Polaroid and realize that we had been living the life we were meant at the very instant we decided it wasn’t enough. As I crossed the cove and left my old life behind, I was reminded of my new one. Just before my tires left the asphalt of one county and dug into the pitted road of another, an errant car passed by boasting a bald eagle on its plates and I smiled.

Charley was with me no matter where I might wander, reminding me of the injustices I would continue to fight on his behalf and that of many others to come. As I slid into the leafy drive of my new sanctuary, the sun spat a ray or two across the bow of the ‘Stang and lightened the landscape and shore before me. I smiled from the heart. It was only a moment before the drizzle found its way back to the windshield and though I confessed I knew it would not be all sunshine in this place either… I knew it would be a place I could call home… a haven from the outside world, a place to start from scratch and a place from whence great writing would ensue and I was at peace.

Thank you God…

Thank you Charley… and thank you Don.

Oh and BTW’s? I reread Hazel’s diary last night. Did you know that Atlanta offerred Charley a transfer in June of 1966? Hmmmm… wonder why?

I know why!

2/16/12

The girls have been talking of late. Wednesday night I heard a song about a girl named Jessica and the following morning I saw two tires- half in and half out while in my travels to work. This morning while I was searching for this file- I ran past a jpg in my files for the suggested Google Satellite link for Roxanne’s remains.

Perhaps it is the holiday that has them stirring- one in the dirt and one in the water. Maybe they have a better take on the human heart and the fashion in which we tend to lie to ourselves about matters of the heart. How we try to convince ourselves we are in love with those we are bound to…how obligation can never take the place of passion and yet, passion is a fickle mistress who is spent quickly and carelessly and is a poor substitute for comfort in our old age when we are want to share a history.

There is seldom a day that both Jessica and Roxanne do not enter my thoughts and there is never a day when Charley does not. He and I are forever and when I feel the sedimentary world that we live in begin to settle in my bones, I reach for him to remind me that I am more of air than dirt…much to his credit, my parents and to R.

Today I woke, warm in both bed and spirit and looked upon a shoreline that twinkled behind clouds with lights of others lives… a front porch light here, a dock light there and I knew inside that I was the miracle. One would think that the last few years have reflected the whole of this experience, but not so. I have traveled from very far to get here. From grief and confusion about my place in the world, my life, my marriage and in my destiny and awoken almost three years later to the potential and the possibilities of my divine purpose.

Jessica and Roxanne are part of this miracle and I am indebted to them both for their part in my evolution; that is why I cannot seem to let them simply wander the ethos alone. I worry that they will not find their way home- that they carry with them the taint of their defaults here on earth and that they measure their worth by the cowards they bedded. You need not carry such a burden any longer my dears. The dogs that betrayed your naiveté will be drug through the streets of Valdosta by their ego’s and their legacies and they will be brought to bear the weight of their indiscretions and their indignities apart from you. I cannot reconcile for you the actions of your earthly past- those are for you to sort and sanction. But I can applaud your innocence and your right to redirect. You are the girls that motherhood somehow forgot…the wayward that begged to be detoured and the shamed that desired to be forgiven. You have that all now and more. Help me bring the “4 in flannel” to heel. Help those who would have information to be bold in their departures and help heal the wounds. Find your way to Charley, to Miss M and to those who will light your path and help through the conduit of R, help me to help you.

The tires, the trees, the water…the way.

I will be waiting on the other side- ready to serve.

I’m here.

2/14/12

Happy Valentines Day Charley!

That being said, there is another holiday that must be addressed-Groundhog’s Day.  Why? Because the remaining,  “4 in fannel” have tried to burrow their way into obscurity. Moving money and witnesses around- digging in and hunkering down for the long, dark hours ahead.

It won’t work boys…daylight’s coming! What shall it be?

Six more weeks of hiding?

Or

Six more weeks before you confess?

Let’s see who can hide from the light the longest! Bottom line? The only one still digging… is me! Can I borrow your bloody shovel, Grim? Oh… and the compass too? Just so we don’t all get lost!

Love,

Maxwell

2/12/12

Time to get back to work on Charley and tie up a few loose ends…

Like, when did B-man figure out you had double-crossed him, Grim?

Why was the insurance man’s card in the MOT’s hotel room?

Who lost a tooth that night?

Who’s hat needs a repair?

Who won the coin toss?

Who was Roxanne laying with when they snapped?

Who gave the two roses?

Where is the watch?

Who has the anchor tattoo?

Why G filled out the Death Certificate for the MOT?

Who’s body is really buried in Augusta?

How long did the MOT lay dead inside his hotel room?

And who erased the flight registers for the high ranking official that night?

You see… there are always a few little things here and there that escape me. Or, have they, Grim? Is this curiousity or bait?

Time to go fishing again!!!

2/10/12

A recent chat with a dear friend reminded me that I write this blog not only as a way of ferreting out thoughts and intuitions, but as a lifeline to those of you who have found both intrigue and commitment to this cause. To you then, I apologize that there simply are not enough hours in my days of late and not enough nuggets of information to bung up your daily coffers.

To be sure, the wheels continue to turn…but they turn in ways that I am not at liberty to share, nor foolish enough to disclose. Still there will be days when you will not know from whence my silence originates and for you then intrigue becomes both blessing and a curse.

This morning was rushed. Too many heady hours of theatre and too many moments still embraced by cardboard boxes that seem to dot my personal landscape everywhere I turn, have kept me in perpetual motion and I grow weary of the pace…such is the price of relocation. But sanity returned early this morning as I rounded the curve of a most bucolic setting. Armored with hot coffee and age defying make-up, I happened to shuffle the CD’s in the ‘Stang on my morning commute and found much to my delight an old Kenny Loggins song called, “This Is It!”

Those of you in similar digits can share in my joy, as I found this a rather encouraging sign for not more than an 1/8 of a mile earlier… I had asked Charley for a sign that things were still on track and moving forward according to divine intent and that I had not lost the connection in my recent sabbatical to take care of daily living.

Kenny Loggins replied for my 8 x 10 friend and spoke to me in the laguage of angels: Music.

Kenny Loggins said:

“There’ve been times in my life, I’ve been wonderin’ why. Still, somehow I believed we’d always survive. Now, I’m not so sure You’re waiting here, one good reason to try But, what more can I say? What’s left to provide? (You think that maybe it’s over,) (Only if you want it to be.) Are you gonna wait for a sign, your miracle? Stand up and fight. (This is it.) Make no mistake where you are. (This is it.) You back’s to the corner. (This is it.) Don’t be a fool anymore. (This is it.) The waiting is over, no, don’t you run. No way to hide. No time for wonderin’ why. It’s here, the moment is now, about to decide. Let ’em believe. Leave ’em behind. But keep me near in your heart. Know whatever you do, I’m here by your side. (You say that maybe it’s over.) (Not if you don’t want it to be.) For once in your life, here’s your miracle. Stand up and fight. (This is it.) Make no mistake where you are. (This is it.) You’re goin’ no further. (This is it.) Until it’s over and done. (No one can tell what the future holds.) Oh-oh-oh-oh. (Who makes the choice of how it goes?) It’s not up to me this time. (You know.) Comes a day in every life. (This is it.) Make no mistake where you are. (This is it.) You’re goin’ no further. (This is it.) Until it’s over and done. (This is it.) One way or another. (This is it.) (No one can tell what the future holds.) (This is it.) Your back’s to the corner. (This is it.) (You make the choice of how it goes.) (This is it.) The waiting is over. (This is it.) (No one can tell what the future holds.) (This is it.) One way or another. (This is it.)

Writer: MCCOY, VAN

The entirety of the song was a clear message to me… to you the reader. Whatever dream or goal that you have in your life- this is the time to break away and go for it. This is the moment when you cut from the herd and plow your own path.

Think of what would have happened to Charley if I had not followed my gut. Think of Roxanne and Jessica and the MOT. Where would they be but still a part of an unknown history and an unreolved destiny? They would still be trapped- eternal Hell is not to be allowed the luxury of change. You have such luxury before you. YOU are change itself- continue to evolve and do so without delay!

This is your wake-up call as much as mine dear readers. Stop pretending you live someone else’s life, be authentic and get out there and live your own! This message said many things to me. It told me to stop holding back for protocol’s sake. (Of course my lawyer will be having a heart attack upon reading this, but…) But the song told me  that this is no time to be complacent; that I need to grab hold of both reins and take the lead.

This case, this book, has been long in the making and with resolution to close in terms of the timing of the cosmos… I cannot continue to spend precious energies parsing the finer points of what is or what is not the best approach to the final paragraphs. The book is completed in the sense that now editing and fine tuning must take precedence…all the while I wait with baited breath to see if my Post Script can bear the weight of supposition… but I cannot print it just yet! 

Just as in the Bible, the beginning of the apocalypse for the, “4 in flannel” begins with an angel- a messenger and a sign …

Proceed with caution, Grim.

The horsemen ride and R has seen things apparently you have not!

2/6/12

I have been out of touch, but that was for personal and not professional reasons. I know that Charley is working overtime of late as the signs abound everywhere I go and the confusion on some issues has begun to clear.

Of course, that is when the stakes are highest.

Shall I tell you how this ends?

Shall I tell you that one will begin to doubt and mistrust the other?

Shall I tell you that one will talk and the others will come to heel as they will refuse to go down alone?

Shall I tell you that it will never matter which one cracks first… not to me anyways, but to those who seek the truth??? Hmmmm…maybe.

Perhaps there will be lenience for the first and perhaps not.

Shall I tell you why it will never matter to me anymore?

Because Charley can never have his earthly years back.

Because Hazel can never buy back the last 19 years of her life.

Because Julie will never have back her father in the way all children deserve and because her children are minus the grandfather they desire.

But most of all, because the book is written.

Because those in the know, will know and those only curious will eventually find out anyways. Don’t you just love secrets?

Nobody knows how to keep them- especially the dead!

So my dear Grim, no matter how many times I change the names…no matter how many ways I veil the truth…everyone will know.

There is only one Valdosta…

There is only one Grim reaper…

There is only one Albert Einstein…

There is only one farmer in the dell…

There is only one official of the court that turned a blind eye.

There was only one MOT.

There were two young female victims.

There was however more than one ____________.

And low and behold? More than one country club!

Scared now Grim?

You should be!

2/1/12

Today was significant for me. Today I saw the bald eagle again.

Justice is coming!

1/31/12

It is now 11:11 am.

Sitting in my new kitchen with coffee hot, the water outside my window lies still and serene. Sip after sip, I take in the new scenery and watch a Morning dove who has taken to the rail of the front porch as roost. Like me, she winks between slumber’s pull and daylight’s demands and I am reminded of a similar bird that used to visit the farm just after my mother had passed. A bird I referred to as Angel.

While this bird could not be the same…she brings a calm and order to my breathing. Perhaps she is a reminder that I am being cared for from afar and today that would be necessary, for there are clouds building on the horizon. The shoreline yawns and stretches like a small child who turns in his sleep and there is little current in the wake of dawn and the water waits as I for the approaching tempest and irritation of its calm.

I am prepared…