Brownstonelit's Blog

6/8/11
I am reticent to write today, knowing that once I put a specific thought/impression out there- I may ever be able to take it back. So I may wait, unless it becomes obvious throughout this discourse that my gut was right and that I have nothing to fear.
June has indeed already proven to be a month of heady change and we are but at first blush of its intent. Others have found their feathers of late and while it becomes most necessary that I applaud their diligence- I both envy and grow weary of the sight of one of my own.
Why?
I am hurt deep inside for grievances I am still yet unaware of and even as I place fingers to lips to silence- I find the words have need of escape. You see in a blog just before this the message:
“…the vodka cranberry-drink, listen to what the bartender says…”
Now, I shall remind myself of what it is that keeps me from letting this be an absolute. Firstly, I am not in the habit of going to bars. Secondly, I do not drink Vodka as a young experience with such left me much more amenable to Gin. But, that is neither the point. Last night, while searching for something to watch on TV, my husband happened across a movie he found interesting. He begged me to change from the usual historically intriguing-educationally valid-acts of God television I generally watch- if indeed I watch the TV at all and so… I acquiesced and considered to remain in the same room. It was an unknown element to me- this film- a depressing piece by the name of, “Against the Current”- alas I do not recall the credits. None the less, I was quick to vacate the room and get to my computer until the opening scene began.
It… my dear friends opened on a man having indiscriminant sex with a woman who he then unabashedly invited to leave the morning after, after staring at the photo of a young lovely pregnant woman who we can be assume is his wife and/or ex-lover. Nothing here triggered anything, so I made ready to excuse myself until this man walked into a bar in the next frame. He sat at the bar- ordered a drink- something with Vodka and so I decided to perch at the end of my chair and wait to see if anything brilliant or enlightening came out of the bartenders mouth. Two or three insults later, I surmised I had overrated the importance of the potential connection to the “Vodka/bartender information’ clue from afore and began to withdraw from the chair. Just as I got up, another character entered the scene- she too ordered a drink with Vodka and so I tucked my rear end back in the seat and waited for further instruction.
Part of the process for me is this uneasy- alert, alarm thing that happens in my gut when I know I am being drawn to something for a reason. I spent the next two hours glued to my seat waiting for words of wisdom or an impression that I could make a mental and/or emotional segue to- so that I could write off one more clue as being deciphered. To the best of my recollection there were moments of comical repartee… insightful declarations and personal confessions and while each could have been a candidate- none gave me that overwhelming gut punch that I usually get with an epiphany.
Nothing that is until the last scene, when to be quite frank, the actor said next to nothing. It was what he was doing that tore me to shreds and left me emotionally unbalanced for the remainder of the night. To briefly capture this, you must first know the premise of the movie.

A man loses his pregnant wife in a horrific traffic accident, that he believes he might have been able to prevent. Distraught, he wishes to commit suicide by jumping off the top of his apartment building- but his best friend talks him out of it- telling him time heals all wounds- to wait- give it five years and see how he feels about this life then. The bargain was that if in five years this man’s life was no better- that the friend would not only defend his right to end his life- he would support it. The anniversary date of this man’s wife and child’s death was clearly marked on the calendar in the first couple of scenes- August 28th. Oddly enough- that was my parents wedding anniversary date when they were alive. (So, you can see that there are threads which would cause me to search for connection.) The man was so in love with his wife- it hurt to watch. Flash forward, we are now five years later and the man has one request of his friend. He wants to accomplish one thing in his life before he goes- to swim the length of the Hudson River- all 150 miles of it. At the end- he wants to commit suicide, but does not divulge this part until after the friend and another female friend consent to join him and are a week or two into this project which should place him arriving at the bridge in New York on August 28th. During the course of the swim- he finally tells them his plan and they are hard pressed to dissuade him from killing himself. He even has a short tet-a-tet- with the female… but neither friend or lover are able to convince him to do otherwise. At the end of his journey, they are forced to honor his wishes and watch him swim out into the ocean… knowing that his intent is to swim until he is too tired and eventually drowns.

The only line that I can even recall is something like…
‘I made him a promise and even though I never thought I would have to back it up… I shouldn’t have made it… if I wasn’t prepared to follow it through.’
Now, there are a million promises we make to ourselves and to one another everyday… or to a hundred different people over a hundred million days of our lifetimes. Sooooo…. which promise might this have been referring to- if referring to any one of them at all? My head reeled  and at the edge of the night, I found I was no closer to the answer than at the beinning.
Was this a promise I had made to myself? To my parents-?(What with the anniversary date connection- August 28th) Was this a promise my father had made  to my mother- or my mother to him? A promise I had made to a friend…to a spouse or a child?
And if this was the message I was intended to receive-  did it have to do with my life or with my connection to Charley? The very thought made my eyes pool. I could only imagine one promise that had any natural segue to the movie and its potential connection to Charley.
To let him go when he was ready to move on…
Charley is free to leave at anytime and even though my heart breaks at the thought of it- I would never stand in the way of another soul’s evolution. I am prayerful that I am wrong about this all and hanging my hopes on the fact that not one person got cranberry juice in their Vodka drink during this movie!
But Charley, if you have to leave… I have to know for myself the answer to one more question.
Which man was it?
And you know what I am talking about.

6/2/11
Shepherd…
The first definition is: somebody tending sheep.
The second definition is: somebody providing guidance.

The other day somebody asked me if I had ever done a life regression. My answer was no. When I asked why-they said it would be curious to see if Charley and I had had a connection in another life. My personal thought is somewhat similar to what is so brilliantly expounded upon in the book, Embraced By the Light by Betty J. Eadie. That is to say, I believe that a group of souls bind themselves to one another as agents of learning throughout each incarnation. So, in essence—it wasn’t a far-fetched notion that Charley and I might have held such a pact prior to this incarnation. In my curiosity to divine this rare connection- I posed the question to the universe the other day while on my ride home, asking for an explanation.
The reply came back:
“Did you look up at a street sign? What was the name of the street? That is your answer.”
Now mind you, on any given day my commute and travels bring me past 200-300 street signs easy and… being a most inquisitive and intuitively overloaded gal… I will look for information in all of them. Thus—my quandary! Which signs had I read 24 hours before that would have triggered an ‘ah-ha’ kind of response. My first intuition was to recall those names or phrases that held any significant tie and/or impression to this case or to Charley. I mentally ransacked my brain and came up with a few. I chose only those that immediately came to the forefront- as they don’t want you to have to work too hard. I piece-mealed several words that stuck out- then parsed for a connection. Pretty much most of the day I drew a blank- except for the three or four initial imprints and in an attempt to retrace my steps, I took the exact same route as the day prior. Keen on divining the message, I eyed every sign I had glazed over before. As I drove, home I tried to recall the exact location of the roads I had pulled names from; which was hard to do because most of my roads are incredibly bucolic and even more incredibly similar! Forty-five minutes into the trip and my frustration- I spotted the first one. It read, Walter Shepherd. Now- there is significance there for two reasons- so I decided to wait it out and not jump too fast to a conclusion. Several Earth, Wind and Fire songs later- I spotted another, immediately followed by another- Porter Street and N. Johnson.
Hmmmmmn… that segue’s a no-brainer, but he had nothing to do with my question and so I used this pattern as the template it was meant to be and asked for further confirmation. It came in the fashion of the next two signs visible to me. The first of the names held 3 words. The second is rather obvious.
First signs read, Charlie ______ _____ and next came, Shepherd Road.
In the shorthand- the answer became just as obvious and my ‘ah-ha’ moment became my typical “Oh s___!” moment.
Charley…
Shepherd…
Charley is my shepherd.
So you see… the first definition of a word is not always right. Sometimes we must look just beyond the surface for the deeper meaning of a word or a phrase or even a thought. I received my answer in the manner in which suits best for now. Charley is my shepherd. Whatever he was or was not to me in another life doesn’t really matter; I can only concern myself with what he is in this life- a mentor, a guide, a shepherd meant to keep me from harm.

Now that that is cleared up, I’m hopeful he will be just as forthcoming on the following clues.
…feet that are burning hot
…the vodka cranberry-drink, listen to what the bartender says
…the letter in the mail
(And this other clue, I was able to figure out on my own.)
…work on letting go of the event that occurred on Halloween

Got-it- message received!

I received my feather this morning. Amongst a myriad of other curious surrendered bits of information, I was granted this:
“There is no wrong in write… just write.”
And so it begins…thank you.

5/31/11
Today is the last day of May and the rest of this summer will soon zip past me in a blur of embattlements, blue skies and balmy nights. I do not wish to miss a moment of this season- embroidered by a new landscape, and yet the landscape most familiar to me- the landscape which both baits and taunts me– that of my desk and worn laptop keys– beckons so sweetly, as to pull me from this horizon I have worked so hard to titivate, betrays me at every turn.
This year has been fraught with rigorous change and disenfranchisements of every sort- enough for a life time and yet the stars say there is more to come and I should brace for it. While this year is meant to bring me the gift of faith, it has torn at the shreds of confidence once brought about by bold confirmations. Now I sit- timidly on the shore and wait for further trinkets of discovery. Why? I do not know… I hesitate at the gate. I linger at the shoreline- watching the skies, waiting on the path, collecting numbers like cobblestones for ballast and for what folly am I being asked to stall? I can barely inventory another thought and yet I have thousands of words I must catalog and then disgorge before I can rest contented in my bed.
Another feather has fallen across my path and dare I wait and watch- or do I give over to the thought that molting is but a fact of nature and not a sign from afar? Faith you say… faith…trust…trust… trust…trust.
I grow weary.

5/30/11

Back several weeks… maybe even a month or so ago I was told by both psychics that someone would crack. And they did. The information received confirmed several things for me; places, situations, new names- old names and again- this all after a feather had crossed my path. Oddly enough, a feather had crossed my path the day of the locution as well- so now you say- “What’s the hold up?”

That, my dear readers is a very fine question. What is the hold up? I sit here at my desk and look into those steely gray eyes of Charley’s and pose the same question. “What are you waiting for dear friend?”

So I must ponder…
What is left unanswered?
What is left undone or un-clarified?
What is left that is pseudo peripheral that cannot wait to be explored within the process of the book?
What  is it that keeps the paragraphs from pouring?

Is it you Charley… is it me? Is there some great piece of information or evidence that will present itself soon? Or are you simply waiting for the author to find her voice?

I have always thought that this story would tell itself and in deed, once the ink begins to flow– it will simply bleed its way across each page. I think the crux of the matter here is- who will do the telling? Whose voice would be more compelling? His, in the life… or mine in his death? Now, not only as a writer does this become a most important question, but as a human as well, for this is Charley’s story- but in a real sense it has become mine too. But I do not want this to become another- middle aged woman finds herself saga- because this is not what this has been. Certainly a fair bit of self discovery has taken place, but it is more than that. Charley has done some remarkable work here. Think about the rarity of this. A dead man finds a psychic medium who is involved with helping an organization solve cold cases, and after I have written my sixth book- I write a book about a local- but very national unsolved civil rights case—and am asked to speak for said organization 2 weeks after this psychic medium tells the Criminal Justice students that they will receive new information from someone who bears the initial “J”- in quotation marks. Two weeks later, I read an excerpt from my book about a man who basically cyber stalked me to vet my researching methods and sent me info- which I authored in signature with the letter “J”- in quotation marks and viola! Two months later we meet and I ask for her help.

Two years later I sit at this desk and tell you I know what happened to Charley that night on the Clyattville- Nankin Road, and even more I know why. I’m sensing a pattern here… aren’t you?

Now, I can either tell it all or I can tell nothing; so whose sins do we share? So today, I throw down the gauntlet one more time and ask for your guidance Charley. I shall hold the pen, my dear, dear man… I shall begin to tell our story with whosever voice you feel will be strongest and we shall see were this next part of the journey takes us.

I shall look for a direct sign today…

Whose voice Charley? Yours, mine or ours?

Locution.
Curious as to what this means? St. Teresa- the patron saint of writer’s- my patron saint- was famous for receiving these. The segue way here is more ironic than you think. Those of you who know me well will understand.

Locutions…hmmmmmmm.
Want to know more?
Then… look it up!

This morning I received information in the form of a locution, given to one of my children.

“Suspicion…Conviction…Salvation”

Enough said.

5/25/2011
This was a message I received from R today.
“Just read your latest blog entry and was told to pass on to you, ‘What do you want from you?'”
WOW!
Double …WOW!!
I know it was meant to be a profoundly inspiring response and the impetus for thought provoking therapy… and it will be… just as soon as I get over the fact that I have just been summarily bitch-slapped by the universe for throwing a publicly private pity party and daring the world to join me! Right now though, I am still slightly aghast that of all the situations I have asked responses for lately- this is the one they return? I am caught between laughing at them or laughing at me, even as I struggle to let go of the original question—“What do you want from me?”
In the interest of not over-reacting, let’s take a deep breath and then center ourselves- shall we? Ok. After all, laughter is the best medicine and these are the same “they” that remanded me once to take out my garbage- because they thought it was too full. So… did I really expect less of them? Did I really expect them to ignore my literary temper tantrum and not have a clever quip to come back at me with? Noooooo…
Did I not throw that crap out to the universe as way of showing my current displeasure with recent short-term trials? Yes, but…Was this not the emotional Nemo cast into the ethereal waters to prompt and elicit an immediate response?
Yes, but…
Drat!! I hate it when they call me up short and turn the tables!
Ok… therapy time.
Soooooooo…all right, I’ll bite. What do I want from me? It’s a good question- not as easily answered as one might think, but a good question nonetheless- so here goes.
Ok…honestly? Honestly, at first I just wanted to bury my life in Charley’s death, because mine had become so convoluted and misguided. In the beginning I wanted to spend all my time thinking about his hurts, to either let go or avoid of a few of my own. I wanted to find the mystery and intrigue that no longer appeared to be part of my life. I was an adrenaline and information junky that needed the high of somebody else’s chaos to make up for the fact that my own life of motherhood and daily mundane duties reflected a life that did not seem to fit with where and what and who I had always thought I would be.
I thought… if I could just find Charley’s killer, that that would be journey enough to plug the pot holes in my own path, but then I got hooked. Then, it didn’t matter so much about my journey. It became about Charley and his journey. I did more living in his death, than I was doing in my own life and while it built a bridge between us- it was the wrong kind of bridge to build.
So, again I ask myself- what do I want from me now?
For now… I want my journey to be a truer reflection of my own in finding his. To learn how to better navigate the emotional obstacles he did not. I want to write this book and not only tell his truth- but tell mine in the process. I want to be the person who stood up for the two girls that had their young lives mangled by circumstance and ripped from them by men who had every intention of fully living out their own in comfort and false glory- even if they had to lie through their crooked teeth to their adoring wives and their innocent children to do so. I want to stand tall at the end of my day and know that what I have done here for Charley, is not just tell a story- but to have made a real difference for him and those who were left behind- ignorant of the truth and ignorant of the cost he and 3 other people fatally suffered for others comfort and lack of conscience. I want to know that what I do and what I say from this point forward will be divinely guided and that I will be emotionally compensated for the sacrifice of rutting my way through this horrible thing with fledgling intuition and hopeful prayer. I want to know that I am exactly where I am meant to be and exactly who I am meant to be- a writer, who speaks for those who can no longer speak.
What else should I want from me? Only a few things…
Things like…the confidence to know that this journey has not been in vain and that I have done right by those who were brave enough to place this in my feeble fingertips to begin with. The creative tenacity and inspiration to craft a way to make this my life’s work and to be able to devote the necessary time it takes, but not risk family or finances in doing so. To know in my heart that all of this is real- Charley- my parents- the MOT and the two young girls… to trust that all those who litter my path each day with signs understand my need for confirmations and support this tremendous call to serve.
What do I want from me?
Hmmmmmmmm….not much, huh?

How about you?
What do you want from you?

Ever have one of those weeks when your life feels more like that new song by Adam Lambert… “What do you want from me?” than it should?

Well… after 3 years of that, and a couple of glasses of wine- I will look to the stars and ask the God and the universe the same question.

What do you want from me?

Haven’t I asked every question, followed every lead and sacrificed every rational thinking cell in my body to blindly follow where it is you lead me? Haven’t I done enough to warrant some direct guidance?

Well… haven’t I?
Have I not devoted the last two years of life to my divine mission, forsaking everything else in my path, including my sanity to do so? Have I not made enough personal sacrifices to warrant a wink and a nod when asked?

Tonight I am spent. Charley feels distant, guides seem to have lost their train of thought and I grow weary of guessing my way through this phase of my life. So, my dear light workers and those on the other side, I now ask you point blank…

What do you want from me?

Yesterday a feather was placed in my path.
Now I must wait for the message that I know is being sent to accomapny it.
Much information is being sent my way. Charley once asked me a question about Phoenix. Now I must decide what it is he was really posturing about?
Was Phoenix metaphorical?
Was Phoenix academic?
Or, was Phoenix meant for something more personal?

Because I know you are reading…

5/20/11

Loosing Nemo…
Occasionally I try to test the waters of my new-found connection with those who guide and mentor from the other side of the veil. I follow the numbers- read the angel code for them, study numerology and keep in constant awareness of who I am, who it is I am meant to become and the divine mission I am being asked to achieve. And while my own father would have called this my “hokey-pokey” nonsense… who was one of the first energies to step forward and come through??? Who’s laughing now, huh dad?

Aside from that… I must tell you that while some may think me crazy… others think me gifted, in that this is a rare combination of connection, intuition and blind faith hat helps me work with Charley. I was promised this year would bring me the gift of faith. However, I candidly and openly admit– this was not necessarily the fashion in which I thought I would receive it… but then, such is the humor of God. But even as special as all this seems- sometimes I get ahead of myself and the powers that be give me a reality check. Thus… the loss of Nemo.

Now, who is Nemo you might ask and rightly so. Nemo, my dear readers is a $3.00 lure that was most content to dangle perilously at the end of my fishing rod and had awarded me the most catches of any other lure and every other family member. But Nemo was not just a lure- Nemo was something more. He was cute! Small, with undulating colors of orange and blue he had a curled tail that twirled in the water- a highlighter yellow propeller, if you will and it made me happy just to watch him swim. Truth be told- I never cared if a fish bit. I just loved watching this little guy make his way through the green waters of the lake. Infact, if Nemo had been alive- he would have been a close second to my miniature Dachshund- Schnitzel! So…before you get all up in my grill, saying things like, “Ah, c’mon… I thought this blog was going to be something really cool about the case or something I discovered that was really scary that happened to Charley”… just stay with me. This didn’t happen to Charley- it happened to me.

Remember how I once told you that as a child, I used to pray every night from my bottom bunk in a room full of bunk beds that held 5 other sisters… to be the first kid on the block to see the Blessed Virgin?? Well?? Well… that  didn’t happen, but nonetheless- I knew that someday, something incredibly cool like that would happen to me. I knew even from a young age that there was a connection- albeit a weak one, but I knew that my silver cord was strong and that it would grow as I did and strengthen to aid me in some awesome project later in life. At the time, I can recall telling my family that one day I would write the great American novel. Ok… so they are still waiting for that, but this could be it. Charley could be my great American novel. Anyway- back to Nemo.

Last night Nemo and I went fishing together and on a dare, or a fleece per say… I asked the architects of my connection to grant me a fish on command, mostly to show my family up- but also that I would know that my connection was great. As I cast, I said a small prayer that I would find the connection instantly, a fish would find my lure and that the powers that be would find a moment to grant my silly, but heartfelt desire for confirmation. As I reeled in, I felt a small tug and joy sprung forth from my heart- I pulled hard to set the hooks and even as my heart sang–cerebrally I distinguished this rather strong tug back as a dis from the universe and not a fish.

It was an under water tree snag. The harder I tugged, the deeper it embedded in soddened bark. Several tugs later with unbridled disappointment… the line broke and I lost Nemo. I know that this is a $3.00 loss that I can fiscally sustain, but there was such a melancholy feel to the loss that I actually stood there at the end of my dock and cried. Why? Because my ego had cost me a very synthetic- but a very real companion- and all because I had lost my point of perspective. It was not the masters who had needed faith- it was me. Needing confirmation by catching a miracle fish meant that I had not learned the art of faith I was already silly enough to test. So there, at the end of my dock with tears the size of small Volkswagens rolling downs my cheeks, I said goodbye and expressed my heartfelt apologies to the tiny lure that had entertained and captured my heart- but not a fish.

Now, I know that you are all scratching your heads at this point and saying to yourselves… what the hell was that all about? What this was about is that we all tend to test our faith and connections, before we are ready to accept the consequence of the ego that thinks it has a right to do so.

Life is about lessons…
Because I kept the faith only academically… the lake got to keep Nemo. My only hope is that one day, when I least expect it… that the lake will bring him back to me and that I will find him washed up on my shoreline with silent smile and confirm that my faith- while it was a fledgling and weak enough to loose him- became strong enough to bring him back.

Missing Nemo…