3 posts tagged “ghosts”

There's this lyric from a Dylan song rumbling inside my head:

But people don't live or die, people just float
She went with the man in the long black coat
        -- from "The Man in the Long Black Coat" off Oh Mercy

For those unfamiliar with the song, its cast and countenance are haunting ... languid ... evocative of the supernatural. It's drifted into my consciousness today like so much black and blue paint on a flowing watercolor.

Crickets are chirpin' the water is high
There's a soft cotton dress on the line hangin' dry
Window wide open African trees
Bent over backwards from a hurricane breeze
Not a word of goodbye not even a note
She gone with the man in the long black coat.

Today I'm coming out of the closet to say my place is haunted.

By haunted I do not mean that ghosts are throwing books off the shelf, upending tables, loosening pictures, tapping at windows and walls ... though in a sense I wish they were because that's 3-D evidence you can deal with.

By haunted, I mean: I'm not living here alone.

Somebody seen him hangin' around
As the old dance hall on the outskirts of town
He looked into her eyes when she stopped him to ask
If he wanted to dance he had a face like a mask
Somebody said from the bible he'd quote
There was dust on the man in the long black coat.

Built in 1912, this is an old structure in one of the oldest and most colorful quarters of town. Plenty have passed this way over time. Settled here. Lived and died here. Native American Indians and Chinese and seamen and children and families and the aged and more.

Preacher was talking there's a sermon he gave
He said every man's conscience is vile and depraved
You cannot depend on it to be your guide
When it's you who must keep it satisfied
It ain't easy to swallow it sticks in the throat
She gave her heart to the man in the long black coat.

For whatever reasons, I'm honed in and plugged in to spaces and places. Typically my psychic and intuitive abilities convey information in imagery and sound. Not the case here, itself alarming. I can feel stuff but cannot put my articulate finger on it.

There are no mistakes in life some people say
It is true sometimes you can see it that way
But people don't live or die people just float
She went with the man in the long black coat.

What I have felt is an unreal and disturbing sensation of dryness... a heat bearing no relation to exterior conditions ... a disorientation  ... a floatiness as if I'm sleeping with eyes open ... and a thirst that no amount of water quenches.

Even the plants outside my window and the grass along this side of the building struggle; the grass is crusty and depleted and no amount of water from the sprinkler or these skies of prominent rain revives it.

Seriously, I've wondered whether I'm living atop burial grounds.

Perplexed, I took it to a talented psychic who informed that there'd been a fire around the 1920s-30s and a number of people perished from smoke inhalation.

That resonated.

Helpful for sure but still does not illuminate all the inexplicables. This profound floatiness, sense of being here but not, of being alone but not yet unable to identify anyone else.

The cat's got my tongue and it ain't Moose.

Someone today used the words ghost whisperer; I couldn't have said it better or differently. Ghosts like me, perhaps because of my receptivity, comfort with the paranormal, Piscean nature, particular uniquenesses, and I like them. But I prefer them much the way I prefer people: one on one. I don't like crowds and in space of floaters, it's no wonder I can't hear myself think!

So, at another's suggestion, I'm gonna look for an inexpensive water remedy, i.e. an indoor small fountain used in feng shui, to alleviate the heat and fire. I think of it as a feng shui remedy with a metaphysical power boost.

I may also invite dialogue, request that one or two to step forward to reduce the volume of the buzz, and see whether I can get some clarity and as a result get my mind back. Thing abut floaters is that they needn't concern themselves with mundane tangibles like jobs and incomes and a place to live. I do.

I could yell at them to go away, though something tells me that'll be ineffective. Or hire Bill Murray from Ghostbusters.

Whatever, I've got a problem of phenomenon on my hands and resolutions whose success only time will tell. I may just learn to live with dispirited cast members caught between time and space. I do after all reside on G Street, g as in girl, as in ghost.

There’s Casper the friendly ghost. And then there’s Bill.

The Brentwood Apartments must be among the most historic buildings of Tacoma’s North Slope, where such buildings prevail; it’s also my work neighborhood. Though I don’t know the Brentwood’s history, my employers would so I shall inquire the morrow for I’m certain the place is haunted.

I was working my way down cleaning the stairs of the three-story building (four counting basement apartments) and when I reached the lobby, I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t alone.

(My mediumship and psychic abilities leave me unrattled amid paranormal experiences; honestly, I'm abject by what the living do ...)

So with my heightened senses I pursued, as in began (telepathically) talking with he who was watching me while I worked. His name was Bill -- William, properly -- and in his embodied era he’d come calling for a lady at the Brentwood with whom he was enamoured. He’d whistle snippets of a song that she’d recognize as (one of) theirs as a code recognized only by them revealing his presence, entrances and departures.

Once I learned this, I too began whistling while I worked. I whistled “Love Is Blue," not because I felt a sadness from Bill (on the contrary) but because something about the whistling connected me to Bill and it was the first love song I thought of. I'd heard it the other week on the radio and it journeyed me back to my girlhood when I used to play it on the alto recorder.

Then, after repeated whistlings of that, I switched to a beloved Neil Young tune. Somehow, in the presence of Bill, whistling was synomous with love. Bill with his short-stack top hat who floated in and out as I continued cleaning. I learned that in time his courting of the lassie eventually brought them together, after which they had a child, a daughter, and moved.

There's something about the building, its history, spirit and spirits, more precisely Bill, that speak to me. I shall ask the good family that comprises my bosses about the Brentwood's history because now I'm curious. I'd put money on it once being a hotel or boarding house, or both, before it settled into being one of Tacoma’s haunted sites.

To Bill in the short top hat: Thanks for coming around and introducing yourself. Not entirely sure why you popped in but never mind that. Like the paramour  you once courted oh so long ago, I'd like to meet you again if you happen by. At the Brentwood.

As a child, I loved stories of the supernatural, ghosts, otherworldy tales and events. Whether this was due to a fertile imagination, deep isolation and loneliness or a gift for peering into the beyond, or some of each, I can’t say, but that bent in me remains.

Now, I myself have never seen physically a ghost, but I’ve known people who have. Additionally, the number of reportings is just too large to discount their presence. I’ve certainly experienced the presence of non-physical beings. But I’d like to actually see a ghost with my own eyes before I die.

I also have this lil’ dream of taking a year to travel around the country visiting places that are haunted, sleeping in lodgings where others have experienced spooked occurrences like doors opening and closing, footsteps in the hallways, voices or cries from an unseen realm, ethereal bodies appearing at the foot of the bed or conducting some activity as if still alive. I’d write about these places, the events that occurred reportedly or in my presence, and though I wouldn’t go with the intent of writing a book, one would probably be born.

In my deepest knowingness about myself, I see myself handling anything a ghost may throw my way. Vases flying across the room, no biggie ... walls shaking, not too original ... chains rattling, yeah, OK  ... faucets turning off and on, I might partake if I’m thirsty ... otherworldly moanings or cries of anguish, I can handle those. All this and more from the spirits I’m up for.  It’s humans in the flesh I have trouble with.

My mother saw a ghost in the Whittier house, where I spent much of my childhood. Before us lived a family named the Sherriffs that included a young son who fell ill with leukemia. The boy recovered, almost miraculously. This ghost who appeared was connected to the boy, my mother felt, and when we moved, the ghost remained behind.  I remember her saying it seemed connected to the house, not us as a family.

That’s a cool story I always remember about my mother.

Proceeding, I’d now like to take this opportunity to extend an open invitation to ghosts. Come visit. Make your presence known however you guys and gals -- beings -- do it.  Cause ripples in my coffee. Awaken me from a dream in the middle of the night. Be that dashing dark figure caught in the corner of my eye. Send a strange scent into the air. Tap my shoulder or send a chill down my spine. Appear in the garb of your day or emit a sound perceived by astral ears.

And, the most exciting proposition of all, tell me a ghost story.