2 posts tagged “psychic stuff”

Yesterday I was dispatched to the druggie ho’s apartment. Knowing I’d be there the full day, I settled in. Opened up my third eye and ears as I requested the house to speak and share its stories.

And I listened to what was told and shown.

A strong male energy, in one back bedroom in particular. Though there’s only one person on the lease officially, a woman, he lived there (in lease violation, along with others) and ran the house.

He wouldn’t tell me his name. He operates with about five aliases. A black man with disguises. He feels like a Chuck, Charles, Charlie; I’m calling him Chaz.

I see wads of cash. Thick wads in his hand and pocket. People handing him money in the one back bedroom. The trafficker.

I hear the descriptors: Salesman. Seducer. Sweet-talker.

Not a bright person. A real sweet-talker; that’s his speciality.

Preys on people with low self-esteem and the need to feel good about themselves.

The woman on the lease, she's taken in by him. (Facts: she's white, in her 30's, not 20's as posted previously, chunky, dirty blonde hair, two months in changes from "professional student pursuing a teaching credential," or claims thereof, to all hip-hop in baggy pants, reversed baseball cap and talkin' like a black street ho.)

“You gotta hang ‘round the rich bitches. It’s where the money is,” Chaz tells me. Street cred's real important to him.

He spent time in juvie. Keeps slippin’ through the loops. “Cops don’t know shit and half of ‘em are takin’ money under the table, lookin’ the other way,” he says. The power of gangs.

I hear the words crack cocaine and crystal meth. Both used and trafficked here.

I ask Chaz about Eddie, the writer of the note found in the kitchen shelf. “A dipshit. A schmuck. Always good for some blow.”

Dumb, young with romantic goggles. She (leasee) doesn't care about him. (She's hooked heavy into Chaz.)

I’m told he’s still loosely around the neighborhood. A school nearby. He may be looking to cultivate some connections there but isn't gonna tread into another's territory. I might even see him in the neighborhood.  I'll know him if I do.

Chaz shuts up, says no more.

I can’t corroborate the details but trust what's shown and heard. I can corroborate the (constant) presence of a black man, however, through run-ins reported by a neighbor and employer. The man I'm picking up, I'm certain, is him.

A dangerous man not necessarily in the violent sense but for the damage he creates, then leaves behind. As salesman and sweet-talker, he'll keep slippin' through the loops a while still.

The house also shows me a woman crying because her boyfriend's left her. No one takes her seriously though. "She's always high." And complaining. And when she's not complaining, she's angry and vicious.

I open a hallway closet and see coats, lots of coats, fancy coats, one fur or furlike that possibly belongs to the woman with the sugar daddy.

My lungs perceive crystal meth. They feel constricted, painful, as I breathe with all senses wide open.

The apartment won't rent soon. If it does (possibly within two weeks), misfortune or illness will befall the residents. May shorten their stay. The apartment needs time to process out the energies. Two months. It'll be ready then.

In the meantime (and contrary to "reason" and employer financial interests), it's best it remain vacant so time can run its (cleansing) course.

I hope I'm wrong but I do trust the information. The house is ill. It needs time. I'll continue releasing to it my prayerful energies.

(lyric courtesy of Cole Porter)

Speaking with the dead. Telepathy. Knowing past lives. Reading character and soul through photographs and by touch. Prescience. These aren’t your typical run-of-the-mill daily activities, neither are they highly encouraged in our modern society, they're amongst of my psychic gifts, however. Disclosed truth is, I’m quite intuitive and psychic but like a lead buried in the story I conceal it. I honestly don’t need something making me feel more different than I already do. (My mother used to say I march to a different drummer, motherspeak for "you're weird and I can't believe you emerged from my body.")

Anyway, still, it leaks out, a lot, with one of my strongest bents being mediumship. Spirits on the other side seem to really like me or find me an easy mark. Thing is, I’ve no control over it; it’s not like a faucet I can turn off and on. It happens when it happens, typically with a total stranger I’m seated next to at a pub or meet in passing at public venue, party, wherever. Imagine enjoying a bowl of chowder and pint, minding your own business, and the girl next to you leans over and asks: “Does your mother have a sister who’s name starts with an L?” And she does. Or “Who amongst your ancestors was quite fond of music?” It’s the piano-playing great-grandma.

Initial raised eyebrows turn to curiosity, interest then appreciation as the information flows through. Now, don’t freak out, it's not like I'm speaking in tongues, morphing like Whoppi Goldberg in “Ghost,” neither are my eyeballs rolling backwards in their sockets. It's all good, it's all in Light. I’m the antenna, the messenger whose "I" has stepped aside to allow a flow of information. It’s like channeling without the preparation and Hollywood hokuspokus. Perhaps someday I’ll share an episode from the vast collection, assuming I have any readership left at all after this confession from this freak of nature verrrry sensitive Pisces.

The reason I bring this up is for context. Approximately a year ago I had this vision, or an imaginary story (the line separating is often blurry) that I penned then filed away with the other drafts, end of story. There are clues, signals, wafting in the air of late suggesting the vision/story may come to pass, which would rattle even my fishy Piscean bones. If it does, I'll let you know, not tomorrow or the next day, down the road. I'll also quit my day job, set up a table and chairs, get a glittery tablecloth and turban, soft flowing caftans and candles and open up a shop. All I need is the name ...