Death Never Ceases

Leroy was 12 when he died. I didn’t know he was sick, one day I heard he had a brain tumor and died. I was about 13, and he was the first kid I knew that died.  However, he wouldn’t be the last. Over my teenage years, so many people in my circle died. It is surreal when someone that’s your age dies for any reason.  After Leroy died they seemed to drop like flies. 

Thurmond jumped off of the roof of his building because gang members were after him, or so that was the rumor.  People that witnessed this said his brains were splattered on the ground.  We were still in high school when that happened.

High School was full of death.  Omar died of a brain tumor.  I’ve known Omar since the 5th grade, and he died in his senior year of high school.  He got two years in the yearbook.

Joey was the first violent death in high school.  He had a real nice leather jacket.  Too nice, that some unsavory guys wanted it.  Instead of just taking it and letting him be, they shot him in the head.  His girlfriend was in such shock, she never returned to school.  Sean was shot for his sheepskin coat. Again, shot in the head, this would happen the following year.

Altavia was found murdered in a dumpster. She was another friend I’ve known since 5th grade.

Willie aka Kato was hit by a car when he was goofing around with my friend Jody.  He had taken something from her and was taunting her to take it back.  He ran into the street and was hit by a car.  I knew two other persons who died ‘by car’ was Derrik.  Derrik was 10 when he died.  He was the brother of one of our friends.  We used to hang out with Derrik when he was a little boy because his sister was stuck babysitting, but he was a fun kid, we didn’t mind.  One day Derrik and his friend decided to take a short cut across the highway.  Derrik didn’t make it.  Angel also died while taking a short cut across the same highway, she was 12. Her 13 year old sister survived, but lost a leg.

The July after I graduated I learned that my friend Michelle was also hit by a car while changing the tire with her mom on the highway. She was coming back from church.

But the deaths did not stop when I hit adult hood.  They kept coming at the same scary pace.

My ex-boyfriend Kevin shot himself in the head after having a fight with his girlfriend. He was a cop, so the gun was legal.

I knew of one person who died of an OD, she was a crack addict. I knew another woman who died of AIDS, she wasn’t much older than me, and I’m not sure how she contracted it. She was a neighbor and I saw her deteriorate so rapidly it frightened me.

Richard panicked one day while he was alone in the elevator.  He attempted to jump out by opening the door between floors.  This can be done, if done properly; one would land in the hallway of the floor below.  However, Richard was slow and probably never did this, so something happened and he missed the landing and fell down the elevator shaft.

My dear friend Lisa was murdered by her husband. Only weeks before our friend Tracy begged her to come back home with her.  Lisa was living in West Virginia with her husband and four small boys.  Tracy saw how she was being abused and said that she can come with her now. Bring the boys and they will figure it out when they got back to New York. Lisa stayed in West Virginia.  Weeks later Lisa and her husband fought. Blows were struck.  Once the fight ended they piled in the car and drove to the store. The husband went into the store and left Lisa in the car with her boys. When he came back, she had succumb to her injuries.

I mentioned Kato above.  He had several brothers.  Jay dated my friend Lisa and Dennis was my boyfriend at one time.  Jay was killed during an attempted robbery. He tried to mug a cop.  Dennis died because of a drug induced stroke while driving.

I had one more ex-boyfriend die.  His name was Eric.  He had married someone else by this time, but I learned he died of cancer.  Not sure if it was skin or colon, but knowing him like I did, it could have very well been either or both. He worshiped the sun with no protection and he ate red meat all the time, and didn’t know fiber from fur.

Terry died of a long kidney illness and his brother was killed a few years later.

I had another friend named Michelle, who I learned died due to carbon monoxide poisining while she slept.

Now that I’m in my 40s, I thought death would be easier.  But last year, 3 of my high school friends died suddenly.

Isaac who died from complications due to hypertension, Cheryl who died of I don’t know what and David who died of I don’t know what.

I learned about these deaths on Facebook, and I was shocked each time.  I’m not looking forward to hearing about any more deaths.

ROW80 5-1 CHECK IN

I haven't checked in in a week or longer.  I also have moved my writing over to another blog.


I'm attempting to see if I can develop a story from my memories and/or from stories I've heard from family members.  It isn't as easy as it looks...to make fact sound interesting.


My Goals

I haven't counted this weeks word count, but I'm sure it is over 1,000.
I've been reading about the craft.
I've posted some interesting blog posts.


check, check and check.


Finally I'm on target for the week.

The Chronicles of Death

1976 - Dottie

I only remember seeing her once before she died.  She had her hair done and was very pretty. She sat in her mother’s house. In the dark on the plastic covered couch.  She didn’t talk to me much; she didn’t talk to me at all.  The next time I saw her she was in a box.  Age had touched her.  Graying afro and clay brown skin lie still in the dark wooden coffin.  She was fifty. Hit by a car that tore her legs clear off. The driver was drunk; he was coming from the bar. She was drunk; she was coming from the bar. My mother cried and cried. I tried to comfort, she shrugged me off. Her only sister, sixteen years her senior was no more.

1977 - Alberta

My brother and I stood outside the hospital.  I wasn’t sure where we were, but I did have my 110 Instamatic.  I took a picture of my grandfather. He was dressed so nicely.  We couldn’t go in to see my grandmother. She was in that hospital, but I was 10 and kids weren’t allowed.  She had bled, and bled and bled. She had douched and douched and douched.  Never was a doctor mentioned.  We went to that hospital when the weather was still warm, she died on January 3rd.

1977 – Lovie Bell

The room where she lay was bright. The coffin she lay in was white.  Her dress was blue. Lots of wailing and praise Jesus!  I cried.  I hated this woman. I cried because I felt bad for my mother.  She had lost her sister the year before, and now she had lost her mother.  How would I feel if I lost my mother?  I cried and wiped the tear away.  Her heart finally gave out.  For years she was in and out with heart trouble, high blood pressure and diabetes.  Not to mention her Asthma.  Her body just gave up the ghost.  We stood on the icy ground as they lowered her coffin into the ground next to her mother.  It was January.  I still hated that woman.

1978 – Gloria

First his wife and now his sister lay in her box.  Her dress was flowered her hair coiffed.  I was in shock. This was my 4th funeral in the span of 2 years.  Stroke is all I heard.  Her mouth was crooked, but her mouth had always been crooked.  I sat on the right. They spoke in calm tones.  We were 2 for 2. Two from dad’s side, two from mom’s side.  Let’s take bets, who would be next?

1979 – Jesse Sr.

Two years and seven months he lasted without her.  He already had ten years on her.  Like his sister before him he stroked out.  The years of alcohol didn’t help much, but it was the rich diet.  My parents were divorced by this time although we did get the word from another member of the family. Maybe Aunt Mason, maybe Aunt Judy or maybe my dad himself, I can’t recall.  I don’t recall the funeral.  Five funerals in 3 years; I was 12.

1991 – Jesse III

Twelve years of no funerals.  I recall my 1st cousin died of cancer, but he was in Maryland, and I didn’t go to that funeral.  The next funeral wasn’t until my brother died.  He was afraid to leave the house for days for fear of his death.  Was it a vision or just a knowing, I will never know.  He babysat his new 8-month old nephew with such delight.  When he was alone, he’d blast the stereo to the dismay of the neighbors.  When my mother found out she argued with him.  His anger caused him to leave the house. He was killed when a young man who was transgender stabbed him.  My brother was upset when he found out the woman he had been talking to was actually a man.  My brother stood 6 feet 4, but was unarmed.  This person felt threatened enough to go home, grab a knife and come back so he could plunge the knife into my brother’s chest.  He was 27 when he died.  Lucky me, I got to identify the body. He lay on a slab in the cold morgue.  A tube still hung out of his mouth.  Shopping for coffin’s and urns was loads of fun! I didn’t cry at the hospital. I didn’t cry at the funeral.  I didn’t cry until weeks later. 

1998 – Jesse Jr.

There was no funeral for my father.  He left no money to bury him.  My father was found by his stench.  The neighbors called it in; the cops broke down the door to find my father lying on the floor in the fetal position.  It was a particularly warm September and my father had no air conditioning.  I was so blessed for a second time to have to identify the body.  My mother couldn’t do it.  I could understand her not being able to identify her son’s body, but her ex-husband who she had not been married to for 30 years?  This time they brought me a Polaroid picture.  I didn’t have to make the journey into a cold room and look at a piece of meat on a slab.  This was a good thing. It had been so warm that by the time they found him, his skin was practically falling off of his face.  It looked like caramel melting in a pot.  But I could tell it was him, I looked like my father, and I was able to see me in him.  Cause of death: Chronic Alcoholism, Chronic Narcotism. He was cremated and scattered. He died as he chose to live…unimportant.

Uncle, Father, Brother Man. The story of how my Father used to be my uncle to be.

Mary graduated from Jamaica Vocational High School in New York City in 1962.  By 1963 she was working as a garment examiner for J.C. Penney.  Tedious work, but she was good at it. Her diploma in dressmaking came in handy and brought in quite a tidy sum.

Mary’s good friend Gladwin worked for a shipping company that delivered racks of clothes to the warehouse. Gladwin was a good looking fellow, but Mary didn’t find him appealing, he wasn’t her type, however, he had a friend, Charles who was right up Mary’s ally.

Alberta and Jesse did not like Charles’ choice of women.  Mary was too dark and too poor for their handsome and soon to be very successful son.

“She comes from nothing,” Alberta said one day to Charles.

“But I like her; she’s nice and hard working.”

“Her mother used to clean houses, and she has no husband. Does she even know who her father is?” Alberta asked.

“What her parents did with their lives does not make her less of a person,” Charles said with his angry growing steadily in his chest.

“She’s too black,” his father said chiming in.

“So? I’m black.”

“Yes but she is dark,” his father said.

“Wasn’t grandma a domestic worker?” Charles asked looking at his mother.

“Yes, but that was only after the depression took all of their money. We were quite well off before that you know.  We came from good English and Irish stock.” Alberta smiled at the memory of her happy childhood.

“We also came from slaves, but you seem to forget that.” Charles walked out of the room and slammed the door.

* * *

Mary waited and waited for Charles on Friday, but he never came.  She cried and punched pillows. “I knew his parents didn’t like me, but I didn’t think he’d really listen to them.”  She finally fell asleep on her wet pillow deep into the night.

By 4pm the next day, he’d not called.  She called his house but there was no answer.  She called her friend Gladwin.

“No, I haven’t seen him Mary,” he said.

She gave an audible sigh.

“Didn’t you guys have a date last night?”

“Yes, but he never showed, and he didn’t call.”

“That’s not like him,” Gladwin said with a voice tinged with concern.

“I called his house, and no answer.”

“I’ll see what I can find out, sit tight,” Gladwin said. 

Mary sat tight for a few hours.  There was no word from Charles or Gladwin.

“Boys are nothing but trouble,” her mother said as she watched her daughter cry into her hands.

She didn’t answer her, but wiped away the tears.

“It’s a sin to run around with a boy unless you marry.” Her mother’s body waddled away into the kitchen, mumbling, “Sinful, sinful.”

Mary usually ignored her mother when she went off into her fire and brimstone tangents.  She called Charles’ house again and this time Alberta answered.  “No, I haven’t seen him, thought he might be with you,” she said.

“No, we had a date on Friday, but he didn’t show.”

“Well…if I speak to him I will tell him to call you,” Alberta said with a voice that was dismissing but alarmed.

Gladwin called Mary Sunday with no word.

Mary called Alberta on Monday with no word.

Tuesday morning the police knocked on Alberta and Jesse’s door.

* * *

Charles was found floating face down in the Harlem River under the Highbridge.  His wallet in his pocket, his body not damaged by anything other than what the river did to him.

The young man who had a room lined with gold swimming trophies had been floating in the water for days before he was spotted by the captain of the Circle Line.

No investigation was ever launched.  He was just another black kid.  They deemed it a tragic accident.

“He probably slipped off of the bridge,” one officer said.

“The river is violent at times, he probably drowned,” another officer said.

Alberta knew her son didn’t slip off of the bridge, which had been closed to all traffic since 1960.  She knew her son didn’t drown; he could swim for miles at a time in any type of water.  She knew something was not right.  Charles didn’t just slip, he didn’t just drown, something was amiss, but Charles was just another black kid…just another black kid.

Alberta and Jesse were broken up. Alberta and Jesse were broke.  There was no money to pay for a funeral.  Jesse was working as a porter for Parkchester and the salary didn’t allow for much savings. What he did manage to have left over, he used for drink.

Mary was grief stricken when she showed up at their home with $200 in hand to offer for funeral expenses.  She had been saving the money to move away from her Bible thumping mother.  But the thought of Charles not being buried bothered her more than her mother’s constant misquoting of the Bible.

“I can’t take this,” Albert said through her tears.

“It’s OK, I want you to have it.”

“But you and him saved it.”

“Well, no it is all mine, but here, you use it for the funeral,” she said as she handed the envelope to her.

“But you were going to start your life with this money. Put it back in his account.”

“It is not his money it is my money,” Mary said growing more impatient with the implication that this money could not possibly be all hers.

Alberta reluctantly took the money.  She was stubborn but not stupid.  $200 would help a great deal with the funeral expenses.  After all, it was her son’s money, or so she let herself believe.

Charles was put into the ground a few days later.  Though Alberta and Jesse were saddened by the loss of their son, they were not saddened by the loss of his girlfriend.

* * *

They sat around in Sol’s Deli and shared stories about their friend.  Gladwin shared stories of their antics in high school.  Mary laughed and cried some.  Charles’ older brother Jesse was there.  He looked like his younger brother he was just lighter.  It was uncanny. The first time Mary laid eyes on him was at the funeral, she did a double take; she could not believe how much they looked alike.

Six weeks later they were married.

Psych'd and Seriously Twisted Tales of Ghosts and Floating Heads

I looked down at my brother, my mother and myself.  The room was blue black except for golden light streaming in from the hallway.  I floated above and watched at my mothers attempts to arouse my sleeping brother.  I could see myself, snug in my crib that was next to the window, still as can be.  I never questioned how I could be up here and down there at the same time.  I was too young to understand; although I’m not sure how old I was I assume I was between the ages of one and two.  Had I died? Was it crib death? There was no white light? No tunnel? Nothing that I can recall.  I do remember suddenly opening my eyes and staring at the slats in my crib and my mother was over me, shaking me awake…or alive.

Around the same time I recall a ‘visitor’.  It wasn’t a whitish blue specter from yesteryear, although I’m sure there were plenty around; as the building we lived in was pre-war.  This was more of the extra-terrestrial kind.  I was under the age of two; I only recall my age because I was still crawling.  My mother was in the bathroom fixing her hair and I was left on the living room floor.  I heard something in our kitchen, so I crawled over to see what it could be.  Floating slightly above our kitchen table was a glowing orange entity.  It turned to look at me; all I recall was the rectangular head and big eyes.  These eyes weren’t black orbs that people in recent years have reported extra terrestrials having, these eyes looked like cartoon eyes.  These eyes were big and oval with lots of white and a small black pupil and they didn’t blink.  The specter, alien or whatever, turned to face me and spoke without moving its mouth.  It told me its name was wigwam. Its voice was magnetic and deep. I don’t recall a body, but I do recall me screaming my head off and crawling away at warp speed.  My mother ran out of the bathroom to see what was the matter.  I must have pointed or something, because she went to look into the kitchen, but she saw nothing that alarmed her.  She was very angry with me and scolded me for screaming at nothing.  I must have been confused because I calmed down and crawled back over, but wigwam was gone.  I never saw him again.

Was I an advanced being? Did I grow into some super-psychic?  Sort of kind of.

My next experience that I can recall in vivid detail didn’t occur until I was in High School.  One Saturday night I had a ‘dream’.  I was suctioned to a car window. I was like one of those Garfield cats.  The car was white and going very fast.  The young man inside was Caucasian, had pale blonde hair and was severely intoxicated.  I attempted to bang on the car window trying to get him to stop, but he couldn’t hear me, nor could he see me.  It was nighttime and the music in the car was blaring.  I was suddenly shocked awake.  The clock read 2:35am.  I rolled over and chalked it up as a weird dream.

Days later I saw my friend in the school elevator, she looked a wreck.  I said “What’s the matter?”

“My brother is in the hospital, he was in a very bad car wreck on Saturday night, well Sunday morning around 2:30.”

Still it hadn’t dawned on me.

“Oh no, will he be OK?” I asked.

“They think he’s paralyzed from the neck down.”

Still clueless.

“Did someone hit him?” I asked.

“He was drunk, and he hit a tree.  He messed up his new car.”

Slowly it began to dawn.

“What color was the car?” I asked knowing this question was not important to the conversation as far as she knew.

She looked at me annoyed and said, “White, why?”

DING DING DING

“Oh nothing, I hope he pulls through.”

The description of the car matched.  The description of the young man matched her brother as well.  But the clincher was the time.  She clocked it at 2:30am; I woke up around 2:35am after I was abruptly awakened from my dream.

The last of these experiences happened almost thirty years ago, so are you wondering if I still have ‘the gift’?  In short, yes, but it lay dormant for many years.  Am I the only one in the family who has it?  I’m not sure; I do believe my brother did possess this as well.  He once told my mother, that he was afraid to leave the apartment because if he did, he would not return.  He stayed home for days but cabin fever got the best of him and he went to hang out in a bar in Manhattan. He never returned home.

When my son was young, he recalled seeing a wounded boy in his room. He came in crying to me how the boy’s head was ‘blown off’. By the time I went into his room, the boy was gone.  At the time, we lived near ‘Gun Hill Road’ and off of ‘Boston Post Road’, which were two important arteries during the Revolutionary war.

It seems my experiences now are mainly in the form of visitations.  Not from floating orange heads but from the deceased.  I say visitations because these deceased individuals come to me in my dream state. I’ve only had one visitation while I was awake. That was of my great-great-great grandmother, who came shortly after my daughter was born.  She looked into her crib one night as I lay in my bed watching. I held my breath; I did not want her to know I was awake.  I wasn’t scared, but I was curious.  She walked into my room, looked into my daughters crib, smiled and when I stirred she vanished.

The other visitations I’ve had were in my dream state.  How do you know you are having a visitation as opposed to just a dream?  The dead don’t speak.  A dead person has NEVER spoken to me in my dream, not with their voice anyway.  Not all the dead who have come to me were my loved ones.  Many times they are the loved ones of others.

My friend Michelle was violently killed by her boyfriend a few years ago.  This hurt me because I had seen her on Friday and he killed her on Saturday.  I wanted to know if she was OK, if her soul was OK.  One night she came to me and smiled her brilliant smile and gave me a hug.  That was my answer.

I’ve had dreams about friend’s deceased parents as well, and they are always warnings.  One was from the father of my friend trying to warn her about her car. It needed fixing before she had an accident. The dream was so specific, he showed me the undercarriage of the car and exactly what part needed fixing.  I was on the fence as to whether or not to tell my friend.  I did and drew a picture of the part.  Surprisingly she believed me and she took her car in.  Low and behold, that particular part was cracked.  Even more surprising about this particular visitation, is that I never met this man.  I spoke to him on the phone once or twice and went to his wake. But I never had any live contact with this particular person.

The next visitation was from my God-mother who was the mother of my childhood friend.  Telepathically she told me to tell her daughter to take off her rose colored glasses.  She needed to be careful about how she was living her life.  At the time, my friend was blinded by her desires. I felt the time was not right to give her this message, so I waited.  I waited until after her blinders came off. Again, I was surprised by her receptiveness.  She said that only a few days earlier, a picture of her mother had been flung off of her entertainment center without any help.

People ask me if it freaks me out to get these visits, I tell them no.  I wasn’t afraid of these people when they were alive, so why should I be now.

I don’t tell most people about this because there are a lot of skeptics in this world, and if there isn’t a need to tell, why tell?

Aliens, ghosts and out of body experiences all have happened to me.  The Aliens only once, the OBE, twice to my knowledge and the ghosts, quite often.

My Life in This Universe

Wil Wheaton is a freakin cool guy. I remember reading his book Just A Geek several years ago. I thought how cool it was to write a memoir from a bunch of blog posts. What a fantastic way to write and keep memories alive. Of course a paper journal is just as doable, but to me, this was a new idea.

I toyed with the idea of keeping a memoir type blog on line, but I thought no one would care about it. Who would want to read about my life? I don’t want to whine on-line and sound like a pathetic fool. I don’t want to spread my negative seed around in cyber space. Now I see that is just a defeatist attitude; if I want to write, I should write and not care if people read it or not. Followers are nice, but I have decided it isn’t necessary. My goal is to become a better writer, find myself in the process and hopefully find some hidden gems within my brain.

I have been very depressed lately. This no doubt stems from my lack of employment so there is no need for electroconvulsive therapy (I don’t think). I’ve been unemployed for eight months and the temporary work isn’t really cutting it. I’m trying to have a positive outlook and utilizing the “Law of Attraction” and “The Power of Positive Thinking”, but I suppose I’m not doing it correctly despite my efforts to immerse myself in the topic. However, at this point, I have to use this method because it is all that is left. I joyfully send out my resumes and go to countless job agencies in hope that this will be the one. As a matter of fact, I have such an appointment today. This agency contacted me, as most of them do. I will go to their offices in the tundra that is falling from the sky. I will run to the subway, take it across town, get soaked in the process. Sit down, fill out mounds of paperwork, talk to them about ‘opportunities’ they have and then take the trip back across town to my current temporary assignment. Sounds like a lot of effort for something that will likely not yield any results. People might say, “Well you are not thinking very positively.” They’d be 100 percent right, I’m not. After going to approximately 30 agencies to have only 3 of those agencies deal with you on a regular basis, one can get a little discouraged.

Depression is fear and my fear is mostly coming from the fact that my six months of unemployment is about to run out. I’m sure I can get an extension, at least for another six months, but until it is actually a fact, I will worry.

Perhaps instead of trying to manifest a good paying job, I should manifest winning the Lottery. What are the odds? I know they are long, but hey…who knows.

Currently Reading

Money and the Law of Attraction by Esther and Jerry Hicks.

It is an audio book. I find audio books that deal with this topic to be easier to absorb. I listen to this to get pumped up, but find once I turn it off, I am more depressed than before. Esther is reading a transcript of her channelings with Abraham and all the info is quite enlightening. I just can’t seem to hold on to the spark.

1.  Think positive and have the positive feeling inside while you think.
2.  Negative thoughts bring more negative thoughts.
3.  You attract what you think about (negative or positive).

Now, I’ve read/watched "The Secret" and I know that one must also take inspired action for things to manifest, so I do that as well. I like to think of myself as in transition and my pot of gold is right there.

I shake my head when I read posts from my Facebook friends. Most of these people I have known for a ridiculously long time. Grade School, Middle School and High School. Some are just On-line friends I’ve known for about twelve years. However, the people I’ve known since my school days are the ones who really make me scratch my head and wonder if I was (or am) like that.

Complaining about their jobs, significant other, the president, the weather, their car…etc.

I make an effort not to complain about everything under the sun. It is futile and doesn’t solve the problem. Most of the time I want to scream “Be Happy You Have a Job!!!” but I don’t. They have their own path they must follow and it is none of my concern.

Here is looking to many sunny days ahead.

Inaugural Post

Here within this blog I will be posting my musings, writings and perhaps an occasional link to something fantastic.  I have never kept a writing blog before, but I am hoping it will help with my creativity.  As of late, it has been blocked.  Followers would be night, but it is not necessary.  This blog is for me and is an attempt to organize my thoughts.

I'm looking to write fiction, short-stories and memoir. I'm looking to let it all out and leave it all on paper. I would like to say I will post something daily, but sometimes my writers block is bad, so I will just promise to post at least one thing a week.

I'm looking forward to filling this blog with interesting prose.  So onward toward my journey of my first million words, I'm sure I've not written that many in the past 20 years, although one would think...