Category: Life after Death

Been Here Before

July 27th, 2019

July 17, 2019

8:26 am

We are citizens of the Universe. Feeling like we’ve been here before.

Energy waves. Vibration. Attracting and repelling other energy.

It’s difficult to remain connected—centered, but even more challenging to rediscover connection once it’s been lost because this existence requires a measured amount of disconnect to function.

The great trick is learning how to disconnect without becoming desensitized. To take that leap of faith that propels you beyond what you know.

Maybe it’s a new job.

Taking a different route to work.

Or forcing yourself into an uncomfortable situation.

Whatever it is, you’re never sure in the moment, but recognize it once it has passed because you feel regret for not letting go and allowing the Universe to take control.

Why are we so afraid of giving up?

So content with comfort?

Stuck in this perpetual return. Die. Come back. Die. Come back. We die again and again and again. So tied to the fears of this physical world that we’re unable to break free and simply be.

And so, we are left with fleeting instances of déjà vu.

~ KJ
understand

October 2nd, 2018

I have many faults.

I’m impatient. Lack discipline.

I’m too lazy to understand

our differences.

And so,

I get stuck

in deep ruts.

My wheels spin.

I create paranoia.

Make problems that don’t exist.

Because I’m bored.

Like a coyote in a cage.

Running back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

Again.

I don’t stretch beyond what I know, so I do what I’ve been doing all along.

Dying without ideas.

Even if it’s wrong.

Because it is easier to reject the unknown than it is to understand.

~ K.J.
ticking

September 25th, 2018

(this is a work of fiction)

Getting too old for these crazy things.

Polishing off a bottle of wine at 10:14 pm, well after the kids have gone to bed.

Too locked into the norm to believe I can write with the best of them—Stephen King, Margaret Attwood, the writers for Ozark.

But I have time left.

It is ticking.

I hear it sometimes over the ringing and clicking and voices, as I waver between the now I’m dissatisfied with and the tomorrow I want. Well aware of the colossal mistakes I’ve made.

Ignorance. Stupidity. Hatred. Foolishness.

Simply being unaware of the power we hold and should honor as living things.

I’ve written lots of stories.

A few poems.

And I have plenty of journal entries that will need to be burned before they are read by anybody but my wife and my kids.

They already know how flawed I am.

Mood swings.

A tendency to drift off from the moment.

“It’s like you’re never really here,” my wife said to me one night.

We were eating dinner and having drinks at The Courtyard.

I had been out of the hospital about a week. We had some extra money—somehow, I managed to save—and so, we were celebrating. I was alive. I wasn’t in jail. And now that I had come back from the dead, I was seeing things.

It started with the all-too-familiar feeling of somebody over my shoulder, watching me.

Then it escalated.

I was seeing bits and pieces. Moments of lives that weren’t mine. The woman in front of me in the checkout line at Walmart. Her husband dead, but right there beside her, encouraging her not to buy the brisket. He’d eaten too much meat. Year after year after year. And now, because of an exploded heart, he was dead.

It moved on to others.

The girl working at Dairy Queen making cones and sundaes and Blizzards, all while her Grandma that died of throat cancer stood beside her.

Coworkers at the coffee pot. Their dead relatives hovering.

And family…oh, the family.

But oddly enough, the people closest to me didn’t want to hear.

Except my wife.

She wanted to know everything.

And so, I told her.

Every time I sensed a something, I shared it. But the more a person entertains certain thoughts, the more those thoughts come alive.

They begin to kick and scream. They want to be seen.

Heard.

Understood.

And when a man is expected to understand the more of everything that waits patiently below the surface, he begins to realize…

He’s too old for crazy things.

Like wine at 10:38 pm. Well after his wife and kids have gone to bed, and he is certain he’ll never be able to write with the best of them because there isn’t much time left.

And it has been ticking.

Barely perceptible over the ringing and clicking and voices.

Just another man. Wavering between the now I’m dissatisfied with and the tomorrow I want. Well aware of all the colossal mistakes I’ve made.

~ K.J.
devastation like this

September 20th, 2018

(Please note, this is a creative work. If you need help, please call 1-800-273-8255. Or reach out to family or friends. It’s bleak, but it isn’t worth shutting the light out.)

I know how deep it gets. A switch clicks. And there is no coming back from it.

Whatever IT is.

Could be chemicals. Or the devil. Or any combination of fears, ignorance, and neglect. But it is real.

I know because it has pulled many people into it.

Including me.

The dark, sticky, sad, angry mess.

Where you can stay in bed for days and not give a shit.

When nobody understands how deep the rabbit hole gets.

And you find beauty and comfort in the darkest, most unfriendly places.

One night, I stopped a friend from pulling the trigger. It was accidental. I had just rented Conspiracy Theory and stopped by to return his Van Halen tape. When I walked into his house, he was sitting in the middle of the kitchen with his forehead resting on the barrel of a 12 gauge. He had his shoes off and his toe on the trigger.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I didn’t know, so I said nothing. But I did walk over and smack him in the side of the head with an open hand, and then I took the gun.

He cried and hugged me and said he was sorry, but I knew he’d be back again.

And he did it. Finally. Eight years later. After his kids left to live with his ex-wife and her new husband.

I wonder if he waited, paused at the sound of a car coming down the road. If he hoped it was another accident in the making—a friend with a cassette tape and a Mel Gibson movie.

It comes suddenly. Ruthlessly.

One minute I’m wondering at the strength and balance of my twelve-year-old boy as he beats opponent after opponent on the soccer field. The next, I’m thinking about a friend I had in high school—an acquaintance really—that made an impact when nobody else could.

He had a full-time job. Drove a CJ-5. Was upbeat, friendly, and always out for fun. One time, he took me aside because he was concerned about how I was handling the break up with my long-time girlfriend. He asked if I was depressed. If I was going to make it. Offered to be there. Anytime. Anywhere. For me. He told me this under the bleachers at a high school football game. Both of us sipping Mohawk and Mountain Dew Big Gulps.

I would never have imagined that thirty years later he would give in. That his wife would find him hanging from the rafters of the garage. Twitching. Not strong enough to lift him up and save him.

Then again, there has always been devastation like this.

Three from elementary school, that I know of.

Two from high school.

One from college.

And two co-workers.

People so sad and disconnected that they took pills, fashioned nooses, and put guns to their heads. Not because life was bad, but because it was so good, and they never knew how to feel the way they were supposed to.

It’s hard to get up and just BE every day. To maintain the happiness, patience, and normality everyone expects. But it is doable. And it is possible.

Pull yourself out of the depths into the light, so you can see and breathe again.

Know how deep it gets. That the switch clicks. And that there’s no coming back from it.

Whatever IT is.

It could be the chemicals. Or the devil. Or any combination of fears, ignorance, and neglect. But it is real.

I know because time and time again it tries with all its might to pull me in, and down and under, but it never wins.

~ K.J.
ghosts on a walk

November 15th, 2016

My wife and I and the kids were walking down Washington Avenue the other night. It was one of those nights, full up with energy. The air was just right, the moon was putting on a show, and there was no denying we were part of something bigger.

“Is that house haunted?” my wife asked, as she looked up at the giant three-story Victorian.

“Yep,” I said.

“Oh no, really?”

“Not in a bad way,” I said, though I wasn’t really sure.

What I sensed first and foremost was a little girl on the very top floor looking out the window at us. I stared for a moment as we passed. She didn’t seem happy. Pouting, like little girls do.

“What do you sense?”

“The place has plenty of spirits,” I said. “I wouldn’t doubt it if that front room there was a funeral parlor of some sort at one time or another.”

And we walked on, with the kids far ahead out of earshot, and I felt thankful that we lived in such an historic town with big old houses and spirits and energy everywhere. And I was thankful that my wife let me be crazy like this and just as we were about to turn toward Third and head for home, I saw the old man on the porch across the street as I had so many times before. There wasn’t much to get–or as my wife would say–I wasn’t putting forth the effort, but it was comforting seeing him there. Out on the porch, smiling, waving, smoking a cigarette. Enjoying his home still today even though he’d left the physical world long ago.

I sped up to catch up to my son and daughter. They each held a hand.

“Time to go home?” My son asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

The big moon lit the hazy sky. I listened to my kids’ little feet on the concrete. I felt my wife’s warmth just two steps behind me. And I tried to do my best not to neglect all those spirits–in windows, on porches, on front lawns and sidewalks–because I knew that one day I would be there too. Waiting for someone on this side to talk to.
Happy Birthday, S.B. via Facebook

March 19th, 2016

Poem’s audio below…honey, I even got a little throat clearing in for you at the end.;-)

I don’t post as much as some people do. That’s for good reason. There are too many dummies doing so already. People posting too much shit that is selfish, mean, hurtful, and downright stupid. For instance, I am happy that so-and-so helped a homeless person today, or saved a duck, or paid it forward in some way or the other, but the point of doing good deeds is to simply do them and not draw recognition to oneself. And yet, everyone is look at me. You, S.B., are not like that. Even at our wedding you insisted that all eyes NOT be on you. You just wanted to get married, to be together, and for everyone to have a good time. And that’s why sometimes you’ll catch me just looking at you. I’m amazed.

And then there are the religious geniuses—most of them blinded instead of enlightened—damning people because they are different, spewing evil, nastiness and ignorance. God hates this type of person. This group is going to hell. I follow my husband blindly. I am obedient. His servant. Blah, blah, blah. If they had any inkling of what it’s like to live a good life, they’d be living like you, S.B. You are the definition of kindness. You bring hope. You are the embodiment of strength and independence. And you make me and our kids believe that there are much greater things going on behind the scenes than what we engage on the surface. If people were as selfless and sensible as you are, they’d take more time out of their day to focus on others. The world would be a better place if it followed you.

There are the sickies, always posting how miserable they feel. I saw you give birth to a child, naturally, without shedding a tear. When you are sick, we never know it. You may take an ibuprofen if the pain starts to slow you down. But you’re never asking for attention. Posting about your sniffles or ever mentioning an ache.

There are the titsies—women that apparently can’t refrain from showing their cleavage. Oh, look at the new toaster I got with their boobies all squished together and most likely sharing their best set of duck lips. You, S.B., draw a crowd with your beautiful wide smile, your confidence, and warmth.

And finally, though there are more I could mention, there are the political gurus. We don’t have to go much into that, I suppose. I think most of us should probably follow your politics. Treat people with respect. Help everyone. Act, every day, as if there is an end that’s fast approaching. And that when it’s all said and done every single deed and every word we’ve ever written or spoken—good and bad—will be judged. Maybe not by God, but by everyone we’ve known. And that the tiny ripples of our life make big, big waves.

In summation, Happy Birthday, S.B. I thought I should post this and put it on your page because in the whole scheme of things maybe one person’s love for another will help balance out, and even defeat the shit—all the selfish, mean, hurtful, and downright stupid things—that so many others are putting into this world wide tangled web.

~ K.J.
the girl that disappeared one night in June

January 17th, 2015

It doesn’t take a medium, a psychic, a private investigator, or the police to tell us she’s not coming back. When someone’s gone this long—going on three years—she does not suddenly show up at a cousin’s baby shower, her parents’ anniversary, or her son’s birthday. No matter how much people pray, point fingers, analyze the lack of evidence, or wish upon bright stars—like tonight, a cold but peaceful night in Northern Michigan—she’ll not return. Not in the form we’re used to.

When she’s home again, it will be because there’s been a confession. A conviction. The great reward for patience, determination, and truth. Men grow tired. Cowards have always been weak. And evil—plain and simple—never wins.

On the other side, when it comes to a good soul like hers, there isn’t the pressure of time, the worry of missing out. There are no regrets. And so, she watches them silently. Waiting and waiting and waiting for them to feel her breath in their ears. Her hand on the back of their necks. And hear her footsteps as she paces their bedrooms at night. Each of them one day closer to asking God, her parents, and her children for forgiveness.

They’re feeling it.

The three that made the pact—the so-called ring-leader, the defeated veteran, and the punk that ran away—believe they’re part of a brotherhood. That their bond of fear and selfishness and sin is actually something great and untouchable that will endure. But it will not. She tells me this sometimes. That sooner or later a missing piece will wash up, be found in ash and dirt, or show up shiny and new between floorboards. It will be a splinter of finger bone. A ring. A note. A tooth. It will be nothing and anything and everything all at once and be just enough to cause a break in the silent case of the girl that disappeared one night in June.