All tagged J. L. Thurston
*Note: I filmed all of this and fully expected to post it as an amazing show, but those tight-asses that run this site, Don Hall and David Himmel, said it would cost too much money and take up too much bandwidth or some bullshit, so I had to settle on only posting the transcription of the show. If you would like a DVD copy of the show, please let me know.
What if some hauntings aren’t the spooktastic, skin-crawling nightmare some claim them to be? What if, instead of the nightmare angle, we approach a tale of ghost activity with understanding? Even love?
It is one of the few places in the world that can be truly silent. There I have traveled in the middle of the night, eyes cast upward to the sky, heart empty and aching, and felt the embrace of the world.
The red door is near, faded and worn from the hands of so many patrons. From the quiet sidewalk, the din is growing. In the pretense of the holidays, the flock gathers at their flowing altar and pray long hours deep into their bottles. They cheer at sports, they laugh about each other’s lives. Farmers, factory workers, caregivers, teachers. The little town’s heartbeat throbs inside where the air is dark and the fragrance of stale cigarettes sits in the back of throats.
For years after AMDA, I struggled to accept my decision. I had turned my back on a city that I loved, people that I had formed a beautiful bond with, and a dream I had nurtured throughout my childhood. Surrounded by the Midwest and all that entails, I saw beauty in nothing, and no matter what I took into my body I never felt fulfilled.
The harvest moon hangs heavy in the velvet embrace of the sky. Near the curled shoes of Bella Baker, a toad jumps into taller grass. The song of crickets rises and falls. The crisp air of Samhain finds all exposed flesh and gives it a little nip, just enough to remember that one is alive.
I’m laying there, terrified, paralyzed, praying, shaking, listening to my ragged breathing and pounding heart. But nothing happens. Is this some kind of nightmare? Am I having… what do they call it, sleep paralysis?
Abigale Walters had been found in the morning by her young nieces and nephews on the couch. They couldn’t wake her, so they called their mother who called 911. When responders arrived, they couldn’t find a pulse. CPR was performed for over two minutes before bringing her back. They did not know how long she had gone without breathing.
The tour group walks through the rolling grass of Lincoln Park. The sun is too low to be seen through the jagged skyline of Chicago architecture. The sky is fading quickly into a sleepy black. As the people move forward, they are all too aware that beneath their feet lay long-forgotten bodies.
Legend carries falsehoods of my death. Lore was written by the gods, and therefore was written by alcohol-soaked ink and sex-crazed confusion.
For weeks I had been riding a lifeboat in a raging sea of panic, joy, anticipation, and self-doubt as I prepared to attend a writers conference. To non-writers that may seem kind of weak. But the first conference is like stepping onto a stage for the very first time only instead of your looks and performance being judged, it’s your mind.
A few months ago, I drove by their old place and noticed with a pang of shock that their house had been torn down. It is now just an empty lot, full of space and memories.
I breathed in the scent of her, the peace and vibrancy of her spirit. I had a powerful feeling then, so strong that it echoes in me still, and I know I’ll always come back to this one perfect day. I thought, “This is exactly what heaven is like.”
There once was a young woman who dreamed of the day she could become a mother. Holly was beautiful, full of life and laughter and of an easy temperament. In the late 1970s, she was like dandelion seeds blowing everywhere in the wind. Whimsical and free.