What Do the Dead Want?

As a crystal ball clairvoyant, I have many people asking about the dead ---ghosts, hauntings and menacing tales. Are these spirits vengeful; are they peacefully resting; are they there at all? Where are the words of assurance, and the certainty that - we are forever.

True to physical life, ghosts enact their own personality. Often it is a dramatic death --- the whisking into infinity that leaves the spirit shocked, confused and sometimes not comprehending the dimension they are in. Another reason for the unsettlement is the person lived a tormented life of mental restriction, springing fears and prejudices. In death, they cannot unlock themselves, so as ghosts they repeat actions that they programmed into themselves in the previous life.

Therefore, what you are doing with your life is where you end up placing yourself in death. Are you bursting with revenge and jealousy now? What if you die this minute? Did you hide a treasure chest? Will you be constantly digging for it in death? If a person suffered a murderous end, will they meet cherubic peace upon death? Or, is it only the body that has the escape? Base thoughts do not get pasted over with sweetness. High thoughts, never foisted on anyone, must be honestly desired by the freewill. It is impossible to deceive The Energy of the Universe, and no amount of paraphernalia produces pure love.

Anyone who has entered an ancient place of woe will instantly feel the despair and heaviness because its "sense" has been engraved over time. Likewise for centuries-old prisons, castles, and mysterious houses of doom. Most people do know that spirit energy surrounds us. All of us are born with an awareness, though in different degrees of development. Whether we want to or not, we will recognize the movement of ghosts.

As to "good" or "evil" --- that will be seen by your inner eye using the same system that you decide everything with. Look into your sub-conscious and super-conscious. Suspicion and fear draw from your database, which has received information from your upbringing. It notes your response to situations, (you observe others) then inputs controls to your mind. We do not realise that we form over the years by whatever we absorb. Hence, the most important thing in your life is to guard your previous mind. Master your emotions now.

Are the dead sending us fluttery messages of love? Not always. Sometimes they have much more to say. Direct contact may elicit astounding conversations with the dead.

If the thought of ghosts makes your spine tingle, just remember that one day you too will be a spirit being. Are you afraid of yourself?


Sutton Cottage

In a year that has faded like old ecru lace, a woman peeps from the ordinary window of Sutton cottage.  Her doughy cheeks and savagely taut dark hair are clear in the pane.  Pauses in her breathing seen strange, as if she were intent on breathing no more.  Dry lips, starched together are tinted plum with anxiety.  She refuses to relax.  Is he coming home?  Why isn’t he on the path yet with his sad but bouncy stride?  She knows every particle of his character and craves to crush his sweat to her dirt-streaked apron.

Never does she leave this lookout post.  The glass has encased her, and shackled, she will watch, though the pane is shattered and replaced, and varies from being freshly sponged to finger-printed with melancholy.  Vandals, who come later on in time, cannot knock her out of eternity, nor can the nesting pigeons disgrace her position.

This woman is not calling, nor reaching out, yet I must take steps closer, and in a fractured moment I inhale the veranda.  A blue-shirted worker stands casually near me; maybe he’s figuring out the day, or fancying freedom, or shilly-shallying to Sydney.  My attention is snapped to the ground only a couple of metres in front.  I look.  Out of nothingness a neat ooze of blood draws a shape on the greenness of the grass.  My mind perforates time and sees that a man bled here after suffering an injury, his life ebbing from a ghastly wound.

There seems to be no change throughout the ages, that the law of the jungle prevails, survival awarded only to the fittest, whether it is fair or not.  So despite sickness, disease, misfortune and accidents, the pioneers trudged on mightily, and this is what you feel intensely when you switch into their world, which exists, and is not gone, if you will ponder it.  They selected their destiny.

In every cottage there is the sensation of past lives.  Cuddle old dolls and their owners will make themselves known; stroke utensils, hairbrushes, jewellery, ornaments --- anything that people used --- and the item will impart a bristling to your soul.  You have entered the life of a stranger, a private world of intimacies and locked stories.  Where there are no longer actual representations of these lives, such as a house in ruins, there still pervades a brooding, sometimes joyful atmosphere.  Boys still run through fields, men lift axes and women bake rich Madeira cakes.  Every sound is recorded to be played again and again to ears that hear beyond the wall.  Their living energy cannot be made to cease though the physical dissipates.  A wander through any pioneer museum will make this understandable.  I recall such a visit where I was escorted down the passageways by unseen residents who appreciated me admiring their possessions.  From pink lustre teacups to christening gowns, the details that they insisted on embellishing their daily lives with are astonishing.  When you scrutinize a hand-embroidered blouse from the 1860’s for example, and you find almost the entire fabric decorated with white silk thread in stitches perfectly set, you are thankful that the seamstress did not consider it a waste of her time to do so.  I have of course a fondness for early needlework, considering it no frivolity of a woman’s time, just as I admire the impeccable craft of a devoted furniture maker.  The housewife, in the beating of her cake with a wooden spoon gives life to it, and it is digested cosily with particles of love.  Long ago I remember my grandmother commencing each cake with a great golden lump of a pound of butter, and there was no quibbling over the number of eggs to be spared.  She refused electric mixers, preferring to sit outside, nonchalantly stirring the prize batter with the company of a lazy cat.  I would put in my request for bright yellow frosting, and in the yawn of the afternoon we ate cake and jollied ourselves with tea from a rotund teapot.   In your daydreams you could eat the icing all over again.  Yes, we can nod with a dash of wistful wishing that what were once necessities have become the luxuries of today.  I continued into the sorely vacant hut to become acquainted with the decades. 
The worker’s cottage housed various tenants, and now and then was spiced with drunks and rudely behaved occupants, but in the common buzz of getting on with living they ate their meals here and slept solidly, bedding together, grateful for the sparse offerings they could gather.  Some were in awe of this bold country, believing in the potential of her generosity.  Others sniffed, not stirred by any promise, and shuffled down the rutty path they had chosen.  They are still complaining --- muttering about injustices and having the fat of life withheld from them.  They have no mates to clink their mugs with.  Imagine them now, on that narrow track, whipping the bush with a cracked stick because it served them so well.

On this day, a breeze swishes in the kitchen nook.  I behold the charming sight of children stealing bread and dripping, relishing the beefy concentrate to be found at the bottom of the dish.  A sideboard has been cunningly made by fixing into shape some packing crates and kerosene boxes.  The housewife has done a clever job of sprucing up her novel piece of furniture with a crocheted crocus runner.  She enjoys her homely pride, glowing over the burly flour canister that she fetched all the way across the sea.  Food is not plentiful, but neither is it mean --- salted beans shrivel in a deep bowl of English cream china, providing an ingredient for a future stew; a cheese-like square of tallow soap sits on a tin dish, next to it a darned tea-towel; and waiting for use, a corked bottle of goanna oil.   Objects flit through the tiny kitchen so fast I barely perceive the images.  I discern all manner of clothing, unforgettably fragrant with lavender, rice starch and boiled soap.  Occasionally I am surprised by apple blossom perfume or lily of the valley toilette soap --- and someone will have violet, which is a shy duet of rainwater and musk.  I can surely say there is no modern garment that fascinates like those that were churned in soap, rinsed in infused waters, hung in the brilliant sunshine, and then ironed with the weight of a flatiron.  Many of these clothes were also hand-sewn and it is a rare delight to wrap yourself in them, for they seduce you into a time where life was so subtle you were aware of the ticking of the clock, and all around you floated the reassurance of waxed wood.

My mood was a blue melody as I sauntered over yesterday’s paddock.   A splintered cart simpers at me.  Its wheels want to turn again.  They need to be alive, to submit to a sturdy horse who knows his duty.  The load is too light.  I pause for photographs, knowing that given time, this scene will be only an imprint.  I want more senses to be captured.

The land has a beat that pulses forever.  It is from itself and the people --- the pioneers and the ones who were born from the spirit of the soil.  There is a secret which whispers that earth cannot be bought.  No matter what papers you paid money for, you cannot keep it.  The dead will attest to that, but are not dispirited that they toiled and did what they deemed right.  They laboured on their plots and dredged the soil with their perspiration, and hoped their sons would do a measure better.  The spiral went upwards with each generation, but a natural filcher would be born here and there to puncture the family honour and cause his mother to sob for the gains that had been lost.  Such a man could not unlearn his lowliness and thus as he began another branch of his own, he found a ready imitator within his children.

This is a place of limestone, of pure beaches and ripping reefs.  So close is the sea we are pricked by her magnetism.  Unceasing in her gifts --- nets of luminous fish and baskets of pearly treasures for the taking --- the sea is a blithe goblin.  Sometimes lives are absorbed into her fearful deepness.  We stare into the entrancing lotus, and question the grief that carves us.  Far below on the sombre ocean bed are laid out precious shoes and rings, serenely touched by movements of the water.  Many do swear that the sea sings, and it does --- notes of tragedy, crescendos moaned by eerie choruses, grim wailing and exquisite songs of tears.  The pioneers, seared with loss and iron hardship, saw that on moist winter morns, the water had grey, greedy eyes.  The finest sea captain has never been invited to behold her true temperament.  A few have been astonished by her exuberant appearance as a red-haired siren, but she also has tresses of blissful gold and a mouth of shell-pink delight.  Everyone is afraid of her hands that tease and command your very essence.  The sea is not to be explained.

A barque, the James Service, sank in 1878, and become part of the sadness of the coast.  Locally it is a well known shipwreck, those that died being placed in the church yard.  Nobody wants to know that bodies were grated on the reef, or see the pale faces of those that drowned in terror, helpless as seaweed that is flung by the sea as she will.  Sometimes the sea receives a grand ship; sometimes a small boat with children is what she opens to.

The first Suttons were buried in a private family graveyard a distance from their house.  No one evades the rising thoughts as they view this enclosure which is now protected by a metal fence that blends into the new estate so smoothly, you might not even notice what is there unless you are beckoned.

The earth here seems serene, engaging, forlorn and lovely all at once.  What remains of a stone wall is wearing slowly into breadcrumbs.  You see that it has its arms around the graves.  A writhing tree has made itself the succourer of the wall, draping a veil of haunting modesty over the headstones. We are amazed at people of the past because time has made them untouchable.  In a remarkable stillness you hear mingling voices speaking tales of the lives that were.

Horrified, we are flung into the present, and see gobbling estates, marvellously lit with houses that are baubles of beauty.  It’s a Christmas tree of progress.  You feel they are trying not to annoy the humble cottage with their splendour and comforts.  Although those of the past do not like the noise of construction equipment, their space is not composed of matter, so they will go on in their usual ways, unrestricted and oblivious to what we want.  They might skip into your lounge room or walk past your study window, appearing as merely a realization that someone was there.  When the new is built among the old, clashes in time occur, but this happens anywhere when you slice into a realm that has already been.  It is particularly so when a house has stored the emotions of very many generations --- the rooms become books which we are curious to read.  It is thrilling and chilling to find out who did what.

These pioneer homes prod our sophistication.  We are far forward from the hard days and twitch with the shame of having to give primitive labour for a wage.  Yet, in the twinkling dusk, wisps of those gone continue raking, hoping with all their heart for a brazen harvest.  A playful child with brown curls swishes across your sight --- you hear the mellow thud of a pallet of Mediterranean bricks as it is delivered on the sand.  The contrast is amusing.

Because the cottage is not remarkable it will always be dear.  The little kitchen window has been pansied up with various sets of perky curtains through all fashions and tastes, yet now a weeping rag cannot even flap a feeble goodbye.  All these things belong to the unmerciful clock, on a land that was once, even in its pangs, as merry as a mince pie.


Courting the Muse

Does it seem as if this Muse, this wafting figure of all wisdom has yet eluded you? Perhaps you have not been presented with the fountain of golden ideals and think you are disdained. Have you sought the Muse as you would a lover? There needs to be a courtship, a romance of the Soul and a wedding, complete with perfumed blossoms. This is how genius conceives.

The artist reposes within and is expressed by the Spirit of Úlan. The Bohemian flow should not be interrupted; you are a tambourine that jingles as untold conceptions take place. These ideas have been seeded by the Soul. They develop in the studio of your mind. Your life, styled on Parisian creativity becomes a personalised elixir of yourself. Adore your Soul.

When you complete your morning pages, write your Muse a love letter. The Muse speaks in images, so pay heed as they appear in your day. Speak of your book. Ask questions, writing down the answers in script and images. Draw and add colour. The response you have to your Soul is the increase of spiritual energy. Listen for the answer. Wait for the moments. Become the character, the artist, the poet.

Dwell on the Soul magnifique. It is precious in your heart, the chamber of wisdom. Love your creations. Your treasure is materialised there. Move to another world of exquisiteness. Exult in mists of joy; gold radiance from the sun beams. Write gracious notes to the Muse, whose awakening is divine. Speak from within. Be loyal to the marriage, the mystery of the Soul. Search for the One in the morning dew and speak poetry as you drift into the sleep of dreams where the Muse cherishes and love you--the depth of which you have not yet known. To your delight the dawning rays will surely beckon you to creativity... to celebrate the luminous colours that paint your life.

It is not an indulgence to write or seek rapture in any of the arts; it is essential to the bringing of life to people. Creativity uplifts all. Embellish your personality. Use it to present your works to the world, for they must be seen and not hidden to die unborn. Liken them to strawberries giving their rose-water sweetness to delight those who pick.

Respond to your Soul. As you love your work so will you have the power to accomplish it. You were brought forth with a desire to suffuse others with the unfolding of your talents. Doubt will pinch the outflow of mastery, because the soul can be satisfied with nothing less than its own truth.


The Handwritten Note

Devote some moments to personal letter writing. Your petals of love shall fall in the right place.

Write a rose velvet letter to someone in your thoughts. Share the drifting scent of words that perfumed your heart and inspired transcendence in your own pen. Compose letters of charm and beauty for others to appreciate. Post images of lush roses to fortify our passionate souls as we grow upwardly into the essence.

Participate, as you will, in the parlour of velvet moments, where you have my invitation to a perpetual soiree of literature heights, all devoted to the quill of luminescence. You may not know how your tender words urged a melancholy soul to walk in fresh, morning meadows.