My Monday with Moe.

Before I continue with you all on my journey in the paranormal, I want to introduce you to a very special character that will continue to make returning appearances in and out of "Being Brice," my sister's dog Moe. Moe is a black lab puppy, and although he lives with my sister in Auburn, Alabama, he does come to visit his "Aunt Brice" on occasion. Moe is nothing short of a miracle, and it's nothing short of a miracle that I survive him each and every time he comes to stay.

My father is a veterinarian, and because of this, growing up we were never short on pets. With dogs, my dad always bought the finest of the breeds, and he trained them to be obedient to their human masters. Since we, like most American kids, grew up in a house, in a neighborhood, with a yard, our dogs were... well... dogs. They got to run around freely, only returning home on command, and were not allowed inside since my mother, being loyal to her "southern" heritage, was (and still is) house proud. They had their beds, their food, and their water nestled nicely in the garage, and ONLY were allowed in the house (and by house I mean the kitchen) if the weather was dangerous.

Years have passed now, and life has changed. My parents are now divorced, and my sister and I have left home. Living in LA for me meant that I never felt I had the time or the place to have a pet. Living in Alabama for my sister meant that she has fields full of space for a little puppy to run and play. Since leaving LA and relocating back to Atlanta, my sister has taken full advantage of being so close to me, and always finds a time to drop my "nephew" off. In order to get Moe to stay in the apartment, she has to drop him off by shoving his butt through the door, saying a quick bye, and high tailing it back out again. This past Friday was the same story, and what was suppose to be a simple over night stay for Moe with my mom and step dad ended up with him staying five extra days with me. Although I love Moe with all my heart, it is hard to have him here with me... in Atlanta... in an apartment...

...And so Monday March 15, 2010, went down as follows...

At ten to seven in the morning Moe jumped on my bed ready to go... and by that I mean to go outside to the bathroom. Normally that's not too early for me, but on this particular Monday, after being up at till all hours of the night, it was a brutally early hour. Since I am in an apartment, in a city, as most of you probably are, there are particular rules that have to be followed, one of them being your dog has to be on a leash and another one being you have to pick your dog's poo up. Now, Moe is a lab, and a strong little lab at that... and I don't care what "Ceaser" says, when a damn lab wants to walk you, he'll walk you, and with Moe... he runs you. So, after putting a jacket on over my PJs to face the early morning air, I clipped the leash on Moe and the two of us went out. As soon as Moe went flying down the stairs, I knew this day was going to be a long, brutal, all consuming Moe-ish day from Hell.

As soon as we got down to the main street, and slowed down to a minor "trot," I saw Moe's nose hit the ground to smell for his place to take his morning poo. Even though it is a rule where I live to bag the poo, if no one is around and Moe finds a nice little discreet place in the bushes, I normally will a) slyly walk away with that poo-wasn't-left-by-my-dog type walk or b) kick leaves over it so hopefully no one will notice and Moe and I can go about our day without me having to put my hand near his poo. But on this particular Monday morning, Moe decided that at 7 AM he was going to plop right down in the middle of my building's freshly manicured lawn and take a huge dump right by all the little children leaving to go to school and the adults leaving to go to work. Not only did he decided to take a dump right in the open for the world to see, but he decided once his ass was close to the grown, that he was going to shuffle around and spread the love of poo all over the lawn. After the poo was "handled" by me, Moe decided to give an encore performance. Since Moe is a lab, and labs are notorious for being super friendly, Moe tends to get excited when he sees people, and in his "joy" over being amongst all the people (who, of course, found him adorable), he jumped up on a lady neighbor, and peed all over her in her work clothes. To my amazement, she was ok with it and while she ran back in to change, I bolted with Moe back into the apartment in total embarrassment, but not before making sure everyone watching knew he was my sister's dog and not my own.

After we got back in and Moe was fed, I got my laptop out to start some new drafts for my other outlets of "Being Brice." Well, Moe did not like this. At first, he did not like the attention that I was giving my laptop over him and tried to knock if off my lap, and then he changed his mind. Instead of being jealous of the laptop, he decided he was going to try to eat the laptop just as he had eaten a pencil, a wii remote, and countless shoes in our together times in the past. As his teeth wrapped around my keyboard I jumped up in horror knocking Moe off the sofa, and in his mind starting a new game. I bolted back to my bedroom shut the door on Moe and put my laptop high up in my closet so Moe could not get to it. As I opened the door back up, there sat Moe, with his head tilted sideways... looking up to me with those cute puppy eyes. I could not be too mad for too long.

As the day progressed, so did Moe's "active" personality, and as it grew, the barking began, that loud, lab bark that's meant for a farm, not an apartment. In my haste to calm him, I jump up, grabbed his bone, and tried to get him to run a couple of laps around the apartment. When nothing worked, and the barking continued, I decided to turn the music on and up in an attempt to drown out Moe's bark from the whole apartment building. Green Day did not work. Oasis did not work. The Beatles did not work, but when Lady GaGa came on, Moe shut up. He got very quiet, and then, started jumping around in a dance-like trance. Yes, my sister's black lab liked... no loved... Lady GaGa. I listened to "Bad Romance" so many times on this Monday, that next time I go to karaoke, I think I'm going to rock it. (And Yes... I am aware that Moe might be gay due to his infatuation with Lady GaGa).

After dancing his ass off, Moe passed out for all five minutes before he, once again, had to go back out. As we went out this time, it became apparent that Moe actually does know how to take his leash off. As a bird, flying low to the ground, came swooping by Moe, he cocked his head sideways, ripped off his leash, and galloped down the street after the bird. Of course this means that I (still in my PJs and no bra on) had to go galloping down the streets of Atlanta after Moe. For every loud bark Moe made towards that damn bird, I made and even louder, desperate bark-like scream at Moe to STOP! Moe, realizing that he had left me behind, finally returned to me... his head tilted sideways... again looking up at me with those cute puppy eyes... I grabbed him by the collar and we marched back into the apartment with my head tilted low in hopes that no one I know would notice me out in public, running down the streets of Atlanta, in the attire that I was in.

On our way back to the apartment from our bird run, Moe found a stick. I let him carry his stick back to the door. Once we got there, I tried to take the stick away from him, and he growled at me. In my exhaustion, I let him take the stick inside and thought to myself, "What harm could this stick do? All he's going to do is chew on it?" HA! When we were inside, I left Moe and his stick alone in the living room while I went to change (finally), and by the time I got back to the living room, little pieces of wood covered every inch of the floor. And he didn't stop there. All the pillows had been pulled down, and most of the bills that had been on the coffee table now were, too, all over the floor. At this point I didn't know if I should be mad or amazed at how quickly he made an orderly apartment look like a condemned home or pissed that I had to get on my hands and knees to pick up the mess.

After I had cleaned up Moe's mess, and ate something standing up with my arm holding my plate high in the air so Moe could not get my food, I sat down for hopes of a few moments of peace. But alas, a few seconds after I sat down, I saw that was not going to happen. Moe came galloping onto the sofa, knocking me off and standing on top of me. As I tried to get back up, he continued to push me over, and just to add insult to injury, Moe sat on my head and farted. One of those silent, nasty, dog farts. I jumped up and ran to the bathroom thinking that this just might make me vomit.

Once I washed my face, and forgave Moe for farting on me, I leashed him back up (double lock and guard this time) to take him back out to make sure that fart was not the beginning of a nasty poo. As we, again, bolted down the stairs, Moe noticed some men unpacking a U-haul, and he made a sharp turn toward the men, pulling me along behind him. One of the men went running back into the car screaming like a little girl in terror over this lab approaching, and the other (while his hand scratching his own ass) came up and stopped Moe for me. Moe, again, got very excited over all this attention the Ass Scratching U-haul man was giving him, and yes, he peed on him, too. In my total embarrassment, I pulled Moe back into the apartment, turned Lady GaGa back on to entertain him, and said a silent prayer of Thanksgiving that my mother would be here soon to take Moe out of my hands.

Although Moe is a nightmare at times, when he is away, I do miss him, and I know he will be a huge part of "Being Brice." Animals always see spirits the way mediums see spirits, and when others sense a spirit around me and run away in terror, Moe always loyally stands beside me. After all... a dog is a man's best friend...



*I apologize for this blog not being about a paranormal event. Most of my blogs are, but I felt it necessary for you, my followers to get to know Moe. He will continue to come in and out of "Being Brice," and yes, will be a part of many ghost stories to come... :) The next blog will be back to paranormal phenomenon.

Correction

One Correction that needs to be made: Even tough I said that my grandmother was my spirit guide in "The Brice Curse: Part Two," I have since learned that she is not my main spirit guide... She's just been around to guide me through what she never had a chance to teach me about in her life. My main spirit guide is a man named Louie. He died in 1737, he was French (yes he says some stuff in French from time to time that I do not understand), and he was my father in past life... I'm sure he will be mentioned more than once in future blogs.

Sadly, I see less and less of my grandmother now. Because I am starting to feel very comfortable with my abilities, she is now moving on. Peace be with her.

Thanks grandmother for sticking around for 18 years to guide me through this paranormal mess! You were patient with me, and I promise I will try to use my "gift" for good, even thought there are still days when all I want to be is normal. Hold me a spot in Heaven, and say hello to granddad!

*For those of you following, there should be a new blog up soon (as in the next couple of days). Thank you for all your support and love!

The Holy Fire Part 1: Michael

"Michael is an archangel in Hebrew, Christian, and Islamic tradition. He is viewed as the field commander of the Army of God."

-Wikipedia

I am not a holy person. At times, I am not even a good person. Even though I am the first to reject the fundamentalist teaching of the church because of its judgements, I can't lie, I judge too. I'll be the first to judge people by the way they are dressed, by the way they speak, or perhaps, for something as silly as the way they do their hair. At times I can be vain, unforgiving, and merciless. I am always on a diet; I honestly don't know what my natural hair color is (nor do I really care); while there are children in the world who have no shoes, I, on the other hand, have a closet full of the latest styles. . . AND... I am always game to buy more. Fridays excite me because I get my new "In Touch Weekly;" Mondays depress me because there is nothing good on TV; and, I have to say, I really can't stand America Idol. I swear like a sailor, love my good friend Vodka, and, yes, I cheat at trivia. So, it's no wonder that at times I sit in self-pity, shake my fist at God, and ask, "Why me?" I don't go to church. I don't know where my Bible is, and I'm sure when I find it (if I ever look for it), it'll be covered in dust. So why? Why was I given this ability to see the spiritual world when others can't... others who are far holier than me? And as for seeing ghosts? Please! I've been told by many preachers that I am... and I do quote.. "of the devil." So again, why? Why did God give this to me? Why not give this ability to someone, like a preacher, who has invested a life career in teaching spirituality? Why give it to a girl like me?

I didn't have a normal childhood. I realize that now. While most kids were building forts with their imaginary friends, I was hiding in my closet (doll in hand) trying to escape from the scary, dead people following me. While most teenagers went to prom, I was in and out of the hospital watching stumped doctors try to figure out why I had scratch marks all over me, only to find out years later, I was being attacked by spirits. But, to be honest, one of the most confusing thing in my whole 27 years has been the name Michael. Throughout my life, in times of fear and confusion, I would hear the name Michael. It wasn't a faint Mike or Mikey, but a loud, booming MICHAEL. Then at times of peace, out of nowhere, I would get the name stuck in my head... just BAM! There it is... MICHAEL. I have no close friends or family by that name, so I always wondered why this name comes to me. As I have now accepted my abilities, I have asked, "Who are you?" when I hear the name. I'm always hoping that a ghost will appear, but I know deep in my soul that, whoever Michael is, he is neither a ghost nor, taking a safe bet, a demon either.

I grew up a Presbyterian, and, even though we went to church every Sunday, I don't really remember hearing too much about angels. It's possible that I just wasn't paying attention, which I have to say, was a choice I made as a child... not to pay attention. You see when I was little, at a time when I did pay attention, one of my Sunday school teachers asked us, if we could have lunch with anyone, who would it be? I happily said, "Freddie Mercury," and, apparently, that was the wrong answer. Apparently, I was supposed to say Jesus. So, after that little incident ,I checked out and daydreamed during Sunday School. I knew that, if a question came my way, I could just answer with Jesus, and 9 times out of ten, I would be a-okay. So, in saying all that, I can't fault the church I grew up in for not knowing much about angels. Even as an adult, the only angel name I really know is Gabriel, and that is only because the man who played Gabriel in Christmas Pageants every year, at church, scared the crap out of me as a child. So, even though I am a medium, psychic, paranormal, or whatever you want to call me, I don't see, experience, or have much knowledge of this one particular paranormal area, which is normal. We paranormal people all have our "specialties." We're all different. I communicate with and see my own spirit guide; I see ghosts (as you are all aware of at this point); and, the scariest of all, I see demons. I'm also psychic, but not in the way most people think. No. I can't give you winning lottery numbers, nor can I tell you what color underwear you're wearing. (Yes... I get that question a lot). What I do get is information from the spirit world pertaining to whatever case I'm working on at the time. I have met Beelzebub on many an occasion, and with my psychic abilities, I have found pentagrams in hidden places. I can see the color of people's souls (not to be mistaken with an aura... those I don't see, although, some paranormals do). The colors I see behind people's eyes tell me who has dabbled in black magic, who is a Satanist, or who in reality is "of the devil." And let me just tell you (wink, wink), the people who are really Satanist and not "Christian" would surprise you...

A few days ago, I was having a very low day. A day full of self pity and why me's? Although I missed Kyle's company, I was exhausted. When a medium has an interaction with something or someone of the paranormal world, it can be very draining. In order for ghosts to materialize, they have to take some of the medium's energy. It all gets very scientific, and, since science bores me, we'll just leave it at that. I was exhausted, sad, and, once again, pissed off at God for giving me this. It's hard to get to know a good soul and then have to let him go. So on this particular day--as I was driving the hour and a half drive to visit my good friends Kelli and Drew, blaring my music (what else is new), and giving God a mouth full--I also had the looming feeling that I was about to experience something demonic. I was pissed off and overly jealous of other girls my age who only have to worry about work, friends, and boys. I have to worry about work, friends, boys, ghosts, and a damn demon, or two, or four, since they normally come in packs. So once again, I was having it out with God. When I'm mad at God, one of two, or sometimes both, things will happen to me. The first is that the song "Move Along" by The All-American Rejects will play on the radio. If you're like me, you've felt as if you need to "fear" God. You've felt that, at times, God is cold and vengeful. Well, I am here to tell you that God is not that way. God is actually quite funny, and, even when I'm cursing God, God still cracks a joke by ALWAYS having that song play on the radio during my temper tantrum moments. The second thing that happens is what I said earlier: I get the name Michael stuck in my head or hear it booming around me. On this particular day, I experienced both things. After giggling to the radio and then hearing MICHAEL, I yelled in my car,"OK! Who the bleep (told you I swear like a sailor) are you?" And all I got back was another MICHAEL! "No shit," I whispered under my breath, "But, who are you, Michael, and what do you want?" Nothing but silence. Coming from Michael, that was normal. After that, I sulked in self pity and drove on into town.

I met up with my friend Drew, and we drove over to Kelli's house. Kelli* is a spiritual healer. She has a growing clientele, and she has helped me in the past find peace in dark places. I walked into Kelli's with Drew, put my bag down on her counter, and complained annoyingly to Drew and Kelli about my "friend" Michael. I whined that he wouldn't tell me who he is but has been around me my whole life... The afternoon flew by filled with kids laughter, sugar, and adult gossip. As nightfall came, we all sat down at the table, ate some dinner, and Kelli pulled out her cards. I'm not sure what kind of cards she used that night. She has different types for different people, but, from what I understand, she becomes a sort of channel. She senses the energy of the people for whom she's reading and is guided to cards bearing a similiar "energetic imprint" of sorts. Kelli does this with the cards facing down, so, she herself doesn't see which card she is pulling. She pulled a out a card, handed it to me, and I flipped it over. There, looking back at me, was archangel Michael with "YOU CAN DO IT" posted over his body. "Oh my God,"I said as I showed Kelli which card I had received.

"We'll talk," said Kelli as she smiled back at me...

The night lingered on, and Kelli's husband, Ryan, came home, built us a fire in their front room, and offered to watch the children (Kelli and Drew's kids... I don't have kids) while we had our girlie pow wow in the front room. Kelli brought another stack of cards to do a more detailed reading for me, and thus what I now call the "Holy Fire" commenced. Still gripping my archangel Michael card, Kelli began to explain him to me...

In Greek, the word archangel means "the greatest messenger of God," and in Hebrew the name Michael means "he who is like God." In the book, "The Miracles of Archangel Michael," by Doreen Virtue** she writes:

Michael is the only angel accorded the "archangel" title in the Bible, where he is also called "one of the chief princes." The book of Daniel and Revelations describe how Michael provides protection in time of trouble. (pg. xii)

According to legend, Michael was the angel who battled Lucifer into hell when he challenged God. At times, the world forgets just how powerful Lucifer is, and of course he's powerful, that's how God created him to be. In fact, Lucifer's power is so close to that of God's that he thought and still thinks he can take God's power from him. In fact, Lucifer can give you everything God can. He can bring you money, he can bring you fame, he can bring you health, but he will come to collect one day. Hence the reason there is a spiritual warfare going on. Classic story of good versus evil, with Michael still standing at the front line with his armor (as he is depicted in most pictures) ready to fight. Since God has given me the ability to see things that sometimes I don't want to see, Michael has always been there reminding me to call on him and he will protect me in my battles. You see, Michael won't just come, unless he is ordered to by God or ask to do so by the person in trouble because of our free will.

Hearing Kelli tell Michael's tale, my body started to shake. I had a sense of peace, and a sense of fear. Deep down, I just want to be a normal girl with a normal life. I don't want to see demons or angels... I don't want to see spiritual warfare. Self doubt started to fill my body as Kelli laid her cards out again to go into my life's journey in more detail... A life that I'm starting to feel resembles an episode of "True Blood" more and more everyday. A life, I fear, will never be normal.

"You're an Indigo Child," Kelli said as to me.

"Pardon?" I asked as I looked from Kelli to Drew and back again.

"An Indigo," Kelli said again.

... To Be Continued...

*For more information about readings with Kelli or to book and appointment, please go to www.mamakelli.com

** Doreen Virtue is the author of the "Angel Therapy" books that can be purchased at your local bookstores, or by visiting her website at www.AngelTherapy.com.

"When all you have to keep is strong

Move along, move along like I know ya do

And even when your hope is gone

Move along, move along just to make it through."

-The All-American Rejects

Kyle

A few days ago an old friend asked me if I had ever had a relationship with a ghost or spirit. As far as a romantic relationship goes, the answer is no, and I can safely say that I give my close friends and family permission to put me into the psych ward if that ever happens, but as far as a friendship goes, yes. His name is Kyle, and he did more for me during his earthly death than most have the ability to do in their natural lives. You see, I believe that death is just something that happens to our earth bound bodies, and not something that happens or will ever happen to our souls. Our bodies are of this earth, and therefore must run with the natural circle of life, but our souls are not of this earth, so in saying that, the same rules do not apply. Just as our souls are given "free will" during our natural lives, our souls also have "free will" after our natural death. We have the choice to stay grounded, and we also have the choice to move on to the other side when we want to. Hence the reason we have ghosts. Some people simply choose to stick around. Maybe not forever, but for the time needed to do whatever he/she feels needs to be done before he/she can move on. I have also learned that some tasks can only be done once someone has left his/her body, for as they say, once we're dead, we become all knowing. In being all knowing, the amount of help we can give to loved ones in our body's death must be limitless. That is of course, if by "free will" we choose to stick around and do so.

Growing up, I was never particularly close to my dad's family, but I always had fond memories of my cousin Paul. Paul is my dad's first cousin (my first cousin once removed), and his age falls in between my dad's age and mine. Sadly, as time tends to do, we all grew apart. My thoughts of Paul turned into distant memories, and soon, I gave Paul no thought at all. After going through a horrible break up and leaving LA, I started to move on with my life as a writer and newly honest-about-being paranormal person. Everything in my life seemed to be moving along just fine, until one day in November I found myself desperate to contact Paul again. I had a haunting urgency to find a man I had not seen or spoken to in twenty or so years. I hounded my grandparents for any contact information they had for him which resulted in his email address and mailing address... both of which I used... obsessively. A month or so passed with no response, until finally, I got an email back. After a quick exchange of "hellos" and catching up, I let it slip that dead people talk to me. Once the words were typed out, and the send button pressed, my heart sank in panic that my long lost cousin would think I was a freak, and so would end our correspondence. To my surprise, Paul was okay with it and told me if I ever saw his friend Kyle, who had passed away a few years before, to please tell him everything was okay and to move on. I told Paul not to get his hopes up, but I would keep a look out even though I highly doubted Kyle would pop by.

As the evening progressed, I stumbled back to my bedroom, plopped on the bed with my laptop ,turned my music on, and played around on Facebook. Then out of nowhere a burning sensation ran down my wrist. "Ouch," I said as the hairs on my arm stood on end. I looked down to see two perfect scratch marks.

"Sorry," echoed in my bedroom as I was overwhelmed with the too familiar feeling of a ghostly spirit. I grabbed the camera and took a picture of my wrist (see attached picture), with a plan to email it to Paul just to see what his reaction would be, and if by some slim chance he thought this could in fact be Kyle.

"It's okay," I replied,"but next time you really don't need do that. You can just talk to me." I scanned the room looking for any sign of the energy that was speaking to me. Nothing. I emailed the picture to Paul, turned the light off and went to bed with a feeling inside that whoever was "haunting" me was not a spirit of malice or ego. Even though this ghost had scratched me, he meant no harm. Be it Kyle or whomever, he came in peace.

The next day, while working in my living room, an image started to appear by my patio door. He was blonde, looked quite fit, and sat in a fetal position. He looked right at me, and I back at him. "Are you Kyle?" I asked. No response. "Are you the one who scratched me last night?" No response. He just sat and looked at me as if he was making sure he could trust me. "Suit yourself," I added. "You're welcome to talk to me whenever you want." I went to my email, and started a new one to Paul. I described the image I was seeing, and asked if it described Kyle, and a few hours later I got an email back. Paul confirmed that the image I was seeing was Kyle, and sent me a picture to confirm. I started to shake as I realized that Kyle and I had indeed made contact. Paul also responded to the picture of my scratches as almost matching scars Kyle had in life. Besides my grandmother, I had never really dealt with a spirit that was close to someone I know. I felt the weight of responsibility sink into my shoulders. God willing, I would be able to help this soul. God willing, I could get him to move on.

Days passed by, and Kyle hung around. His silence lifted and he became a friend to me. He would pick outfits out for me, and when I would hesitate about a particular pair of jeans, he always assured me my ass looked fine. He made me laugh. When I would go to take a shower, he would try to follow me, and when I told him to stay out while I bathed, he would always look at me and remind me that he's gay. I would giggle and tell him that I didn't care... and out of respect for me he would stay out. When friends (that would have been spooked by a ghost) came over, he stayed hidden. He was one ghost that truly meant no harm, and without me even realizing it, his presence was bringing my cousin and me together again because during this time, Paul and I emailed almost daily. We seemed to be in constant contact without ever running out of things to say. In fact, our first phone conversation lasted about three hours. We share common beliefs in life, and a friendship between the two us began to form. I found myself trusting Paul, and realizing what an incredible man I had as a cousin. Paul also told me about the man Kyle was in life.

Kyle was born on September 9, 1975, and from what I learned, he came into this life as ball of energy meant to affect the people around him. It seemed to me that he lived his life out loud, and although he paid dearly for his "voice" in his natural life, he still spoke without hesitation. As I mentioned, Kyle is/was gay. Because of the struggles and battles Kyle was forced to face merely for being the person he was created to be, it is to be hoped that because of his struggles and his willingness to fight, future generations will never know the nasty hate from the homophobic community. It is to be hoped that because of people like Kyle, the word "homophobic" will dissipate from society. Freedom isn't free and sometime peace is something one has to fight for, and thank God for people like Kyle, for, because of his life, and his honesty, hate crimes are now taken seriously.

Four years ago (two years before his death) Kyle was asked to speak in Washington DC about hate crimes. He came to speak about all he had been through as a homosexual American male. In fact, the scars he bore on his arm, the scars that resembled the scratch marks he left on me, were scars left over from an attack he had survived years before. They were defense wounds left behind from a night where Kyle almost lost his life years before he actually did. Kyle had just come out of the closet, as they say, to friends in his home town of Homerville, GA. His friends, pretending to okay with his sexuality asked him to come out to the woods with them to get drunk on some booze they had purchased earlier in the day. Once out in the woods, the "friends" attacked with knives, and left him for dead. Without Kyle's willingness to live, he would have died. From what I understand, once alone, he walked himself out of the woods and to the hospital. His scars, and scratches he left on me, were symbols of his strength, they were symbols of his fight, and became war wounds that didn't define who he was, but gave him a platform and a sign of experience to reach a hand out to others who one day would struggle the way he did. Because of his struggles, his life was not lived in vain, and as I realized, he was one spirit that wasn't going to live his death in vain either.

As days turned into weeks, I started to panic because I could not figure out how to get Kyle to move on. He lingered around me, and although I enjoyed his company, I knew it would be better for him to go to the next realm of existence. I would plead and beg him to let me know what I could do for him so he could find peace, and I would still get nothing. It wasn't until I visited an old girlfriend from home, that it all clicked. She got me to see that Kyle wasn't coming to me to do something for him, but in death, and therefore being all knowing, he was coming to me to bring me back to Paul and vice versa. Even though he did not know of me in his life, he knew of me in his death, for he had been haunting me before I even knew who he was. He was the reason I desperately needed to reconnect with Paul. He was the reason Paul and I became family again. For whatever reason, Kyle found it important to give his good friend his cousin back. What life and time divided, Kyle brought back together, and once I realized that, Kyle peacefully moved on. Because of Kyle's longing to give a complete stranger the love of a family member, I will always consider Kyle my friend too.

Kyle's natural life ended on May 11, 2008. He was 34 years old. At Kyle's service my cousin read a moving poem by Maya Angelou that I would like to share again in honor of Kyle, and in hopes that as citizens of the world, we will one day see the end of hate crimes.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history,

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt,

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With certainty of tides,

Just like hope springing high.

Still I Rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard?

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Digging in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of all the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear tide.

Leaving behind night of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and hope of the slave

I rise

I rise

I rise

In Loving Memory of Kyle Griffis

September 9, 1975- May 11, 2008.

The Brice Curse: Part Two

"Now! You're the real reason why you two girls are here, and I'm going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow so we can speak in private," the physic Madame Mary said to me as she finished up her reading with my friend. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. What could she possible have to say to me? I didn't have any life altering questions that needed answering by a fortune teller and her crystal ball, but because of pure curiosity and wonder on my part, I agreed to meet with her in private the very next day.

Sitting in the driver's seat of my Jetta, and fumbling for my car keys amongst the disarray of my purse, I had a feeling of doom. As I started my car and pulled out of the garage, I watched as the early morning joggers passed me by on the sidewalk. I had a feeling that whatever I was going to learn today would change my life forever, and I knew in my heart that nothing in my life was going to be the same again. I slowly pulled into the parking lot of the Madame Mary's shop. I got out, tossed my purse over my shoulder, and walked slowly to the front door. I opened the door, I sat down in the waiting room, and waited for Madame Mary to finish her session with a young gentleman who's sobbing I could hear through the wall. "Super!" I mumbled under my breath. If this man's tears was a sign of things to come, then good fortune was not on my side. The door to Madame Mary's back room opened, and out walked the puffy eyed gentleman. She escorted him out, all the while telling him everything was going to be okay. As he left her shop, she locked the door behind him, turned the open sign in the window over to closed, dimmed the lights in the front waiting room, and gestured for me to follow her into her private room. Knees shaking, I stood up and followed her.

In her private room, there was a table with a single red lamp. On one side sat Madame Mary, and I on the other. Madame Mary's chubby, olive colored arms folded over each other on the top of the table. Her fingers interlaced between each other, and her wildly curly, dark brown hair was restrained by a single pink hair clasp. Her deep brown eyes pierced through mine as she stared at me intently. The screaming silence between the two of us ended when Madame Mary utter the first four words that would define the rest of my life. "You are a medium," she said in dry, monotone voice.

"Do what?" I could feel the color run from cheeks. The room began to spin, and for a second, the world it's self seemed to stop. A medium... like her? This had to be a joke. Did this mean I was going to have to have my own crystal ball and start referring to myself as "Madame Brice?" Really? She had to be kidding!

"You have spirits that attach themselves to you. They communicate with you, and most of the tragedy that you've experienced in your life is due to your own fear and denial of what you've always know about yourself. Well, they're not going to go away. The more you ignore them, the more they will act up to get your attention. They almost killed you when you were 15. Do you remember the scratches they left on you? Do you remember feeling the weight on your body as they held you down?" I felt like I was going to vomit. How did she know that? A smirk went across her face as she saw my reaction as the reality of what she was saying registered with me. "The doctor's never found what was wrong with you, and you of all people know that science doesn't explain everything."

Madame Mary proceeded to tell me about my mother's family history in low country. Once again, I had not told this woman that I was from the South, nor had I told her my mother's family was from the banks of the Low Country. In the Low Country, Voodoo and Hoodoo are common practice, and it seems that a woman by the name of Donna used this form of black magic to "curse" my grandparents for my grandfather's rejection of her love for the love of my grandmother. Unknown to this lady, my grandmother's family was no stranger to the practice of Hoodoo (as I would learn more about in another meeting with Madame Mary). With the combination of black root work being used against my family, and the own workings of root work and spiritual experimenting within my family, a can of worms had been open with me paying the price for the past.

The only person in my family that seemed to be aware of this "dark presence" was my grandmother Maxine because, I was told, that she, herself, had paranormal abilities. Due to severe intensity of the "Christian" influence that blankets the grounds of the South, my grandmother was never able to talk to anyone about her own gifts. My grandmother died when I was nine of breast cancer, so therefore, I never had a chance to learn anything from her in her living life, but had seen her around me many times before in her death, a fact I have never shared with anyone. Madame Mary told me that I not only carried the weight of the curse, but I inherited my own personal abilities from my grandmother. She then went on to explain that my grandmother, in her death, was my spirit guide. Every time I have an experience I see my grandmother or feel her touching me. In such an isolated world with such horrifying experiences I had learned to ignore, my grandmother had been there so I would not feel alone or afraid.

As if being hit by massive ball of energy, I felt my body release years of tension and anxiety. I wasn't crazy. The fears of being alone when I was a child were justified. All the imaginary friends and disembodied spirits I had seen were not my imagination but a reality. A part of my brain was open and engaged in a way that other's people minds weren't. Sweet relief was upon me, but sweet relief would not last for long. Accepting this about myself was only the first step in a long journey. While trying to live my own life, I also have a debt to pay to society. I see what I see for a reason. I was created as a medium as part of my life journey, and the journey and aid of others, dead or alive. I have spent my life seeing demons too. I am very familiar with the growls of the fallen angles, and have felt the presence of my grandmother with me through it all.

I ended my session with Madame Mary, promising to come back in couple of days to learn more about myself and the life task I had ahead of me. The news she had provided me with was drastic, and something that I needed to know. She did not charge me for her services, and I would go back to her with the idea that knowledge is power. She would go on to teach me about my family history, and about a certain ring I've inherited. A certain ring I will write about in another blog.

All in all, seeing "ghost" doesn't mean that I'm not afraid. It doesn't mean that there are days I where all I want to do is give this gift back, and say "thanks, but no thanks." But I am learning to control it, and everyday I meet people like me, allowing me to build a nice support system. Soon, I hope to be holding my own investigations so I can help spirits in need to pass on... investigations I will blog about. No, I don't have a crystal ball, and no I will never go by "Madame Brice." Through it all, I'm still just a normal 26 year old girl. I love clothes, I love the theatre, I love music, I love to read, and I love to write. I just have this one "little" not so normal ability on top of everything. So from here on out, when I write about the paranormal, I ask you to read with an open heart and an open mind.

Oh- and if you think this weird... don't worry... I think it's totally weird too.

The Death of My Special Place

As I mentioned in my previous blog, I spent a lot of time in and out of doctor's offices as a teenager due to some horrific events I went through with the supernatural. As life has progressed, I have begun to look at hospitals and doctor's offices as my special place. Where else can you go in the world looking like shit, and people will still talk to you and care? Think about it. More times then most, one goes to the doctor smelling like vomit or urine or both. One's hair would be styled after the local "hood rat," and one's make up would be non existent. The hospital can be like a virtual sanctuary for the ugly. So, as a 26 year old grown woman, it is one place I can go without fear of judgment. Even the local grocery store sees me at my best, but not the doctors office...

Well... not until yesterday... Not until Dr. Joshua (last name has been left out to protect the innocent)

While still in Los Angeles, I decided to take a break from another day of packing and go to the doctor with my friend Karen. We were going to do laundry last night together anyway, so I thought why not spice up my life with one last trip to Ceder Sinai? Karen needed to have some of her prescriptions refilled, and in order to do so, she needed a mini physical. As all women can tell you , there is a certain amount of stress when it comes to standing on scales in an open appointment room with what seems like the whole world waiting for your weight to be announced. It was my duty as a friend to assist my other female friend with the appointment. We both had grubby clothes on (since it was laundry day), neither one of us had showered, we didn't have a lick of make up on, and to top it off, I had bird poop running down my shirt from playing with Karen's pet bird, Peep, earlier in the day. Even Karen, herself, said to me, "ahh... we don't need to look cute. It's just the doctors." Oh my... were we wrong.

In my head, doctors are old men. Doctors I know (including most of my family members... sorry Dad) have a belly, grey hair, and/or a bald spot. They have hair coming out of their noses, thick glasses, and look like they haven't seen the sun in forty years. Hence the reason I have never cared what I look like when going to the doctor. After all that said, since when did doctors become my age? When did they become good looking? After Karen was weighed and checked in, the nurse escorted the two of us back to an appointment room. As the door opened, there sat the most beautiful man I think I have ever seen. Mind you, I don't like khaki pants and polo shirts on men. I like guys in girl's jeans, tight shirts, long hair, tattoos, and guy liner. But on this man, who was introduced to us as Dr. Joshua, a moo moo would have been fine.

Karen walked in first. As she lay her eyes on the handsome doctor, her body froze, and my nose was planted into the back of her pony tail. Before I had time to yelp in pain, I saw him. I watched as Karen's limp hand rested in his while she introduced herself. Karen then sat down on the table and he looked at me with his hand extended. As I shook his hand, I told him I was her FRIEND Brice. In fact, I proceeded to tell him that three times. As I backed up against the wall, I looked down at my shirt displaying Peep's bird poop, and thought great! This man thinks we're lesbians, and dirty lesbians at that. I wanted to sit down and tell this Dr. Joshua that Karen and I normally dress up. We normally wear make up, and we normally don't smell of animal dung. Not to mention, we are both very straight. Out of all the doctors in the hospital, why did we get him? Why couldn't we have gotten the old doctor. And more importantly, why was I wearing a shirt with bird poop on it? Although I had never thought of dating a doctor (let's face it... I like the challenging artist type), this man was too good to pass up. As the snot that had been knocked loose from my face planting into Karen's pony tail began to drip down my face, I discreetly tried to look at Dr. Joshua's hand for any sign of a wedding band. No wedding band. My cheeks blushed as I noticed I was jealous that my friend Karen had Dr. Joshua examining her. Why couldn't I be the one having my prescriptions filled? After all was said and done, Karen was just fine except her heart and blood pressure were up. Out of concern, Dr. Joshua asked Karen if that was normal. It was not. Then he asked her if she was nervous. Yes. Yes, she was. Then after caressing her stomach checking for swollen "things" (sorry I'm not a doctor... I don't know what they're looking for during that exam), he decided to take her blood pressure again. After having flesh on flesh contact with the handsome doctor, Karen's blood pressure and heart rate had dropped drastically. She was very relaxed.

As we got up to leave, I decided it was time to be brave. I'm not his patient. He could date me. At least he could date me for the little amount of time I have left in LA. I was going to do it. I was going to flirt with Dr. Joshua. But as I walked up to him, and looked at him in his deep blue eyes, all I could muster up was.... "where's the bathroom?"

So from now on, I have no special place. It has died. As a single girl getting ready to take on the big apple I have to be prepared for anything, and I'm okay with that. I have to open up my options. Maybe the artsy guys aren't for me. Maybe they are. I always thought dating a man of science would bore me, but I could be wrong. Only time will tell, but let's just say that from this point on, I will have waxing before every pap smear and a facial before every mammogram. You just never know where Mr. Right will pop up.

LA

So, I'm off to LA for the week to finalize all that needs to be finalized (you know, stop my mail... ship my car... put my furniture in storage)... I will be back, and I promise to finish my "Brice Curse" when I return.

Thank you all for following me.

Love,
Brice