RARE Beatles Interview! Houston, 1965.

This rare transcript is from the Beatles’ 1965 press conference in Houston, Texas.

San Antonio’s KONO aired the interview, then mailed copies to anyone requesting a transcript.

10-year-old Patty took them up on their offer.

52 YEARS LATER, Patty found the transcript while Spring Cleaning and sent me a surprise copy!

beatlemania-o.gif

So.

Without further ado I share it with you verbatim . . . minus their spelling mistakes.

(Sherridan? Really? )

9769C853-8A8E-4E44-A8F8-E45084E77842.jpg

!

13fe4180e71620037e2858f29dd1a085.gif

How did you feel when you were trapped in the plane last night? **

Ringo: Terrified.

What are your plans for after the tour?

John: If we’re still alive, we’d like to rest.

No offense meant here: After your popularity runs out, what are you going to do?

John: Don’t know really. Haven’t really thought about it.

Do you think it’ll ever end?

John: I don’t know . . . All good things come to an end.

tumblr_nd38gnyFEh1tga28so2_1280.jpg

A lot of people say the Rolling Stones and other groups have gotten more popular than you. Does this worry you?

George: No.

I understand that Lightnin’ Hopkins is a great idol of Ringo’s. Do you think you’ll see him while you are here?

Ringo: I do like him very much. But I don’t think I’ll get a chance to see him.

We have a television show here in Houston where we read the comic strips. Isn’t there a Beatle comic strip that is coming out?

Paul: If there is a Beatle comic strip, we don’t know anything about it.

Do you think you’re going to make another movie in the fall?

John: I think the next movie we are going to make will be in the Springtime.

Paul: It will be in Spain.

George: It is called ‘A Talent for Loving.’

Ringo: But we’ll probably change that.

Which country do you think has the most Beatle fans?

Paul: America.

This is to Ringo: I heard last night when you walked out of the plane and looked at all the fans, you were terrified . . . Were you really?

Ringo: You can bet I was terrified.

Paul, it’s been reported that you are going to marry Jane Asher . . .

Paul: It’s been reported, but I never said it . . . so what do you do . . . I don’t know about it.

Are you?

Paul: The newspapers seem to know, but I don’t know.

Did you watch the space shot preparations this morning?

George: No.

What do you think of the press conference?

John, Paul, George, and Ringo LAUGH.

It has been reported that in Playboy magazine that one of you said ‘All Americans are fascists.’ Quote unquote.

John: It sounds like something that was shoved into my mouth (laughs). I really don’t mean what that report had in it.

Oh, then you don’t think they are?

John: No.

Are the Beatles going to Mexico in the next year?

George: No, not planned. But we don’t know.

This is for Ringo: Have you picked out a name for your baby yet?

Ringo: No, I haven’t.

Why does Paul keep biting his fingernails?

Paul: (laughs) I’m not biting my fingernails. I’m just chewing a bit.

Someone asked George if he had any brothers or sisters. George said had two brothers, and John said he had no sisters to speak of . . . Is this a direct slap at Mrs. Caldwell?

George: Yeah.

I read in a column in the Houston paper that Ringo had said, ‘Women should be obscene, not heard.’  . . . is that true?

Ringo: No.

How do you fellas like England?

Paul: It’s just like home to us.

What do the Beatles think of Texas?

Paul: We’ve only been to Dallas and here and we nearly got killed both times. **

Do you think you’ll ever get to San Antonio?

John: Well, not on this tour. Some of the other guys have told us about the Alamo.

What are you going to do on your days off the 23rd and 27th?

George: I’m not telling you!

Paul: Wouldn’t be a day off then.

What do you plan to do after this tour?

Ringo: We’ll go back to England and holiday.

George, would you take your hand off the mike? It’s causing a hum.

George: I kinda like hum.

giphy.gif

Right outside the hotel now, George,  there are several thousand loyal, excited fans who would tear you apart if they got ahold of you. How does this make you feel, now that you’ve gone through several years like that?

George: Well we’re organized, you know. I mean we have organized security forces. Nobody sees us leave the hotel. So how could we get killed?

Are Scotch and Cokes really your favorite drinks?

John: Ringo drinks Bourbon.

Ringo, is photography your hobby?

Ringo: No, not anymore.

Why did you drop it?

Ringo: I was sick of taking photos in a room.

large.gif

What do you think would be the perfect tour?

Paul: Well, one where we have good audiences and it is well organized.

On the Help! album, the British version, you’ve got a couple of tracks. One was strings and the other a country take-off . . . Are you going to do more things with strings or stay with sound as it is or what?

Paul: We only did the strings because . . . um, it was good for a change.

It’s beautiful! Really groovy, man.

Paul: Oh! Well, thank you very much!

What do you think of Elvis Presley?

George: I didn’t like this earlier records. I’ve liked him better these last few years . . . but he’s still, you know . . . it still doesn’t do much for me.

Paul, what do you think about the concert being scheduled the same day as the space shot?

Paul: Well, I hadn’t heard about the space shot.

With concerts causing all the headaches they do, have to sneak through towns and all that . . . why don’t you just ditch them and make your money off of movies?

John: Because we like it. We like doing concerts.

(applause)

f0da844dd341227926e75b88a6fb8bab.gif

Paul, what is your favorite record?

Paul: I don’t know, really. There are so many good ones. The records I like are done by American groups.

What do you think of the American policy in Vietnam?

John: I’d rather not think about it.

What do you think about the rising popularity of Folk Music? Like Sonny and Cher and Bobby Dylan?

Ringo: Sonny and Cher is not Folk. But still we all like Folk Music. Especially the kind like The Byrds and Sonny and Cher.

Before too long it looks like you, George, are going to be the only single one in the group. Are you going to make it unanimous?

Paul: Wait a minute . . .

George: The papers keep saying Paul is getting married. But he knows nothing about it.

920x920.jpg

Paul, are you getting married?

Paul: No.

Paul, did you like making Help! or A Hard Day’s Night best?

Paul: We enjoyed making them both. But I think we had a better time on Help!

Did you ever get tired of being Beatles?

John: We’d be dead if we did.

How did the critics in England rate your movie Help! ?

John: They gave it pretty good reviews.

What do you think of American teenagers trying to be more British than American?

George: I kind of like it, really. When we first came over here, we thought American girls dressed rather poorly. But now they seem to look neater.

tumblr_mwxvqlBmy01sj81dho9_r1_250.gif

Does Ringo want his wife to have a boy or a girl?

Ringo: I don’t know. I don’t mind as long as it is one or the other.

Do John and Ringo have their wives with them on tour?

John: No.

Paul, do you like champagne?

Paul: No, I don’t like it at all.

c6d4e122011729a524d5864ead2b3882.gif

Is it true that you don’t consider yourselves musicians?

John: Yes, because none of us read music, you know. We are entertainers. Not musicians.

Do you think that you should be able to read music?

John: Yes, it would be very good for a young group starting out.

Paul, what did you have for breakfast?

Paul: I had half a grapefruit, some Shredded Wheat, and tea.

What characteristics do you admire most in young girls?

George: Beatlemania.

Do you approve of middle-aged Beatle-maniacs?

John: Yes, they are very nice.

Moderator: This will be the last question.

Will this be your last tour in America?

John: No. We haven’t scheduled another but there’s no reason for this to be our last tour.

Are you enjoying this tour so far?

John, Paul, George, and Ringo: Oh yes. Yes. Very much.

4D8BFBB5-95C0-4FAE-BAC7-DF2DF8E20BB5.jpg

The Beatles performing at the Sam Houston Coliseum, August 19, 1965:

p-2.php.jpeg

Facts:

Tickets were $5.oo.

The Beatles were paid $85,000 for 2 performances.

BeatlesNewspaper.jpg

** Over 2000 fans mobbed Houston’s Hobby Airport after a local station broadcast the Beatles’ flight arrival time. Teenagers swarmed the tarmac. Some even managed to climb onto the plane and mobile stairway to bang on doors and windows, preventing their safe exit. Officials had to extricate the Beatles and their managers atop a service truck used for unloading luggage. This was a year after a similar incident at the Dallas airport. 

p-1.php.jpeg

.

.

.

Thank you SO MUCH Patty for sending me this awesome piece of Beatle history!

I do know my grandmother took my 13-year-old Dad to this concert. Granny told me her ears rang for 3 days!  Anyone else reading attend this concert or remember hearing this interview? I’d love to hear from you!

With Love From Me To You,

Jennifer

 

Advertisements

Beryl’s Chicken Diary: Remembering Momma.

That lady ate your mother.

I closed my eyes.

Missus Jenkins has no tact.

I made the mistake of telling her about the last day me and Babs saw Momma. Which honestly, I try not to think about. It still hurts remembering that itchy-nosed lady and all her questions about gluten and additives.

“You don’t give them hormones, do you?”

She coughed in her elbow.

When the farmer said no, she reached down and grabbed Momma.

Just like that.

Why? Was she fat?

Me and Babs looked at each other.

Forcing Momma’s soft, warm, feathery body on our memory was more than we wanted to think about.

Let’s talk about something else, suggested Babs, who always says the right thing.

So they did.

They discussed yesterday’s maggots on last week’s banana peels and the overweight chihuahua next door.

–until it was time for sleep.

But I couldn’t sleep.

Not with Momma all warm on my mind.

Don’t be sad, Babs whispered, feeling me always.

So I thought about Christopher and the profound impact of human choice.

We moved to a feed store after they took Momma.

And it was awful.

There’s no easy transition from domestic freedom to cages and fluorescent lights.

Rabbits, kittens, pigs, turtles, parakeets, ferrets, chickens, mice . . .

The place was brimming with orphans, crying for love and sunshine.

Me and Babs spent weeks in that cage, tripling in size while animals came and went.

Our insides were prime for laying, increasing our chances for adoption. So every day was roulette.

I remember feeling really low that morning — resigning myself to a crock pot when I saw him by the soy-free layer food. Discussing eggs with Jennifer. Light bouncing off his head and paint all over his jeans.

Feed Store Man led them over and Jennifer stuck her pale face right up to the grate.

Don’t look at her! I warned, scooting to the back of the dirty cage we shared with an aging rooster and bossy Araucana whose name escapes me now. Momma was long gone but I remember what she said.

Never make eye contact with a human unless you wanna be picked for something.

But Babs had a bright red comb, and everyone knows red catches human eyeballs the fastest.

“That one looks good,” Jennifer said, pointing to my sister.

Oh please God, no.

The man opened the latch, reached in and grabbed Babs, who burst into flappy squawks. Really she was screaming my name.

He handed her to Jennifer.

The door slammed and I rushed to the front.

Please don’t take my sister, I pleaded with my eyeballs, sticking my beak through the grate.

Babs looked at me, her pumpkin eyes woeful.

I sank to the floor.

Then Jennifer paused.

“Let’s get two,” she said, suddenly.

And I stood back up.

Curcurcurcur, I managed, wishing my comb was bigger. Brighter.

Christopher peered inside.

So I locked eyes with him.

I had to stand sideways to do it but I locked eyes with him hard, sending all my feelings.

Please pick me.

I puffed out my wings a little bit.

My tiny heart pounded.

And that one.”

Feed Store Man opened the latch and grabbed the Araucana, who — of course — would give them pretty blue eggs instead of brown.

I knew it.

Humans and their ridiculous emphasis on color.

I sank back down again.

“Not that one. The other one.”

He pointed to me.

I tried to stand up.

But —

You know

that funny

feeling

when your

belly melts

into warm

relief

so fast

your top half

feels empty?

And maybe you might fall over?

Feed store Man scooped me up and handed me to Christopher.

Babs was so relieved she pooped right there, a creamy white dollop landing beside Jennifer’s unpainted toe.

And then what happened? Jenkins asked.

Then we came here, I said. And scoot over. We have this whole roost and poor Wanda’s squished against the wall.

I wonder what we taste like, Jenkins said, scooting over.

See?

No tact.

G’night, Jenkins. I closed my eyes, snuggling into my sister.  G’night, Wanda, I added. But she was already asleep.

That night I dreamt we were babies again.

Colored like buttered popcorn.

Scrambling over wood chips seeing who could cheep the loudest.

With Momma, watching from the corner.

IMG_9571.jpg

I miss you, Momma.

love, Beryl

P.S. I have a Facebook page now.  Would you be my friend?

.

.

.

If you’re new, hi. My name’s Beryl. My story started last summer when I was brutally attacked and left for dead. I wrote down what happened and hijack Jennifer’s blog sometimes to write some more, that’s all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BOOK LAB: Depressed. Addicted. Suicidal.

At 20, she overdosed on sleeping pills in her mother’s cellar.

At 29, she drove her car into a river.

At 30, Sylvia Plath finally killed herself by sticking her head in an oven.

Think about that a second.

18r4zbo2j48dkjpg

One night, she placed wet towels under the doors to keep her babies safe, turned on the gas, crawled in her oven, and died.

.

.

.

563682317862e1b2f7c153db496f2251.jpg

Umm . . . hold up, Jennifer.

What’s up with this sad crap.

More chicken stories, please.

Hang tight, dear reader.

This is BOOK LAB. Not Oprah’s Book Club.

We conduct reading experiments and write about them.

But also, don’t you think mental illness needs more attention?

Why do we only talk about it behind closed doors at 100 bucks an hour?

Shall we make a long list of people gone too soon?

514179272b962ed373d4ed23234b7454.jpg.gif

giphy-1.gif

giphy-2.gif

Plath wasn’t an addict.

But people often use drugs and alcohol to quiet their screaming minds –thus ensues addiction, which — let’s face it– has a 50% chance of ending well.

Every person reading knows someone with crippling anxiety, mood or panic disorders. Someone addicted, depressed or bi-polar. Someone who committed suicide.

They say suicide is a coward’s way out.

I dunno. Selfish, maybe. But not cowardly.

I think it takes a lot of freaking courage to stick your head in an oven with two beautiful, babies sleeping upstairs.

Am I being flippant? God, no.

Depression and addiction run in my family.

I am privy to their quiet destruction and live in reverent fear of my own DNA. I am also a writer and extremely empathetic to the curses therein. But this isn’t about me. It’s about acknowledging this thing no one talks about AND paying respect to some authors who famously suffered and busted out some awesomeness anyway.

So I made it our assignment.

Read a book whose author was mentally ill, addicted, or committed suicide.

Was their real-life suffering evident in the writing, thinly disguised as fiction?

That’s what I wanted to find out.

Out of respect for these authors, I hope you’ll read on.black_line.gif

The_Bell_Jar_Harper_05.jpg

I chose The Bell Jar for no other reason except that Plath appears on every ‘famous suicide’ list, and this is her great novel.

So.

Was Plath’s depression evident in her work?

Ummm.

YES. 

The Bell Jar was blatantly autobiographical. So much, it was published under a pseudonym in England only. Her family –namely her mother — fought its American publication and The Bell Jar didn’t hit American bookshelves until 9 years after her death.

The book– basically about a talented, young writer slipping into insanity– blew me away. I was worried it would be depressing. But mostly I found it REAL and strangely refreshing? By page 3, I knew I was going to love it. There were SO many delicious little neurotic passages, I had trouble picking just one to share at Book Lab.

Here the main character, Esther, describes an unsuccessful suicide attempt:

That morning, I had tried to hang myself. I had taken the silk cord of my mother’s yellow bathrobe as soon as she left for work, and, in the amber shade of the bedroom, fashioned it into a knot that slipped up and down on itself. It took me a long time to do this, because I was poor at knots and had no idea how to make a proper one. Then I hunted around for a place to attach the rope. The trouble was, our house had the wrong kind of ceilings. The ceilings were low, white and smoothly plastered, without a light fixture or a wood beam in sight.

Sylvia, I respect and salute you, girl.

I’m genuinely sorry I didn’t read this sooner.

I give The Bell Jar 5 stars and promptly put it on Staff Picks at the library.

images-2.jpeg

black_line.gifNedra chose this guy.

Pkdick.jpg

He gave us Blade Runner, The Minority Report, and Total Recall.

In fact, his novels and short stories are the most adapted sci-fi classics in recent film history.

This is Philip K. Dick.

And poor Nedra had to call him PKD so as not to illicit giggles. For all our intellectual pomp, we really are perverted 12 year olds. At least I am.

But I digress.

Back to Dick.

PKD was plagued by vertigo as a teen.There were also signs of schizophrenia and eventually, visual and auditory hallucinations, likely caused by drug addiction. He managed to keep writing even though hospitalized. And at one point described a “beam of pink light being transmitted directly into his consciousness” and believed this light a spiritual force which granted him access to esoteric knowledge.

giphy

Nedra chose this author because he’s universally regarded as a badass.

A Scanner Darkly is about an undercover narcotics agent who finds himself addicted to the very drug he’s trying to eradicate.

“I chose this book because it was less sci-fi than his others, about this agent going undercover and eventually losing his identity to drug addiction.”

unknown-2

Did she like it?

“It was confusing to be honest. The main character plays two parts, split between two worlds, so it was hard to tell who was talking — which may’ve been the point. But Dick’s drug use is very evident in this book. I’ll also say his author note makes me want to read the book again.”

Drug misuse is not a disease. It is a decision. Like the decision to step out of a moving car. You would call that not a disease but an error in judgement. When a begin to do it, it is a social error. A lifestyle. In this particular lifestyle, the motto is “Be happy now because tomorrow you are dying.” But the dying begins almost at once, and the happiness is a memory. —– Philip K. Dick

Verdict?

A Scanner Darkly: 3 stars.

Dick was found unconscious on his floor and died five days later, having suffered multiple strokes. He was 53.

                                                        
images-3.jpeg
black_line.gif
 Petra chose Leo Tolstoy.

 

leo-tolstoy-books-31-desktop-background

Tolstoy was born wealthy and lost his parents at a very young age. He suffered clinical depression, which worsened as he aged. Reportedly obsessed with death, he was critical of himself for not having the courage to commit suicide. He wrote in one letter, “The possibility of killing himself has been given to man, and therefore he may kill himself.

Let me just go ahead and publicly admit I’m a super big chicken-weenie when it comes to Russian literature.

I imagine the likes of  Anna Karenina and War and Peace heavy tomes of depressing, icy darkness and always impressed when people read them on purpose.

But Petra really enjoyed her books.

Tolstoy actually wrote several short stories, so she picked two:

The Death of Ivan Ilych and The Cossacks.

Unknown-1.jpeg     Unknown-2.jpeg

The Cossacks is about a wealthy, young Muscovite who joins the Russian army in search of a more authentic life.

“Tolstoy wrote it in his 30s when he was still okay. It was autobiographical in that it was about a guy tired of society life,” Petra explained. “But The Death of Ivan Ilych, he wrote in his 50s. By then he was critically depressed and obsessed with death, which to me, was apparent in this book.”

The Death of Ivan Ilych is one man’s profound reflections on life when faced with his own mortality. It was written during Tolstoy’s spiritual crisis — the nine year period following the publication of Anna Karenina — which saw him give up meat, hunting and smoking, give away his copyrights, denounce his earlier writings as immoral, and embrace Christianity.

The Death of Ivan Ilych is considered a masterpiece on the subject of death and dying.

“I feel like writers are hyper-aware of everything around them,” noted Petra. “Every little thing is stimulus. It must be overwhelming.”

Verdict?

The Cossacks: 3.75 stars.

Death of Ivan Ilych: 4.5 stars.

Tolstoy died of pneumonia in 1910. He was 82.

Unknown-1.pngblack_line.gifOur next author ran a garden hose from an exhaust pipe through his car window and died, aged 31.

An envelope marked TO MY PARENTS  was discovered in the car, the enclosed note later destroyed by his mother, who never divulged its contents.

His mother also found an unpublished manuscript atop an armoire in his room.

That manuscript — sent to various agents over the next five years — eventually won The Pulitzer Prize.

john_kennedy_toole

This is John Kennedy Toole, most famous for A Confederacy of Dunces, posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Literature in 1981.

Emily had already read (and loved) Dunces. So she chose Toole’s only other novel, The Neon Bible,  written for a literary contest at the tender age of 16 (!)

JohnKennedyToole_TheNeonBible.jpg

The Neon Bible tells the story of David, a young boy growing up in rural Mississippi in the 1940s. Readers share his awkward, painful encounter with first love and meet his pious, bigoted townspeople.

“It’s kinda Southern Gothic, about quiet people dealing with isolation in a small town,” said Emily. “I definitely felt evidence of the author’s sense of loneliness. And the book ironically ends with a bang.

Did she like it?

“I loved it!”

The Neon Bible: 5 stars

il_340x270-824245145_s999black_line.gif

Everybody doing okay?

You sure?

Okay . . .

Moving right along.

black_line.gif

Raise your hand if you read Slaughterhouse Five in high school.

tumblr_inline_o4959ey1hp1thuvs5_500

Anna chose this guy.

images-3

Kurt Vonnegut died at 84 from head injuries sustained in a fall.

He had a grandfatherly reputation. But he suffered depression, PTSD, shocking fits of rage and temper, and also attempted suicide.

Vonnegut witnessed MUCH tragedy in his personal life.

His mother committed suicide on Mother’s Day, for example. That same year, Vonnegut was captured by Nazis during the Battle of the Bulge and sent to Dresden as a prisoner of war, whose job it was to collect and burn bodies.

This ordeal continually popped up in his work, most notably in the book that made him famous.

unknown-1

“My high school English class was divided in two,” said Anna. “Half read Slaughterhouse-Five and the other, a Brave New World. I was the Brave New World group, but distinctly remember the discussions about Vonnegut. That’s why I chose this book.”

Did she like it?

“I don’t know how he managed to combine war, spaceships, aliens, and time travel. But he did,” she laughs. “Knowing what he suffered at Dresden, I really did feel his deep well of despair. This book was very well done.”

Verdict?

Slaughterhouse-Five: 4.5 stars

unknown-1

black_line.gif

Now finally,

this old sport.

f-scott-fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald, alongside wife Zelda, are THE poster children for glittering excess in the Roaring Twenties. In their Paris years, he and Zelda were drunk for days at at time, their lives a gilded blur of manuscripts and champagne, fueled by ego, and funded by Gatsby.

Tecla (our celebrity guest this round) openly admits she never liked The Great Gatsby.

“I tried and tried and tried to love that book. I gave it so many chances. But I just couldn’t finish it! Still. I wanted to see what I was missing. So I decided to try Tender is the Night, which took him TEN years to write.”

TenderIsTheNight_(Novel)_1st_edition_cover.jpg

Tender is the Night is the tragic love story of a stylish American couple.

Hmmmm.

Sounds a little familiar.

giphy.gif

“The husband is a brilliant psychiatrist, and his beautiful wife lives in an asylum. The main character spends a lot of time writing letters trying to make people understand what they’re going through. Zelda was institutionalized in Switzerland at the time, so the story directly reflects the Fitzgeralds’ downward spiral. Also, he wrote it on stimulants.”

Did she like it?

“I did. But I could only read it in small doses because it read like a 1920s movie. Still, I’d recommend it.”

Tender is the Night: 4 stars.

At the time of his death, Fitzgerald was reportedly drinking several pints of gin a day.

He suffered an alcohol-related heart attack in 1940, and died believing himself a failure.

He was 44.

Zelda perished in a fire 8 years later, locked in a room in her asylum.

Unknown-3.jpeg

black_line.gif

And so it goes.

Mental illness is a silent creeper.

A shape shifter.

It cuts. Overeats.  Gambles. Takes pills. Drinks. Lies. Steals. Vomits. Snorts. Injects. Blames. Hides. Makes excuses. And lashes out.

I’m of the mind we’re all in this together.

So be aware.

And be kind.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

To everyone

and everything.

e4fcd02ae4aa587c6674012fd5235e0d.gif

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Hotline: 1-800-662-4357

love,

Jennifer

Q & A: Haunted Beds and HOW DO I CONTROL THIS ‘GIFT’?

Q: Let me start with: I’m not crazy.

I often feel other’s moods, and places or things that have a past. People call me when weird or bad stuff is happening in their life. And I guess that requires an explanation. My neighbor had a sister living with her and thought there might be a spirit or something in the house because her sister wasn’t sleeping well.

I don’t see spirits, but I told her I’d see if I could help ‘feel’ a presence and pray with her. I went next door, into the room she thought the spirit was. Truthfully, I felt like I was suffocating the closer I got to the room. It felt very heavy, like a struggling to breathe, and it got worse as I approached the bed.

I told my neighbor that something wasn’t right with the bed. She explained a child had died in the bed before, under suspicious circumstances. And I later learned the child had suffocated.

I’m writing you because I need advice on how to turn off the feelings/energy or whatever it is called. I work in the medical field and spend a lot of time in hospitals. If I can’t control it can you at least tell me how to manage it so I don’t get overwhelmed by people’s feelings/emotions/illnesses?

I tried meditation, but it seems to make it worse. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. All I know is that I have to be able to deal without it wearing me down. Even being in a room full of people is exhausting. I would appreciate any advice. Again, I am completely sane and I know how crazy this sounds.

Sarah

A:

Hi Sarah!

All this all sounds completely normal to me.

Spirit often tells us how they died by sharing a physical feeling. Chest pain if they died by heart attack, shortness of breath to indicate suffocation (like you experienced), etc.  But in your neighbor’s case, I think it was the bed you felt.

Is the bed haunted?

No.

Allow me to share a similar story.

I recently spent the night with a friend –and for no reason– woke in the wee hours feeling very anxious.

I went to bed happy. But now my heart pounded. My thoughts raced. I felt fidgety. Most inexplicably, my fingers wanted to shred paper to relieve anxiety.

Eventually the feeling passed and I fell asleep, but not without confusion. I’d slept there many times without incident.

“My sister stayed over before you,” my friend admitted the next morning.

Same room, same bed. And yes, her sister suffered moderate to severe anxiety. And not just that —- she wadded tissues.

“I cleaned up before you came. But seriously, Jenn. There were shredded tissues everywhere.”

She also had a confession.

She didn’t wash the sheets.

Interesting, right?

So this isn’t about a ghost. It’s about energy.

The tingling well-being that spreads among people gathered in prayer.

The heaviness people feel in cluttered antique stores.

Or the tension that lingers after a fighting couple has left the room.

Objects carry residual energy, too. It’s science. Stand next to a campfire, you’ll feel heat. Technically, that’s thermal energy carried through electromagnetic waves, but whatever. Your hot skin proves the energy exists.

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. It just changes form, right?

So whatever trauma happened on that mattress is still radiating in some form. In simplest terms, the sister felt it in one way, and you felt it in another.

Can objects be ‘haunted’?

raw.gif

Yes.

(But that’s another blog entry.)

Onto your second question.

How to control.

Clearly you’re gifted, Sarah. And wise to seek a handle on this.

Hospitals are overwhelming even if you’re not psychic!

I won’t tell you what to do, because everyone is different. I can only tell you what I do.

You mentioned being a praying person.

I am, too. So that’s where I always start.

I pray for help any time I need it, and often out loud.

Prayer and meditation open us spiritually, so you just gotta be super clear about who you’re letting in.

Remember that scene in Ghost when all those spirits lined up to talk to Oda Mae?

1428313540_2478259.jpg

The Spirit world is sentient. They hear and listen. 

So you literally have to ask for exactly what you want/need.

I have a widely-respected, professional medium friend who repeatedly asks Spirit and her angels to PLEASE not (visually) present in front of her because it would freak her out and then she couldn’t effectively do her work. And you know what? They don’t.

So before going to work, your prayer might be:

Dear God, thank you so much for entrusting me with this gift. But it really does overwhelm me sometimes. Please help me discern your will. And protect me from unwanted spiritual attention/distraction so I can do my best today. 

— and all beings not here for my greater good please go away.

(or something like that).

Amen.

You’ll be absolutely amazed how effective this is, saying it out loud.

Go ahead.

Try it.

And remember to mean it.

.

.

.

I’ll wait.

.

.

.

Oftentimes you’ll feel an actual LIFT in the space, like a big air vacuum sucking out the funk. That’s not your imagination. That’s you taking control of your personal space.

Which leads me to your next point:

Feeling overwhelmed in a room full of people.

Girl.

Don’t I know it.

1introvert_1439376095.gif

Like a slo-mo chokehold, right?

I especially feel it in malls, clubs, and casinos — or any situation where people fill emotional voids by artificial means.

introvert-questions-alone-party.gif

So (so!)  many people suffer this and don’t even know why. But it has to do with that energy we talked about earlier.

Still.

It is my unwavering belief that we have this ability to help others.

I suspect Healthcare called you for your innate ability to comfort and connect. It’s where you’ll shine the most.

So ask for help each day and let Spirit do their thing.

Then allow yourself to be a vessel through which divine guidance can flow.

tumblr_nnbtswy1V41u93xcqo1_400.gif

And shine on, girl.

HealthCARE needs you.

 

love,  Jennifer

 

.

.

.

.

.

If YOU reading have a paranormal or metaphysical question, please send it to jennifer@jkabay.com. I’ll archive and answer as appropriate, when I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everywhereness.

The loudest I ever heard God was on a train.

Alone in the open doorway of an empty railcar with my feet on the platform, waiting for the last train home.

From a distance I must’ve looked sad.

A thin girl with bright orange hair.

Staring.

Shivering.

Smoking.

My longtime ex-boyfriend and even-longertime ex-best-friend were five thousand miles away, but also right in front of me. Their ghosts had followed me to London, and wouldn’t leave me alone. Haunting. Mocking. Sneering. Glad I was gone.

I lit another cigarette.

It had all happened months before. The painful, drawn-out breakups. First with him, then with her.

Losing one was incapacitating.

Losing both was catastrophic.

I was a fucking wreck.

Crying in secret. Or sometimes in public when the wind blew a certain way or the wrong song came on. Their memories sliced through me with blunt scissors. And I was a dutiful masochist.

Rewinding and replaying my part in the tragedy over and over and over and over again. Smoking and drinking until every nasty thing they said about me was true.

(Not looking for sympathy, here. Everyone’s had a trampled heart. I’m just trying to set a scene.)

Bottom line? My well-being was drop-kicked and shattered. Splayed on the concrete at Liverpool Street Station, reflecting my very worst.

So that’s where my mind was that night. Grieving. Loving them. Missing them. Hating them. Cold fingers holding a cigarette, watching the clock, waiting for Christopher who ran off to get us a tea, my brain voice whispering things like:

You deserve being sad.

They were right about you.

And the same thing will happen with Christopher.

Because you–

And that’s when it happened.

.

.

.

So how do I describe this.

.

.

You know when you use a walkie-talkie,

and you push the little button to talk

and your voice blocks out all other noise,

and you can’t hear anything until you let the button go?

—It was like that.

.

.

My inner voice got muted like someone pushed a button.

STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

something screamed.

But not a mean scream.

More like . . . interruption.

And it was LOUD.

So loud I jolted.

Then a

soft

quiet

calm

male

voice

continued gently.

Completely overriding my thoughts.

Dear Jennifer, please stop.

I looked up.

You must stop. You made some bad decisions for a short time, and that really is all.

I looked around.

Where–

Everyone messes up. Everyone. It’s all about lessons. For everyone.  Are you listening?

I nodded. By myself on that train car in the freezing cold I nodded.

You are loved more than you know. You have learned. And it will get better. It already is. Now no more.

I looked around like a maniac.

The voice was IN my head, gentle but firm, and so very obviously not my own.

And here came Christopher, smiling, holding two cups of steaming tea.

“What’s wrong, darling, you been crying?”

I nodded.

“Something just happened,” I managed.

“Tell me.” He swiped my cheek with a finger.

I accepted the tea, stubbed out my cigarette then told him.

Clearly, two counts of Divine Intervention.

(The second miracle is that Christopher stuck around.)

My healing began that night. And I remember it with profound gratitude.

Not for God’s existence. But for his Everywhereness.

I wasn’t in church and certainly wasn’t treating my body like a temple. But He was right there, privy to my pain. Loving me while I was quite incapable of loving myself.

(Note: I use the He pronoun for simplicity; that’s not really how I define things.)

So what’s the deal. Why am I sharing this.

Well.

     1. Because this is what I write about: The Other Side.

 And 2. Because last year my brain got noisy again.

Not in my personal world. But in the world around me.

And I’m about to switch gears, because how do I recap 2016 in a tidy blog?

The deaths were . . .

AlanRickman-Dogma.gif

— hard.

And not just the famous ones. I lost my beloved grandmother, too. And then election season. Sweet Jesus, election season. The only thing rougher than election season was being an EMPATH during election season.

Fear.

Anger.

Misogyny.

Derision.

Don’t remind you, right?

People’s inner psychos came out.

Somehow, someway, the word pussy wriggled its way into a presidential debate.

tumblr_n801444fK11te26u9o1_250.gif

People shouted but didn’t listen.

I discovered some of my ‘friends’ maybe don’t like black people

certainly don’t like Muslim people

and definitely not gay people.

And wait . . .  had they always felt this way? 

bowie_bitchface.gif

I found myself on the defense for being white.

I scrolled past pictures of dusty, bombed Syrian babies and watched Mein Kampf grow a waiting list at the library.  A waiting list!

giphy.gif

Remind me what planet we’re on?

And just when we were in the home stretch . . .

George Michael up and died.

On Christmas.

S e r i o u s l y.

I said it on Facebook and I’ll say it again.

IMG_9018.jpg

What the message is, I dunno. But it made me want to scoot my chair closer to God and listen to Careless Whisper on repeat. And also start writing a blog series about His everywhereness –something I’ve considered a very long time. 

Because I never found him in a building.

(Okay, there was that one time.)

Mostly I found Him hanging out where I was.

In the cracks.

On trains.

In lyrics.

Through coincidence  divine orchestration and intuitive nudges that wouldn’t go away.

But especially through people I met at just the right time.

Like my friend Emily, who writes about this stuff, too. Emily is the only other person I know (my age) who owns a kaftan. She also agreed to join me on my little God Tour.

And just yesterday when I thought maybe I shouldn’t write this — because hey– it’s personal, a complete stranger approached me and said “I just gotta tell someone.”

He was tall. Black. Homeless. A gentle weathered face like John Coffey in The Green Mile. And he smiled at me real big.

“I was so cold yesterday and feeling real low cos I didn’t have anywhere to go.” He closed his fists for emphasis. “I asked God to please help me. He guided me to a motel to get warm and stretch my legs and you know what? The lady there -I told her not to-but she ordered me a pizza.”

He started to tear up.

And so did I.

I recognize a message when it’s standing right in front of me.

“And this morning something told me to check my account,” he continued. “It was weird, you know? Because I haven’t had money for so long, but I did. I checked my account. And you know what? There was money in there. I couldn’t believe it. My old employer finally deposited some funds we been fighting over and now I can breathe. I can eat and get warm and I’m so grateful. God listens, He really does. Even though I’m homeless. I’m sorry, ma’am. Here I am, a grownup man crying. But I just had to tell somebody.”

So just in case

I had ANY doubt

 I should move forward with this . . .

713424.gif

.

.

.

Thanks for reading.

If you’d like to follow this blog, you can sign up for notifications.

See you in the cracks.

.tumblr_o1irr1E3Qx1u7xtolo1_250.gif

Love, 

Jennifer

Beryl’s Chicken Diary. (End)

(This is the last entry!!)

Read from the beginning HERE.

…………………….

 

DAY NINETEEN

100% chance.

 

It rained all night.

All morning.

All afternoon.

And it’s still raining.

Passing cars splash baby tidal waves and rain gutters pour waterfalls.

You know the sound.

The girls are huddled together, dry under the porch awning, waiting it out.

Not me.

The back garden is a thousand shallow pools, growing deeper by the second. And I’m running back and forth, splashing. Sinking into soft, fresh mud.

Clucking.

Carpeing this diem.

I feel the girls watching, a little concerned.

Chickens.

Some creatures hide from weather; others delight in it.

I am variety B.

And so are my humans, blaring Indian music with the doors open wide.

Sometimes you gotta act a little crazy to feel sane.

And today sanity is dirty feet, grey skies, wet feathers, and secure knowledge that I got first dibs on all the worm action tomorrow.

IMG_7976.jpg

 

 

Is that Beryl in the compost?

 

                      

DAY TWENTY

roaches and biscuits

 

Heck ya that’s me in the compost!

Jenkins gave me the stink eye I was in there so long, but truth be told I’m feeling a little feisty.

Maybe because my toe’s growing back.

Simple things feel magic when they’re new again.

Like nesting and the weighty pull of a forming egg.

The natural order of things.

I like the word order. It means rightful place.

Like me on this roost next to my sister.

G’night, Beryl, she coos, her head against mine.

And we were just about asleep when Jennifer screamed so loud the girls shot up like toast.

But I knew better.

Either she saw a roach or popped open some biscuits, I explained calmly. My eyes still closed.

Then we hear a clunka shoe perhaps— and think we know the answer.

Wanda giggles first, then Jenkins.

Then me.

Then Babs, who never laughs at anyone.

Then we squished together.

The four of us sleepy.

The four of us remembering.

You know that sudden bursty feeling when all your happies come back?

That.

 

A moment of silence for Mister Roach

2016-2016.

 

THE LAST DAY

the trill of pleasure

 

I made a brand new noise for my humans today.

A soft warbling trill from the back of my healing throat.

When they look it up on the Google, they’ll find it means

thank you.

I’m happy

I love you.

And life is good.

.

.

.

My name is Beryl.

I’m a beautiful lady chicken.

And I’m gonna 

I made it.

IMG_6982.jpg

3  weeks later, Beryl re-established her dominance.

.

.

.

.

…………………..

Thank you for reading my diary, people humans.

If you like it, I hope you’ll share because that helps Jennifer, who’s pretty okay sometimes.

I wish you the very best things in the world.

 

love, Beryl

Beryl’s Chicken Diary. (9)

Read from the beginning HERE.

………………

 

DAY SEVENTEEN

a chicken called Wanda

 

Tonight I’m in Ollie’s old bed, watching Sophia play.

IMG_6954.jpg

Her room is way better than the bathtub. There’s so much to look at!

Twinkly lights, gilded peacock wallpaper, bits of yarn, rainbow pens, swirly fan, picture books, Pokemon cards, soft poofy animals, spray bottles, potions, lotions, and plastic baby humans with frozen blue eyes. I could go on!

IMG_6956.jpg

I slept in here the last two nights. This vintage doll bed makes a nice, comfortable roost. And I’d just closed my eyes when Jennifer snuck in and grabbed me.  Arrghh this human!

“Come on, girl,” she said. “It’s time.”

Time for what?

She carried me to the back door.

What was she doing?

The door creaked open to stuffy night air.

Where were we going?

We crossed the yard and entered the coop where Jenkins, Babs, and Wanda huddled on the roost.

Wait. What—

Jennifer squeezed me tight then kissed my head before placing me next to Wanda. The girls twittered in confusion.

“Be nice,” she warned, mostly to Jenkins.

I wrapped my toes tight around the roost.  Wanda looked at me then scooted as far away as she could, acting so put out my own dang sister pulled that silly hen under her wing.

IMG_7069.jpg

If Wanda ever wonders why she’s the weakest link, I’ll remind her of that moment right there. Missus Jenkins stuck her neck out to examine me, but with two hens between us there wasn’t much she could do.

Thirty minutes later, Jennifer found me quite happy against the wall. I would’ve preferred snuggling next to Babs, but the fact I’m up here without incident is good enough for now.

I can’t believe I’m out here!

Rustly leaves.

Distant traffic.

Late night tv illuminating dark windows blue.

Bugs swarming yellow porch lights and Ollie, fwapping through the cat flap.

You’ve may’ve heard chickens have short memories —it’s true.

I’d forgotten the night.

The girls coo softly.

A neighbor dog barks and another answers, far away.

It smells like safeness.

It smells like home.

Did you know that crickets sing lullabies?

They do.

They sing about moonbeams.

I close my eyes.

 

 

DAY EIGHTEEN

the glass divide

 

At first I was confused.

The cardinals woke me up.

Then feathers.

—warm at my side?

IMG_7080.jpg

I opened my eyes to Babs, right next to me.

Sitting quiet and pretty like she does.

I made Wanda switch places, she said.

The backdoor screetched and out flew spaghetti like clumps of sticky worms.

Wanda and Missus Jenkins bolted for the porch but me and my sister moved slow on account of my toe.

Ready? said Babs, helping me down the ramp.

I could tell Jenkins wanted to bully me but I also knew she wouldn’t, if that makes any sense.

I paused from eating then stepped back a few paces, trying to look inside.

The window’s up high so I backed up some more.

Until I can see her.

I see the web first.

Then there she is.

Staring down at me, too.

Her old face still.

We locked eyes for a long time.

And right then I learned silence can be very, very loud. And if anyone executes a requiem of feelings with their eyeballs, it’s that spider.

I, however, do not posses that skill.

I never took time to speak to you, spiderlady. I’m sorry.

I relayed this by stomping my left foot and tipping by head sideways.

She stared into me, her eyes symphonic dewdrops, and I knew she understood.

So then I willed her peace and whatever love she needs.

And flies, I added, quickly. Lots and lots of flies.

She turned away and I returned to my noodles.

Now don’t quote me.

But I think spiders smile on the inside, too.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Continue reading HERE.

………………………………………………..

The LAST entry will be posted in two days.

If you’d like instant notification you can sign up to follow this blog. 

Or maybe just show someone that pic of me and Babs. 

People don’t need big, expensive reasons to smile.

love, Beryl