Saturdays with spirit


Saturday mornings are my paranormal days.  No work, no need to be anywhere, a large mug of Blue Mountain coffee, a quiet house and me – remote in hand giving free rein to my paranormal addiction.

Do I believe?  Yes.

Anyone who has been touched by the hand of death so many times in a single lifetime would have trouble denying anything beyond this existence.  These two wise eyes have witnessed too much, these ears have heard too much.  It simply is not a question for me, but a fact.   That however is beside the point and not the subject of this rapidly written discourse.

Set aside for a moment whether you are or are not a member of the group of believers that surround the globe, and ask yourself;  Is it so important to gather evidence that you are comfortable with being an absolute jerk?

Forgotten is the simple fact that these were once people who someone loved, cared for, and mourned.   Common decency and tenants of humanity would suggest that you would treat the spirit of the individual with the same respect and consideration you would if they still breathed.

So what is with the provoking?

Abusive language, barked commands, demands for performance, do that to me while I breathe and I’d tell you succinctly what you anatomically could do before I slapped you, and walked away.   Do you think the response to such situations would change simply because I stopped breathing?

Let me give you a clue.  That would be a, No!

I get it, entertainment is for entertainment.  But there ought to be some moral clause somewhere that states that simply because you do not breathe isn’t a license for outright inhumanity and abuse.

I sat for the very last time, this morning, and watched a paranormal investigator – a woman mind you – be as cruel as any one person can be to a spirit in attempt to elicit a response. She got one, tears and a rejoinder of her taunts.  She has the tape, her fifteen minutes of fame, that’s entertainment.  That’s evidence.

That’s sickening.