The streets are soaked in blood. There isn't a neighborhood immune to it. I live in the Franklin Hills neighborhood of Los Feliz. Two weeks ago someone pumped 5 bullets into a 33 year-old guy and left him to die in the street next to his car. The cops have no clue who did this. The corner has a small memorial: flowers, a cigarette and a few burning candles. I can feel the energy, like the blood stain on the street-a splotch followed by a five finger trickle, it's there, and it'll be a while before it goes away. I wonder if this guy's soul is jumping around, freaking out, uncertain as to what the hell happened, where the hell he is. I hope someone took him home.
The Biancas, I hope they went straight home the second their rattled souls jumped out of their poor, tortured bodies. They lived a mile away from where I'm at now, murdered brutally and living right next door to the House of Prayer for Priests/ Immaculate Heart Retreat House. That's a perfect example of L.A-killed right next door to sanctuary.
Unsolved, bizarre murders have been peppered in the news since I got here a year ago. I'm positive that this is just how this town rolls. There was the head found by a hiking dog and her owner in a garbage bag in Griffith Park. It took a week before the police announced publicly that it was a homicide. Yeah! As if there's some new outrageous disease that causes our heads to pop off, when we're in remote hiking trails at night, and then they magically roll into awaiting black, plastic bags. No murderer was found. Then there was the decapitated body (not belonging to the aforementioned head) that was found in the parking garage at Kaiser Permanente. Authorities refused to reveal if foul play was involved. Really?!
I'm starting to believe that the reason this town has such lush vegetation is because of those countless people killed who are now fertilizing the ground.
The inner city gangs make great topics for television, film, books and documentaries. The entertainment business thrives on this stuff. The more over the top, the better the cash flow that comes in. At the very least, the location of celebrity or headline murders is a stop off on a Hollywood tour bus. Johnny Lewis is the newest fallen Angelino to make the map. The reasons for his nefarious acts of murdering his 81 year-old landlady, Catherine Chabot David, who had rented out to artists for decades, and dismembering her cat (gross!) before falling off the roof and dying, points to a spiral into a dark madness. His is one of many of these stories. New York City doesn't touch L.A in it's celebrity murder culture.
Then there are those that are worth more dead than alive and speculation is not enough for true justice. People like Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson (I know. I know but he had bruises on him that could've very easily been from foul play-like he'd been struggling), Kurt Cobain-I read the report that an investigator wrote up on Kurt and 1. The amount of heroin in his body would have made it very difficult to do anything, much less hold that shotgun 2. Kurt was a little guy. He would've needed to use his feet to pull the trigger on that gun, especially because of the way he was found. His shoes were on. He didn't die in L.A, but if it was murder, the decision came from L.A. Kurt wanted to quit the business. After his death, the sales of Nirvana's music went through the roof. Conspiracy theories can be kooky, I know, but piss one of these high powered executives off and see if your head doesn't get grazed by a bullet. It's very easy to do, especially here. It could be a "psychotic killer" or an "overdose" that did you in. Wink. Wink. No one would know the wiser, and in this town, dead men tell no tales because if they did, the prison population would probably double.
That's just it, too. Wouldn't it be cool if a ghost could testify? Or if things went down like in the movie Ghost? Maybe if a spirit could have a one week hall pass to bring to justice the hand that slew them, people would hesitate taking a life. Even better, a group of avenging angels who could rush down and save the lives of The Black Dahlia, Sal Mineo, Marilyn Monroe, Phil Hartman, Ramon Novarro, Ennis Cosby, Sharon Tate and Company. Maybe it does happen. Maybe some people are spared. Of course, there's no way of knowing about it.
I sincerely hope that all these souls are resting, but I also think that when something intense happens somewhere, the impact leaves a sensation there, and it may never go away. To some, it may be as obvious as craters from a meteor. It's definitely a challenge to not become crippled by what is in the air or grow apathetic. I know Seattle has it's skeletons, as does Portland, and San Francisco does, too. The Wild West-where tragic death is part of the culture. Dorothy Stratten, Natalie Wood, Nicole Simpson, Rebecca Schaeffer, Dominique Dunne-all casualties just like the ones who will never were household names.
This place is a trip. In La La land, ignorance is truly bliss. There are lots of oblivious people who haven't a clue as to this history. I'm not one of them. I remember. I know. I'm currently learning about some of the Hollywood scandals of the 20s and 30s, and so far, it seems even more macabre than today. What exactly am I going to do with all of this information? Write about it, I guess. Remember the fallen. Or mortify my poor girlfriend as I reveal tidbits at parties (let's face it, it's interesting).
Tonight I went and lit a candle and placed it next to the small shrine that was created for 33 year-old John S. Lee from Las Vegas whose last breath was taken on Dec.30th, 2012. I pray for his peace. I pray for the peace of the spirits of all of those who died by the hands of someone else, and for the ones that will go that way afterwards. I am so sorry that their last moment on earth was one that was filled with agony and horror. May the flame of this candle can soothe these souls, help to lead them home and with enough candles lit, maybe we can even light the dark, lost souls bright enough to keep them from taking another life. Keep the candles lit.
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