I used to live in Brentwood, CA…a block away from the OJ scene. In essence, with energy attracts energy. Brentwood must have encapsulated some intense energy..I lived in this small complex and had an older lady, no boundary-havin landlord. A smaller wrinkly, cladded woman with white hair disheveled like her breath. robed in white hospital gowns…meandering the windows and screaming relentlessly for anyone that would listen on her way to her son’s room a couple down from me…I remember one day I rolled home, a bit stoned and see the tenants standing outside my place. I asked what was up…They asked if I heard..I said.. “no, and don’t tell me right now, I’m stoned and will follow-up the next day.” So, I did..turns out…Sandy, the manager, choked on peanut butter and crashed on my porch…she passed.
I really don’t have anything to make of this story, but it rides to the surreal nature of my life for the most part…