The year was 1991.... a young fledgling rock star from Seattle was in pain. A lot of pain. Rigorous touring was not to blame. Soon the young musician realized something was wrong. Very wrong. His wife, that he'd had memories of but never actually met was missing from his life. From that time period in general. Trapped in 2012, she awaits a way back. A way back to change the future... a future that turns into a place with no Kurt Cobain.

A murder plot that turns into the most famous suicide in history, this site is dedicated to the small story of the husband who left a billion clues for the wife who figured them out.

Now her goal is to avenge her husband's death by pinning the murderer's with their crime...

Meanwhile she pours herself into her journal, awaiting the day she is finally reunited with her husband in time.

Letters to Kurt...

Friday, December 3, 2010

Dear Kurt,

It has been almost two months since my last entry and I feel as though I'm neglecting you. Neglecting a dead guy. What a riot.

I was scanning through the stations on a television last week, and I fell on your "Behind the Music" episode. I could only bare to watch for about 4 full minutes at the editing of the show. With all its glory to prove exactly how suicidal you were, made me cringe.

Life puzzles me. Every aspect. As one of my favorite bands say in one of my favorite songs of theirs (I refuse to mention their name or you would cringe) --

" the lap of luxury where everything goes right. And some... Live so painfully another day -- another fight."

The only question is --

Who decides?

Peace. Love. Empathy.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Dear Kurt,

I was really wasted when I wrote that last entry. I'm a little ashamed, as I don't mean to take a bullet wound to the head as a joking matter.

I have a few people who I've actually had the chance to effect with a few of my youtube videos that I've made on your behalf. And they've thanked me.

It's all I can do. Just like the flyers in Seattle. I've done what I can. And I love you. Peace.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Dear Kurt,

Did you really want to die? Was your heart that broken? Because I am... Once again... Crying from anguish, alone. In a hotel room. As always, I picture a gunshot wound to my head.

And as I'm nobody... To no one... The death would barely flutter an eyelash. And that feels fucking great as a human being!! Ya know????

I just wanna film my fucking movie on a.2 dollar budget. You think that's possible?? Fuck yeah.

Peace. Love. Empathy.
Dear Kurt,

Did you really want to die? Was your heart that broken? Because I am... Once again... Crying from anguish, alone. In a hotel room. As always, I picture a gunshot wound to my head.

And as I'm nobody... To no one... The death would barely flutter an eyelash. And that feels fucking great as a human being!! Ya know????

I just wanna film my fucking movie on a.2 dollar budget. You think that's possible?? Fuck yeah.

Peace. Love. Empathy.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

There is no place for strangers in passion.

Dear Kurt,

Well it turns out, not many people seem to care about your death anymore. It's yesterday's news and I did what I could to bring it back. But it's not enough.

Maybe if I had friends in high places I could make a difference. So a certain musician keeps pointing out. Life or something like it only happens when people love you. Or at least like you. I've never had that power. To get people to just... Like me.

Such is life.


Sunday, August 22, 2010

Welcome to Seattle.

Dear Kurt,

A few days ago I got back from Seattle where I spent a few hours hanging the flyers in hopes that your case will be re-opened.

I hung them sporadically and randomly. Hoping that I would be granted enough sunshine for a few days for people to read them.

I watched one man approach as we walked away, a glimmer of satisfaction in my heart that hopefully, your soul, through my hands, would be granted peace of mind.

Another girl saw your photo on the page as she passed and said, "Wait. What about Kurt Cobain? Can I have one of those to read?"

It felt good to feel as though people still care. Later that night I hung one outside the bar where I was drinking, and later I casually stepped outside for a cigarette. I watched as a guy approached the poster and read it from start to finish.

My heart soared with satisfaction. Just the idea of reminding people of your beautiful soul sixteen years later. A soul that had no intention of being remembered as some suicide statistic.

In the span of two days... I visited your birthplace... And the place of your death. And as I taped the flyer to the bench on your old property -- staring up at the window of the house where your life was claimed...

My heart broke. I took a few puffs from my smoke before I crushed it out on the ground -- and noticed all the other cigarettes smoked in that exact location. All the people who came to pay their respects to a man we could all relate to, smoking those cigarettes in contemplation asking themselves why?

Asking why... Why you, Kurt?

Why you?

Peace, Love, Empathy,

Justice Seeker

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Welcome to Aberdeen.

Dear Kurt,

Just entered Aberdeen for lunch. We will be passing by your sign -- "Welcome to Aberdeen. Come as you are..." And I will be posting my campaign propaganda across its surface.

I haven't forgotten, and you deserve justice.


Saturday, August 14, 2010

Another lonely birthday....

Dear Kurt,

My birthday just ended twenty minutes ago.... and I spent the night alone in a hotel room -- drinking. Would you be surprised?

It's a hundred percent true that a writer falls in love with their subject. And I feel that. I feel tremendous love for this person that I don't even know. But I have such a profound need to defend him -- if others appear to be using him. My heart breaks. And it hurts. But he looks at me as the enemy. But until he sees my side.... that's what I'll always be to him. The enemy.

I will be in Seattle soon. I count the moments......

Peace, Love, Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Sleep deprived in Washington... (dc)

Dear Kurt,

Tonight I drank too much and then I sent an email to a very important lawyer about how I drink too much and that's too blame for all the jerkoff emails I send him. Smart huh?

What's wrong with me? I'm so uncool. I'm an idiot. Everything I touch turns to shit. I wish you were still here so you could give me a lesson on coolness. Cuz tonight I flunked. And yesterday... and tomorrow.

If passion, soul and heart was gold-plated.... I could buy my own country. Hope is running thin...


Friday, August 6, 2010

If that's a masterpiece... I should be swimming in offers...

Dear Kurt,

Tonight I completed watching a film entitled "Last Days" that was loosely based on the end of your life. In a word, it was a disgrace. The director basically had you flopping around as if you were indeed some deluded mental case, the last media status of your personality that Courtney tried with all her might to imply.

But the real facts (which were nowhere in this interpretation of the end of your life), clearly prove that you were of sound, mind and body. And went as far as describing you as the happiest you'd ever been, with a profound sense of clarity.

Not some vagrant wandering about, muttering to yourself with your head hung low. Nice job Gus Van Sant. Oh, and I love the gay interlude that you threw in which contained no real purpose other than to distinguish it as one of your films.

The DVD box states critical acclaim: "A real masterpiece!" And I really have to wonder at this point.... do filmmakers pay journalists for these high accolades?

In a related topic, I may finally get my chance to visit Seattle soon.... and I will be gracing telephone poles with my campaign spread.

Peace, Love, Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Off topic in Hollywood.

Films I wish I'd written, but sadly someone else took credit:

Thelma and Louise
True Romance
The Runner
Count of Monte Cristo
Veronica Guerin
Waking the Dead

Just to name a few. And I'm sure each and every one of these has lead to an inspiring break-through for my actual scripts. Many similar in style.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

My heart hurts.

Dear Kurt,

Nepotism makes my skin crawl. I despise anyone and anything who has achieved unwarranted success based on even the slightest connection to someone else. Why? Because it is U N F A I R. But then, if life was fair... you would still be with us and child molesters would all drop dead right? Yeah.

Maybe I am just destined to be without career, without relationships without... anything. Maybe that's just the way things are? Maybe some people were never meant to be loved.... appreciated... respected. Maybe I'm just a great big pile of shit, and once I accept that... life will be nice and dandy. Eh?

Fuck it all.



Saturday, July 24, 2010

A night at the Chateau Marmont...

Dear Kurt,

I ventured out in Hollywood tonight, catching a couple live bands at a local bar on Sunset and as I was eating a bite of my burrito I caught a glimpse of a familiar looking building that I've written more than a couple scenes for a few of my screenplays within its walls.

I'm unaware of how often you spent your time on the L.A. scene but I do remember a particular story where you were discussing with a group of people, just months before your own death... you spoke tragically of the passing of an astoundingly sweet and talented individual -- River Phoenix.

I've studied this topic extensively. I've written and I've written scene after scene for this lost boy's story, and I just couldn't find the spirit of it. But tonight, as I glanced up at this eery, somewhat haunted hotel known as the Chateau Marmont... I could not draw my eye from it.

So much history, so much life -- so much death -- had taken place between its walls. Namely the story of young River. His life almost took several tragic turns within the walls of the room he holed himself up in before the Viper Room finally did the trick. I was thinking again and again what it would be like to go back in time, and capture that very moment -- the moment I could grab him by the hands and save him. Just save him.

Just save him.

Such history. Such sadness. Why him??

Why you?

Such sadness.

Goodnight, Peace and Love.


Thursday, July 22, 2010

My God people are fuck nuts.

Dear Kurt,

There are so many idiots in the world that it astounds me. People are selfish, greedy, shallow jerks. It never ceases to amaze me how many people throw away a perfectly good friendship if they can't have sex.

In short. I hate everyone. The end.

Saturday I will be granted another chance to harrass a long standing harrassee (band) with my script. Wish me luck.

Words have failed me. Today sucked. Much bullshit. Peace out.

Justice Seeker.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Heading home in Kennedy.

Dear Kurt,

A few days ago I put the finishing touches on my most meaningful project and sent it off (via request!) To the largest agency in all of film.

And if dreams really do come true, I pray to you above that the gods are on my side with this one.

Peace, yes.
Empathy, definitely.
Love, absolutely.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Dear Kurt,

I'm often eaten alive by bitterness. Today was no different. I had a few moments of peace as I sat at the Santa Monica pier with a good friend, watching the seagulls fly above the Pacific, while listening to serene covers of my favorite songs from a street musician.

Then as we debated over our meals at Johnny Rocket's.... we came to the conclusion that we will also be taking on the tourists of Santa Monica with a list of our own covers -- him on keyboard, me on vocals. One of the songs on my list of ten? All Apologies. A slow, piano version. Very inspiring.

I will be flying across the country again tomorrow. And I didn't expect it... but I must make a little money some how, and I will count the seconds until I am back home.

Peace, Love, Empathy.


Sunday, July 11, 2010

Ten dollar tickets?? I'll play for two minutes....

Dear Kurt,

Last night I dreamt I made out with John Frusciante. Then I woke up and realized he is no dream. Tonight I dreamt I was in another plane crash. Why?

I love how popular musicians today believe that they have the right to cover your music. As if they even have half the soul in their entire body that you contained in your little pinky finger. Call that metaphor a cliche, but it's true.

There are two types of people trying to make it in music and film. Only two.

The ones who know nothing about struggle... Who just fell into their success...

And the ones who work their live long asses off to succeed... And rarely do because their (we're) too busy working our live long asses off making ends meet to put the full effort into our passion.

So the ones who end up succeeding most are spoiled with their success, too busy taking it for granted rather than appreciating it... And lacking the soul it truly takes to... Hurt. And suffer. Because they know no pain.

I don't know if I will ever escape my resentment towards the ones who live their dreams with no struggle. The politically correct society we live in today tells us that we, as "good" people, are to be pleasant towards another's accomplishments. But that's complete and utter bullshit.

If there is a single person who can honestly sit back when another achieves what they long to achieve with an honest "congratulations, I'm happy for you. Better you than me!" Than we are living in a warped world.

We are all human. And is our duty to ourselves as human-beings to put ourselves first. In everything. Even our happiness. It's our liberty as Americans. -- "And the pursuit of happiness...." Was that ingrained in our pledge because we reserved the right to be happy for our neighbor's successes?? No. Our own.

I have no more guilt. No more guilt for wanting to achieve a level of success and happiness that suits me, for me... and me alone. Fuck everybody. This is my goddamn life, and I want to live it the way I feel is my way. And when I die, I will know that I did everything in my power to find my own personal "pursuit of happiness...." because when you're busy living for everyone else's happiness... well... nothing matters when your life ends but what you put in it -- for you.

And the world goes on. So no more guilt. Every person has a damn right to be selfish. I'm finally understanding that. Writing the types of scripts I've written I have, essentially, trained myself to be overly thoughtful towards others, to empathize with these characters that I'm creating. But I'm not a saint. And I'm done trying to cater to this desire I have to convey strong, moral messages. Done.

Fuck the messages. And Fuck everyone. Especially the assholes who live on their high-horses covering your songs. They don't deserve to be the shit on the bottom of your converse sneakers.

Peace... Love.... Empathy.

You know the rest.

"If I fail, If I succeed, atleast I've lived as I believe."

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Just a echo.

Dear Kurt,

Later today I will be attending the show that I spoke of in a previous post. My goal is to hand a business card in person to... the musician who inspired my favorite script. I have no idea if he truly knows my name and of my script, but I hope the transfer of my card into his hands finds itself successful.

I was reading another writer's blog tonight, and an entry about loglines caught my attention. I decided to elaborate and finalize my logline for "Going Inside" and it follows this post.

Tonight I will be putting on a cute pair of jeans, a sweet shirt and a funky hat in hopes that my whole life will one day be a little more satisfying than just settling for admiring glances from passer-bys.


A young guitar prodigy finds himself helming his favorite band by seventeen, but his love for music is soon challenged when his love for heroin forces him into the deep, dark depths of his very soul. Can he find his way back or will his addiction erase his passion for song and destroy his talent forever?

(true story ;-)

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Bats aren't just for baseball...

Dear Kurt,

I once took a baseball bat to one of my screenplays. The struggles of going about sharing your creative work with uninterested strangers can take a toll. Not only on your heart and soul, but also on your own opinion of your work.

You not only begin to resent the whole concept of what it takes to achieve success and the people who have the power to get your work seen... but you begin to resent your own passion too. This was the cause of my angry bat-wielding rant that, literally, tore my script into a million pieces.

In a way, it was symbolic. All the pain I've been consumed with has stemmed from this undying love to be appreciated, like anyone who creates -- whether it be music, paintings, film, stories, poems, novels or interesting lamp work -- seeking approval. I couldn't rightfully take a baseball bat to the heads of all the "heads" who ignore my emails and messages again and again.

So, the only way to relieve myself of the anger and frustration... was to take it out on my work. After all, if it weren't for it, I'd be a normal, happy, sane person living a normal, happy, sane life free of constant disappointment. If I were to end it (which I never would) but if I were to... I'd probably, literally, stab myself in the heart... because it's what has caused me a lifetime of pain.

But if my films ever do become a reality, and the surprising popularity of them manages to be larger and trendier than I desire... I would probably have a similar attitude as you did over your mega-hit "Smells Like Teen Spirit." You actually refused to play it at several shows due to your distaste in its sole success.

It was painfully obvious that one of the main reasons you wanted out of the mainstream grunge world was when you realized that all of your fans, essentially, were made up of your least favorite macho male. I mean, how could you rightfully continue performing for these people when you would go home every night and write in your journal about how you despised and felt threatened by the exact people who were filling your shows thirty rows deep?

That would have made any sane person cringe. I feel for you, Kurt. But it wasn't enough to cause you to put a gun to your head. You were handling it, and you were planning a life change. You did everything right in cutting out the things that weren't working for you. It was the others... who were doing everything wrong.

Your spirit lives on. As does your music.

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Fireworks and Freedom.

Dear Kurt,

It is exactly thirty minutes until the beginning of July 4th 2010, Pacific time, and this marks the month anniversary of my first entry.

Isn't it amazing how millions of lives end evey day and that same day... millions of lives go on living. Tomorrow night, as we stare up at the bright colors in the sky signifying what it means to be a part of the USA, people will be dying. Some by the hands of another... some by their own.

I once cried many tears during a particularly sappy fireworks display in New Orleans over the Mississippi. The reason?? The fireworks were accompanied by a loudspeaker blaring patriotic songs such as "Proud to be an American." Such a beautiful song. I would have liked to see Nirvana cover it. Just kidding.
Land of the free. Home of the brave? Justice is free. But at what price?

On that note, I will be thinking of all the amazing people lost with each colorful explosion. Yours will be the brightest.

Peace... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Los Angeles Nights

Dear Kurt,

I've never felt more alone than when I was living in Atlanta. I once wrote this poem entitled, "Atlanta Nights." Where, if your note actually was a suicide note, this poem would have put it to shame. It was full of anguish -- like I was.

Moving to Atlanta was one of many cities in my life that were a fortunate accident. I suppose the term "moving" doesn't even fit. I actually evacuated to Atlanta and was displaced there for several months following the storm known as Hurricane Katrina that nearly wiped away the most unique city in the country, New Orleans.

I had been living in New Orleans for only ten months when two of the biggest hurricane seasons of all time decided to grace the town. My move to New Orleans was no accident. It has always been my favorite city to visit, my favorite city to read about... my favorite city to write about. Yes, my move there was thoroughly planned, and the only place that could win me over, for the short period of time that it did, and take my mind from L.A.

We drove through the night, non-stop in our U-Haul, taking us eighteen hours to clear the state of Texas alone. I thought I would find the happiness there being surrounded by the Southern charm and cobblestone streets... hoping these features and more would distract me from my love.... from my heart. It didn't for long.

And the festivities of Mardi Gras soon faded along with my smile.

I tried this technique with San Francisco as well. A streetcar named Desire was not all it seemed. And I moved on to the next address, the next empty street.

The first time I flew into Boston I thought I was finally home. I made more personal connections there than any state and city I've graced, but never the less, I still felt out of place. And I decided to trade six months of winter for nine months of summer and hit the Miami beaches with all the enthusiasm of a retiree.

One DUI, two thousand stolen dollars and one stolen bike later... and the clouds came in once again.

I seemed to have lived in most major cities in this country already, so I figured, why not give the largest one a shot, and I headed up to New York City. I had a cousin there which made it seem as though I weren't completely on my own so it felt familiar enough. But still.... I was wandering around. Lost.

The truth remains, like your death.... no matter which way you cut it, someone else is responsible.

And no matter which way I cut it... L.A. is the only place I've ever lived where I've felt.... found.

My flight departs at eight thirty am.

Peace, Love, Empathy.

Justice Seeker.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Guitar books and blisters in Charlotte.

Dear Kurt,

In exactly one day I will be flying off to L.A. with my guitar on my back. I've lost all sense of enthusiasm towards pitching my scripts to random companies, and as happy as I am to get back to L.A... moving for the hundredth time in the last decade is wearing me thin.

I am out of words tonight, but I have attempted to convince another that you were indeed taken from us by the hands of another. But it's hard to explain why I care. Why do I care?

Compassion? Maybe. Heart? Rightfully. Soul??


Your Best Pal.

Justice Seeker.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Dear Kurt --

On April 1st, 1994, you left Exodus Rehab center and purchased a ticket home. You arrived at the Seattle airport and proceeded in signing autographs.

That same day you left a phone message for your wife at her hotel in L.A. You then went back to your Lake Washington home where your Nanny and his girlfriend saw and spoke to you.

A day later, your wife called the Seattle Police department and filed a missing persons report posing as your mother.

A day later she hired a private detective to fly to Seattle and look for you. Two days later she placed an anonymous phone call from her own hotel room stating that there was an overdose in progress.

When the ambulance arrived... There was no overdose, but several illegal substances in plain sight. She was promptly arrested for possession.

A few days later, your body was discovered. It was later revealed that the actual time of death was a few days prior.

The same night your wife spent in jail. Why?

Why... Please explain to me, all of these circumstances. Its not clear to me.

How ... She... got away...

With murder.

Peace, Love, Empathy.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Rock Stars and Janitors.

Dear Kurt,

I respect you. I respect you in a way that is hard to respect people in the industry today.

You worked hard to accomplish your musical ambitions and you also know what it's like to struggle for money and deal with shit jobs.

You were so bad off at one point that you couldn't afford gas to make the road trip to see your favorite band, The Melvins.

But you took it with a grain of salt. No ego. You just simply stated that Krist and his girlfriend dropped out of the whole thing and you and your girl couldn't afford the extra gas money. No ego. No resentment.

You were so... Different... Than people who exist today.

You were a genuine, passionate musician trying to get your songs heard... But on the other hand you had no money, no connections and no qualms about it.

One of your many odd jobs included the janitorial field. Not only did you not complain and whine about having to do things like this for money... But you drew pictures and wrote slogans of marketing techniques in your journal.

There is no such thing as a wannabe rock star today who would be caught dead with a mop in hand to make ends meet.

You were the real deal, weren't you?

I am trying my hardest to make connections to get my stuff read, but at the same time I am resentful towards the people who could help me because they just don't understand all my struggles.

You did. Busboy, janitor, waiter.. Just a few jobs you've held to survive.

I've got a laundry list that you couldn't imagine... And building to it every day. I'm so humiliated by some of them that I refuse to list them aloud.

Security guard, blockbuster video clerk, copy mate, Hawiian Ice maker, electronic sales, parking attendant, flight attendant, ticket agent, receptionist, data entry clerk, essembly line worker, grocery bagger...

The list goes on and on.

But I'm struggling, and I'm eaking by and I'm doing it on my own and I don't know if I'll ever achieve the success in the field. Like you did. And I don't know if I'll ever have peace.

Did you?

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Street ramblings...

"Yeah man... I don't think... that's not gonna go too well. She's married to a basketball legend man..."

"Shit.. I've seen you with a basketball"

Laughter follows...

"Naw man. He's a legend man. A legend."

Dear Kurt,

The irony of your death... You once stated that you feel as if people want you to die because it would be the ultimate rock-n-roll story.

You hated anything having to do with blending into the mainstream.. Therefore this statement automatically proves you wouldn't want to give them what they want.

Your death has given you a sort of legendary, iconic status. This idea would have disgusted you.

A lot of people think your use of the Neil Young line "its better to burn out than fade away..." In your "suicide" note is a dead giveaway that you were implying 'death'.

Even Neil Young's dumb ass was especially heartbroken over the reference.

But anyone with half a mind would realize that to 'burn out' could refer to being hot as fire in your career, and then just... Disappearing without a trace -- hence the metaphor of going from a lit candle to blown out.

Versus "fading away"... Where you just basically wear out your welcome. A common problem with bands nowadays. Where they keep putting out shit album after shit album until finally even the real fans stop buying them and the band eventually justs fades into obscurity.

Its obvious you didn't want that.

The ones who knew your plans regarding making music with Michael Stipe knew you didn't plan on going anywhere -- but in a different direction.

You had a heart. A soul. and you didn't burn out or fade away.

You were taken away.

Peace... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Drinkin' in New York City.

Dear Kurt,

I'm fairly drunk, and feeling beyond alone. Maybe if I smoke an entire pack of Camels while listening to my favorite songs I will fill the void of loneliness.

Or take away the fact that I am almost 32 and still have yet to be in love or even in an actual real relationship.

To compensate, I sing many angry songs to get the aggression out. It helps to a certain extent... The adrenaline that kicks in while screaming into the mic is a great aphrodisiac, but the truth remains... Loneliness is all consuming.

I wrote a letter to your old lawyer in question, who had the evidence and knew something was askew when you left us... I will post that email after this entry.

Meanwhile, I will be singing more pain-induced melodies.

Peace.... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Dear Ms. Carroll,

This email is regarding your involvement in the life and death of the late Kurt Cobain. Before you delete this, I’d like for you to listen. I’ve scoured the world for all the information I could gather regarding his case.

From the investigation to the aftermath to his emotional status before his death to your position surrounding it. With all the facts combined, one doesn’t really need to go any further than reading the note left at the scene, not only its context but the handwriting.

And you, yourself stated at first glance that you knew it was forged. And you knew the exact details behind Kurt’s relationship with his wife, the mention of the change of the Will and all the other sticky problems in a relationship that was about to end.

I don’t know what went on behind closed doors between you, your husband, Ms. Love or anyone else who made it out alive in connection to Kurt’s death…. But I do know there were three other very questionable deaths following his as well as countless copycat suicides.

I am not going to go into detail regarding the loss of all the others, but I will say this. Kurt Cobain was taken from us in vain, by the hands of another individual. The fact that there is a select group of individuals who actually have the power to prove this, is not the issue. Whether they have the heart and soul and compassion is.

It saddens me to no end that such a remarkably sweet individual with one of the deepest souls and self-proclaimed empathy for humans managed to walk this earth for twenty-seven years and didn’t manage to affect a single person in his personal life enough to where they would stand up and fight for his name.

I can imagine the fear of winding up dead. That’s an obvious consequence in this scenario. But I don’t care if the chief of police planned it (likely but not probable), the mayor (not too likely), David Geffen (highly suspect), or the Mafia. There is always someone higher, and there is always protection from these people.

If a person who is directly involved in a orchestrated death like this, with DIRECT information that PROVES foul play took place, or at least has access to several documents that prove a motive then it is their DUTY as a human-being with a conscience to turn over all evidence and all suspicions to the higher-ups.

No ones job, status, social life, personal relationships are ever more important than justice. And you knew the victim. He was a person. Kurt was a living, breathing person with a heart, soul, dreams and fears. He had a life and a baby daughter that he spoke of giving his everlasting unconditional love to. He was a unique soul, that will never be again.

And he deserves defending. If there truly are people out there who know for a fact that he was murdered who can prove this, then Kurt and his daughter deserve the clearing of his name. His daughter deserves to know that he had every intention of being there for her.And he deserves the acknowledgment, to the rest of the world, that he did not leave his daughter behind selfishly.

His whole life was wiped away, and there is not a single thing in the world that will ever be worth that, a life.I never had the pleasure of being close to a person like Kurt, but if I had been in this situation, NOTHING would have kept me quiet. NOTHING. My heart bleeds for him, and to all the people who knew him who did nothing. They’re all cowards and as guilty as the person who pulled the trigger.

But know this, you may be educated in law, and working as a lawyer… and your husband may have been knowledgeable about music at one point in his career… but I think in this situation, you’re both proven failures in your chosen field.

And tell me, does the following quote appear to be written by an individual who, just a year later, would put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger?

"The thought of losing my baby haunts me every day. I'm even a bit unnerved to take her in the car in fear of getting into an accident. I swear that if I ever find myself in a similar situation than you've been in, i.e. a divorce, then I will fight to my death to keep the right to provide for my child.

I'll go out of my way to remind her that I love her more than I love myself. Not because it's a father's duty, but because I want to out of love. And if Courtney and I end up hating each other's guts we will be adult and responsible enough to be pleasant to one another when our child is around." -- Kurt Cobain

Such a shame.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Two years as a good father.

Dear Kurt,

Just a small note to say Happy Father's Day. For the ones who read your journal.... we know you wrote an endearing letter to your own father about the strife between you two. And in that letter you confessed your undying devotion to give your daughter the love you never received.

You never got that chance, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sure you are looking down on her today. And you will have your revenge.

Peace.... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Passing time in Laguardia...

Dear Kurt,

I've added several more scenes to my script and I now have sixty pages. Sometimes I don't know how it comes to me... It just does.

I haven't had writer's block for a few years now. I never thought I would ever be inspired enough to write a script based on the life of another and the usual 'biopic' always seemed to be dated, lacking a contemporary flare that appeals to our generation.

Although I don't consider this project revolving around the circumstances of your life and the investigation of your death a script 'based on your life', I have in fact recently finished a screenplay that I poured my whole heart and soul into that means so much to me I now deem it 'my baby.'

It IS actually based on the life of a musician, and his guitar skills... In one word -- breathtaking.

I would be lying if I denied the fact that the final push to inspire me to finally pick up the electric guitar and give it my all, something I've yearned to do since I learned to play music at 13, was in fact the writing of that script and the knowledge of that man's existence.

He's been playing guitar, like you, since he was just a child, and like you, became a part of a band that soared to the stars in a matter of only a couple years.

This band I mention, has now been around going on twenty years, and I never even knew of this guitarist's existence until I researched a certain actor (now deceased, tell him I said hi), with the notion of writing a script on his life. Well that script failed miserably as there was something I couldn't quite grasp about the subject in question.

At first I thought it was my writing skills that were faltering. Then I realized the reason I couldn't seem to dig deep inside myself to pour myself into that project, was because the subject in question managed to have a barrier, blocking the world out.

So, essentially, I gathered that the reason I found no passion in this writing was because I couldn't find this person's soul.

That's when I went a little deeper into my research and discovered the person most commonly referred to as "So and so's junkie friend"...

I found a photograph and I looked into his eyes, and that moment was a moment of... "Ahhh... There it is."

Just glancing into the eyes of this person in an image and I felt I was pulled into the depths of his soul.

As I scoured for information on this individual, I knew as I began to read... That I had found the one who let me in. I wrote the script from start to finish in the span of nine days, and fell in love with the subject within nine minutes. And although I believe he hates me for the desire to capture his life (I have a letter from his lawyer to prove it)...

I'll be seeing him in person on July 10th. And I'll be thinking of this entry when I do.

Peace... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

There is such a thing as a soul too deep.

Dear Kurt,

Creating this blog, with the meaning behind it, can take a toll. I feel as though it is helping me to get some of my 'lost' feelings down on paper... but at the same time, I find myself wanting to avoid writing here because it's just too sad. Too sad.

I've been reading this book on and off entitled "Broken Open." It is essentially a spiritual journey with the intent of enticing the reader to go deep inside themselves and discover what's in their heart and soul, and proceed to follow it. Your heart. As opposed to using your brain and mind all the time.

In it, there are all kinds of stories about how all these "intelligent" people, mostly business types who make a lot of money, finally discovered what their heart was telling them, and essentially finally decided to give their soul the time of day. Rather then being the typical American who dwells far more on shopping, spending money, making money, socializing, watching TV, buying TV's, spending money.... you know... Your favorite type of macho man jerk off.

"Surface" human-beings (i.e. Courtney Love.)

And as I'm reading through this book, I find myself scoffing every five minutes at the context... because I just can't relate. I was essentially thinking to myself... "I need a book that is entitled 'Closed Up.'"

My point of this is, sometimes I feel like I just can't relate to anyone or even want to begin a relationship with anyone because, well... I just feel too much. I have too much soul. I'm way too deep. Every move I make in my life revolves around what's inside my heart.

I seem to have a problem doing the sensible thing. The responsible thing. The practical thing. By the way, I hate the term practical. To me that word is the enemy. It is basically a mother's word that encourages you to throw away your passion, your love, your heart and soul... and spend your life doing something you absolutely despise in order to have food in your stomach and a roof over your head -- and nothing more.

Nothing more than tears at the end of the day and a heart broken in two. Let me explain in a little more detail what I mean by "too" deep. Sometimes I find myself laughing during the day, which is rare lately. But when I do manage to laugh (mostly at myself), like when I start tugging on someones hotel room door, when I think it's the entrance to the stairs, I find myself taken aback.

And my thoughts drift to these letters. You. I have such empathy for others, and what was taken from them unjustly, and it's so hard to not remember. Every second of every day. It's hard to think that it's okay. It's almost as if, some of us were born with the ability to feel for others so much more vividly than the average person.

When I actually sit back, and try to picture that day... and what it must have been like for you. And to analyze the young age of 27, your sweet desires and plans for you and your daughter. Your whole existence... washed away by the hands of another. I feel that pain so deeply for another individual, it's almost as if it's inside me.

I'm broken open every second of every day and it consumes my existence. Sometimes I wish I could just not care. Not care about anything but the shallow things. Like a new pair of shoes. Why can't I just be normal and buy a bunch of things to make me feel good?

If I were handed a million dollars tomorrow for one of my scripts, I'd be relieved. Finally not worrying about food or rent... but I couldn't think of a single thing that I'd desire to purchase with it. I read in an article, that one of the main reasons you were initially drawn to Courtney was because you saw her as a "female version" of yourself.

After reading your journal, and everything about your death and investigation.... a million quotes from her... and I'd say she had you fooled like a little child. She made sure she was known as your wife in life, and now she's making sure she rides your fame as the "widow" sixteen years later.

And I hate to tell you, but she's sick of living off of your money. She wants to be able to buy her own shoes from money she's made. And LOTS of shoes. Sixteen years after your death, and these are still the material comments she makes when referring to you in conversation.

I am so sorry you ever met her. Of course, you'd still be with us if you hadn't. And then I would be aware that there was still someone walking this earth who knows exactly what it's like to have a soul so deep, it hurts.

And then I wouldn't feel so alone.

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Insomnia in Dallas...

Dear Kurt,

A restless night of going over and over the same details of your case as well as new information that I am learning is plaguing me. It's so frustrating.

There is clearly not any proof of why you may have committed suicide other than Courtney's testimonies... and the proof that shows you did not kill yourself is off the charts!!

Needless to say, these images and ideas of what took place are filling my mind to an extent where I am starting to have nightmares. Someone running around trying to off me... they tried and tried.... rat poisoning, then acid on the face. I woke up after that, scared to death of what it might have been like.

Not including the HUNDRED suicides that took place in vain revolving a desire to mimic yours, their must be thousands of us out here who feel so unsettled with all our care towards justice and peace for your name. I just hope one day.... that will be granted.

Peace. Love. And Extreme Empathy

Monday, June 14, 2010

THIS letter should be pretty easy to understand....

Dear Kurt,

I read the recent comment to my 'Boddah' quote. And I believe the guy 100 percent (although I couldn't seem to read his profile hint hint), and the thought sickened me. GOD. To picture you struggling for your precious life... Makes me sick to my stomach.

I'm trying not to think about it. But in retaliation, I wrote a letter I've been meaning to write -- a letter confirming my intention to BOYCOTT the Biopic film project that your crazy, money hungry, ex-cunt wife is preparing.

The letter follows.

Peace... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

To Whom It May Concern:
This letter is in regards to the Kurt Cobain biopic you have in development.I am an independent producer and writer. I am also very passionate about police work (several of my scripts revolve around crime).
With that said, I have every intention of boycotting this project if it even comes CLOSE to making it into theaters.For the director, producers, actors, grips, gaffers, electricians, stand-ins, executives, wardrobe designers, set decorators and any other workers who take part on this project for a paycheck or recognition... You will be taking part in nothing but a big, fat line of BS.
I am not speaking as a 'die hard' Nirvana fan. I am speaking as a person who has done my extensive research on Kurt Cobain's death and the investigation following. And it is a cold, hard fact that the fluff novel 'Heavier than Heaven' has enough untruths and inconsistencies to make it nothing more than Courtney Love's false gratification on what supposedly took place at the end of the amazing and sweet life of a man she only knew for barely even three years.
In those three years, and the sixteen years following his so-called suicide, she has begged, borrowed and stole everything and anything pertaining to his precious heart and soul.
IF this project even comes CLOSE to going into production... I hope the director goes into it with the notion of EVERY single detail of EXACTLY what took place the couple months before and AFTER his death and all the FACTS that have come together regarding the low character of Ms. Love.
And I also hope they take into account the other THREE deaths that proceeded Kurt's in DIRECT relation.
Kristen Pfaff, Hole's bassist, who died at just 27 only two months after Kurt, from a suspicious heroin overdose similar to Kurt's. She had been to rehab and was clean and sober the night she was all packed up and ready to leave Seattle and Courtney's band HOLE behind for good to go home to Minneapolis.
Courtney's guitarist, Eric, was the last one to see her alive. The same type of pure heroin that was in Kurt's system (three times the amount to kill a person over) was found in hers.
Courtney was once quoted saying to her bassist, Kristen -- "If you EVER fuck me over, you will regret it FOREVER".Needless to say, Courtney still wanted her in the band when she decided to drop out and leave Seattle. Kristen was also extremely heartbroken over Kurt's death and admitted to a feeling that something was off.
Eldon Hoke, the man who passed a polygraph test with 99.1 percent certainty that his friend of ten years, Courtney, offered him fifty thousand dollars to "blow her husbands" head off. He not only passed the test... But also had a witness to the conversations with Courtney -- who passed a polygraph as well.
Meanwhile, Courtney refuses to take a polygraph test regarding the details of her husband's death.
In 1997, Eldon Hoke took part in an interview where he slipped and gave the name of a friend who he knew had been the one Courtney had gotten to proceed with the 'deal' after he backed out..One week later, last seen by this 'friend' he mentioned in the interview, Eldon was ran over by a train.
Seattle Narcotics Detective Antonio Terry, who Ms. Love was very good friends with, and had a relationship that consist of trading 'favors'... would help her out on certain legal issues, and in return she would rat out drug dealers she didn't get along with (i.e dealers who she suspected her husband was sleeping with) mostly dealers that SHE used to purchase drugs from.
Detective Terry was innocently driving home from work one night when he pulled over to help a group of men who flagged him down claiming to be stranded on the side of the road. Not soon after, he was gunned down -- the details are extremely sketchy.
Antonio Terry is the first Seattle Police officer from the force to lose his life in NINE years of all working officers.
These are NOT coincidences and they are NOT myths. They are facts that have been proven with cold, hard evidence.Courtney Love has a trail of dead bodies that she leaves in her wake. She is famous for being materialistic.
Her comments are obscene and just recently she has lost guardianship for her own daughter, and has been accused of stealing money from her own daughter's trust fund (also from Kurt's estate).
When all the ones involved proceed in taking part in putting this film together, I want them to be VERY aware that they are PROMOTING the EXTORTION of a man's heart whom was taken from us in cold-blood stemming from a greed that is deeper, stronger and sicker than any greed that has EVER came out of Hollywood.
I am writing a script that revolves around the unbiased truth. The facts of the investigation, with the idea of digging into Kurt's actual heart. Not a self-promoting version that 'executive producer' Courtney Love thinks will not only put MORE money in her pocket, but will also paint her as the adoring, good-natured wife. Also known as a bold faced LIE.
* we're here for you Kurt.
** woman in image is Kristen Pfaff.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

To Boddah. You're such a Tearjerker.

Dear Kurt,

I'm having trouble deciphering the relationship with your invisible friend. It's been said that "Boddah" was an imaginary friend you had in your adulthood. Which, is understandable given your character...

But the attachment of the name to your "suicide" note is another very insightful mistake from the forger. It is clear that through notebook, after notebook after notebook you have written hundreds of letters to friends, relatives, journalists.... the works. But not a single public letter other than the "suicide" note has ever been revealed where you literally start with:

"To/Dear Boddah."

I believe that this is an extremely obvious ploy to convince the reader of the note that this would, without a doubt conclude that the full letter was written with your hand by 1) Having the strangely larger handwriting at the top and 2) Followed by the strangely different handwriting at the bottom, essentially concluding the note as a "whole."

I also believe that anyone who knows you extremely well, would assume the one surefire way to convince the public that this was in fact your full note would be to use a term (i.e. Boddah) that is more personal and uniquely yours. But instead of it actually convincing us that this was in fact you, it actually appears even more like a desperate attempt to prove it's you, but is actually a little too over the top.

Just another observation that will never change the fact that every article or listing of your name will forever be followed by this : 1967-1994 (suicide).

It sickens me to no end how they tore your character apart. How the world just.... bought it. It's not right, it's not fair and it's unjustifiable. You had a life. You had a life that will never be again. How could someone do that and just go on with theirs?

You toured with a band in the early 90's who have, in the last couple decades... became... larger than life. They knew you. Face to face. Person to person. And they are like all the others. The paper says suicide. So.... it must be suicide. If they cared so much, so much for you... why didn't they look at the proof? The proof that has shown so many of us with common sense... the truth.

They wrote you a song. And the lyrics are beautiful. The guitarist had a lot in common with you -- "We're so trendy we can't even escape ourselves."

The song goes something like this...

My mouth fell open
Hoping that the truth
Would not be true
Refuse the news

I'm feeling sick now
What the fuck am I
Supposed to do
Just lose and lose

First time I saw you
You were sitting
Backstage in a dress
A perfect mess

You never knew this
But I wanted badly
for you to requite my

Left on the floor
Leaving your body
When highs are the
lows and lows are
the way

So hard to stay
Guess now you know
I love you so

I liked your whiskers
And I liked the dimple in
your chin your pale blue

You painted pictures cause
the one who hurts
Can give so much
You gave me such

Peace... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

p.s. If there is a God, and a Heaven... and you're soul is there as we speak. Did you know it was happening? I often wonder, if people's lives that end by the hand of another's if they realize as they go, what just took place.

"Kurt I can still feel you more than ever...."

Dear Kurt,

This title was a spray-painted note I recently witnessed in a photograph of a graffiti-filled bench that graces the park on the outskirts of your old Lake Washington property. This phrase is especially touching to me because in a way it represents the purpose behind writing to you beyond the grave.

In a way, some of us like to believe in doing things like this, we are somewhat keeping you company. Or as I stated in my first entry, letting you know that we are still here for you -- that you haven't been forgotten. That although the ones who took you away reaped the financial benefits of it, the ones who shed a tear on your behalf and the lack of truth and justice behind it, feel that your soul is still present.

At least in our hearts. And that's an even greater benefit.

I've been away from home for four days now... and I miss my guitar. I will have exactly one night to practice before I whisk off to another location where there are no familiar faces.... no one who knows my heart.

I'm eager to get back to Los Angeles, the only place I've ever felt a contentment to make a home, and build a normal life. See the same people, day after day. The same scenery night after night. The majority of the world is used to this. They find it boring and dull. But to the ones who have lived the opposite for so many years -- such as your self with your touring, we know how unsettling the bouncing around can be.

You stated in your journal that you couldn't "wait to get home"... then in parenthesis, you either wrote "Whenever that is" or "Wherever that is", your handwriting was a bit off. But I feel it was

"Wherever", and you were unsure of your place and where your home and heart was as well. A definite level of unsettled feelings plaguing your life.

I adored reading through your entries and the personality that shined through so distinctly. You reminded me of myself quite a bit with your obvious need to be extremely thankful, apologetic, and the desire to let your friends know that you appreciated them and cared that they gave you the chance to be in their lives.

The fact that you signed every letter with "Love, your pal" and on some occasions even adding "Best pal" was unbelievably adorable. Still signing notes this way in your mid-twenties.... made my heart swell inside and think over and over -- what a miraculous loss.

I've also recently watched a video of the band performing at a small club during the beginning stages of Nirvana, where you took it upon yourself to crowdsurf off of the stage, and somehow, the situation got out of hand.... and the bouncers had a hard time getting you back out of the crowd and onto the stage... that when they finally did -- The HUGE security guy starts punching you.

As you go down, he then proceeds in kicking you while your bandmates pull him from you. You stand there, like a sweet, innocent, confused little boy. And it reminded me of the time just recently when I was in Kansas City and innocently asked to use the bathroom in a public store, and I ended up receiving the same treatment.

When I saw that video of you, it was the first time I've felt as though I'm not the only one who has bizarre things like that happen out of the blue. They usually only happen to sweet, undeserving people -- kind of like your death.

Why is it, that such people with hearts of gold end up screwed.... when people with grey ones seem to live on forever?

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

Saturday, June 12, 2010


Dear Kurt,

It's four-thirty PM and I'm at my hotel in Toronto.... Every time I fly into this city, I can't help but think of Keanu Reeves. This has no relevance other than the fact that he's another influential 80's and 90's man who probably believes beyond a shadow of doubt that you killed yourself.

I had an irritating semi-drunk text message conversation with my sister last night, and she's one of those cynical sorts (that I was at one point), who believes beyond that same shadow that you did in fact... commit suicide. But when I asked her to give one good, legitimate reason, she answered with the same generic answer I've received from most sceptics -- "He was depressed... he couldn't handle the pressure.... blah blah. Blah."

Basically the same mindless dribble that the media gave the public. Then as the conversation progressed, she indeed proclaimed.... "I don't know, one way or the other, I don't really care!"

So this leads to one basic conclusion. The ones who are willing to accept your 'legally' classified death as a 'suicide', are either, as stated before, the ones who lean towards defending Courtney or.... the ones who, sadly, don't give a rat's ass. Therefore remaining lazy and ignorant to the details behind the scenes. Beyond Nirvana....

And that's where a brilliant man, Hank Harrison comes in. I understand that you didn't have much of, if any relationship with your father-in-law during your time here. But he seemed to be, uncannily, more remorseful if not more emotional than your very own wife towards your demise --

another telling sign of Ms. Love's character that continues to astound me.

So for your benefit and others who may not know... Hank Harrison is Courtney Love's blood father. He is a highly educated man, specializing in Psychology, and has written around seven books on various subjects. He is 100% convinced beyond any shadow of a single doubt on this earth, that you were indeed murdered.

Not only is he convinced, but he has gone as far as announcing that he is completely sure that his own daughter is capable of orchestrating a murder. I will be posting many things off and on from this man's website as well as others who are my intellectual saving graces on this subject -- when the "brush-it-offers" bring me down.

An excerpt from his book follows this entry. Until next time --

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

"Harrison believes Kurt Cobain was murdered and for many reasons, but he also believes that reopening the case will do no good. He feels that dangerous and powerful people in high places, people far more powerful than his daughter, want this case shut tight and sealed forever.

Even so, the fact remains that Courtney refuses to take a polygraph examination on the subject of her husbands death and her behavior since he died is suspicious, but Hank Harrison believes that whoever murdered Kurt is already paying for their treachery and will continue to pay for the rest of their lives in exile and by boycott.

Millions of fans have already boycotted Geffen records and Hole's performances. Like a man without a country the people who took this marvelous poet and troubadour away from us will — like OJ Simpson, Ira Einhorn and the killer(s) of Jon Benet Ramsey — walk in the shadows forever.

It is however important to realize that Kurt Cobain did not kill himself and, to that end, there are several rather telling bits of evidence developed exclsuivly by Hank Harrison in this book."
-- from Hank Harrison's Beyond Nirvana

"We know for an absolute fact that junkies rarely use guns to kill themselves. Kurt was either the biggest bionic dope man alive, or he died of an overdose."
-- Hank Harrison
** a small side note, for those who aren't familiar with the level of heroin in Kurt's system at the time of death, it was three times the lethal level, and this is based on the size of a typical 155 lbs male. At the time of his death, a 5'10" Kurt, was currently off drugs (a telling problem regarding the tolerance to begin with), and only weighing in at 110-115 lbs.
Bionic dope man under those circumstances?? Never.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Depression versus Suicide.

Dear Kurt,

A simple fact bothers me about your case. A lot of people equate depression and suicide to be one in the same.... but that is actually not the case.

Several journalists and articles have come to the conclusion that you did in fact take your life, because... well... you had a "history" of depression.... and.... suicide is what naturally follows.

But all anyone has to do is turn on Daytime Television in America and watch your typical trash talk show, and commercial after commercial will present themselves referring to certain lawsuits for certain drugs for depression.

In these commercials the announcer clearly states, "If you've lost a loved one to suicide while on this particular drug, for the treatment of depression.... contact us...."

These sleazy personal defense lawyers are greedy, but they're not stupid. Doctors and therapists alike speak daily regarding the difference between just feeling blah... unexcited, bored, (a favorite of yours) and just plain unhappy in your life, versus the desire to completely be gone from this Earth. Such a hate and distaste for yourself and life... a despair so dark, that you just wish the pain would end.

That's a completely different ballpark. You spoke only once of "suicide" in your journal. And that was clearly sarcasm regarding taking away your stomach pain that no one could seem to find a single answer to, hey... why don't you just eat ice cream for the rest of your life?? Brilliant medical advice.

Love, your pal.

Justice Seeker.
p.s. I'm depressed right now.... but I'm not about to jump out the fucking window. Right? right. And you had a daughter man. A daughter. Idiots.

Contemplating In Boston...

Dear Kurt,

One of the main lines of your "suicide"note makes me chuckle from irony. The very first line...

"This note should be pretty easy to understand."

I bet if you knew the following events were about to take place, with that note being the center... I'm sure you would have dropped the subtlies and painted it clearly --

"(In caps) this is not a suicide note!! This is a letter informing my fans that I no longer plan on being a part of the grunge scene or Nirvana!!"

Then... She would have had to forge a complete letter. Not just four lines. Then the lazy, brain dead, corrupt Seattle Police would have to look into the handwriting analysis.

When I lived in San Francisco years back, I was staying with a really good friend and his mom in a building his brother-in-law owned.

His mother, at first glance put on a "smiley" face, but underneath was as lying and conniving as they came.

Needless to say, we didn't get along too well with her, in the current living situation... And had several arguments regarding who should pay what rent-wise.

Now, this friend of mine is a really great guy. Kind, with a giving personality. He even used to be a police officer... And this fact is the main reason he was in ownership of a standard issued handgun.

Eventually the fights at the house escalated to a point of grand tension... But since it was a family situation no one could legally be 'evicted' and removed from the premise... So we were in an awkward place.

One average morning we awoke to the sounds of the mother whistling in the kitchen... An odd sound given the current state of affairs.

Not more than an hour later we were confronted with a loud knock on the bedroom door.

As we opened it in confusion... Several police officers were staring us down, saying we had to gather anything we could carry and leave the premise immediately -- the whole while his mother cackling in the background.

As we began to gather our things in sheer confusion... One of the officers finally showed us a report. It turns out the MOTHER had gotten a restraining order against her own son just to get us out of the building and, essentially, have her way.

The report read that "he taunted me with his gone. He waved his gun in my face." And on and on.

Of course none of this came close to even happening, but without any proof, the police took her word, and not only kicked us out of the only home we had, but also confiscated his gun as well.

Sound familiar?

Courtney played her cards so right, lying again and again -- telling the police that you had locked yourself in the bathroom, with a gun, and you were 'suicidal'.

Without any proof, they automatically wrote this off as truth, when you, yourself had calmly stated that you were in fact NOT suicidal, you were WITHOUT a firearm, that you locked yourself in the bathroom to in fact get away from her...

And then she later admitted that you hadn't used the word suicidal and HADN'T been wielding a gun...

But the police still confiscated all of yours, and used this extremely FALSE situation as an excuse to immediately jump to the conclusion that your death was an "open and shut case of suicide."

In the wise words of one officer... "Remember? we just received a call last week about this guy threatening to blow his head off."

Oh, really? And here I thought it was later announced plain as day that there was NO intention of suicide, NO gun. That it was just a case of a frustrated husband(with millions to his name) on the verge of walking out on his overbearing wife....

And THAT is worth a lifetime of getting away with murder?

And only twenty-seven short years for you on this earth, only two of them with your loving daughter?

The Seattle Police Department obviously have no value for life.

You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to walk straight up to one of those officers and say... At least question this, ask the two primary suspects;

"Why did you fake an overdose the night he died and intentionally get arrested, Ms. Love?"

"Why did you conveniently fly out of Seattle just a day before the body was discovered, Mr DeWitt?"

Put them on the spot! There's no harm in that... And then you see who breaks under pressure.

There was clearly a lot of lying going on. Even your best friend Dylan lied about the greenhouse. That should have been the subject of interrogation.

And why, when it came out that Courtney suggested he and Tom check the greenhouse, did he not mention this to Tom and.... Check the greenhouse!!

It is clear that Dylan was not about to have himself framed as the prime suspect based on "knowing" the location of the body... Hence proving that he knew something was going on, FOUL PLAY. MURDER. CRIMINAL INTENT.

But I still don't understand why he showed no feeling upon hearing of your death? What? Did he have plenty of time to prepare himself after he learned of Courtney's plan?

And if that were the case... Why wouldn't he inform someone or try to prevent it?? Some friend, Kurt.

He is as good as guilty in my book.
And I can't for the life of me figure out where to get a rug large enough to sweep away all the details that PROVE you had NO desire to die.

Peace... Love... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

p.s. I read an article regarding Courtney's autobiography where she states she still writes "love" letters to you. I can't help but analyze the content... "Dear Kurt. Thank you for the one hundred and fifty million dollars. Keep it coming. The end."

Thursday, June 10, 2010

June 09, 2010 -- Losing Faith In Raleigh Durham

Dear Kurt,

I'll be thirty-two on August 14th, and my parents are still impossible to talk to. My mom lives in la-la land who equates joining a group (preferably a CHURCH one) to living my career dreams. And my dad.... well... if we speak of anything other than the weather -- then the conversation gets too heated too quick.

I know you've had similar family problems growing up... only your parents were divorced at a young age, and surprisingly, I often wish that of my parents because then they would both be easier to talk to -- separately. Now it's always a case of "Them" against "Me", and my mom defends my dad as if he's Jesus on the fucking cross.

But enough about me.... I'm half way through your journal entries and I've just finished the letter you wrote to your father.

Very beautiful. Very touching. and very puzzling under the circumstances.

In this letter... with utmost conviction, you state how profound the responsibility you have taken on in regards to becoming a father. This is also made even more respectable, because in earlier entries of yours you have no qualms about ranting at length and often about your pro-abortion stance.

In this letter to your father.... you go on in grave detail about how... through thick and thin, through divorce, and even if you and your wife end up hating each other... you will make it your ultimate goal in life and do what ever it takes to provide for Frances. You will ensure to her, that you love her a million times more than yourself.

Your mission of this letter, is to prove to your father that you will be twice the man he was by being there for your own child, the way he wasn't there for you.

Now, I can't think for the life of me -- why anyone with these morals and intentions -- would just... a year later... put a gun in their mouth -- and pull the trigger.

And you didn't. Did you? If i could only be Marty McFly for one moment, and jump into by Delorean and go back to that fateful moment with my cellphone camera. Yeah... if you think things were becoming ridiculous in the late 80's with technology.... I don't think you'd survive the New World of the New Millennium. It is in a word -- depressing.

I will be writing a scene in my script where you write this letter to your father. Overlaying the dialogue with visuals. And people will know how you really felt about staying in the world and being there for your daughter.

Not the portrayal that the media gave based on a million lies.

I now know how much you hated the lying journalists of the world. And again. I'm so sorry she took your beautiful life away. Your daughter recently turned seventeen. And she has your eyes.

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

"The thought of losing my baby haunts me every day. I'm even a bit unnerved to take her in the car in fear of getting into an accident. I swear that if I ever find myself in a similar situation than you've been in, i.e. a divorce, then I will fight to my death to keep the right to provide for my child.

I'll go out of my way to remind her that I love her more than I love myself. Not because it's a father's duty, but because I want to out of love. And if Courtney and I end up hating each other's guts we will be adult and responsible enough to be pleasant to one another when our child is around." -- Kurt Cobain

p.s. I can't help but remember the 'pleasantries' that Courtney showed the world on April 5th, 1994.

June 08, 2010 -- Drifting in Brooklyn.

Dear Kurt,

I'm in the process of heading to the bookstore... and with a reluctant hand... I will pull your journal entries from the shelf. I will not purchase it... no. Not in a million years will I contribute to the financial greed that designed this current reality. Me writing you post-mortem versus YOU. Alive and well.

But there is no point in dwelling on that at the moment. But yes. I want to grasp for one moment what your heart may have been... and then I am going to try with all my might to orchestrate those feelings into sequences in my screenplay.

I feel really shitty and I'm hoping that a glimpse into your soul will get me through another day.

(Four Hours Later)

Okay. I lied. And I ended up paying money that I don't have for your journals. Not only because I have the utter desire to be alone with your words... but also because I have the desire to be utterly alone. Just go to my room.... and close the world out. I have been good at that most of my life. Fiercely private. I'm sure you can relate.

Sometimes I feel as though a slight, meaningful glance from a perfect stranger, would cause me to collapse right there. It takes most of my strength to hold myself up all day.

So when I approached the counter to make my purchase, the cashier beckoning me toward him was a mirror image of you. Our eyes met... and I did not want to take that step closer to him. I glanced about, wishing another would assist me. But no....

I approached him with hesitation, and without looking him in the eye, I lay the book on the counter. Avoiding glancing to it as well. I felt so weak... as if advocating the selling of your soul, that I wanted to disappear. He turned the book over, quietly ringing in the purchase. Neither of us fained a smile.. and as he placed it in the bag, we shared a look.

I felt as if I was going to break like glass. And I made my way from the store.

I've began to read your most private thoughts... and at first glance... you are extremely intelligent, full of witty sarcasm and unbelievably talented with your comic strips. I liked your life.

Peace.... Love.... Empathy,

Justice Seeker.

p.s. I'm forty pages deep in proving your innocence.

June 04, 2010 -- a night of Vodka in Columbus.

Dear Kurt,

It’s been sixteen years since you left the world and I will start by saying; I will soon be thirty-two, and it took me these full sixteen years since your passing to discover your heart. I, of course, knew of your music… I was the perfect age (fifteen) at the height of it… I can recite every single word from every hit, but I’ve never called myself a Nirvana fan.

I suppose it’s this attitude that left me vaguely disinterested in even hearing your name or music the years following April 5th 1994. See, I can relate to your love of music and writing. I am a musician and writer myself. It is my heart, my life, my world… my only salvation.

My main passion is filmmaking, and it’s this dream of mine that I’ve been after my whole life that has given me a certain level of depression and sadness since… well, birth. But my depression stems from the lack of control I have in living my dream. I can’t seem to take hold of it no matter what I do… no matter how hard I try.

At times, my depth of loneliness has taken over my existence in such a way that I’ve often considered ending it all. I’ve even penned the slogan:

They say you can’t die from a broken heart…. Yes you can. It’s called suicide.

I’ve felt like this more often than not in my thirty-years on this earth. But I’ve never once actually given into, even close to, the thorough thought of ending it all.

This strength and endurance has lead to the absolute distaste for the name Kurt Cobain, for sixteen years. I read the papers… I read the notations… I read the so-called facts. And I wrote you off.

I wrote you off as a weak, spoiled, ungrateful musician living the ultimate dream – to be paid handsomely – for doing what you love. And it wasn’t enough. You weren’t happy. You weren’t just unhappy… but you’d rather die than keep going under those circumstances.

Well, I am writing this letter to you to apologize for those sixteen years since your death that I was in the dark. After all, I believed what others believed. I believed the media. I believed your wife…

And then I finally did something for myself that I should have done years ago. I finally started learning how to play my favorite instrument in the world… The electric guitar. And although resentful, I began to strum the first few chords of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. And I opened Pandora’s box.

The more I learned the song, the softer I became towards you. I didn’t realize that I was ready to let you into my heart until I was in the music section of a random Barnes and Noble, and your clear, blue eyes were staring back at mine on the cover of a book based on your life. I began to read. But the words on the page, didn’t quite convince me that what I was reading was necessarily true.

So I closed the book, put it back on the shelf… and my eyes were instantly drawn to a large book entitled “Kurt Cobain journals.”

And my heart instantly sank for you. My first thought was, how on earth could anyone live with themselves selling off the most prized personal thoughts of a human-being after their passing.

You clearly despised the media attention. The fan adulation. Shouldn’t that immediately conclude that your heart and soul in your private diary would clearly be off limits as a way for financial gain??

That’s when I began doing my research. On your death. The investigation. Your wife. And my heart broke open. And I am so sorry. God, I am sorry. I am sorry for sixteen years of scoffing at the sound of your name.

But not half as sorry as I am for your daughter and the clear, pure love you shared for her – with her.

I crossed over to the other side. The proof was clear… I know with all my heart, that there is no way on earth you put that gun to your head and pulled the trigger.

I’ve seen the “Suicide” note. And I grasped its meaning. And it is as clear as your astounding blue eyes that you did not write the last four lines of it.

And I’m so sorry. So sorry for the life that was taken from you, the life of your daughter’s lived without you… and the false memories that her mother has given her.

It’s clear from the photos that you adored your daughter, and would have given her your all if circumstances would of allowed.

Money. Greed. Connections. Fame. Rock Star. Success. Attention. Power.

All the evil things that control people. All the things that the majority of the human race now seem to value more than life itself. I’ve heard an interview with you regarding the evil ways of people, the phoniness, the callus behaviors that have paved the way towards your distaste for people in general.

A hate that you clearly stated in your final letter to the world. A letter that you had no intention of being your last.

I too can relate to this. I have managed to build absolutely zero connections with another individual thirty-two years on this earth because of my distaste for these same shallow, deceitful things -- that I am spending my night writing a letter to a dead man who seems to be the only human-being whom I’ve encountered who once walked the earth, who seems to “get” me.

And I’m so sorry. So sorry that what would have been your 42nd birthday has come and gone. And being a female, that concludes another decade that I haven’t been granted the opportunity to become the love of your life.

I was looking over more old photographs of you, and came across a rather adorable shot that featured you with a sweet smile, grasping a Strawberry quik carton…. Before I knew it, I was overcome with emotion and tears were streaming down my face. And all I could say was…

“When you have something like that (the love of a man like you), who could possibly desire the money? Any money. Let alone millions.”

But she did. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that such greed cost you your life… and that connection, that evil behavior overflowed into the Seattle Police Department, and her clout overthrew your case.
But you know what? It’s not over, it’s not nearly over. There are thousands of us out here who STILL try, every day, to convince the ones who can make a difference that your case needs a THOROUGH investigation.

I am in the process of writing the screenplay that shows ALL the details that were swept under the rug…. And one day… one day…. You will have your afterlife revenge.

Because you know what? We love you. I love you. You were an amazing man, an amazing musician and an amazing spirit.

And we haven’t forgotten this. We haven’t forgotten you. And you did have the strength. The endurance. And you had every intention of being there for your daughter. But others had different plans for you and your fortune. And GOD.

I am so sorry, Kurt. So sorry. I never had the privilege of knowing you in person…. But you have managed to work your way slowly into my heart, and for that, I thank you. You’ve been gone sixteen years.

And you still have the power to make people fall in love with you. And that is something Courtney Love will never be able to take from us. Because that kind of power is stronger than life and death. And money and greed.

That’s a power she will never possess. No matter who she manipulates. Something you had all along…. A beautiful soul. And that is eternal. We’re here for you, Kurt.

Peace… Love…. Empathy,

Justice Seeker.