Ok, younguns, it ain’t just because I loved reading science fiction novels when I was a kid that I said when I launched my mock campaign for president on The Unicorn Ticket, that my first official act as president will be to declassify all of the American government’s ET files.
Some things happened on Facebook yesterday about the road trip? post, which might cause some people to wonder if I ain’t from this planet, after I responded to the first southern belle, whom I don’t know, which then dove in heretofore untold strange waters, and then I responded to the second southern belle, whom I know from many conversations on Facebook and Facebook messenger, and one Facetime call, which plunged into far stranger waters.
Here goes.
Road Trip?
Sloan Bashinsky
Ok, younguns, I found two places in cyberspace where real people seem to hang out a good bit of the time. The other day, both of them caused me to start itching to do a road trip, just as I was starting to feel some better, like I might want to run a few more new rivers before the Lord comes to fetch me.
Jane
SLOAN! I think I remember you from when David Cromwell Johnson was alive and in my flock! Ya?
Sloan Bashinsky
In your flock? 😎
Jane
Sloan Bashinsky YES!!!
Sloan Bashinsky
Exactly what kinda flock? 😎
Jane
By the GRACE of God, I led him to CHRIST before he died. Do you remember that time period?
Sloan Bashinsky
For several months in the fall of 2001, I worked in David's law firm, sub rosa. We had a falling out and I didn’t see or speak with him after that. The men working in his his law firm told me, at first they didn’t know what to make of me, and much later they said they were really glad I was there and they seemed distressed that I left. David was a dear friend, and I often wondered afterward if I should have tried to stick it out?
I had not heard until you told me today that he accepted the Christ. I never felt he had any problem with Jesus, but he had lots of things troubling him and I tried to help him deal with several of them. What I heard about his passing on did not cause me to think he was saved in the sense Christians use that term. It made me sad, because he truly was trying very hard to walk with God. We spoke of that often, but I did not try to sell him on the Christian model, which he and I both saw up close and personal in our lives was practiced mostly in the breach in the Christianity we knew.
Since David crossed over, he came to me maybe a dozen times in dreams, and it was sensation and tone, I understood it was about something I was dealing with in my life, and I adjusted how I was dealing with it. He never said anything about Jesus or God in the dreams.
My father’s ashes were spread at Mt. Brook Baptist Church. He came to me times in dreams after we had rough falling out in 1995, then we patched it up somewhat, and then we fell out again, and he started coming to me in dreams again, much as David did.
Many people I know come to me in dreams which helps me navigate something I’m dealing with in my life. They never say anything about Jesus or God or being saved. Some of them are Christians, some of them are not.
I have had Jesus and Archangel Michael hard on my case since early 1987. They turned me upside down and inside out and every which way but loose, and stood me before endless mirrors looking a me.
They steer and correct me, even spank me, when I mess up something I’m dealing with. they never mention the Christian version of salvation. Their version is, to the extent anyone lives as Jesus in the Gospels lived and taught, they are saved by him. Those two were joined by Melchizedek in early 1999. Then, the road got even more interesting.
I often have thought they took on the most messed up man they could find as an experiment to see how he might fare with it. Jesus and Michael told me when their first showed up that I would be pushed to my limits. Limits I did not then know I had.
In the spring and early summer of 2001, I was pressed to write a novel about a Birmingham trial lawyer, perhaps the person I might have been if I was worthy, and a couple of women he loved dearly, one at a time. David declined several ties to read the manuscript, said he was afraid it would shake him up too much. Eventually it was published by a print to order publisher, but nothing came of it.
Last year, a friend of mind with serious tech skills digitized the novel and published it in he free internet library, archive.org, which specializes in out of print books and books authors provide for free. The library is funded and run by colleges in America.
Here’s a link to Heavy Wait: A Strange Tale, which ain’t for the faint of heart or prudes. It can be read on a smartphone, laptop, desktop, tablet, kindle, nook, etc.
https://archive.org/details/heavy-wait-a-strange-tale_202212
Sloan Bashinsky
Heavy Wait’s sequel, Return of the Strange, finally fell out of me last year. In its own way, just as wild a ride.
https://archive.org/details/kundalina
Elizabeth
If you don't come to Bon Secour (river!) I really will be pissed.
Sloan Bashinsky
That’s a damn tempting invitation, Liza.
See my reply to Jane above and the two novels I described therein, which can be read on a smartphone, computer, tablet, kindle, nook, etc. It’s gonna really piss me off if the Empress of Fantasia don't read and bless them.
Elizabeth
But I am already sulking because you can be anywhere and this place is truly Southern Gothic.
I'm not going to read this until you get down here at least for a visit.
Sloan Bashinsky
It doesn’t work that way. You may understand why I said that, if you read the novels.
Sloan Bashinsky
Hmm, I dreamed around dawn today of talking with three groups of people about ETs, they were very interested in that, and when I woke, I thought about my first novel, Kundalina, Alabama, also a free read at the free internet library.
https://archive.org/details/kundalina
Compared to the the two later novels, Kundalina is sophomoric, although after it went online at the free library, it received several raves.
I just now read the second chapter about 3 jolting dreams the “hero” Riley Strange had when he was a boy, and I marveled that I had written it, and that I did not recall having written it. I wonder now if I was in some kinda trance?
Kundalina is a mythical town beside the dam under the Cahaba River bridge at US Highway 280, a few miles south of Mountain Brook, aka The Tiny Kingdom, about which’s churches, and other parts of Birmingham’s churches, Riley's mom writes a week column for a daily Birmingham newspaper under the pen name, Rose Carruthers. Your supercalafragilasticexpialidocious poem “Pigs in mud,” reminded me of Rose, who does not win any friends in Birmingham church pews.
The people of Kundallina are actually colonists from the Pleladian star system, who took to Tibetan Buddhism upon their arrival on Earth. They blend in with Earthlings and look and talk like them, but they ain’t really nothing like them in the important shit.
Rose is to die for, as is Riley's childhood sweetheart Mary Lou Snow. After a dear friend, who had worked for my father’s company, Golden Flake Potato Chips, read Kundalina, he asked my wife in Boulder where in the heck did Sloan come up with Mary Lou? My wife said, “Mary Lou is a part of Sloan.” As was every other person in Kundalina. In some way, place and time.
My homeless reluctant cowgirl shaman girlfriend in Key West who got the blues said she had to stop reading Heavy Wait because it kept reminding her of herself. She might have liked Kundalia better, but I didn’t have a copy of it back then. She loved your “Pigs in mud” poem.
***************
All want the security of the well fed pig.
Horror at the baseness unrecognized.
A lifetime spent in shirt stuffing.
And pen comparison.
Is truth more palatable when honeyed?
Is a stark soulscape less so with the eyes of Monet?
May my affectations always be understood.
****************
A year after Kundalina was published, I visited two women in Pagosa Springs, Colorado, who had written EtT 101: Colorado: The Cosmic Instruction Manual for Planet Earth. They were channeling Pleiadeans, who told them I should think poetry, and about a week later incredible poetry started gushing out of me on the 26th anniversary of the day I buried my infant son. 26 is the sacred number for God.
The following spring, my Boulder wife, her maybe 8-year-old son, and a friend of hers, my wife and our friend were licensed clinical social workers, he was who had told me that I should read up on St. John of the Cross, were sitting on the side patio of our home nice April day.
For some reason, I leaned back and looked skyward and saw an oval white spaceship parked beside a cloud maybe two miles up. I told them to look up at the spaceship parked beside the cloud, and I heard back, ‘Yeah, right, Sloan.” I asked them again to look up at the spaceship, and got back, “Yeah, right, Sloan.” The space ship darted behind the cloud, a maneuver no human aircraft I ever heard of could do. I told them about that, and heard back, “Yeah, right, Sloan.” Then, the cloud started being stretched from left to right across the sky, like a super wide vapor trail, and I told them to look up at that, and heard back, “Yeah, right, Sloan.”
That night, the boy came to me alone and asked me if I really had seen a spaceship? I asked him if he had ever known me to make shit up? He said, no. I said he didn’t look up, because he didn’t want them to tease him. He said, yes.I said, I already knew about ETs and that was done for him, and I bet the next time I tell him to look up at a spaceship, he will do it. He said, yes. But there was no next time while I was living with him and his mother. She and our friend knew I wasn’t making it up. They simply did not want to see it.
Late last year, it dawned on me that the Pleiadean ship had showed up for me to see how they would respond, and that was my cue to thank them for being a part of my life, but it was time for me to move on Had I done that, it would have saved me a great deal of heartache and money, and I would not have become homeless and lived on the street and just off it for 5 years. But then, living that poetry really affected me in ways not living it would have affected me, and it enriched my life.
Many times I wanted to drive down to your neck of the woods and meet the author of the amazing “Pigs in mud” in person, and your husband. I think my old Toyota van might be up for it, and perhaps I might be, too. I've grown weary and bored with feeling not well enough to drive farther than to see my older daughter and her hubby and their dogs about 2 hours away, so let’s see how it goes. Even so, what i said above about how to really get to know me ain’t changing.😎
sloanbashinsky@yahoo.com
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