The Beginning Of A Story That Began In Another Time: Part IV
In a story that began in our May issue, I started out by going into a past life experience that took place over 700 years ago. This month’s installment features the players from the previous incarnation, and the vicissitudes of fate and Karma that have placed all of them in their respective roles, this time around. (If you have not read the first three installments, click here for PT: 1 , click here for PT: 2) and click here for PT: 3)
Just as I was leaving to meet Slim at the airport, Butch showed up at the door. It had been a little over a month since I’d seen him. He was there to repossess the Beretta pistol and the Mossberg Pump that had functioned as my engagement ring for over 13 years. Having had five weeks to come to terms with the fact that I was no longer G.I. Jane, I had no problem returning the guns, or the last few rounds of ammunition.
Already late for the airport, as I hustled Butch out the door I noticed a familiar looking face checking herself out in the rear view mirror of his truck; it was Whitney, a quasi-acquaintance of mine who had been lusting after Butch and his muscles for a long time. Staring out through the windshield, looking like the Queen of the Rednecks, she reminded me how lucky I was not to be sitting on that throne. I gave both of them the high sign, got in the car, and decided to take the back road to Albany.
By the time I got to Troy I still had no idea what I was going to do with a rogue genius hanging out in my world for over a week. Not much into hanging out with anyone in particular, to tell you the truth I was dreading it. I figured I’d have to be “On” for the duration, and being a ‘Class A’ hermit, this was not my cup of tea. As much as Slim seemed like an amazing guy, I figured that in private he was probably a narcissistic bore, and that regardless of how much I stood to learn from him, ten days of quantum physics was bound to get tedious.
It was almost midnight when he sauntered down the ramp at Albany Airport’s, Gate 29. Watching from a distance, I could see his head floating above the crowd, bobbing along under his gray-bellied Stetson, only to emerge from the fray with something that looked like a cane dangling from his left hand. Walking toward each other, what turned out to be a wooden yardstick came at me before I got close enough to shake his hand. I grabbed the butt end of this magic wand; Slim smiled, hugged me ‘Hello’, asked me how I was doing, and told me to hang on while he went looking for the sandbox.
It took me half a second to figure out that he was talking about the Jon. While he was in it, I examined the yardstick. A little over half-an-inch-square on all four sides, I had never seen another one like it. In addition to its measurements, the words, “VALUE MOTOR CO – 970 South Willow Avenue – COOKEVILLE, Tennessee – 931-528-6575″ were etched in black along one side.
It would be two hours before we got home. I figured Slim would probably nod out, but by the time we got off the Thruway it was obvious that he was wired from the trip, in no mood for sleep, and acutely aware of everything that was going on. The road back to Vermont was lined with acres of corn, and forests of gigantic maple trees that were lush and green from a summer of too much rain. It was pitch dark but the Honda’s high beams lit up the woods and the fields like something straight out of a fairy tale.
The scenery must have reminded him of it, because at one point Slim lit up a couple of cigarettes, one for me and one for himself, and launched into a story about driving a log truck over Wolf Creek Pass in the middle of a blizzard, and losing his brakes on the downhill run into Pagosa Springs. Listening to him talk, the part of me that could only see the genius got to see the other side of the coin. Before he left this world Slim and I would make two trips back and forth over Wolf Creek Pass. Both of them involved heavy snow and each ride was such a white knuckle affair, I thanked my lucky stars going up and going down that he was more than just a theoretical genius.
The same driveway that saw Butch and Whitney pull out of it only five or six hours before, saw me and Slim pull into it at a little past two-o’clock in the morning. After a car-ride conversation that went from how to make moonshine to how to turn dirt into white powder gold, we were standing in the kitchen talking about sound and light when it hit me that there wasn’t going to be any sleep for either one of us that night. I asked him if he wanted to hit the sack or stay up and wind down over a cup of tea and he looked at me and said, “No sense in going to bed now. We’re just getting started. A pot of coffee sounds good ; come on over here and talk to me.”
By the time the sun came up I was in the twilight zone, Slim Spurling was sitting on my front porch, and the Heliacal Rising of Sirius was adding a whole other dimension to what I could not fathom at the time. The day was just getting beautiful and the dog wanted to go out for his morning walk so Slim, and Oliver, and I strolled down West Pawlet’s Main Street like three hooligans on a toot, heading straight to the river for a morning dunk. Halfway there, Oliver took a dump and I got my first lesson in geopathic stress, straight from the horses’ mouth.
Rule Number Three: Re; Negative Frequencies And The Direction Of Spin
Animals are extremely sensitive to energy. They can also differentiate between positive and negative energies. Dogs gravitate toward positive telluric forces because it feels good to them to be surrounded by energies that are constructive to life. The only time they are drawn to zones of geopathic stress is when it’s time for them to do their business. Like attracts like; dogs will only poop in an area that vibrates at the speed of excrement. Anyone looking to map and clear areas of geopathic stress in their town or city would do well to make note of the vacant lots and the dead zones where the Mugwort grows and the dogs poop. You will also notice, that dogs circle to the left before they settle in to take a dump; the ‘left-spin’ is always marking a point where the force of nature is strong enough to break down and decompose whatever they leave in that territory.
(To be continued)
Cal Garrison
Is a practicing astrologer with 40 years of experience. An author of five books to her credit, Cal is well known for her affiliation with the late Slim Spurling. A single mother with three grown daughters, Cal lives happily in the red rocks of Sedona, Arizona. She can be reached at cal.garrison@gmail.com