Another visit to the Guru

Fires, fires, everywhere in the Old West, including near my own home! The evacuation order came for me to leave everything I own and run like hell! Here is an image of the inferno that came raging to my street:

Quail Hollow Fire Courtesy of the Salt Lake Tribune

Many of my neighbors rushed out of their homes carrying oil paintings and other valuables, trudging down the street like Syrian refugees. I wrung my hands fitfully, looking right and left for a place to hide and then I realized my bad Karma was due to the fact that I hadn’t visited the old Guru that lives in a cave on the the mountain behind my home in quite a while. So, instead of running with the herd, I decided to climb the mountain to his hideout and see if he was all right.

I put on my crampons and ice-axed up the glacier like an old mountain goat high on loco weed. Braving the howling wind at the summit, I hobbled as fast as I could to the cave’s jagged entrance and stepped inside. It was dark and dank, and  a voice from the back of the cave, sounding like James Earl Jones on helium said, “Is that you, Fed Ex guy?”

“No, it’s me, master.” I replied as I dusted the snow off of my parka. “I brought you a gift.”

“I told you not to show up here any more, you worthless piece of Llama dung. I still have a bad hack from that rotten Jimson Weed you gave me last time.” He shuffled into the feeble shaft of light that penetrated the mouth of the cave, and grabbed the pouch that I proffered in my frost-bitten hand. He opened the drawstring and peered inside suspiciously.

“What is this crap?”

“Well, it’s the Joni Mitchell CD that you wanted, and some seeds from a Yopo tree that I collected in the Amazon last year.”

Mollified, he sat down and assumed a full lotus position on the cold granite floor. Digging an old corn cob pipe from under the filthy Navaho blanket that draped across his shoulders, he stuffed a few seeds in the bowl and lit up, drawing the pungent smoke deeply into his lungs.

His eyes bugged out like a toad and after a few minutes, he exhaled the greasy green vapor. “That’s more like it”, he squeaked, “ Gimme some of the Tequila in that hip flask you’re hiding under your parka”, he demanded.

“How did you know I had that?” I unzipped the parka and handed him the bottle.

“You are disgustingly predictable.” he replied, chugging the contents. “Now, what do you want?”

I pondered his question for a moment. “Well, beside my house being on fire by now, I have been considering giving my fishing float tube and stuff to my nephew. I love it, but I’m getting too old to use it anymore. The kid doesn’t even have a car to put it in and go somewhere.”

“So what? Maybe it will motivate him to get a job. Besides, things are to be used and people are to be loved.”

I considered this comment while the old man belched and farted contentedly. He was right, of course.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, “Those seeds are all right!  I’m getting tunnel vision!” He scuttled across the floor like a crab and sat back on an old mattress covered with bat droppings. He slipped the CD into a portable player, and a clear sweet voice started the first tune from ‘Shadows and Light’.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me before I go?”

“Yes.” He said, scratching his beard absently. “Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habits. Watch your habits; they become character; Watch your character; it becomes your destiny.”

I pondered this admonition for a minute, and satisfied; I zipped my parka back up and turned to leave. “I’ll see you again, someday.” I called over my shoulder.

“If you see that Fed Ex guy on the way down, tell him the porn he’s delivering had better have some women in it this time.”

“Will do,” I replied.

As I climbed down off of the mountain, I could see hundreds of firemen fighting to contain the fierce flames which were still shooting hundreds of feet into the air, and dozens of fire trucks were spraying water. Two Blackhawk helicopters were swooping down, dumping fire retardant, and the whole effort was being orchestrated by a spotter plane circling well above the scene. It was then that I was glad that I live in the most tax-expensive real estate in Utah. For once, I won’t mind paying my taxes this fall; those people were worth every penny of it.