Why Do Gurus Come From Mountains?
from the fireside whisky drinking thinker
Savouring a single malt beside the fireplace whilst swirling a question less foolish than imagined, begged analysis, and perhaps answering.
The fire emitted a warm glow and pipe smoke swirled. I pondered the next sip of single malt whilst peering at the cover of the celebrated publication by Ramesh Gurugot Yahmoni. These individuals who had become renowned for their wise teachings appeared to have a strong relationship with mountains or high places. They either came from high places, or they went up as more or less ordinary beings, returning somewhat transformed. Was there a relationship or connection? Perhaps it was something I imagined. Though there was consistency to the hypothesis; it could have equally been a logical fallacy. Nonetheless deeper excavation was warranted.
Could I have been on the cusp of an undocumented fact not treated with gravity in circles of illustrious academia? I sipped more whisky at the prospect and was compelled to fill my glass a third time, so as to provide fuel for the out of box skewed reasoning method. Maybe a radical rationalisation would unlock the mystery.
It seemed relevant to speculate whether it occurred in certain mountainous locations. After brief research, that investigative avenue underlined that although some locations of the world were more prevalent; it could be any mountainous area. We were generally familiar with the Himalayas, Tibet and China to mention a few, but tribal and regional history speaks of wise folk in regions from the Americas both north and south, Africa, the Orient, Asia and so on around the whole world. Even scriptural evidence of illumination after climbing a mountain and seeing a burning bush was common knowledge in theological circles. Eureka! The common denominator appeared to be high places. My reasoning made sense. Damned be the logical fallacy, I thought aloud.
The next step was to ascertain whether a minimum altitude and or duration of time at altitude was required for, shall we say the Guru effect. In the writings or teachings of many wise people; there were often references made to journeys into a wilderness and spending time alone in a remote place. The quantifiable extrapolated data given the degree of validity of said writings revealed sufficiently. Being alone and at a height were oxygen decreases were primary over duration. ‘The Guru Effect,’ which I will coin, can occur over varying lengths of time. Lack of oxygen was shaping to be a key element. Effects of hunger and the elements were doubtless contributors.
A conclusion was forming. The lesser heights of oxygenation restoration also became an integral element. There was another factor, and though unpalatable from an establishment academic perspective; the spiritual or deity element was not to be easily ignored because of scientific materialism theory. The term enlightenment itself suggested some higher realm or state of being regardless of conventionally accepted theories.
At that point it was necessary to avoid forays into the non-secular and lose grasp with the tangible. As some say, ‘to name that which cannot be named.’ The bipolar heated debate of a bearded old Santa Claus on a throne who hands out blessings or backhanders depending if you were naughty or nice, against everything is an accident and nothing means anything; would not lead to constructive conclusion, regardless of what is suggested by good folk of honest non establishment science. Many may cower at wrapping minds around their concepts. Frankly, they might seem even more bizarre than either end of that bipolar discussion. The church of science theory has a more than equal amounts of zealots.
It was time for another slosh of whisky and toke on my pipe. Progress was being made to a revelation of sorts. The final question remained in the process by steps, and that was the return.
1. Desire for change.
2. Climb to solitude and weary heights. Hypoxia.
3. Duration and conditions under hypoxia.
4. Return. Oxygenation, and grounding. You certainly couldn’t be called an illuminated guru if no one knew of your teachings or exploits.
It was all clear as day; solitude, exhaustion, hunger effects, and the magic component, hypoxia. Euphoria and hallucination followed. The descending oxygenation and bringing feet to firm grounding consolidated that. Simply because they would not remain in any lucid state to be considered guru. This leads to the possibility that many people we consider cuckoo; might in fact be in a constant state of enlightenment. The exception to the rule were forest folk. Of course they went into the wilderness, heights were involved, but their process was accomplished with boat loads of trippy drugs. Which as a consequence of changing thought trains due to whisky; made me question why a set of equations where everything happens by accident for no reason, was the earth full of so many drugs? That is a question for another potential layman’s thesis.
Finally I reached triumphantly for the whisky, but the bottle had been drained. A puff on my pipe revealed it had burnt out. Never mind, I thought. Eureka, there was the proposition in a nutshell. Effects of oxygen loss in those who flatline was documented and added further weight to my argument, Q.E.D most definitely. It was time to get serious, sit down and write a paper to send to some faculty in the hope of being taken seriously. It was only fair that this time I should be hailed and receive validation instead of being considered a laughable dolt. Then I thought, bollocks, I’m going to the pub for a pint. I could have spent the last few hours over a few pints and a football match instead.
satire... sort of
Now That's A Smart TV
from the fireside whisky drinking thinker
‘My TV is so smart, it has face and voice recognition, is programmable, has intelligent mood lighting and more. It knows what I like to watch and will make recordings or suggestions. The tech is so cool.’ Sounds a bit 1984, but it’s all ok, right?
‘Supersize my 9k screen, curve it, oh yeh! TITSS Theatre Immersion Surround Sound system Leica-B&O engineered, totally sexy right? Oh the lights, don’t forget the intelligent glowing mood lights. It’s not a TV mate, it’s more than smart, it’s the SuperMax Curve Digital Surround Sound Home Screen Entertainment Diamond XSS MkIII.’ … ‘Whatever! I’ve got the SameSong HAL9000 Tribute 12K CinePlex LUX II. In yo face man! So sharp and crips it burns your eyeballs out it you sit too close.’
I listened bemused by the rap-like exchange between the Hoodie and baseball cap gold chained characters. Accidentally, I had wondered into the audio visual section when looking for yet another non-standard standard cable inter-connector amongst the rows of ‘standard cables.’ As yet, not cured after years within IT of the plug and pray, I mean plug and play promise of a utopian single universal connector for all devices. No, but everything was going to become even easier with the ‘wireless’ connection. Yeh, right, let’s not go down that endless wagon of a train of thought. Heavens forbid I should become a utopian or idealist, therein would arise the madness of incomprehension and my mental undoing.
Darting eyes attempted to catch piercing resolution sharpness, richness of drifting images and colour. Ears pricked to the depth, direction and flow of rich accompanying sound. A promise that it was more real than real, more vivid than the life. It didn’t take long for before my eyes were forced such due to the stinging pain. It didn’t seem more real, it was fake, and the curved screen was beginning to cause nausea I had not experienced such a thing upon or under the sea; regardless of the the beautiful undersea demo scene that payed.
‘Yeh man. I do like the same when listening to soma my fave vid tunes.’ I smiled and nodded.
The sleek chrome remote had more buttons than a mid-air hanging sci-fi hologram control panel. It looked sufficiently complex to operate a warp capable intergalactic shuttle. It looked totally cool. So sexy and ergonomic one wondered what other uses would cross the mind of some; other than operate the orgasmic entertainment system.
Then there were the added perks; coming with a whopping great month only free subscription to all those greatly advertised got to have channels entertaining distraction…
[Offer applies under terms and conditions. Extension notification not given. Cancellation must be processed two weeks prior to end of period offer, etc. Penalties apply, etc…] Legalese microscopic font size your affirmation is a legally binding contract.
If only with all those great viewing features it had an auto mute, screen saver aquarium or nature vid mode for when commercials come on. Alright, I know what you’re thinking. If you’ve contracted all those packages; there ain’t no commercials. That’s not quite accurate. There is all that crud between programmes, that repeat and repeat ad-nausea causing brain dystrophy or the desire to bash one’s head against the wall in despair. You know the ones. Coming soon, coming soon, on next, on next, the new season, new season, sneak preview all new, new, and if you missed it, repeat, rewind and repeat. Repeating the in your face trailers, aching eyes and rising brain throb. I’ve laboured the point, and I’m almost in tears.
It was time to get out into the open air, away from the electro-magnetic static of utopian indoor entertainment. I had surround sound, images fuzzed and focused, colours didn’t crush my eyeballs and for the piercing sun that was at least warm; a set of shades.
Stop The Airbus I Want To Get Off
Flying used to be a pleasure, somewhat of an adventure, almost like being in a movie. Now it’s like getting on a trendy bijou backpacked budget pay as you go minibus in Bangkok.
Do you remember the days gone by when short haul flights had reclining seats? Good Lord, the luxury. Adjustable trays and blessed leg room. It felt like being in a trusty fireside cushioned arm chair where you could wriggle into a comfortable position for a short nap. Progress provides a joy evaporating flying experience. The planes got bigger, seats got smaller, leg room vanished and sliver thin armrests lost their recline button. Why in blue sky’s name would you want to ease your seat back and get comfy. Heaven’s forbid you might be a touch on the tall side, or wide around the middle parts. No disrespect, and embarrassing enough it may be, but no one wants to be sandwiched between Mr and Mrs Tubby in today’s seats.
There were real knives, forks and even a spoon. Ok, they were blunt. There was a choice between two warm meals on continental flights of a certain duration. Don’t forget the coffee, tea, juice and water. Yes, we agree, it is cheaper, but really by how much, and what has been sacrificed?
Now short haul appears appropriate; a drag in many ways. Diminishing perks, and everything is extra and deluxe. What happens when you add everything extra now paid for, and work done for the airline, their savings so they can recruit skeleton staff? Interesting when it’s put under a microscope. Free nuts, now Deluxe Assorted Sky Mix. Spend more and you get a special offer combo. Deluxe/ Special Offer/ Combo, I’m fast confused. Sky Club soft drink, Deluxe Assorted Sky Mix or Sky Chips, Panin-Wich choice of either filling with melted Captain’s Cabin Pepper Jack Deluxe Cheese. All warmed just for you. Goodness, I didn’t realise I was getting a Michelin star sandwich, chips or nuts with tiny tin Coca-Fanta.
It could be worse, I hear you say. Some have taken out trays and motion sickness bags. Can you hold it in long enough for the bag to arrive before you spew. Maybe there’s a fifty eurocent charge for a bag because it’s an extra. What will it be next; a coin slot for the WC. It must be due to the Deluxe Sky Pooping Experience.
Cost saving and profit boosting ideas have, are, and will be floated in illustrious think tanks of ethic dead ego bloated business intelligentsia grey cardboard cutouts with a hard-on for bonuses, promotions and diddling a new office worker (fluid, non-fluid binary non-binary, LGBT, hermafro, clean, dungeon, dirty whatever, let’s stick it all in a big perv prosaic dull-minded sack. I don’t want to be branded non-inclusive), and a couple of lines of breakfast Charlie, double decaf half and half, lemon twist StarFux coffee sludge in a trendy logo cup that’s good for scoring carbon points for the absent minded smart screen watchers of socially marketable conveniently conscience.
So you’ve booked online, provided identity, confirmed credit details, and chose your seat, plus the extras, including your bags by the way; how could one forget their luggage. In some places they have that police state HAL-9000 iris scan; surely we needn’t provide sexual orientation, blood type, ethnicity, finger print and skeletal biometric for the 5G scanner. Paranoid yet, of course I know they’re out to distil my essence into an electronic digital signature. Nobody wants to play, step right up, step right up. ‘Checkin Desk Queue Pot Lucky Dip Seat Allocation!’ Because you never know if the check-in desk frump or orange skinned LGBT binary-non-binary-hermafro-androginoid billboard cut out might take a disliking to your binary look, and squeeze you between a larger person and mother with a new born who will constantly cry for nipple or from ear pain. I certainly don’t have a problem with public breast feeding infants or the rainbow sky crowd of every porking preference, at all. Have at it I say; it’s all one big nonsensical circus as far as I’m concerned.
Airport security seems designed more for preparing consumption. We’ll take your liquids so you can buy more liquids inside, bottles of vodka, whisky or gin, perfumes, toiletries, nail clippers, tweezers and nail files, etc. You can’t drink on the plane though; it’s strictly forbidden. The carrier needs to make its extra penny. There will be extra pennies to pay; who will foot the New Order Gestapo Green policies many brainwashed cry bloody murder over? All with lashings of extra clothe stripping genital cancer causing airport security scans. That’s why they employ a host of certain mental types. You can see it in their eyes and stance if you take a moment from your screens. There we go, that’s all my China Surveillance State Social Credit points lost. No more visits to Southeast Asia through Beijing airport.
Weaving through corridors of wheeled tiny cases, people, dither, wobble, whiz or stand about stores half in a daze. At times half bumping and pushing, perhaps with expressions of annoyance, lacking consideration for most, save the mobile screens that illuminate their faces and mesmerise minds. The low strata pompous proud mediocre business pricks will have to settle for extra leg room at the front or wings; as gone is the curtained area for first budget privilege class. They think the British thought up their pernicious putrid class system, but no one beats India on that score.
So you got through the slightly duty free shop deliberate slalom. Queued once, twice and even thrice. If you wish a space for your wheelie carry on; queueing soon secures it. Now there is the ‘Willie Wonka Speedy Priority Boarding Golden Ticket Class.’ Perhaps Janis Joplin should have penned a song.
‘Lord, I need over head space for a case, Lord, I know it’s always a race. Don’t let another squash my bag in selfish disgrace. Oh Lord, please won’t you give me more over head space.’
After working out all the money saved by the airlines, and how all the standard perks are squeezed out, then paid for. The wages depreciated, monetary devaluation; how is it possibly cheaper?
‘Fings ain’t what they used to be… It wur al beta back then… you could leave ya door open, liver and kidneys were less than thrupence.’ Not necessarily better, oh how we forget.
It’s new, tech, shiny, convenient, the bright future, and a great big con. What in good gracious name is a cross-check anyway? (Though they don’t mention it any more) Cross-check: verify by using an alternative source or method, perhaps. Does that mean the cabin crew lock the doors and cross themselves in the hope the doors won’t fly off midair, decompress everyone to exploding point before crashing in a ball of flames? So much for the life jacket demo. People screaming in hysterics, jumping over each other, jacket on, half on, in hand or inflated.
It is interesting how pilots feel compelled to explain in their best 3 a.m. radio talk show voice that you are onboard a brand new Boring 353 aircraft. I expect it fills us with confidence. That and the fact they sound half asleep and on tranquillisers. It does not make the square tubular aircraft aluminium wafer thin foam wrapped seats any comfier or increase their width and tilt.
The obligatory Marcel Marceau accompaniment to the safety recording still prevails. A person used to speak it; now recorded. They removed the, ‘keep your seat upright,’ obviously. They forgot about the arm rests, because some don’t move. It’s probably a good thing the seats don’t recline, they’re so close together you’d find your head in someone’s lunchbox or wedged between their breasts. Upon climbing to cruising altitude you pray for a little nap time before your feet go to sleep. Then you hear, ‘ping.’ The pilot announces airspeed and cruising altitude. What the f***, I pay a pilot to fly me, not entertain me with cockpit banter.
How upon angel’s wings does a cockpit gauge reading sermon serve me. They certainly wouldn’t announce.
‘This is your captain speaking. Our engines are failing, flight controls are shot. We’re going down and it will all be over in a few minutes. It’s fine to unfasten your seat belts, wonder around in hysteria. The toilets won’t be closed in case anyone wants a final quickie, best be sharpish about it. Oh, and smoke them if you’ve got them. I’m about to take a toke on a crack pipe with one of the stewardesses who has been ever so kind as to straddle me so her boobs are the last thing I’ll ever see. Cheerio. It’s been a blast, and I hope you’ve enjoyed crashing with forgettable airlines.'