Sitting on the deck, looking out towards Crossman peak, visions of Ms. Butte flitted in my
head. I actually felt let down that she missed out on some truculent witticisms I penned while
soaking in her beloved springs. They were destined for the manuscript of which I snidely
titled : Book of the Elixir. Yet, if I had stayed any longer to share my cornucopia of elixir
insights with her, I'd have been rendered neo-natal, like the RV host she endowed with a
brand new Mini-Humvee, a bit of Mormon nepotism from what I could read of the situation.
Something Mitt Romney would approve of no doubt, in an expectant kind of way. I wouldn't
even put it past her to flaunt her stagecraft philanthropy by supplying a virgin polygamist with
a dozen blow up dolls and a chapel to marry them in, air cushion wives adorned in day-glo
spandex prairie dresses and bonnets.
While cooling off after one of my soaks, I continued to pray the blood of Jesus over the
labyrinth near the river, one once travailed by lesbian Buddhists, envisioning the terra cotta
gargoyles in the center smashing to shards, later to be plucked up in a distant epoch,
by forlorn archaeologists.
The vision I had of the cellulite donut encircling Evita's waist instantly disappearing in the
alchemical springs, is something else I withheld, after she gave me her tough love marching
orders. Not that I'm a selfish visionary, I just thought it might offend her, considering she once
claimed she was a poster girl for some holistic diet program she was on, but permanently
stuck in the 'before' photo from what I could gather. It appeared that even in her afterlife there
would be no after.
Also penned in my journal was a lofty epitaph, replete with directions to all the booze bottles
hidden throughout her property, like the very terma the Tibetan's looked for in unexplored
Himalayan mountain caves, beckoning to be discovered by wannabe lamas. It would have
been futile however, the blue ruin secret known by all throughout the savage gossip town who
had it in for this hick heiress.
"You like misery." She stated at the restaurant as a part of her damage control and her
declarative statement still echoed resoundingly in my cranium nearly two weeks later.
"Is that why I'm sitting here with you?" I wanted to stay, but I hesitated too long. She was
already grilling me as to what spiritual experiences I had while in the hot springs, then told me
that said experiences were sufficient enough to cover my gas, food and lodging costs en
route to her resort which had totaled about 750.00 dollars.
Now, here in the desert expanse of Arizona, I can more adequately reflect on what
happened. Would it be wrong to think that she murdered her husband? Pushed him down the
stairs? Who was there to witness the camera strap caught on the stair rail? The rumors were
already flying in the town before I even got there. And that is why she wouldn't have me live
with her. I might have even been implicated as an accessory to her crime. I could have been
the fall guy and our plan to take all his money and split to Lemuria discovered.
How about chalking the Flower Child harridan up as another human potential movement
casualty? A cemetery en par with Arlington awaits at Esalen for such ilk. I should have
patronized more suavely, divining all the wrinkles in her desert weathered visage, interpreting
them as some kind of sign of a golden age emergence her resort customers could bask in,
even after she jacked up the room and massage rates. Or perhaps some varicose prophecy
could have poured from my lips that would have turned the tables to my favor and I'd be the
one calling the holistic shots at her resort.
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