Gurus

“You know what you need to do,” Brian said, busting out of his front door like he just got struck by lightning. I looked up from my laptop—poems half-written, ideas half-formed—sitting on his patio. He wagged his finger like a prophet fresh out the clouds. “You need to animate your interviews—like how South Park did Alan Watts.”

That was all he had to say.

I had thought of it before, cartooning my talks on consciousness. But the idea always felt too big, too expensive, too complicated. Still, something shifted when he said it. Something whispered, Marc, at least try before telling yourself you can’t.

I flew home a few days later and downloaded Anime Studio Pro. I didn’t know what I was doing—but I didn’t let that stop me. Drawing had been my first art. I stopped when my uncle died, but the skill never left me. Now, years later, it would rise again.

Morning, noon, and night—I studied. I watched tutorials, drew myself, built scenes from scratch. Three days in, nothing finished yet, but I pushed back from the table and laughed like a madman. “Oh my God,” I said out loud. “I know how to animate.” I hadn’t rendered a single frame, but I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. I knew I was gonna get there.

My first creation? A short video of my nephews going to space. They loved it. Then I animated one of my own interviews. It took time—more than I liked—but I did it. Without help. Without hiring anyone. The thing I told myself was impossible... wasn’t.

Next step? Make fun of my own philosophies. Like my father used to say: If you can’t laugh at yourself, you have no right laughing at anybody else. I created a character—smug, wise, annoyed with everyone’s questions—and gave him a British accent. I named him Eisen Godfrey: Ei for “eye,” Sen for “sun,” God for the divine, Frey for “free.” The name itself was a mantra.

Then the floodgates opened.

I thought—why stop with myself? Why not parody everyone I admire? So I created Alan Watts. Then Buddha. McKenna. Jesus. Einstein. Princess Di. Tubman. Tesla. Socrates. Gandhi. Malcolm. Jefferson. I kept going, building an entire cast of spiritual giants. A cosmic ensemble.

I needed a partner. I called Brian. “Yo, we make a cartoon. Philosophers working in a place called the Guru Center. They give advice, go on missions, say wild shit.” He paused. “It’s a big idea. I’m swamped, but I’ll help when I can.”

I didn’t push. I just sent him a silent invitation—a video of the empty Guru Center. Hallways, offices, rooftops, waiting to be filled.

He replied within hours: Holy shit, man. Let’s do it.

That was the beginning of something bigger than both of us. And we didn’t even know… it had started long before.

Because six months before I ever animated, Brian had asked me to play a guru in one of his films. I wanted to use a British accent I had become obsessed with. “No,” he told me, laughing. “That voice is terrible.” I begged him. Chased him around his yard. “I promise, Brian. One day, you’ll work with this voice.”

Now here we are—building a world, frame by frame, from a joke that became a prophecy.