They accepted me.

"Are you okay?" asked Sal, holding me up.

I longed for the freedom to roam. I longed for the support of community.

I looked to the sea, but the whales were gone.

Later that day I overheard Sal say to Rama, "You know, Mark is really bright."

"Of course he is," Rama replied, snapping his fingers.

"He's quick."

I appreciated the compliment. But I wondered, "How could I be bright and quick if I was also possessed and non-functional?"

The memory of the Malibu trip was fresh on my mind when I arrived in the Anza Borrego Desert and approached Casa Del Zorro.

Soon I sat waiting in the cottage with Sal, Bill, and Al.

Rama arrived late. He looked doughy faced and haggard. He said he was stressed out and exhausted. Perhaps he was in more of a rut than we were.

Rama distributed the stamps. Later he drove us to the top of a hill where he had us watch him. At some point I threw up.

My awareness that I was me faded in and out. Behind my opened or closed lids flashed continuous, multi-colored explosions.

From the chaos formed a spot, and the spot became shapes, and the shapes became symbols. I startled myself when I realized that I had been gazing in my mind's eye at the word "eliot."

Perhaps, as the rug of my ordinary perception was wrenched out from under me, I needed something solid, such as my middle name, to hold on to.

I found myself sitting in the cottage, observing the way in which I thought about my thoughts. I noticed that my thoughts arrived in the form of words. I could read and understand them, or I could hide from them and let them pa.s.s. When Rama started to speak, his words were tightly packed, and it was difficult to hide.

He talked for what seemed an eternity. Hours later, when Rama decided to drop acid--which he may not have done since the early '70s--I had for the most part come down from my trip.

Roughly forty-five minutes after Rama took the drug, he called me into his room. He lay in bed. His hair was messy.

His face was contorted. He seemed disturbed. "Is it okay?"

he asked meekly.

"It's okay, Rama," I said.

"Are you sure?"

I looked at him tossing and turning. I remembered how he had repeatedly knocked me down psychologically, helped me, and knocked me down again. I remembered how he had often told me that revenge was worth waiting for. I had the sudden urge to help him up-- and knock him down. But my anger quickly dissipated when I realized that trembling before me lay not ruthless Rama, but rather the sh.e.l.l of a thirty-four-year-old man named Fred Lenz.

"I'm sure," I said.

I had an idea. "A beautiful, blue bird is here, Rama," I whispered.

Birds, I knew, were something he genuinely loved.

He looked confused.

"Yes, it's a beautiful, blue bird, and it's large and friendly, and it's flying all around--there it goes! Rama, don't you *see* it?"

He followed my finger with his eyes as if he were *seeing*

the imaginary bird, and soon he fell asleep with a smile across his face.

As he slept, I thought about what had just happened. An incarnation of G.o.d, I realized, would not have had a bad LSD trip. Rama was not who he said he was. He was not one of twelve fully enlightened souls on the planet. He was an ordinary man, he was vulnerable, and I wanted to believe he was my friend.

After about thirty minutes, Rama awoke. He lifted his quivering hands above his head. "Did you *see* that?" he asked.

"See what, Rama?"

"I am filling the room with light. The powers are cycling through me.

I am reattaining enlightenment."

"Uh-oh," I thought. "Here we go again."

Rama seemed utterly fascinated by his hands, which he wiggled and waved in front of his face.

An uneasy feeling permeated my gut. I recalled the aftermath of his last enlightenment. "Just because he believes that he's perfect,"

I thought, "why should I suffer?" I recalled a few of his more outlandish claims. He had lectured a doctor about the nature of illness: "Disease is merely the result of a difference in vibrations."

He had taken credit when his father survived a coronary bypa.s.s operation.

He had taken credit when disciples got decent jobs.

I now realized that if I were to remain a disciple, I would need to humor myself about Rama's claims--lest I rekindle the debilitating conflict between my rational and mystical natures. I had the impression that Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters kept a sense of humor about their experiments, and I wondered how they might deal with someone afflicted with Rama's particular brand of enlightenment.

I recalled reading in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test that one prankster often said: "Yeah! Yeah! Right! Right! Right!"

"That's it," I decided. "When Rama starts getting out there, I'll say to myself, 'Yeah! Yeah! Right! Right! Right!'"

At that moment, Rama raised his arms again. "Do you *see* it?"

he quavered.

"I *see* it, Rama. Golden light is filling the room."

("Yeah! Yeah! Right! Right! Right!" I thought.)

Rama waited for me to continue describing the Light which I did, and though I was lying and probably fanning the flame, I supposed this would beat an ongoing dark night of the soul.

Rama now looked directly into my eyes. I could not recall him doing so, except during lectures and meditations, since 1981.

"We used to be friends," he murmured. "What happened?"

"Rama, I don't know."

"Should there be any problems between us?" he asked.

I felt that this was Fred trying to break through, and I struggled to hold back the tears.

"You and I used to be friends," he continued. "But then something happened. We should be friends. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Rama."

He smiled at me with big, puppy eyes.

I told him that Sal, Bill, Al, and I had maintained a high consciousness earlier that day, before he arrived. "We talked about what we hoped to gain from the power drug, Rama. It was as if we were spiritual warriors."

Rama looked at me resolutely. "You are spiritual warriors,"

he said. Then he lay back down and fell asleep. I felt happy and self-confident.

When Rama awoke, he turned to me and said, "You are okay.