ly after several emotionally exhausting
hours of telling myself, "NO!", the surfacing conflict appeared to
short-circuit. It was then that my mind drew a blank.

One evening, in a movie theatre with Atmananda and the inner circle,
the conflict had already run its course. I felt detached, numb, dumb.
I gazed listlessly at the screen. Atmananda said something. Sal,
Anne, Rachel, and Dana laughed. I looked straight ahead. I did not
smile.

They kept giving me popcorn and candy, but I had deeply withdrawn. I
did not eat. I passed the items along. I wished that it would stop.

What happened next seemed to occur in slow motion. Sal held out a
bucket of popcorn. Halfheartedly, I reached for it. I wanted to be
left alone. I held the bucket loosely. It slipped from my hand.
Popcorn covered the floor. I stood up. Popcorn fell from my lap. I
sensed that my friends had been having fun, and that I was ruining it
for them. I would not meet their gazes. I stood there, bathed by the
flickering lights of the film, frightened by the resurfacing conflict.

"Maybe it's been me all along," I thought.

"That's nonsense," I countered. "It's Atmananda who is... "

"NO!!"

I grimaced. I walked up the incline toward the exit. I left the
theatre in a stupor. I felt dizzy and disoriented. My mind again drew
a blank.

I crossed the street to UCSD. I walked to Revelle College. To the
Humanities Library Building. To HL 1402. I often reserved this room
through the Meditation Club for Atmananda's public and private
meetings. I sat down. I did not reflect on how his talks in this room
had changed in the past two years. Nor did I reflect on how he had
changed. Nor on how I had changed. I just sat there. After a few
minutes, I stood up and left.

I walked to John Muir College. I saw a picture of conservationist,
writer, and mountaineer John Muir. I found myself thinking about the
plumber, about Palomar Mountain, about the solitary hawk...

"NO!" I said aloud and turned away.

I walked down the hill to Central Library. I remembered walking here
with two friends from high school who, months before, had unexpectedly
appeared at the Centre door. I had not spoken with them in years. I
told them I was no longer a disciple of an Indian guru. I also told
them my new spiritual teacher was different than the others. "He's got
a Ph.D," I explained. "He's been on Phil Donahue. He's my friend."
Despite my assert