d 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 pass. 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 shell 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
i