aps, inadvertently,
he had designed a multi-leveled, persona-flipping program of
"sophisticated spirituality" to mask advanced symptoms of schizophrenia.

I meditated on what had happened the night I left the Centre. When I
followed my gut feelings and spoke honestly to Rama and to the inner
circle, Rama responded by turning my brother against me.

It did not matter to me, during the meditations on my brother, that
Rama's childhood had been difficult. Rama had told me that his father
was "power hungry" and "cold" and that his mother was "wacky" and
"liked to take drugs." Nor did it matter that Rama had probably sought
to fill the vacuum of his early years with promiscuity, LSD, devotion
to a guru, money, expensive cars and property, and consummate power
over hundreds of peoples' lives. Nor did it matter that his confusing
set of personalities had probably developed from a simultaneous belief
that he was a hustler on the one hand, and a living legend and god
incarnate on the other. Nor did it matter that I wanted to forgive him.

When I meditated on the casual, diabolical way in which he pitted my
brother against me, my understanding and forgiveness vanished. I
tensed my gut and wrestled with a primal image. The water was red. I
shuddered. I saw my brother clearly. He had an open, bleeding heart.
I knew how that felt. I saw him treading water. There was no bottom.
I knew how that felt too. A great white shark circled, rising
effortlessly from the depths. I clenched my fists. There was nothing
I could do. Dan could not hear me.

I meditated on what had happened later that night, after Rama rooted
his divisive legacy in my brother's mind. When Rama pointed his finger
at me, I knew that he was trying to intimidate me. I also knew that he
was trying to maintain some semblance of control. But I feared that he
might be a sorcerer. I intentionally visualized sparks and bolts of
protective lightning radiating from the bicycle key. I understood that
the colorful explosions were emanating from the world of my
imagination. But that did not stop me from *seeing* them. The scene
unfolding before me was, after all, not just another ending to a
Castaneda book. It was real. And I needed all the inspiration I could
generate.

The meditations during the bicycle journey helped me comprehend and
come to terms with an earlier journey. When I was sixteen, I sought
fellowship, Truth, and that which lies beneath t