"You need to take time and rethink your life," he went on.
"Somehow you got entrenched in the dark side. But life does not have
to be that way. Life can be wonderful."
Typically, I would have felt elated by the attention he was giving me.
It had been years since we were close. But through hallucinating
eyes he seemed distant and small, and his attempt to cheer me up
made me feel worse.
"Why don't you go jump in the pool," he finally said.
Years before, in La Jolla, he had often suggested "Pool Therapy"
as a way to douse the flames of a conflict burning within. In Malibu,
as in La Jolla, my woes soon diffused among ripples from the impact
of one hand slapping.
I played in the shallow end during that LSD trip until Rama
asked Sal, who was not tripping, to drive me home. When we arrived
at my apartment I felt lucid, creative, fearless. I started
to say whatever popped into my mind. Sal looked surprised.
He looked at me as if I were someone else.
Sal offered to take me for a walk. With my arms dangling and torso bent,
I moved like an injured ape. But gradually I slouched with Sal's
support down the hill to the beach.
"Look, Mark," said Sal. "There's the ocean."
I looked to the frozen snapshot of the sea. I blinked and the waves
rolled closer--then they froze again. Then I saw whales diving and
breaching in slow motion. I found myself among them. We swam together.
We spoke a silent language I thought I never knew. I felt complete.
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 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 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 God, 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 bypass 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.
You are on the net."
"On the what?"
"The net. The network. The psychic energy network."
"Really?" ("Yeah! Yeah! Right! Right! Right!")
"Yes."
Rama, who wanted to see who else was on the net, hobbled out
to the living room where Sal and Al quietly sat.
"Are you on the net?" Rama asked them.
"Yes," replied Sal, who had always been adept at learning rules
to new games.
Rama looked at him suspiciously, when suddenly the phone rang.
It was Dana. Rama told her that she was on the net, seeing as
how she had called at so auspicious a moment. "So," he told her,
"it's me, you, Mark, and Sal..." He paused and said, "Sure, Mark
is on the net. He's quick like mercury. He's right there."
I realized it was less a network than it was Rama's net, but I
was happy because the man I had once been friends with was back.
I was also happy because my conflict-diffusing strategy seemed to
be working.
The following morning, I greeted Rama.
He squinted his eyes and looked away.
"Is anything the matter?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he answered, haughtily. "I know all about it."
"About what? I thought we were friends."
"Oh, sure," he replied. "I know all about that part of you.
That's the part that wants to control me."
"Rama," I said, looking him squarely in the eye. "You have two
very different sides. And I like the other one better."
In the weeks that followed, Rama mostly ignored me until he
uprooted the four hundred or so disciples from southern California
to the suburbs of Boston. At the last meeting in Beverly Hills,
he called me to the stage, put his hand on my forehead, and said,
"The Infinite is naming you Agni."
The entry in my journal for the following day, April 4th,
1985, reads, "yea! got my spiritual name...AGNI...Fire...Breaker
of Illusions...Vision...Third Eye...Now, everything is totally
fresh & new...I feel good."
I liked the name. It represented the spiritual progress I had made
despite the difficulties of the past few years. As I caravanned
across America in Rama's group, the new name boosted my confidence.
It was springtime in New England. Rama rented a large house
in Needham, Massachusetts, and held Centre meetings in a church
in Boston. Many disciples followed his suggestion and moved
to Concord, Lincoln, or Wellesley. I moved to Wayland.
One day I bought a copy of Walden by Henry David Thoreau.
My journal entry for June 15th, 1985, reads, "Economics chapter
in Walden...didn't provide any answers, but caused me to ask questions
which lead to a variety of possibilities..."
One question I asked myself was: how can I pay off my debt? One solution
I came up with was: commute to work by bicycle. The entry continues,
"By driving to a free lot in Arlington, parking, and bicycling
the remaining 7-8 miles...save $100/month; instill spirit back in me;
get exercise & strength; pass Harvard & MIT daily for brain power;
bike around Boston lunch time. meet girls at Faneuil Hall;
be independent, mobile, self-reliant!"
The following day I bought a used three-speed for forty-five dollars
and put the plan into effect. Each weekday I parked in a free lot,
pedaled several miles along the Charles River, and braved downtown
traffic as I sped to work, which was located two blocks from the site
of the Boston Tea Party. I began to think of myself not as Rama's disciple,
but as a bicyclist. On June 29th, 1985, I wrote, "i am a bicyclist.
that is my nature. swift. light. strong & sure. motion. speed.
agility. pivotable. flexible. colorful. self-propelled. motivated.
bad forces beware. i am back. and i'm riding high.
that's me. Agni. free spirit. go, now. and do not look back."
It felt good to be pursuing a dream of my own. But I sensed that
Rama would equate my project with the Negative Forces, so I chose
not to tell him about the daily commutes and my newfound esteem.
Perhaps as a result of my new, street-wise sense of self, I grew
increasingly critical of Rama. Another entry for June reads,
"What really pisses me off is that Rama changes everything he says,
contradicts himself, turns a situation around completely--so you
never have a handle on him."
The following week, Rama invited me to a group LSD trip at his house.
On July 7th, 1985, I wrote, "...may be a picnic [LSD trip] tomorrow
at Rama's. my intent is: to change my view of reality completely,
with particular attention given toward: *becoming someone who has
a girlfriend, *becoming my own person, i.e., my happiness &
well-being is not hinged upon the absence (parents) or presence
(Rama)(girlfriend) of any person(s)...to regain my kinship with
the earth...to renew my excitement in life, to regain my integrity,
self-reliance and confidence..."
The next day Rama distributed drug-soaked stamps to ten or so
followers in his living room. He let us wander around the house.
Hours later, he called us to the living room and began to talk.
And talk. And talk. I tried to understand how his words
were affecting us. I thought in terms of computers. I decided
that he had rebooted us with LSD and now, as we were coming down,
he was downloading his wordy operating system to our unformatted,
receptive minds.
"He's formatting us like floppy disks!" I thought. I was about
to plug my ears with my fingers when suddenly I remembered that I
had brought my journal. I retrieved it and sat back down.
Rama was still talking. In the upper right hand corner
of the page, where I typically included the date, I wrote,
"**timeless". I was still high. Then I wrote, "...the basic Agni
Operating System: boot: breath deeply 2x. Take your time. where is
your stomache...who has control of it? NOTE: nothing else matters.
who ever is letting or not letting you take deep breaths of air-->if
this is someone other than me, eliminate them. you breathe.
You take it ez. get good exercise. Learn ANYTHING at a pace healthy
for you! So, 2 traps to avoid: 1) other people...who live my life
(not me living my life); 2) people trying to help me, but i take
it wrong (due to #1). whatever TRIP you're on, remember breathing.
remember who you are...never look to others to patch...Agni...You
must be strong...even now, i am drawing upon a very healthy basic
energy that supports me. That so is good. But over the last
7 years, i have been always rushing to meet someone else's gap.
No thanx...Everyone is the same. Some people think they are special.
No..."
Rama was talking about American Indians. "They weave people's attention,"
he said, "to help sell their products."
I wrote, "always be moving ON YOUR OWN STEAM! accept NO substitutes.
everything has power. some things are good, others not."
Rama asked what I was doing.
"I'm writing in my journal," I replied.
"What have you written?"