Take Me for a Ride Part 29

Roughly one hundred fifty miles east of the beaches of Los Angeles, in Joshua Tree National Monument, was a rock climbing route called "Therapeutic Tyranny." Less than ten miles away, by the edge of a mountain, the five or six disciples probably did not see Rama handing me a tiny stamp. On it was a picture of Mickey Mouse dressed as a wizard, waving a wand.

I was slightly apprehensive. LSD was supposed to be a powerful drug.

"Chew it for a few minutes," Rama whispered.

It was as bitter as he said it would be. I soon noticed the deep blue sky turn to bands of crimson and yellow and orange. I noticed the lights of Palm Springs twinkle like stars thousands of feet below.

I noticed the mammoth peaks of Mount San Jacinto gradually fading away.

So stark and surreal was the scene before me, that I had to remind myself that this was how the desert appeared at twilight ordinarily.

"How do you feel, kid?"

"Fine, Rama," I reported, enjoying the attention. "Nothing yet."

About fifteen minutes later he gave me another stamp when I found myself noticing that I was noticing that I was noticing that I was

that i was

that

i

was

that hey

hey

hey (hey) ((hey)) ((((hey)))) ((((((((hey)))))))) -* h e y * ------------ (it) ((it)) ((((it)))) ((((((((it)))))))) -* i t * ----------- (works) ((works)) ((((works)))) ((((((((works)))))))) -* w o r k s *-

I gazed at the lights of Palm Springs. I did not blink.

I did not breathe. I lost awareness that I was on a mountain.

I lost awareness that I was tripping. I lost awareness that I existed.

The points of light grew fuzzy and bright.

Time touched the mountain world. I blinked. I inhaled.

I turned from the light. "I am alive in this desert," I thought.

Through the powerful, rose-colored lens of the initial rush, the thought magnified and blossomed into a stunning realization.

I blinked again and exhaled.

I turned and saw Rama and the disciples. I knew that I was *seeing* on a different level than they were. This made me happy.

A large, silly grin took hold of my face. The joy gradually receded, but the facial muscles held. I knew the grin was out of sync.

I laughed.

I turned to some rocks. I grew serious. "The rocks," I realized, "are part of the Earth. The Earth is sacred." I did not realize, as I continued to astonish myself with my own profundity, that I had finally entered a world similar to the ones described in the Castaneda books.

Suddenly Rama raised his arms and made a whistling sound.

The disciples looked at him as if he were a G.o.d. I felt detached from the scene, as if I were observing myself observe the disciples observe the man acting like a sorcerer. Soon I detected a faint glow from the corner of my eye. I gazed at what I felt was an incredible source of power, beauty, and wisdom. It was the rocks.

They were glowing.

On the drive back to Malibu, Rama was perhaps experiencing flashbacks from the late '60s, because he "let me do my own thing."

As a result, I rode with him in front, but focused on Cindy in back.

Her flowing, blond hair and radiant face had made an impression on me long before she appeared on the cover of Rama's newspaper.

I turned around often to smile at her.

"Hey there!" I said at one point.

Cindy looked slightly embarra.s.sed. "Hey there!" she returned sheepishly.

This is fun, I thought. For the first time in years, things were looking up.

18. Where's My Tribe?

In the fall of 1984, Rama took twenty-eight disciples for a ride around the western United States. The purpose of the trip, he said, was to *see* which city we were supposed to move to. I was glad that he had invited me. I liked the idea of searching for a home.

I loved to travel. And I looked forward to an exercise in *seeing*.

"This is going to be fun," I thought.

The trip began in a parking lot in southern Malibu. Rama raised his arms, made a whistling sound, and said, "The ocean is your friend.

You do not know how long you have left in this world. You may never see the ocean again in this lifetime. You should say good-bye."

It was a poignant moment for me. I loved the ocean.

"Good-bye," I thought. Then Rama strode to his Turbo Carerra.

It no longer bothered me that Rama owned two Porsches at a time when many disciples were struggling to meet the increasing tuition.

If he got what he wanted, I figured, maybe he'd go easy on us during the scorching demon-and-brimstone monologues. Besides, at three a.m. in northern Malibu, he once took me over one hundred and twenty miles an hour. The acceleration had been breathtaking; the ride, smooth.

The disciples now turned from the ocean to their cars.

Anne, Dana, and I walked to our gifts from Rama--two Mazda RX-7's and a Honda Civic Wagon, respectively. Then we drove east by northeast into Los Angeles, the high desert, and southern Nevada.

Rama had divided us into four groups, with three cars per group and two or three disciples per car. The groups caravanned separately, and we met two or three times a day, typically at a Denny's restaurant or at a Best Western motel. I rode with Alexander, a spare, devout UCSD recruit who had impressed the Centre with his ability to place second or third in a marathon. Perhaps from a lack of social self-esteem, Alexander never said much, but he spoke with me, and I enjoyed his company.

The following day, Rama invited me and Alexander to ride in his group.

It was at a rest area in southwestern Utah that Rama approached me and said, "You had better stop vibing Laura. I am f.u.c.king her."

A UCSD recruit in her early twenties, Laura had large, dark eyes and ample social self-esteem. She spoke so fast that she often slurred her words. She was currently riding with Rama.

"Sorry, Rama," I said, startled by his raw honesty.

We pushed on to Denver and then to Boulder, where we stayed in a motel near the university. We a.s.sessed the city in terms of jobs, housing, computer courses, and mystical power spots.

Two or three days later, Rama asked us to *see* if we should stay or move on to Boston. He seemed pleased that we voted to stay.

Boulder, after all, was commuting distance to computer jobs in Denver; it had a respectable university; it was beautiful in the winter and cute the year round; it felt at least a mile high until several days later, when Rama accused us of destroying it with our powerful Negative Energy Field.

"Pack your things," he ordered, and we cut a path south toward Albuquerque along the Rockies' edge.

There was something about the open road and the blue Colorado sky that absolved us of our guilt from having decimated a city, because Alexander and I were anything but upset. The Beatles'

White Alb.u.m was playing s.e.xy Sadie, a song satirizing an Indian guru.