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?"