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After too many nights of too little sleep, she grew tired, angry, and confused. When Atmananda sensed that she was not her usual, happy self, he did not openly communicate his displeasure. Instead, he ignored her. He let the other women know that she was in a bad consciousness and should be avoided whenever possible. He began to treat her as if she were an outsider.
Headlights flashed an angry light at the severed trailer, the pretzel-shaped wheel, and the fallen gear strewn in disarray. Then the lights were gone, leaving behind a fiery-comet afterimage. I wondered why Atmananda had fed me the drug. Did he actually believe that he was helping me? If so, why didn't he recommend that I seek guidance outside his direct sphere of influence?
You can stay the way you are and continue living someone else's dream, or you can come with me on a walk to nowhere. Leave aside your petty jealousies, your hates, your desires, your attachments, your fears, and enter the worlds where I hang out worlds of pure joy, light, and bliss." Several minutes later, Atmananda announced it was time to meditate.
Unaware of the "Garage Door Opener Incident," I was feeling pretty good. I felt even better when Atmananda, who liked the new car, reminded the Centre of how advanced a soul I really was. When the disciples began to treat me with a mellow kind of reverence a phenomenon local, perhaps, to southern California I was thrilled.
"What did you *see*?" he asked afterward. "I didn't *see* anything," one new follower bemoaned. "Advanced psychic vision is necessary to perceive what I am doing or, more accurately, not doing," Atmananda said patiently. "I hate to sound negative," persisted the follower, "but what exactly are you doing?" For a moment I felt tense.
On La Jolla Scenic Road, I saw more exotic flora: tall, cedar-like trees, plants with huge vein-covered leaves, and cacti with yellow flowers and spiny needles. I did not know their names. "At last," boomed Atmananda, pointing to a large shrub which drooped like a wilted phallus. "We have found the fabled swaaaanso bush!"
Connie was a waitress with long dark braids, a Midwesterner's friendliness, and a cheeky smile. Suzanne had long brown hair and dreamy eyes. She studied art at the Parson's School of Design in Manhattan. And Anne, with long, black hair and that playful, impish grin, was studying to be a nurse. I turned back to watch Atmananda.
The rig was the vehicle I had chosen to exercise and exorcise my body and mind. It was also my means of transportation. Now, it was broken. As the sky went from deep purple to black, the memory of Atmananda calling me his "chemical experiment" seemed to usher in the darkness. Other recollections bubbled up from the murky depths, only to burst into vivid, unnerving images.
"Something heavy has been going down in the inner worlds," Atmananda said. "Call me in San Diego in late December, and I will fill you in." Bicycle Ride Utica One week into the cross-country bicycle trek, I stopped near the New York-Massachusetts border by a sign pointing to a campground. It was getting late. I wondered if I should save the money and sleep in the woods.
As he spoke, I recalled that Jewish law had been passed down through the generations since the time of Abraham and Isaac. Chinmoy's teachings, I realized, also stemmed from a tradition dating back thousands of years. I found myself picturing Chinmoy and Atmananda. "They are such colorful characters," I thought. I glanced at the rabbi. He was saying something about the dangers of mind control.
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