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.
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