Epilogue
Hidden between UCSD and the Pacific Ocean were burial grounds,
Rama said, that were sacred to Native Americans. Surfers on their way
to Black's Beach passed through this land of cliffs and ravines.
They pointed to a graceful, white mansion and said, "Heyyy, duuuude,
that's Atkinson's place, duuuuuuuuude." Several properties south
of the UCSD Chancellor's mansion lay a burned-out car abandoned
on a charred foundation. The address seemed to be 951, but in my
mind the missing tile was in place: 9514 La Jolla Farms Road,
where Rama became "enlightened" and where I moved into darkness.
It was 1988. I parked my Volkswagon Bus at a mall one-and-a-half
miles east of campus and walked with Nunatak toward the sea.
I had cut through the not-yet-bulldozed chaparral just east of
Interstate-5 many times since returning to UCSD--a twenty-seven year
old undergraduate--but now the sun was setting and the air seemed heavy.
Suddenly, I had a sense of where I was going. During the past two years
I had dealt with my Rama experiences intellectually. But you can
only sit cooly, unmoved and protected on the cap-of-things-that-were
for so long before the cap blows and sends you tumbling.
There are many ways to grapple with the enormity of what lies beneath
the surface world of reason.
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