The desert burned us out, so we moved to northern California where the vineyards glowed rainbow colors, where life blossomed more, but left unchanged the brooding cosmos that was downloading into me in a continual stream. Book written. Tried publishers. No deal. Fine. It embarrasses me today, although it contains passages that are among my favorite. Biding time and being alone. Wife close by. A friend or two. One of the Midwest group who had also left; another, a witch-like person who turned me on to the local new age bookstore, where I bought books, got readings and took classes. It was what we did together. Lots of TV. Waiting. I played a miniature role as a performer of Vedic ceremonies, an avocation that continued for years. You know, white outfit, fruit, flowers, handkerchiefs, mantras from ancient Sanskrit texts. Felt good and gave me an identity, which was getting harder to hold onto. I had to deal with the conflicting beliefs that I knew what I was doing and the deeper knowledge that I didn’t and the still deeper knowledge that all was in order. Damn the personality and all its faults, which take up so much energy and distort even the good things! The veils got thinner, but the regular brushes with insanity were a little farther down the road. The pursuit was still on. Was it toward something or away? Could there ever be enough effort? Enough meditation, enough prayer, enough grooming of my mind. The outer world was drifting away, and eventually I would be as remote from the ground of the world as the moon or the stars beyond. Metaphors, of course, but the metaphor was becoming more real than the burdensome mental stuff which continually clouded up that place inside me that was becoming clearer. A year in this place and then moving on to another town. Wandering from here to there, at least geographically. The inner wanderings couldn’t be measured in miles, only in degrees of acceptance and the concern that the inner vision was overshadowing the outer.