Take Me For A Ride | Page 3

to benefit
humankind.
For *physical* book order information, or to contribute to Laxer's legal
defense fund :( and write-another-book fund :)
write: Outer Rim Press 4431 Lehigh Road, #221 College Park, MD

20740 USA [email protected]
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Simon & Schuster, Inc., for
permission to reprint an excerpt from Gandhi: A Memoir by William
Shirer. Copyright (c) 1979 by William Shirer.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-085777
ISBN 0-9638108-3-9
Initially printed and posted in the United States of America
To Patsy Sims--inspired teacher, intriguing storyteller, intrepid
journalist.
Author's Note
Names in the following story have been changed, except for those
already mentioned in the press.
Contents
1. Bicycle Ride--Walden 2. Zapped! 3. The Joining 4. The Community
5. Bicycle Ride--Lenox 6. The Garden 7. Money Mantra 8. Fast Leader
9. Off The Map 10. Bicycle Ride--Utica 11. Displaced 12. Thwarted
Escape 13. Breakdown 14. Bicycle Ride--St. Ignes 15. The Enchanted
Taco 16. Ride To Heaven 17. On High 18. Where's My Tribe? 19. I'm
Okay 20. The Last Supper 21. Bicycle Ride--The Continental Divide
Epilogue
Appendix A: Excerpts From WOOF! Appendix B: Excerpts From
"Welcome To Lakshmi" Appendix C: Excerpts From "Sophisticated
Sexuality" Appendix D: Excerpts From Rama's Ads and Brochures

1. Bicycle Ride--Walden
After I left Rama's inner circle in 1985, I occasionally bicycled to
Walden Pond, where I read about Thoreau's experiment with
self-reliance. My seven years in the cult of Rama--Dr. Frederick Lenz,
who was known early on as Atmananda--had deeply shaken my
confidence. Atmananda often assured me that I was possessed by
Negative Forces, that I was barely able to function in the real world,
and that I was fortunate he did not drop me off at a mental institution. I
met him in 1978, when I was seventeen.
Thoreau helped me recall a time, before Atmananda, when I was strong
and self-reliant. I had been an avid cyclist. Pedaling thousands of miles
each year helped strengthen both my legs and self-esteem. Throughout
my teenage years bicycling and self-confidence were inextricably

linked, and I grew to believe I could ride anywhere, under any
conditions. I tried to approach life with a similar gusto, which may
explain why, in 1979, Atmananda invited me to move with him to
southern California to start a spiritual centre. From 1979 to 1981, I
lived with him by the cliffs of La Jolla where I witnessed his rise to
power. Today, in 1993, he controls the minds of several hundred
computer consultants, businessmen, doctors, and lawyers. Each year he
extracts from them roughly ten million dollars.
As I gazed at Walden Pond in search of calm, the wind spawned new
waves, and the surface swelled with complexity. I recalled what
Atmananda had said after I returned from a five-day bike trip in
California. He announced in front of other disciples that my aura was
dark. He also said that I had been attacked by nocturnal,
mountain-dwelling Entities which "cause neurosis and psychosis,
obliterate lifetimes of spiritual evolution, and can possess your soul."
Atmananda's Entity-prevention program included studying with a fully
enlightened teacher, meditating regularly, and avoiding solitary
excursions into nature. Yet in the spring of 1986, nearly one year after I
left him, I reminded myself that I would rather be possessed in my
world than potentially perfect in his. I planned to pedal across America
not with an exorcist, but with a puppy.
On May 31, 1986, as warm, moist air pushed pockets of fog over
Walden Pond, I lifted the four-month-old Siberian husky, Nunatak, into
the doggie-carrier. The carrier rested on top of the bicycle trailer,
attached to the frame of my 12-speed. Strong headwinds soon strained
my muscles, shook the lush canopy of foliage, and pelted me with large
drops of rain. As I began the journey west, the front tire raced through
puddles while my mind raced through painful memories and questions.
How had my years with Atmananda affected me? Why was it so
difficult to leave him? What was it about my past that led me to him?

2. Zapped!
"Lights," said my father and for a moment, except for the
phosphorescent hands of the clock on the wall, the room went black.
With a flip of a switch, he suddenly reappeared: a tall, thin man with
thick glasses, standing beside the glowing enlarger. As a child I sat for
hours under a dim yellow light, mesmerized by images appearing on

paper submerged in trays filled with smelly liquid. Yellow, my father
taught me, has no apparent effect on the light-sensitive specks coating
photographic paper.
The unorthodox images which leapt from the walls of our house
seemed as eerie as the darkroom experience itself: there was a
photograph of a llama's head as viewed through a distorting fish-eye
lens, there was a photograph of