Excerpt from Chapter 45: Hope reigns in Hope

Texas Lake Youth Hostel, Hope, B.C. 1970s

Chapter 45: Hope reigns in Hope

“We can't return we can only look behind from where we came.” – Eugene McNamara

     Excerpt: 'On Wednesday, my condition hadn’t improved leading me to believe I’d caught a bug after all. Regardless, Jan and I headed out early in the morning rain to purchase our bus tickets to Hope. Soon, we’d be on our way. 

    At half past one, our bus broke out of the downtown terminal driving eastbound on Highway 1 destined for Hope, Surrey, and Abbotsford. Deb’s hometown of Chilliwack was scheduled along our three and a half hour course. Encouraged by its name, traveling the TransCanada highway, we watched curiously out the window at green pastures, rolling foothills, and rivers that snaked through woodlands with hushed domination. Feeling upbeat about our next adventure, I was hopeful for all that Hope might bring.
    Seated next to me, chin tucked down, Jan wrote in her diary. I began reading chapter seven of The Golden Force titled “Universal Law of the Creative Mind.” The chapter talked of a dynamic life force living within and outside of us that materializes when summoned. “To harness and develop acceptance of that power with confidence is integral,” the passage stressed that the power of reception opens the door for all things to transpire. Creative and unfiltered thought processes brings about manifestation.
    The same song and dance.
    Reiterating the positive visualization technique Brother James had taught us when we’d first met him back in April, barring the odd exception to the rule, by keeping a clear-cut image in our minds of what we’d anticipated, for much of our trip, it had become apparent. Maybe it was because we weren’t aiming high enough. Possibly, it was because we’d deluded ourselves into believing that our prayers were being answered.
    I doubted it. Negative thinking works on the same principle as positive revelation. If you look ahead to darkness, it will befall you. Employing the formula, hope should be the alchemy of all good things.
    Nearing the Hope municipality, large billowing clouds that had supplemented us for a good portion of our drive through serrated mountains, touched the surface of the highway, enfolding our bus, and generating a stir of excitement amongst its passengers. Surrounded by the Cascade Mountains and thick secluded wilderness: valleys, streams, lakes, and the Fraser River (named after Canadian explorer Simon Fraser), we had penetrated a dream paradise.
    Pulling into the bus terminal, six and a half miles south of the Texas Lake Youth Hostel, Jan and I climbed down the steps and chilled. Purchasing a couple of muffins at a country store, we headed back out to the road to hitch the rest of the way to our destination. For our fee the hostel book promised breakfast and a light supper – a dinner meal sounded too good to be true – we knew from experience that it’s always best to show up with a semi-full belly, in case of food shortages.
    Walking out to the TransCanada Highway from the terminal, we didn’t have any difficulty soliciting a ride. Driving a light brown pick-up truck, an early-thirties woman pulled over to the shoulder of the road. Her name was Sharon. Smiling when we told her where we were headed, Sharon said that she lived and worked at Texas Lake and assured us we would love the hostel and its adjoining co-operative community.
    Nearing the Texas Lake premises, Jan and I gazed around at the mountainous setting next to a neighboring lake where rose-colored pickerelweed drifted restfully over a quickening waterfall. A pretty sight in summer, I imagined how the scene might appear in winter. Bleak, desolate, watchful.
    About to approach the dirt driveway, Sharon slowed down the truck, allowing us to observe various buildings of differing sizes; cabins for permanent residents, and sleeping dorms for travelers. There were chicken coops, a huge vegetable garden; an oddly shaped dome type structure in behind the main (big) house; cows and goats, dogs and cats. At first impression, once again it appeared that we had arrived where we needed to be. For the moment, the purr in the air was a knowing wink and the hurt of leaving Vancouver and our friends behind took a back seat. Texas Lake promised to be another wondrous designation – a utopian edition of a Bermuda Triangle sewn covertly into the planet’s seam. 
    A person would have to be steel hearted not to be seduced by the simplistic Texas Lake surroundings at first glance. A couple of decades away from melding into the technological age, 1970s youths took pride in small prizes.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2015 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 36: Chinatown and City Lights

 

Excerpt from Chapter 36: Chinatown and City Lights

  

On Thursday morning, one of the female novices at Holy Order of Mans, Joanne, came out to the garden area of Duboce Park where I sat sketching yellow cornflowers. We chatted a while about life in general, inside and outside of HOOM.

    Suspicious, initially, I wondered at first if she’d been sent by one of her superiors to try to get inside of my head. During the course of conversation, I realized that wasn’t true. Joanne had come outfitted with gardening tools; she was not there under false pretenses. It wouldn’t have been worth her effort to pry anyway. I certainly didn’t understand what was going on and doubted that anyone else could make sense of it either. 

   A couple of years older than I, Joanne had been raised in a commune in Northern California. Based upon little information she shared about her upbringing by parents who were artists and nomads, joining a cult didn’t seem like an unnatural step for her. She made and accepted her choice as easily as one might accept an arranged marriage. I was baffled and intrigued. Joanne was well meaning and joyful, not in a sickening kind of way. Her good cheer seemed to come from her heart.Our exchange that morning was lightweight as a powder puff; a nice reprieve from the heady conversations the Brothers tended to yammer on about. 

   If anything, our brief, revealing talk helped to ease some of my doubts from the day before.

   Joanne had no idea.

 

***

 

Inside the hostel, Jan soaked up the first couple of morning hours drinking coffee and talking with John Gailey. John was on his way to Los Angeles where he hoped to find a few days’ work before heading down to Mexico. A veteran traveller, he’d laughed off any notion it might be dangerous traveling south of the border alone. After an exchange of addresses and telephone numbers, Jan met me in the garden and we set off for Market Street to purchase a needlepoint kit for her.

   On our way through Union Square, we were accosted (pleasantly so) by a pair of clean cut Moonies dressed as college boys. Their matching polyester pants and button-downed shirts fooled us -- at first. Essentially, we were ambushed by two missionaries offering us the world on a silver platter – free dining privileges and friendship – in exchange for a weekend, praying and cavorting at their compound located in Berkeley – a regular barrel of laughs.

   In all likelihood, there wouldn’t be too much cavorting – these dudes were a serious pair. During our time in San Francisco, Jan and I had heard many rumors and warnings about weekend visits to Moonie quarters. The group had a reputation for preying on aimless teenagers; ridding them of self-respect and responsibility reduced to drooling, monosyllabic subordinates willing to do whatever was required of them by leaders. A kind of reverse suck version of the tactics that master manipulator Charles Manson employed to lure, bully, and divide family members.

     Reading one another without speaking, it was unanimous, Jan and I would brush off our two walking manikins.

     It wasn’t easy. Wide-eyes blazing, all amplified pupils, the two passionately expounded on their faith and beliefs extolling the virtues of commandant, Reverend Sun Myung Moon, giving the impression they were buzzed on mescaline or even something better. Not that either one of us had anything personal against mind-altering substances, but the deportment of these boys was enough of an excuse to refuse.  

   Moonies were freaks, not in a good way. By comparison, HOOM members were innocuous.

 

1976: Tapes from California © 2014 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 21: Finding Our Place in Space



The following excerpt is from Chapter 21: "Finding Our Place in Space." 

 

'After the Gregory incident, sleep that night was fitful and sparse. It didn’t matter. If we wanted to be in Hemet by late afternoon, we had to get up early and walk to the terminal a few miles away from the men’s Y to catch the 12:15pm bus. At this rate, Jan and I were reluctant to hitchhike and take a chance on another stranger. Gregory's crushing blows against our door was as if someone had taken his boots to our emotional well-being. The last thing we wanted to do that morning was put ourselves at more risk. The bus would take us from San Diego to Riverside; then we'd need to transfer onto another bus out to Hemet. Our only regret was not getting over to explore Old Town, a part of San Diego where we had planned to spend our final day. With the trek ahead, so much for foiled plans, Old Town would have to wait.
   This excursion was not going to be cheap, about ten dollars total -- we hoped beyond hope our decision to skedaddle would be worth the investment. Arriving at the depot a couple of hours ahead of schedule, we stuffed bags into a locker to conserve our backs while waiting around. To pass time we read, and watched people come and go. Before we knew it, it was time to board.
   The bus pulled out of the terminal -- on schedule. Heading east from San Diego, Jan and I were two giggly friends again, excited to leave the city and our worries back at the men’s Y, with the junkies and the ex-cons. Our ride would be almost two and a half hours. Feeling fatigued from the crazy night we’d endured and the long walk to the terminal in the blazing heat that morning, we took turns dozing along the way. Once we arrived at the Riverside station, there was another hour to spare before the last bus left the station for the desert at half past three.
   The mid-afternoon sun high in the sky, I was completely overdressed in a pair of green cords, work boots, and a long-sleeved, pale blue peasant blouse. Since leaving Val and Phyl’s earlier in the week we were running out of clean clothes and would need to find a Laundromat once we got settled in at the hostel.
   The distance between Riverside and Hemet wasn’t far, approximately thirty-six miles. Traveling on an old beat up school bus, the ride was far longer than it would have been had we good road conditions. As our bus crawled up and around the dusty dirt roads at a snail’s pace, with only five other passengers on board, I expected Rod Serling to announce we’d crossed over the threshold from reality into a void called “The Twilight Zone.” It wasn’t that bad actually, but it did occur to me what would happen if the bus was to break down in the middle of the desert. Jan entertained the same concern, but we tried not to think about it and sat back to enjoy the ride.
   This was a piece of cake after the Gregory fiasco.

The temperature in Hemet that May afternoon was an extreme 102 degrees and counting when we pulled into the terminal close to five o'clock. A change of clothes was in order but our journey wasn’t over yet. We hadn't reached the Meadowlark hostel a couple of miles outside of town in Valle Vista. Hotter than hell, according to AAA, there were no buses going out Valle Vista way.
   It figured.
   After a detour at Robert’s Health Food Store where a nice girl offered us a couple of glasses of water, Jan and I walked up the road a ways and stuck out our thumbs. For a long hour, vehicles few and far between roared by without giving us a look. If we hadn’t had a sleepless night or been up at the crack of dawn hustling our asses to the bus depot, we might have considered hiking to the hostel. In the dry, oppressive heat, however, walking was out of the question. The possibility of sunstroke was on both of our minds.
   There was a gas station just ahead at the corner. Surely, someone there might suggest a way for us to get to Meadowlark or drive us for a small fee. Since Jan was relegated to call down to the front desk to dispose of Gregory the night before, it was my turn to ask for a favor.
   While she waited outside, I entered the gas depot and approached an elderly man seated on a stool reading a newspaper. Sitting comfortably in his faded denims and white undershirt marked by yellow sweat stains it was clear his itinerary was open. When I approached him, the man looked up, obviously recognizing I wasn’t from the area.
   “Can I help you?” He told me he was the proprietor of the station. I explained how we'd journeyed from San Diego earlier in the day and arrived in Hemet from Riverside an hour ago, telling him we needed a ride out to Valle Vista where the Meadowlark youth hostel was located. I asked the man if he had a car or access to one would he consider doing the honors and drive us over there.
   The stranger looked at me with raised eyebrows when I mentioned the part about our planning to stay at a hostel in Valle Vista. He knew Valle Vista, but he didn’t know of a hostel anywhere in the Hemet region. I pointed to the photo of the place in the guidebook and he frowned, still puzzled about its existence. Sure enough, he asked me to follow him out to his car. When we stepped outside of the station, I introduced the man to Jan. Tickled that our scheme had worked I thought it best not to tell her we might be getting a ride out to a mirage in the middle of the desert.
   Double-checking the address, we drove down the road a ways until pulling up to the front gate of the Meadowlark property situated on a few acres of land, with several buildings scattered about. Supposedly the hostel was situated somewhere within the grounds.  

   At first look, it appeared that no one was around. The man waited in his car while we walked up to the front door of the main house and knocked. No answer. Then we ventured around to the side door of one of the smaller buildings and discovered an office where a young man was seated inside. Above his desk, a sign read “$2.00 /nite.” Jan and I were about to pay when we were informed the hostel wasn’t officially open yet for business. Not until summer.

   Gravely disappointed, we groaned. The young man had an idea. Since we'd traveled a distance to get there, we could stay, as long as we didn’t mind sleeping out in the horses stables.

   We sure didn’t.

   Returning to the car, we thanked our gas station friend for the lift and went back inside the office to pay for a couple of nights. The young man then proceeded to bring us back around to the animal stables where the temperature was at least fifteen degrees cooler. Three horses and one colt were housed in the stables. It felt good to get out of the sun and be in the company of a few furry creatures. Finally, we were able to lay down our packs, rest our legs and tired bodies.

   Not far from the premises, a small grocery store stocked fruits and vegetables, and other inexpensive food items for supper.Things were starting to turn around. Little did we know that Meadowlark was much more than a youth hostel.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 33: Flower Lady

Vernal Falls, Yosemite

Chapter 33: Flower Lady

“Nothing matters very much and very few things matter at all.” – Lord Balfour

 

An old brown truck that had seen better days pulled up to the Village Mall at Yosemite Park where Jan and I stood with matching thumbs out. The overly eager driver, obviously delighted to happen upon two teenage girls standing at the side of the road, was more disappointed than we were when he discovered we weren’t headed in his direction. A pleasant enough fellow, we would have been more than happy to ride a good stretch of the road with him.

     One down.

     Next, an older man stopped to give us a short lift, taking care of a few miles, with approximately two hundred and eighty five left to go. When he dropped us off, a couple of young guys were already ahead of us lingering on the shoulder of the road. According to the small sign the two had fabricated, they also had a reasonable distance ahead to travel.

     The last thing you want when you’re hitchhiking is competition. Luckily, we were young, and we were female – those two factors alone usually trump two males in their twenties waiting on a ride any day of the week. Unless, of course, the prospective driver happens to be a woman.

     Along came a black Pontiac Parisienne. After crisscrossing over two lanes and coming to a stop, the driver opened the heavy passenger door, enabling us to make our way into the vehicle with ease. He even sprung out of the car to help us with our backpacks, and told us he was heading to Lake Tahoe.

     Discouraged, we had to decline. Once they’d clued into the fact that Jan and I we weren’t getting into the car after all, our competition almost tripped over one another as the two dudes raced over to the vehicle and jumped inside. Jan and I watched longingly as the big boat squealed from the curb with a vengeance. Dust and stones, perpendicular to the white wall tires, spat and sputtered, like a mini explosion as the driver tore up the road. Wondering if the fireworks display was for our benefit, I hung my head. That could have been our ride if only we were going to Tahoe.

     It was out of the question.

     Almost cheerful about our misfortune, Jan was convinced that morning a car would soon appear with our names emblazed on it. I chuckled to myself at her wishful thinking and sat down on a rock, briefly removing my boot and sock to expose my foot and wiggle my toes in the fresh air. It was still a relatively cool morning. One that would become progressively warmer as the day wore on.

     My right foot had become sore the day before when my feet swelled in the heat while walking up and down The Mist Trail at Yosemite. The inside of my one hiking boot caused friction against the back of my heel, and an ugly callous the size of a robin’s egg had surfaced. The callous actually started back in Vancouver when my work boots were still new, but had gotten worse in recent weeks. I considered switching to my sandals, but then I’d have to strap my boots to my backpack and I didn’t want to create any extra weight –even one pound or two was too many to carry once the sun came out in full force.

     Ten minutes later, an anonymous vehicle eased its way up along the horizon. Finally, a yellow ‘69 Toyota station wagon came into view. As it got closer to us, the car began to slow down and eventually stop. Inside was a good-looking man in his late twenties. His name was Grace. Grace introduced us to Jude, his equally attractive blonde girlfriend. The couple were from Australia and on their way to San Francisco for a few days prior to heading up to Montreal, Canada, to attend the summer Olympics. Ultimately, they were headed to Europe where they planned to travel with a Euro-rail pass.

     We didn’t subscribe to coincidences in late spring of 1976, and so, with an extra bounce in our steps, Jan and I began to unload our weight into the back of the small wagon. My good friend didn’t neglect to shoot me an all-knowing glance. Out of respect, I gave her a mock bow.

     Jan's intuition had been spot on.

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

 

Chaos and Order ~ Chapter 38 Excerpt

The following is another excerpt from Chapter 38 titled "Nameless Wanderer" and describes the challenge of being faced with a tough decision as a teenager thousands of miles from home and family, with little life excperience to draw from. In this excerpt, Jan and I are back at the youth hostel on Steiner St. in San Francisco.

'On Monday morning, Craig and Larry left.

     People were starting to drop like flies.
     Jan and I washed and dried the dishes and listened to Phil Ochs’s Pleasures of the Harbor on the record player. The melodies and lyrics of each song felt meaningful and oddly poignant – the way it is when you listen to a piece of music for the very first time, and its enormity is overpowering.
     Afterwards, I took held onto the cover of the record I’d purchased a couple of months earlier, went into the bathroom and locked the door. With my journal on my lap, I began to scribble down some of the writings by Ochs that appeared on the back of the album’s jacket.

      “…and the bleeding seer crawled from the ruins of the empire and stood bleeding, bleeding on the border he said, passion has led to chaos and now chaos will lead to order.”

     I placed the slender black marker down for a moment and looked out the window at Duboce Park. It was still, nothing to observe around the premises except the freshly turned vegetable garden adjacent to the house. I shifted my eyes toward the manse across the road from my window. There was little activity, I wondered if that meant school was in session.
     The silly joke made me smile.
     With my pen in hand, I began to scratch out a self-directed message in my journal.

     “Everyone seems to think that it’ll help if I ask for an answer. It’s not an easy thing to do. I want to try to write about/to God, but I can’t. The words won’t come. There are too many concepts to consider... it all boils down to one basic idea. Stay simple. Don’t worry about anything, because when you stop worrying, you open yourself up to answers already in existence. There is little reason to constantly wonder why.
     ‘“Relax, and you shall find your place in space.”’

     Meadowlark rang in my ears. It wasn’t much, but it was something.  
     That morning the sky was blue streaked and the temperature had soared to 87 degrees. There was no excuse to wear the green kangaroo so I stored it safely inside of my pack. Jan and I set off to the underground shop to see about a ride north of the city, and then hiked over to the San Francisco Ride Centre. That proved to be a useless effort; it was explained that we each had to pay a four-dollar registration fee before anyone would assist us in finding a ride.
     No can do.
     One fact was constant; without money, finding our ticket out of San Francisco and up to the west coast of Canada wasn’t going to come easy. Not unless we hitchhiked our way out. That was a definite possibility.  
     As we sat in a Chinese restaurant eating fifty-cent bowls of steamed white rice, Jan and I tossed schemes back and forth but it still came down to money. We had enough to get our butts back to Canada, and then we’d go from there and see how long we could make our dollars last if we couldn’t find work. As long as we weren’t faced with forking out dough for fees so headhunters could locate rides for us, we’d be okay. While eating our lunch, jointly, we visualized that we’d find a ride between Wednesday and Saturday.
     I was starting to think I had a split personality. One side of me was set to make Holy Order of Mans (HOOM) my home and the other was talking about going to Alberta, with Jan and the friends we hoped to visit there. It was a strange and surreal state of consciousness; I looked forward to synthesizing my thoughts and options so that they would become united. The only drawback was that it couldn’t be forced, but the pot was about to boil over.
     I had one day to go.'

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 42: Pressing On

   

    

 

The following excerpt is from Chapter 42 titled "Pressing On." The excerpt describes an unusual night in June, spent in a car in mystical Mount Shasta, California. Jan and I were introduced to Roger fifteen minutes before the three of us departed in his white Volkswagen beetle from the youth hostel in San Francisco, to travel with him to Eugene, Oregon. Roger planned to drop us off in Eugene on our way to Seattle. It wasn’t uncommon during those days to hook up with someone at a hostel and share the cost of gas if you were headed if the same direction.

"Use spear of mind which is thought – to stop what negativity has been wrought.” – The Golden Force
 

     It was close to eleven that evening when Jan and I first started to feel symptoms of fatigue. Roger had finally found the magic spot to lay his head for the long night ahead – it was about twenty feet in front of where he’d parked the car, close to a tangle of undergrowth and sheltered beneath the tall firs. On top of broken ice and sludge, it wasn’t much of a refuge.
     Roger peeled off his denim jacket and jeans, preferring instead to sleep only in his t-shirt. In the few hours since we’d arrived at Mount Shasta, Jan and I witnessed Roger make several desperate disappearing acts into the woods, only to return many minutes later to resume thrashing around inside of his sleeping bag. We watched him flaying about, and heard sounds of him coughing and vomiting. At one point, I gave him a huge wad of the toilet paper I’d stashed inside of the vehicle earlier so it wouldn’t get damp. He thanked me. Once, when Jan got out of the car to wander over to where Roger lay, he told her that he was fine and to return to the car. He wasn’t fine, but we were at a loss as to how to help him. All we could do was to sit tight in the car, and if he needed anything, we were on standby.
     I’d read in a book somewhere that withdrawal symptoms from opiates such as heroin, could vary from a day to a few days, depending on the amount ingested and a person’s body type.
     Roger had proven to be a gentle, sweet man. Neither one of us wished him harm in any way. 
     Swathed in darkness with a throng of stars proliferating the sky, the dominant presence of Mount Shasta wearing a snow-white tiara reminded us how dependent we three were upon one another that night. It might have been the power of suggestion, but there was something corporeal about the mountain, as if it was watching over us, waiting. I recalled some of the mysterious stories Roger had told us earlier in the afternoon when the sky was still light. He’d said there were secret tunnels and rumors of a subterranean city, and that people had eyewitnessed unusual spectacles and reverberations at Shasta which they believed to be spirits. Eyewitnesses mentioned the existence of little people; faeries, even a Big Foot population, and other odd, immortal creatures inhabiting the mountain that only made themselves visible to a chosen few. Evidently, Mount Shasta is one of the landing sites for UFOs. It was, and is still considered a cosmic summit on planet earth.  
     Inside of the car, I clutched Peter’s green kangaroo jacket around my shoulders, pulled my sleeping bag up to my neck and asked Jan if she was scared. She said she wasn’t, but said she wished that Roger would feel better soon. I did too. We decided it wouldn’t hurt to pray to the mountain, asking it to help Roger become healthy again.
     In the dark, off in the distance, the sallow face of the mountain stared down at the two of us bundled inside of our sleeping bags secured within the enclave of Roger’s bug. Our unconscious mindscapes were linked, an allusion that Mount Shasta was listening. Within the hour, we both fell asleep.
     Throughout the crisp night, Jan and I periodically awakened and took turns keeping watch. It wasn’t something we planned – we felt compelled. Someone needed to be on guard to make sure Roger didn’t freeze to death outside in the cold. It seemed inprobable that a person could perish in Northern California climate in June; we didn’t want to take a chance.
     Due to the frosty temperature and restrictive space inside of the vehicle, neither one of us slept longer than brief intervals, anyway. At times, the foggy windows made it difficult to make out Roger's sleeping bag. Every so often one of us rolled down a window to clear the condensation trapped within the car. The translucent skies overhead cast a generous dose of light, permitting us to view his figure moving, almost in a punishing manner out there on his side along the rutted ground, as if he was seeking penance for some unforgivable deed. Given the volatile circumstances, mercifully, Roger probably had a better night’s sleep than we did. During the last few hours toward dawn, our haunted friend slept uninterrupted.
     Sunshine oozed through the trees in the early morning, warming the air inside and outside of the vehicle. Feeling a strong urge to pee, I opened the car door, walked over to a nearby bush, crouched down behind it and unzipped my jeans. I heard the sound of branches cracking off in the distance, and looked up to see Jan in her yellow cable-knitted, wool sweater, seeking cover. It was obvious she also had the need to relieve herself. As I refastened my pants, I glanced across the way toward the surface of the partially icy ground and watched the lumpy mass that was Roger shift inside of his sleeping bag. All but concealed by his cocoon, the man was still alive; thank god, and smoking a cigarette. 
     I got back into the car and Jan soon followed. She appeared tired, exactly how I felt and probably looked. Both of us kept our eyes ahead fixated on Roger waiting to see what his next move might be. 
     “What do you think?” I craned my neck over at Jan, hoping she would sum up our present situation.
     Jan shook her head, pondering. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to wait and see how he’s feeling. If it takes longer than we figured to get to Eugene, that’s fine with me.”
     Pointing her head in the direction of Roger’s sleeping bag, Jan took a short breath, and then hesitated, “As long as he’s okay.”
     The distance between Mount Shasta and Eugene was approximately two hundred and fifty miles  – about four hours drive or more, depending upon traffic. Neither of us wanted or expected Roger to drive anywhere unless he was feeling up to it. Depending upon the kind of night he’d had, it could go either way. If he was detoxifying from drugs, it might be a few days before he’d be in shape to drive. I started to imagine what it would be like to remain for two or three days in the precise location of the Great Spirit, with its clandestine sect of highly evolved human beings. There were tales of conduits, possessing the power to channel the thoughts of supernatural spirit bodies. If indeed they existed, there was no doubt that at least one of them possessed the power to negotiate our prayers on Roger’s behalf.
     I hoped it was true.

 

***

 

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson

Excerpt from Chapter 38: Nameless Wanderer

The following excerpt is from Chapter 38: The Nameless Wanderer

Somehow, Jan and I got our wires crossed with Craig and Larry. They were nowhere to be found when we finally arrived down at the Wharf around two pm. We searched all along the waterfront but to no avail. They probably got fed up waiting for us to attend Cole St. services first, not to mention, we had something to eat afterwards; withdrew a bit of money out of the bank and caught the bus to the Wharf. All of that took a few hours. Obviously, they weren’t patient boys. I can’t say I blamed them. As it turned out, they ended up going to a concert which would have been a hell of a lot more fun.
     In those days, when travelling you had to be precise if you made plans to meet up with people, and hope there weren’t any unforeseen circumstances that might have bearing on whether or not an individual showed up. There was no way of knowing details as to why someone didn’t materialize until the next time you either saw or spoke to that person. Changing plans last minute meant that generally, someone was left stranded waiting, annoyed, while staring down at the face of a wristwatch. Living at hostels or at the homes of strangers for brief periods as we were doing in cities that were foreign to us, created an even greater need to be specific when pinpointing locations to hook up. The ability to send or receive a text message would have come in handy. This was more than twenty-five years before the mode of communication had been dreamed up.
     No such luck.
     Jan and I sat around on a bench for a while watching the boats chase one another out on the water. It was now getting close to 4 o’clock and I decided to head back to Steiner St. I figured by the time I reached the hostel by bus, it’d be almost 5pm – the coast would be clear to return to the nest. Jan wanted to stay behind and said she would walk home later.
     The two of us hadn’t vocalized it, but recently, Jan and I both detected an underlying need for space, at least until we (or she) were on our way back up the coast. Silently, we’d agreed upon slackening things a little in order to allow one another room to breathe. I also knew that Jan wanted to stay within an arm’s length of me, at least until I made my decision. That afternoon, I felt in my gut that a shift in the wind was imminent. I simply couldn’t go on much longer agonizing about what to do about my future.
     Something else occurred to me during the service at Cole St.  in the morning which had given me cause for pause. That was this fact: apart from a measure of familiarity with the Brothers, Sisters, and some of the novices at HOOM, I knew very little about the organization. Its overall practices, procedures, and origins of faith eluded me. My knowledge was shaped from what had been told to me by partisan members. That wasn’t good enough. I had leafed through a copy of HOOM’s bible, “The Golden Force,” but I was a layperson and though some of the passages were designed to impress, flatter supporters and also colleagues – that they were a part of a private and elite, supernatural society – the book mostly remained bafflegab to me.
     Which brought me back to the leading question: Why was I considering joining a cult?
     Peter’s face popped into my head.
     That was my pragmatic side resonating – I’d known it was hiding inside of me somewhere. For one of the very first times since all of this wavering had begun, it dawned on me that I might actually be considering enlisting for some freakazoid show like the Moonies, capable of borrowing your brain and not giving it back. Sure, I’d thought about that before. Now, it seemed like a real possibility. It might not have been much, but I determined that I'd better cling tightly to all grey matter.
     I rode the first leg of the trip up the hill on the trolley and then hopped the bus for the last stretch of the ride. The bus dropped me off in front of HOOM, and I decided to read for a while in Duboce Park where Jan and Beth and I had held our private party a couple of nights before - just to play it safe.
     A couple of novices I hadn’t met before, Thomas and Rebecca were outside working in the soil patch. They eventually meandered over to where I sat and made a formal introduction. Smiling shyly, Thomas held out a pretty, violet-colored flower picked from a sweet pea plant and asked if I would like to have it. I thanked him and waited for the shoe to drop. In recent days, veterans and new members of the Holy Order crawled around the hostel and its hinges like locusts. In case there might be a reason for that, I stayed on my guard. In all probability, they were only being friendly, just as I discovered Joanne had been in the garden earlier in the week.
     These folks may have been appendages of a cult, but so far, my instincts told me they were rock-solid people.

1976: Tapes from California © 2013 Jill C. Nelson.