by Dick Croy
This slowing of bodily processes was also reflected in the brain, whose frontal area was dominated by extremely slow theta waves: 6-7 cycles per second, compared to normal beta wave activity of 16-30 cycles per second. The brain of an individual who is conscious and awake normally exhibits mostly beta waves. Advanced meditators reveal some alpha wave activity, at 8-9 cycles, but a dominant pattern of theta waves is almost unheard of.
If the primitive hindbrain can be seen as the repository of all that we have learned and experienced as an evolving species, indelibly encoded in our genetic makeup—a sort of cellar door at the head of a stairway descending into humanity’s collective unconscious—can the more recently evolved forebrain be conceived as a doorway to higher consciousness? While Jung’s concept of a collective unconscious has gained wide acceptance, the same can’t be said of a collective “super-conscious”, although the idea has been introduced. It’s not terribly difficult to imagine each of us in possession of a genetically inherited “memory” of our species’ history; we all spring from the same roots after all.
But does a collective super-conscious extend somehow into the future as the unconscious embraces the past? Is it apart from humanity, a higher consciousness which mankind will grow into? Or is it a human capacity we already have but don’t, in most cases, know how to tap?
Could it be a level of awareness in which time as we know it, linear time, doesn’t even exist? An individual experiencing this type of consciousness might have access to humanity’s “future”—the full realization of our evolutionary potential—in the same way that one in touch with the subconscious, through dream for example, is connected to our species’ primal roots.
If we each have our own private entrance and key to the collective unconscious, the door to this hypothetical super-conscious appears locked for most of us. Even those who believe such a door exists haven’t found the key to open it. We are dependent until we do on those who have, and who have returned to tell us what lies beyond.
Saints and mystics have rhapsodized about a timeless, eternal dimension of consciousness from time immemorial. This is the most profound reality, they have all said again and again, of whatever faith or belief or world culture—while the physical world that we know, with its past, present and future, is only illusion. A dimension of higher consciousness might help to explain the myriad reported miracles and paranormal phenomena which have always amazed and intrigued mankind. It might explain, for example, how Ram could disappear within himself, to an inner world where thoughts are deeds, and creative imagery is creation itself.
In this inner world, when a man thinks, he reaches out with his thought, and the thought has a purpose. It is the workman’s tool, the warrior’s weapon—against the dark regressive forces of the unconscious, baying for the soul’s return to the primeval. For Ram, there was, at all times, a war going on between the “people of light and the forces of night”: the war of evolution—not just of mankind but of consciousness itself, struggling to assert itself in the universe. And he knew now what his task was in this great battle.
He smoothed the bare earth before him with the palm of his hand. Into the hard ground he gouged the spare, symbolic representation of a bird’s wing. Then he gazed for a long time at this pictograph, not so much with intensity as with the serene assurance that strength and wisdom can give such a man—whether he is looking at a beloved or, as the Buddha, at the world.
Ram felt the seeing connection between himself and the totem-mirror he had drawn move gradually from his eyes to the region of his heart. As this happened, the mirror became increasingly clearer until, finally, more transparent than glass, it was like a window to the sky. And onto this he dropped...a golden eagle feather.
He never saw it hit the ground. It was sucked through the window as if caught in some inconceivably swift current, as if the pressurized cabin of an airplane had been punctured. Suddenly he was looking down at the ground from a great height. A young man and woman were there.
“Is that everything?”
“I think so. I don’t see anything else.”
“Okay...how do we get to this Military Road?”
“Military Pass,” Catherine corrected him. “We’ll go back down through town and take 89 north out past McCloud. Military Pass is a little dirt road that circles clear around behind the mountain, between 89 on the east and Route 97 to the west. We won’t go quite that far, though, to get to the falls. If we picnic along the way, it’ll take us most of the day.”
“Let’s do it.”
As the motorcycle negotiated the rutted, bumpy road down the mountain to the highway, a golden eagle landed in a cedar tree near their campsite. Draped over a rock where it had been spread out to dry was Eugene’s red bandanna. In one swift move the eagle swooped down and plucked it cleanly from the rock in its outstretched talons. The symbolic power residing in that bit of red cloth was worthy of the majestic bird. To destroy it, the eagle would have to assume it.
* * *
They rode into town like the Daltons in a 50’s B-western. The townspeople stopped and stared. Clerks and shopkeepers came out to see what was going on. Mothers instinctively reached for their children, who were excited by this loud procession of unwashed sinister-looking types. Who cared if the bad guys were on Harleys instead of horses? The kids had watched this scene dozens of times on TV; now it was almost like being in the movie themselves. And not just for the young spectators either.
While the rest of the gang postured behind him—except for the Fool, who was typically too involved in the game to be self-conscious about it, actually slapping imaginary leather with a tough little dude who challenged him in front of the hardware store—the Leader, as always, was following his instincts. He seldom had any real plan or predetermined destination, although Becky was the only one who suspected this. His real strength lay in trusting his sense of where the action was, where the adventure, the soft touch, the exposed weakness.
He only traveled in the fast lane. He was followed because his nose told him which back alleys to take. Or for that matter, in a pristine little town like this, which establishments to patronize—that health food store for example. He made a sudden sharp turn and rode up in front of it, nodding for the Fool to go in. They left their engines idling.
The little store had louvered swinging doors to provide a measure of privacy from the street. The Fool pushed through them as if there were a saloon full of cowhands, a rinky-tink piano, and half a dozen poker games he had to bring to sudden absolute silence. The fact that he was actually facing shelves of herb tea, natural foods, and rubber sandals “to give your soles a walking foot massage” didn’t faze him. What he saw were the card players, the stand-up drinkers, the dance-hall girls... all looking expectantly at him.
He tugged at his wide leather belt and swaggered toward the bar. All that was missing was the jingle of his spurs. “Chink...chink...”—wait a minute!
Suddenly realizing the sound was real—the way we’re wakened from a dream by an actual sound we have incorporated into it—the Fool stopped and looked around sheepishly. The saloon interior had been replaced by the stocked shelves. The long mahogany bar had become an undistinguished counter outfitted with a juicer, jars of ginseng and vitamin capsules, a plate of “Lucy’s Natural Date Bars,” and a computerized cash register.
Sitting behind it where he couldn’t be seen from the door, was the cashier. He had a big grin on his face and was holding a leather bracelet adorned with bells. There were boxes of them on display next to the counter. Recycled from the flower-child era, they were supposed to be “Perfect for keeping your energy field in tune.”
“...That’s real funny.”
“Hey man, don’t get upset,” said the cashier. “It was just too good to pass up.”
The Fool broke into a broad grin himself. “Yeah, I guess it was at that. Say, I’m lookin’ for a friend a mine—and his lady. They would a come in here sometime the last couple a days. He’s kind of a quiet du
de, intense-like. And the chickie’s a real looker.”
“...Friends of yours huh? I’m not sure I remember seeing them. Who should I say is looking for them, if they, uh, happen to come in?”
The Fool chuckled and eased up to the counter. “Well, if they should just ‘happen’ t’ come in, maybe you could give ‘em somethin’ for me.”
“Sure!” said the cashier cheerfully.
Outside, the others were way past impatient, taking turns revving their engines, intimidating pedestrians and passing motorists. Only the Leader seemed unbothered by the time it was taking the Fool to complete his errand. Then the doors swung open and he appeared, munching one of Lucy’s date bars. It was either damn good, or he’d enjoyed his conversation immensely.
“Place called Panther Meadows,” he said with his mouth full. We take this street right up the mountain. Real helpful little guy.” Amidst guffaws he winked playfully and mounted his bike. Looking up at the second-floor window, he pictured all those scenes where the dude leaps onto his horse waiting below and rides furiously out of town in a hail of bullets. “Damn if you wouldn’t hafta have brass balls,” he mumbled to himself.
“What’d you say?” asked Jerry behind him.
“Here—I brung you somethin’.” He handed the boy a date bar. In mounting and sustained pandemonium, the gang roared out of town for Panther Meadows.
Chapter 26
If you imagine Mt. Shasta taking up most of the infield in the middle of a giant baseball diamond, then Highways 97 and 89 are the left- and right-field foul lines. The base path is a network of dirt roads known collectively as Military Pass Road, named for its function a century or so ago when military meant wagons and cavalry.
Catherine and Eugene had spent the greater part of the day going from first to third—sometimes intentionally, just as often inadvertently leaving the main road to come to a dead- or dwindling end on one of its numerous branches. After Catherine took another driving lesson, they picnicked, explored the flat, forested terrain, and lazed around in the sun. Feeling rather than talking much, letting thoughts and impressions come and go as randomly as the breeze that kept them company in the trees. The day was good to them; they were more relaxed with each other than ever.
The two less than inspiring nights they’d spent together seemed to have taken place a long time ago or to two different people. To be sure, each would continue to recall specific remarks and reactions with sudden painful clarity, but there was a fuzziness around these isolated incidents, almost as if they had been described to them by someone else rather than personally experienced.
A plume of dust rose behind the motorcycle as they approached the turnoff which would take them to the foot of the trail to Whitney Falls. Directly north of the mountain now, they were facing not one pinnacle but two.
“The peak on the right is Shastina,” Catherine yelled into his ear. “Shasta’s mate. Most people who’ve heard of Shasta don’t even know it’s there. Typical! I think it’s even prettier than Shasta.”
It’s true that from this angle Shasta, the higher of the two, was more rugged and angular-looking than majestic, while Shastina had a soft symmetrical grace. It was easy to see how the companion peak had come by its name and gender. “This is as far as we can ride—we’ll have to walk from here. It’s about an hour’s hike.”
After Eugene had hidden and covered the bike, they decided on what they needed to pack in with them and divided it between them. Then they scrambled over the rocks of a dry streambed to the trail, with Catherine in the lead. They walked for several minutes in silence, keeping an eye ahead of them on the trail and looking up at the glistening white peaks, which in their contrast with the deep blue of the sky or in their harmonic proximity to each other, or simply in the minds of the hikers, seemed to speak to them or to ring out somehow. There was just too much there for the sense of sight alone—or even for the senses alone: that pinnacle of sensuous visual presence which the mind transmutes to meaning. Somewhere here is the secret to everything, it seems to say.
“...You ever heard of tantra—tantra yoga?” Eugene asked after a while.
“Doesn’t it have something to do with sex?”
“Well, sex and a lot more. Or all of sex, not just the act itself. The objective is to get so much inside another person that you totally forget about yourself.”
“I’ve heard of it, but that’s about all....Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know...those two peaks I guess. They look like ideal mates—the way they complement each other.”
She laughed. “You’re more romantic than I thought.”
“You don’t know the half of it!”
“Really?” Catherine stopped and turned to face him. The sun was in her eyes and she put her arm up to shield them. She wanted not only to see his reaction but to be sure he missed none of the teasing in her remark: “I haven’t seen much sign of it till now.”
He chuckled and continued toward her as if he was going to walk into her. When she turned at the last instant to get away, he brought his hands up beneath her rear end like a swing, lifting her without breaking stride and setting her down again a step or two later. Then with his right hand cupped against that pert, impertinent little ass of hers he scooted her along in front of him until, protesting loudly, she was finally able to escape—which she did reflexively as part of the game, not because she really wanted to. She liked the direction things were taking.
“...Maybe we mean two different things by ‘romantic’,” he said after they’d resumed their hike.
“Oh? What does it mean to you?”
“Well, for one thing, I think it’s a misconception that women are more romantic than men; I think it’s the other way around. This is a generalization, but men are more often the dreamers. Women seem to me to be more practical.”
“You think so huh? Well I agree with you about the generalization anyway. Then why are you afr—why don’t you want me to see that you’re a dreamer?”
“...Where did that come from?”
“Just answer the question.”
“It’s not that I’m afraid to show it; it’s just wanting to keep it under control. I’m really too goddamn serious for my own good sometimes. That’s just me.”
“Keep telling me about you, Eugene. I want to know everything.”
Damned if he didn’t believe her. She believed it—for the moment anyway. The question was how well Catherine knew herself. But Eugene didn’t dwell on this. Right now he was feeling something so rare it thrilled and frightened him a little at the same time. And the fear made the thrill all the greater, like the first time he’d jumped out of an airplane or, as a kid, the very first time he’d been at the top of the roller coaster at Coney Island and, in that instant of suspension before the plunge, looked down in utter disbelief at where they were about to go.
There was much of the same rising suspense he’d felt in the doorless Howard as it climbed in its laborious spiral like a hawk riding a thermal...or in the car of the roller coaster with his brother as it was ratcheted to the top of the first precipice, and each crank of the gears made him a little giddier at being strapped inside with no way to get out, knowing there was no turning back.
He’d almost forgotten the feeling. He didn’t jump out of airplanes or ride roller coasters anymore. He’d never had it on his bike; that little run-in on the coast was the most excitement he’d had in a long time, and all he got out of that was a light case of the shakes when it was over.
But there was a lot more to this feeling than the giddiness or exhilaration of danger. The expression on that beautiful face when they were looking...not at but into each other. The warmth in those eyes, for him and him alone, a genuinely searching warmth from within. Who are you? they kept asking, with such gentle yet insistent curiosity. It had been so long since he’d experienced this rise and swell of passion and tenderness that he’d actually forgotten the feeling. How could he have so conspired against himself to let this wellspring
of emotion dry up not just in his life but in his memory even?
Turning on the trail to look back at him, Catherine rejoiced at the look of amazement on Eugene’s face. Nothing turned her on more than this reciprocation of feeling. Nothing spoke to her so eloquently of her womanliness, her desirability, her worth. At last she was bringing this man to life! She felt as though there were raw power flowing from her fingertips. She was feeling once again—finally—that there really was a point to life, a reason for being who she was, where she was. This was the real “spiritual” purpose of life.
What could be more sacred or meaningful than this nurturing of love in another human being? Talk about Aquarians, the water bearers...what water could be more precious than this to a desiccated spirit? Her cup runneth over—she felt it moistening her lips from the fountainhead in her loins. She shivered and then laughed at the image—at everything and nothing, unable and unwilling to contain her excitement any longer. Eugene chimed in with her. It was so spontaneous for both of them, such a pleasant surprise, that they laughed all the harder and took each other’s hands.
It was so unusual for him to laugh like this out of simple pleasure; even as he surrendered to the experience Eugene was aware of this. But as they stood facing each other, their laughter dried up; they both began to feel a little shy and released their hands. Eugene’s self-awareness degenerated into self-consciousness until, from the inside, his smile had assumed the unreality of a mask. He abandoned it for his eyes, looking through them at Catherine as piercingly as if they were sealed windows in the facade of a building in which he was trapped.
Of course this strange intensity made her uncomfortable. Once again she found herself wondering who the man behind these desperate eyes really was. But she looked back; her face didn’t register fear or revulsion or even incomprehension—just a sort of compassionate curiosity. And whatever the source of Eugene’s temporary paranoia, the moment passed for both of them, as naturally as a dark cloud over the face of the sun.
