the Wanderling

In April of the year 1968, on the occasion of my birthday, I went in search of the site of my childhood attempt twenty years previously of a manned flight using a flying machine partly inspired by a Leonardo Da Vinci design.

Those twenty years before, as a young boy, after seeing a 1947 Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan movie titled Tarzan and the Huntress wherein Tarzan's son Boy builds a glider-type plane capable of flying while carrying him --- and that their chimp Cheetah steals, then hanging on for dear life jumps off some rocks flying quite some distance before eventually crashing into the trees and falling to the ground --- I constructed a similar winged, glider-like contraption myself with the help of my Uncle. Although our final design ended up nothing even remotely close to the glider in the movie, being much more well researched and sophisticated, and appeared as though it could easily carry me in flight, my uncle never said anything about actually trying out the device.(see)

As found in The Wanderling and His Uncle, deciding on the maiden flight of the flying machine, the following occurred:

"It was only a short time after returning from the desert during the summer of 1948 and just before school started at around age 10 or so, that I removed the flying machine my uncle and I built from the hanging position of it's construction lair and hauled it up to the rooftop of the second story building across the street. Then, holding onto the machine for dear life, I jumped off.

"At first the craft seemed easily able to maintain the same two-story height advantage over quite some distance. But then, partway into the flight, instead of continuing in the direction I wanted, it began tipping lower on the right and turning. Without ailerons or maneuverable rudder controls and with inexperienced over-correcting on my part creating an adverse yaw followed by a sudden stall, the ensuing results ended with a somewhat dramatic drop, crashing into the porch and partway through the front windows of the house diagonally across the way."[1]

The flight and crash transpired after having been able to stay in the air for a long enough period of time to make it from the top of the two story house diagonally over busy Arlington Street, the street that went north and south paralleling the west side of our compound.

As a young boy with several years under the auspices of my Stepmother growing up in, or at least operating out of as a base of operations, the so-called Adams District of Los Angeles, of which encompassed Arlington Street where it crossed Adams, there was an exclusive gated area called Berkeley Square and close by, near the corner of Western and Adams, a huge bricked in compound where some guy had his own private domed observatory. When I went back twenty years later seeking out my infamous two-story high Arlington Street launch site, I discovered that the Santa Monica Freeway, which didn't exist when I was a kid, ran eight or more full lanes wide right through the old neighborhood, completely wiping out Berkeley Square and other houses for blocks around.

To find what I was looking for I had to drive all over the place searching out old landmarks. In doing so the most unusual thing happened. As Karma and conditions would have it, on that exact same day as I was circling around in my car trying to find someplace I recognized, I turned on a street called Cimarron. In doing so I accidently came across the official first-day opening of the Rinzai-ji Zen Center, as part of the 61st birthday of Joshu Sasaki Roshi. At the time I was one year away from the events described in Dark Luminosity but heavy into study-practice. Stumbling across a Zen center right in the middle of a now somewhat pretty much dilapidated former shadow of itself crumbling area on the west side of Los Angeles was so unexpected that I had to stop and go in. I had studied under Yasutani Hakuun Roshi a few years before --- without much success I might add --- plus months and months Doing Hard Time In A Zen Monastery high up on the side of some steep Chinese mountain situated somewhere along the southern edge of the Qinghai-Tibet plateau, so I had some experience with Zen protocol, and as an outsider amongst mostly regulars or the uninitiated, noticed quite quickly. In the process I was introduced briefly to the Roshi, then continued on my journey. Actually, although he did not seem to remember it nor did I mention it, I had met the Roshi some years before when I went to Gardena, California with my Mentor to a zendo held in all things, a garage, that he, the Roshi, officiated over.

Joshu Sasaki Roshi arrived in Los Angeles from Japan on July 21, 1962. His sponsor took him to a small rented house on Mariposa Street in Gardena, where he took up residence. He immediately began conducting Zen meetings on weeknights and Sunday mornings, initially using the garage as a Zendo. Because of the increase in his popularity, by 1966 the Mariposa site had outgrown its quarters, so the Roshi started holding Zazen in a nearby donated office space.

In January 1968, under the Roshi, what had now become a legal religious organization, bought its first property, the Cimarron Zen Center, formally dedicating it on April 21, 1968, the same day I stumbled across the Zen Center.

A couple of years before, near the end of the year 1966, a few members of a then still under the radar loose knit hippie group operating out of Orange County, California calling themselves The Brotherhood of Eternal Love, whose main purpose of existence was advocating the use of LSD, began attending Zen sessions held at the Roshi's Gardena office space. They asked the Roshi if he would be willing to present a meditation session at their then Modjeska Canyon digs, and much to their surprise the Roshi accepted. It was near Christmas of 1966 and somewhere along the way I heard the Roshi was going to be in Modjeska Canyon, so just for the heck of it I attended that session, the first time I came into any real contact with the Brotherhood.

In DON JUAN MATUS: Real or Imagined, I told of meeting with my uncle in Kingman, Arizona, a small desert community located about halfway between where I lived in California and where my uncle lived near the Sangre de Christo mountains of New Mexico, a meeting of which he arranged. When the meeting ended the following transpired:

"(A)s we were parting he gave me a small package to deliver in person to a man in Laguna Beach, California --- and told me whatever I did, NOT give it to anybody else under any circumstances. When I arrived in Laguna Beach I went to an establishment on Pacific Coast Highway called Mystic Arts World as directed by my uncle. There someone took me to the man who was sequestered in a remote cave hidden in the hills above Laguna Canyon Road. The man, Dr. Timothy Leary. The contents of the box not known."

The Laguna Beach establishment my uncle sent me to, Mystic Arts World, for all outward appearances looked like not much more than an early 60s head shop, with racks of tie-dyed shirts, the smell of burning incense, psychedelic posters, and bongs. It was actually the new base of operations for The Brotherhood of Eternal Love after moving from Modjeska Canyon. By the time my uncle sent me to the Mystic Arts World, because of my interactions with the Modjeska Canyon Zen sessions I was known enough not to be viewed suspiciously, so getting the box my uncle gave me to Timothy Leary, and doing so personally, did not present a problem.

The Brotherhood dealt heavily in the movement and sale of marijuana, psychedelic mushrooms, and LSD --- reportedly with upwards of $200 million in sales in the late 60s. The organization began to fall apart shortly after its leader died of an overdose of synthetic psilocybin in August 1969 and the Mystic Arts World building burning to the ground following a mysterious fire that started just before midnight June 4, 1970, a fire widely viewed as arson. By 1974, following an August of 1972 multi-agency government raid, most of the remnants of the organization were dispersed, scattered, or gone.

In 1971, year or so before the government raid, the all-time late 1960s into the late 1970's counter culture guidebook, the seminal Be Here Now by Ram Dass, which as an example Apple Computer mogul Steve Jobs mentioned as being highly influential in his life before Apple, was published. In the book, which became a wildly popular best seller and near bible for those of the era, Dass mentioned a deeply respected young white American he met in India, a follower of the venerated Indian saint Neem Karoli Baba, called Bhagavan Das, who was fully ingrained into the spiritual culture of India. The two of them traveled around the sub-continent together partaking of a variety of religious and spiritual undertakings as well as indulging in a lot of LSD. It just so happened Bhagavan Das was originally from Laguna Beach, known as Kermit Michael Riggs in those days, and because of his stature given him in the Ram Dass book, had become a growing sort of hero amongst the local LSD crowd associated with the Mystic Arts World and the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. In the milieu of Laguna Beach it wasn't long before Bhagavan Das was brought to my attention and I learned he had returned from India after six or seven years, living quietly as a civilian in the northern California bay area, most notedly, Santa Cruz and sometimes Berkeley.

Before the oncoming summer of 1974, at the request of my mentor who wanted my assist in helping him meet a friend who would soon be visiting from India, I headed north along the California coast slowly wending my way toward Sausalito, all the while crossing paths with a few friends and strangers along the way. One of the people I stopped to see was an old high school buddy who lived in San Jose and worked at IBM. While staying at his place I visited the Winchester Mystery House and, as outlined in what I have written about Steve Jobs I met the future to be computer genius in the garden there.

During our talk that afternoon he told me he was seriously contemplating going to India in an effort to find a guru. I mentioned Bhagavan Das to him saying there was a highly respected holy man just returned from India, now living in the area he should look up, a holy man that could give him all the ins-and-outs of a spiritual quest in India anybody would ever need or want. Jobs remembered Bhagavan Das almost immediately from having read about him in Be Here Now and seemed sort of excited about the prospect. If Jobs ever went to Bhagavan Das I never learned as neither of them have ever mentioned it as far as I know, most certainly not to me. However, shortly after our meeting in the garden at the Winchester House, Jobs did go to India.

Additionally, one day, and I do not specifically remember when, I was waiting between trains at the Union Station in Los Angeles and decided to dash across the street to Olvera Street for tacquitos.[2] A man that I knew at one time, who it was quite clear was now homeless and had fallen on hard times, stepped up to me and we started talking. I contacted a friend that attended Joshu Sasaki Roshi's old Rinzai-ji Zen Center on Cimarron to see if he could help the man. He did. Apparently the homeless man turned his life around after awhile. I heard from good sources that he attained a state of immortality.(see)


Joshu Sasaki Roshi, born April 1, 1907, retired from teaching February 2012, it is said, due to illness. He passed away two and a half years later on July 27, 2014. It saddens my heart that along the way I have come to learn of alleged actions by the Roshi and for all who may have been harmed by such actions. See:

Fundamentally, our experience as experienced is not different from the Zen master's. Where
we differ is that we place a fog, a particular kind of conceptual overlay onto that experience
and then make an emotional investment in that overlay, taking it to be "real" in and of itself.



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STEVE JOBS----------------------------BHAGAVAN DAS------------------------------RAM DASS--------------------------------ALLEN GINSBERG
(click graphic for info on each individual)

As to the subject of donations, for those of you who may be interested in doing so as it applies to the gratefulness of my works, I invariably suggest any funds be directed toward THE WOUNDED WARRIOR PROJECT and/or THE AMERICAN RED CROSS.


"Lavish mansions stood prominently along West Adams Boulevard and nearby Berkeley Square housing the affluent. They were symbols of stateliness and elegance, designed by the best architects of Europe and the US."

Berkeley Square was an exclusive gated neighborhood located in Los Angeles, California, just east of Arlington Street between West 21st and West 24th, bordered on the west by South Gramercy Place. The neighborhood is now gone and covered by the 10 FWY, but from 1920 through to the early mid-1950s was full of dozens of large and expensive mansions.

Multi-millionaire Erle P. Halliburton, who founded what eventually became Halliburton Oil, maintained a residence there with his immediate family. His youngest son, David J. Halliburton, who I met and had an abstract impact on my life, was born there.

SEE: BERKELEY SQUARE: Historic Los Angeles

Footnote [1]

Why all the fuss about the ability to fly, flying machines, flying, giant flying creatures, giant birds, giant feathers, et al, and all of it relating back to the Wanderling somehow?

One day as a young boy I wandered off into the desert unescorted. When my Uncle found me missing he went searching for me. Years later he told me the distance I traveled that day, from the point I started to the location he found me, was way to far for me to have covered given the time, especially considering the level of my own abilities, the terrain, heat of the day, etc. He told me he had tracked me some distance quite clearly, then my tracks suddenly just ended as though I had disappeared into thin air. Knowing I didn't have a large supply of water or any at all he continued to look in areas he thought I might seek out and just happened across me --- many, many miles from where he had last seen my tracks. How I got there he couldn't say with any amount of certainty. However, he told me, and he kept it a secret from his wife even to the point of burning my shirt, that my shirt below both shoulders as well as part way down the back and along my sleeves were punctured in spots and appeared to have what he called grip marks on them. So too, my skin had red abrasions almost like minor scratches as though my arms had been clutched by something. He told me he was sure I had been carried off and if he hadn't happened across me I may had been carried off even further, maybe even never to be found.

In that my uncle was not able to get me to tell him verbally --- OR I was unable or unwilling to put into words my experience of what happened that day --- my uncle suggested I sit down and draw whatever pictures came to mind that related to the event. All of those drawings are long gone as are any finite memories of same, except for one. I remember it clearly as if only yesterday because of the striking comparison my uncle made between one of my drawings and an ink and watercolor drawing by Leonardo Da Vinci. They were nearly identical, desert landscape and all. The major exception was that where Leonardo's drawing depicted a lake with a shape similar to a bird, my drawing, although having a similar shape, was instead, a SHADOW of a giant bird.

Leonardo Da Vinci: Bird's-Eye View of a Landscape. 1502.
Pen, ink and watercolor on paper. Windsor Castle, Windsor, UK

Basically, my uncle stated many times that he felt the reason for my destiny and fascination regarding all aspects of giant flying creatures went back to an incident that involved the fly over of a giant airborne object that I witnessed as a young boy. The object, of an unknown nature and an unknown origin, was seen by literally thousands of people along the coast of California barely three months into World War II. Eventually to be called the Battle of Los Angeles: 1942 UFO, the incident is mostly forgotten now except by maybe myself and a major chronicler of the event C. Scott Littleton whose critiques of my eyewitness accounts of the event are explored in Littleton Vs. The Wanderling. Anyway, as the story goes, during the early morning hours of February 25, 1942 the whole city and surrounding communities were in an uproar as thousands of rounds of anti-aircraft shells were expended in an attempt to pull down whatever it was in the sky that night. The slow moving object, said to be as big or bigger than a Zeppelin, was caught in the glare of the searchlights from Santa Monica to Long Beach and seemed impervious to the the constant barrarge of shells. It eventually disappeared out over the Pacific after cruising along the coast and cutting inland for a while. The huge object was never clearly explained and was basically hushed up without response from the authorities.


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As to the whole Leonardo Da Vinci flying thing, in the end it was basically a huge metaphor for things to come, of which I get into somewhat more throughly in Codex Atlanticus. As it was, my mentor, either before or after his stay at the ashrama of Sri Ramana Maharshi, and I believe it was before --- even though it is not mentioned by William Somerset Maugham in his book --- traveled to Bijapur to meet with another Indian holy man, Siddharameshwar Maharaj. The Maharaj taught that the only way one can reach Final Reality, that is, Enlightenment, is through what he called Vihangam Marg, the bird's way. For me, at the time, of course, I knew nothing of such things. I only know who the holy man is now because I was able to put together bits and pieces of information such as time and place with such clues as "the bird's way." The holy man had related to my Mentor that only by hearing and practising from the teachings of the Master and thinking over it, just like the bird flies from one tree to another, can one attain Awakening very fast. This is the shortest way to achieve the Final Reality. In that initially I had made little or no progress toward Enlightenment my mentor told me of Siddharameshwer's method.

Howard Hughes, Da Vinci, and Flying Machines

Footnote [2]

Although as a young boy I never lived in the downtown area of Los Angeles I did grow up in the suburbs as well as the 20 mile away beach towns and the even further away farm and ranch areas that surrounded the city in those days. Unlike now, during those same growing up years, traveling by train was big, with the main railroad terminal in Los Angeles being Union Station, a place that figured large in my life on several occasions. In Footnote [12] in The Code Maker, The Zen Maker I wrote about how a series of four black and white photographs of my brothers and me figured prominently in my life. On the back of one of the photos of the series of four, in cursive writing, most likely in my mother's or grandmother's hand and using fountain pen ink, was the first names of my two brothers and myself along with the words 'Union Station' with the date 1942-43 which is the first time and earliest date and year I can confirm being at Union Station, the next being July of 1944.(see)

About five years later, following the death of my mother and by then living with my stepmother, I met an elderly (to me) Chinese man that washed dishes and swamped a bar not far from where I lived. During slow times he used to meditate in the alley near the back door of the bar. The two of us met while I was traveling with a couple of kid-friends from school collecting and turning in beer and pop bottles for the deposit. One day I came by without my friends and he asked why I was traveling without my buddies.

I told the Chinese man come dish washer that several days before, just as I was leaving the garage with a wagon to catch up with my two friends to collect bottles my godfather stopped me and asked if I was going to meet up with the "Jew-kid" and the "(explicative)," using the N-word in that one of my school buddies was Black. If I had ever heard either word before I don't remember, but I remember well the day my godfather said them. Although I usually fell under the auspices of my uncle, my godfather was still an adult figure in my life and when he said what he said I could tell by the inflection in his voice that somehow, at least as he viewed, something was wrong with both my friends. Continuing, I told the dish washer the following from the source so cited:

"A couple of days later I was at Union Station in Los Angeles with my stepmother who was either meeting someone or seeing someone off. I was on the platform some distance behind dawdling along when out of nowhere, using one of my newly learned words, I said, 'Woo, woo, here goes the (explicative)-train,' using the same N-word my godfather had used. The next thing I knew a Redcap was bending over with his face in mine, grabbing my shirt around the collar at the neck with one hand and waving the index finger of his other hand inches from my nose and loudly saying, 'Don't you ever use that word again!' Having never been grabbed like that before, by a black man or otherwise, I was scared shitless. Before I could respond in any fashion my stepmother was on the scene with her bodyguard asking what was going on. The Redcap, recognizing who my stepmother was, quickly reinstituted his Redcap role and using her first name by prefacing it beforehand with Lady almost as if she was royalty, related what happened. It was easy to tell my stepmother was totally aghast, fully unable to believe I would use such a word and insisted I apologize immediately not only to the Redcap but to all within earshot. She scribbled something on the back of her business card and handing it to the Redcap thanked him for what he had done telling him if there was ever anything in her power she could help him with, to call. Back in the car she demanded to know where I was learning such words. I told her what my godfather had said. Not long after that, under my stepmother's request, he was gone."

The Chinese man asked if I read comic books. When I nodded yes, he asked me to wait, got up and went through the back door of the bar returning in a few minutes with a handful of six or eight comics, all of which were in pristine condition. He went through the stack until he came to a specific issue, then he thumbed through that issue until he found what he was looking for. The comic book was called the Green Lama and the story he was looking for was about discrimination in the Army during World War II, how wrong it was and how it was resolved. The story was long for a comic book, ten or eleven pages. The full story as well as the source for the quote above can be found at the Green Lama site so linked, however the page below pretty much sums up the gist of the story:

The Green Lama was a 1940s superhero. Sporting an everyday guise as Jethro Dumont, a rich New York City resident and man about town, if necessity demanded it and he recited the Jewel in the Lotus Mantra "Om Mani Padme Hum", Dumont underwent a startling and dramatic change, becoming the Green Lama, gaining super strength, invulnerability, and the ability to fly.


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As a young boy without a lot of experience in the matter --- and never with my buddies --- I used to go by the bar and meditate in the alley with the old man even without the necessity of turning in soda or beer bottles for the deposit. Sitting in the shade on the back steps amongst the garbage cans and flies behind the bar one afternoon, while drinking hot tea out of tiny little cups with no handles in a near ritual-like tea ceremony he insisted on, the elderly (to me) Chinese man told me a story about the bombing of Japanese occupied Taiwan by B-29 Superfortresses of the United States Army Air Force during World War II. He said from ancient times there was a "girl Buddha" whose followers believed that reciting the same mantra that the Green Lama used, Om Mani Padme Hum, would, because of her compassion, deliver them from harm. He said even though he himself had not practiced or invoked the mantra, while seeking refuge in the midst of the attack he inadvertently ended up amongst a group of believers who were also running to find shelter from the explosions. Then, while within the group, most of whom were verbally repeating the mantra, overhead, pure white and almost cloud-like the "girl Buddha" appeared in the sky above them actually deflecting the trajectory of the bombs away from their exposed path until they reached safety and out of harms way.

During those back alley sessions, if the Chinese man used any names relative to the "girl Buddha" I don't recall them. Anything I know about her other than his description of the protection she provided, I have garnered later in life. Basically the "girl Buddha," or more respectfully, female Buddha, is known as Kuan Yin (also know as Quan Shi Yin and Kwan Yin), a Chinese female incarnation of Chenrezig (Avalokiteshvara) the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A bodhisattva is an Enlightened being who has decided to "stay in the world" rather than becoming a fully Enlightened Buddha and living a compassionate life for the sake of all beings. With the mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum, Kuan Yin tirelessly attempts to deliver all beings from suffering.





(photo courtesy Arizona Republic)

After the death of my mother, as a very young boy, following a series of events that for me were both fortunate and unfortunate and of which are fully articulated in M.V. Tulagi and elsewhere, I was left off alone and totally unannounced at my grandmother's on my father's side in Pennsylvania --- a grandmother I had never met nor ever even heard of.

I am not sure how long I was there, but from her place I was eventually returned to the west coast to be with my grandmother on my mother's side. It was during the return trip to my grandmother's in California that another interesting aspect in my young life unfolded.

Sometime around the very last day of June or so 1944, I was put on a passenger train in Pennsylvania headed toward Chicago, traveling with who I do not know. If it was or was not the couple described in The Last American Darshan who took me to India without approval of my family and then just left me in Pennsylvania has never been determined.

In Chicago I boarded the Number 19 Santa Fe Chief westbound to Los Angeles. Toward midnight of July 3, 1944, between Flagstaff, Arizona and Williams, on a high speed downhill run and behind schedule, the Chief's locomotive, a powerful Baldwin built 4-8-4 Northern with 80 inch drive wheels and clocking out at over 90 miles per hour, hit a marked 55 mph speed limit curve, with the locomotive derailing and sliding in the dirt on it's side off the tracks for well over 500 feet before coming to a stop. The rest of the 14 car train ended up in various stages of derailment and wreckage on and off the track, some cars remaining upright with two actually staying on the tracks undamaged. The fireman and three passengers were killed. 113 passengers along with 13 train employees injured, among them the severely injured engineer.


Although I was unhurt, the person or people I was traveling with was among the injured and taken, with me along with them, to either Williams or Flagstaff. Because of the nature of their injuries, whoever I was traveling with was held-up under doctors care for several days, leaving me without direct adult supervision. My grandmother, who had been contacted by the railroad, called my uncle in Santa Fe. He inturn contacted a nearby tribal spiritual elder to oversee me until someone figured out how to get me through to Union Station in Los Angles and my grandmother's home in California.

Three years later, within a day or two of the third year anniversary of the train wreck, July 3, 1947, found me with my uncle traveling in the desert southwest having passed through Williams, Arizona on our way to Fort Sumner, New Mexico to visit the gravesite of Billy the Kid. We stopped at the crash site to pay reverence to those that died and my survival. While my uncle sat in the truck I walked the tracks where the wreck occurred. In the three short years since the derailment barely a sign of anything having happened remained, the wind along with the heavy downfall of summer monsoons nearly erasing the 500 foot groove and other marks caused by the huge Baldwin locomotive and passenger cars. If a person was unfamiliar with what happened it would have been unobservable.

Just as my visit at the train wreck site ended and my uncle and I headed toward Fort Sumner the Fourth of July weekend of 1947 was upon us. Any deep reverence or importance by me being at the train site was quickly overshadowed by a much larger event of earthshaking and monumental proportions when in the middle of the night of that weekend an unidentified airborne object of unknown origin began disintegrating, spreading debris and foil in a long swath out over the New Mexico flatlands only to eventually slam into the northern face boulders and rocks of the lower upslope of the Capitan Mountains --- an event that soon became known worldwide as the Roswell UFO.