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1. And now I was back. Back in Los Angeles, California. Walking down the old Pacific Coast Highway just south of the headway into Santa Monica Canyon. Looking back, the long spiral distance, it is mid June of nineteen sixty six, and I am searching. Never supposing for my- self as perhaps in those past journeys to this wide spread city yet contained in one adventure pre- supposed film. Searching for my wife and child. Not in the physically sence, for they were home. Home in the North Hollywood beginnings of the San Fernando Valley. But searching for them in a surmise Toward order. Of logic. For at least at the surrounding parts of the core I was still Jesuit. Off the highway the beach bodies rolling perpendicularly clean to the washing tide, mentally vacant to their own worship. And I am going into them now. Already drawn. As the stream of a ribbon I am gone. Curving to come back. But disassociated, only a higher hand, higher power, to wind the body, the circle, back. The billows of the can- yons winds seemed to make for an easy evil. Uncomplicated. Disturbance unlikely to happen swiftly, any sudden of seeing disaster at the brink... left out there languishing in the open sea. Across the arch of the last of the Santa Monica Freeway strands were peace signs, but I was headed for debauch.