IT IS 1972 and my son is making his way home from California. He has a B.A. in philosophy and has had a transcendental experience. In the hills beyond Palo Alto he has known the unnameable. He writes letters about this experience, but his handwriting is so poor that I cannot decipher them; he writes poems of such complex metaphor that I cannot understand them. Once he was a basketball star.
The journey is a slow one. He travels in a truck with many stops along the way, campgrounds, universities, rock festivals. He will arrive in due time, he tells us, and leave again for the Florida Keys.
He feels the need of a vacation.
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