The one but last conversation I had with him was about death. And for the two of us, fellow trippers since the break of the seventies, it was all to do with the ‘trip’ and the sensations that would flow – from this reality to whatever was to be experienced next. The way we looked at it was that since there was going to be no respite from the pain and ebbing of the energy from what was left of the ‘life’, the release that death would bring would be welcome, and the fear and attachment that would be the norm for most folks must be moved aside to clear the ‘way’ to whatever came next. I related to him what I experienced in a dream about dying – how the ‘release’ that death brought about was realized in the form of a wet dream and how incredible the whole sensation of ‘liberation’ was.

In the early days of our friendship – both of us ‘refugees’ from the Western-Establishment and living the life that our friends in the counter-culture we knew in the West only dreamed about, we traveled the paths of Sri Aurobindo, Krishnamurthi, Carlos Castaneda, Timothy Learie, Babba Ram Das and like-minded folk, on a spit of land between the ocean and a lagoon on the east coast with two or three fellow-travelers. In a shack with a sandy floor with no power. Battery-powered music from Pink Floyd, Ten Years After, Tull, Hendrix, Blind Faith and that lot. Dark nights in an out-trigger on the lagoon with our fingers trailing through the dark waters leaving the plankton’s shimmering luminescence in very acidy trails behind us – strains of Floyd’s Ummagumma wafting across the waters. Idyllic. Then the aborted revolution took place and shattered that reality. I returned to the West but he couldn’t – and never again traveled abroad – some hassle with his passport – the reason he had to return in the first place. A far cry from crewing on the Jimi Hendrix yacht – but he didn’t mind. And he did love Little Wing – a lot.

I returned some years later and it was just like old times – he was like that. More tripping – of all types. Kataragama, Matara Swami, Siva Kalki, Gauribala, the Manik one and others on the way – good times. And then he found his niche – a fortunate landing – one which he appreciated and where he stayed until the end.

I said my goodbye just before leaving for Flowerbook a couple of days before he left and as I kissed him goodbye I knew deep down that I would never see Mo again.

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