“if he’s into the bog, we must drag him out.
If the trolls have got him, we must ring the bells.” Peer gynt, ibsen



The biting November wind, the steaming frost, the brilliant blasting sun rising slices through the naked black oaks. S. is sitting on a cushion by the fire. A sense of self and physical solidity has banished dreaming. He will go out and meet the dawn with long strides, his double headed ax slung over his shoulder. He feels at one with the world. But the world is a dream he is in.

Thanksgiving is around the corner. John and susan, leary’s teenage children have come home from school somewhere in the anonymous Midwest. S. talked with john (they called jack in proper new England style). What a fine young gentleman he was. S. offered him a lit joint and was surprised to find that this son of timothy leary didn’t even smoke marijuana.

During the few days before thanksgiving, susan was prey to all the young princes. S. watched silently as one after another of these gallants approached and retreated. Ahhh so she was something of a ‘femme fatale’, he reasoned and made up his mind to pay no attention to her at all. This of course took a certain presence of mind because she was very pretty. She was eighteen with sort of strawberry blond mid length hair. she was as plump as a ripe plum and as fresh as a Georgia peach. If she brushed by him, he went deeper into himself and drifted away not to be seen again that day even. He knew what he was doing. He was actually luring susan by not showing any interest. And it worked. On the third day, at lunch, everyone eating picnic style in the big room, she just came over and sat right next him. After a minute she put her head on s.’s shoulder and kind of sighed. It was all over. She had decided.

From then on, s. and susan were hand in hand and never separated for more than a few minutes. They took long walks in the woods and s. told her stories of his adventures as they sat, she wide-eyed and he regaling her with excited conversation. And there were quiet times where there was no need to talk; in the rustic kitchen by the stove and at meals they would find a quiet corner and be alone in a crowd of people; they were in a bubble.
The night before thanksgiving s. wrote this in his journal…

The saddest of the sad
The gladdest of the glad
The baddest of the bad
The best of the good
All that is me.

Bali was dancing in the afternoon in the big room. A trio of tambal, sitar and oud accompanied the traditional story he danced with feet and hands and eyes. Everyone sat on the floor. The fire was blazing and there was silent attention. The watchman came in after his twenty-four hour vigil, went over to bill haines, whispered something, and sat down. Bill stood up and ceremoniously removed the talisman around the man’s neck and strode across the room to where s. and susan were sitting together. Bill haines, you will remember was the ‘guru’ of the ashram. He had the authority to chose the next watchman. He placed the talisman over s’s head and on his shoulders with ritual solemnity.
He had a room. A room of his own, with a double bed and a fire, and he would be ‘king’ for twenty-four hours. He could ask for anything he wanted and it would be brought down to the watchtower.

At the end of bali’s performance s. and susan walked down the driveway to the watchtower. It wasn’t a big room but it was beautiful and round. The king-size antique bed dominated the room. A stone fireplace was already kindled. Candles and incense were lit on the mantle.

An emissary from leary with two traditional companions, handed s. the sacrament in the same aperitif glass with the rose tinted brim and the gold filigree. S. set it on the dresser. When the messenger from the house asked if he wanted anything s. sent him in search of some hash. He came back quickly with not only a lump of nice blond Lebanese hashish but a little leather pouch of ‘bud’ and a toke pipe. The stage was set.

That evening susan brought down two thanksgiving dinners with all the trimmings, turkey and stuffing with gravy and mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce and hot biscuits; even a bottle of wine. They were both very happy.

After a few visitors, summoned by the ‘king’ had come and gone, they went to bed. The visitors were jean Pierre and another friend and bali of course. Ginsberg put in an appearance, not summoned, and shared a pipe and exchanged a few garrulous riffs.





Leary and ginsburg stroll the path by the lake below the watchtower.
s. stands naked watching through the picture window. He is very happy. Awakened by dawns first light watching the black night and stars dissolve, s. imagined he was dreaming. The chill of November was outside the watchtower. Inside was warm as toast. The fire had burned down and was now a bed of ruby coals. He gently placed two hardwood logs on the flickering fire. s. watches the two infamous old friends, practically hand in hand. The swans coast effortlessly on clouds of mist.




He turns his back to the fire and stares at susan all sprawled in wanton abandon. She looked so peaceful naked and so beautiful with barely a sheet covering her; it had been so warm all night. S. looked at the ‘dose’ in it’s sacred goblet with lip of gold. “not ready yet, not yet.” He said to himself. He slid back into bed and cuddled susan. She woke slowly with a blissful smile and rolled into him for more of the same… love sweet love.

Skipping breakfast on this day after the thanksgiving feasting was easy and s. downed the ‘sacrament’ wholeheartedly and unafraid. What better conditions for a ‘trip’? he felt the change instantly as he watched the red rising sun whisk away the morning mist.

Was the seeming dream reality? Yes, as real as rain. And just as real as the telegram from Julie that came that day in which she said “if you’re not in new york within three days, I cease to be your friend forever.”

in the catskills where rip van winkle slept for forty odd years and ichabod crane saw the headless horseman even stranger events than that took place in castalia where eighty giant oak trees lined both sides of the long driveway leading to the gatehouse. above the crystal clear lake the mansion with two towers and sixty bedrooms housed a hundred guests.


by neil selkirk

Dr. timothy leary was the philosopher king of this sprawling domain of carriage houses, guest house where Dr. richard alpert and his family stayed. there were also meditation house and a watchtower where every twenty four hours somebody with the authority of the talisman hung round his neck and with lsd running in his veins and sparkling in his brains was vigilant to altered states of consciousness; someone was always tripping at millbrook; that was the idea.

leary occupied a suite of rooms; parlor, bedroom and laboratory where he concocted the 'sacrament' for everyone. periodically leary with a troop of followers would sally forth to give the light and sound extravaganza which became the trademark of the leary campaign
to invite all to "tune in, turn on, drop out".


s. worked most of the day on wood gathering and splitting for fireplace.

work at millbrook was voluntary and if you chose to, you could just pray all day and attend yoga class and readings. Or you could trip the light fantastic with the freaks…. but s. was just as happy splitting wood as taking postures to harness the quiet energy of the body. he wasn't really interested in hindu theory or leary theory. he had no wish to release the kundalini power coiled at the base of his spine. And he had already explored the effects of drugs and his mind.
he liked to sweat and talk and laugh with the men and feel strong in a body deliciously exhausted by the end of the day.

s. was, as always and everywhere, the self appointed fire man; the sole tender of the blazing hearth. Now and then he headed into the the deep woods of 3,000 acres with a knapsack, his sketchpad and pencils, a snack and a jug of water and climbed to the bald summit of the hill. he loved the crisp fall days when the sun could still warm you.




s. was in a mood to allow himself to be loved. bali hovered over him like a hen over chicks. on the floor resting alongside the tropical fish tank, s. knew how a woman feels when they are loved; acceptance for the moment at least. S. was just somewhat embarrassed to be wooed by an indian dancer. To be kissed as he lay there, vulnerable, and in front of everybody.

bali ram. a former boy dancer in the court of the King of Nepal, Bali was a true child of the east. from early childhood was trained ….. storytelling dancer. bali reminded s. of sabu. the same golden skinned indian form. you could agree that it was classical.



leary invited bill haines, sarasvati and bali ram to his private rooms. bali dragged s. along under protest. “no, come. you’re with me.”
in the parlor all four of the visitors were sitting on one of the beds there.
leary came out of the back room with a silver serving tray with four doses in tall aperitif glasses. leary and the others took the dose without hesitation and s. just sat there. he was not identified with the acid. S. was a transparent presence, only considering being left out, he was free just to be there…. watchful but unexpectant.

timothy got up, went into the back bedroom (his lab) and came back with one more dose for s.. leary bowed slightly and offered the rose tinted gold rimmed chalice with both hands… sort of a namaste.


later bali was effusive “i felt so close to you at that moment, almost that you were me, and i was so proud of your cool detachment. i love you so much. do you love me?” “yes, bali, of course i do.”

that night a whole troop of time bandits tripping went out together into the cold night breathing cold vapor clouds, taking in the surreal starry sky, very happy. bill haines announced “look at this miracle… the whole universe, and it’s a free show.” as if he had ordered the galaxies to appear himself.
everything was geared for special impressions. the communal ‘fish room’,with wall to wall Persian carpets. there were coffee tables littered with beautiful art books. Next to the tropical aquarium, eight feet long on the floor was a giant blue glass urn filled to the brim with rubies and emerald stones (glass stage replica jewels and semi-precious stones). S. spent some time playing with them on the oriental carpet.

ginsburg was there at that time and arm in arm with the canadian journalist who had, only earlier that morning chased him around and around the house screaming, “you poisoned me, i’ll kill you, you sonofabitch!” apparently, allen had slipped a dose into the poor man’s coffee. but now he was as happy as a kitten in a dairy.