What we considered a normal childhood in the 1970s would get most parents arrested today. Family size was a factor behind the generally loose supervision of the era, and by the eighth child I think Mom and Dad just couldn't keep up anymore. So John enjoyed his freedom. We spent many a Sunday morning splitting into teams and scouring the canyons and hillsides above the Palisades to look for him. He was usually pretty dirty from sleeping rough, but in surprisingly good shape. Years later we learned that he spent most Saturday nights sneaking into the Bay Theater and bumming popcorn and Coke from the people around him. He was charming.
For about six months John meditated alone on a hilltop above El Medio Drive. As with everything else, he did it his way. Instead of focusing on the breath passing through his nose and filling his lungs, he focused on the breath passing through the ring of his bubble blower. He did not seek to make the perfect bubble, he simply accepted that each bubble was perfect in its way. His practice soon gained notoriety (Mom saw to that). Notoriety brought acolytes, who sat in awe as they tried to learn the ways of the Bubblemaster.
John didn't tell us anything about his dealings. He said it was for our own protection. After a few years of piecing things together we noticed a pattern, that he would get eerily calm right before something big happened. It was as if he'd set all of the actors into motion, hurtling towards a shocking but inevitable conclusion, and was waiting for it to play out. Just like Moriarty, only there was no Sherlock Holmes to stop him. NOTE: Nixon resigned two days after this photo was taken.
