part0059

It’s been more than thirty years since that rainy Monday in April 1981 when Terence packed up seeds and gear and said goodbye to me at the airport in Iquitos. While our farewells were temporary, my sadness at the time said otherwise. On some level, I knew the occasion marked a pivotal transition for us, and I think he felt the same. Over the decades ahead, we’d be caught up in the same relentless flow of time that carries every being toward its separate fate. There would always be something akin to quantum entanglement between us, at least binding our minds. Though we saw each other frequently and remained in close touch over the ensuing decades, the vicissitudes of life largely kept us focused on our own separate tracks.

While I’d been finishing my thesis in Vancouver and working through various postdocs, building a scientific career and raising a daughter in a new hometown, Terence had been striking off in new directions of his own. He had abandoned plans for an academic career and, publicly at least, had rejected science or any other sort of conventional professional identity. Always a maverick, he eschewed anything like a “real job.” Fortunately, he was clever and talented enough not to need one. Like Marshall McLuhan, another contemporary maverick that we both admired, Terence was able to carve out a unique place at the table in the ongoing cultural conversation.

During the eighties, interest grew in the philosophical ideas and peculiar notions that Terence espoused. The books we had coauthored, The Invisible Landscape and Psilocybin: Magic Mushroom Grower’s Guide , were important early texts in that regard. The former exposed readers to a mind-stretching plethora of odd but appealing ideas, and the latter gave them a do-it-yourself method for visiting the realms we postulated if they wanted to try it at home.

Over time, Terence used his talents as a charismatic lecturer and raconteur to develop a devoted following. He became closely identified with mushrooms and the peculiar ideas associated with them, and discussed them openly in his ever-more-frequent radio interviews and public appearances. Even though mushrooms themselves were illegal, there was no law against talking about them, and Terence’s open advocacy of the psychedelic experience was reminiscent of Leary’s, another Irish gadfly who, in his prime, had used psychedelics to poke a stick in the eye of an uptight establishment. During the Reagan era and the Just-Say-No phase of the War on Drugs, Terence’s message got under the skin of many of the more humorless arbiters of morality and cultural correctness. He always had a gift for the provocative statement, and for him to put himself out there as the chief advocate of psychedelic gnosis when no one else was doing so took some courage.

Psychedelics are not suppressed because they are dangerous to users; they’re suppressed because they provoke unconventional thought, which threatens any number of elites and institutions that would rather do our thinking for us. Historically, those in power have always sought to suppress free thought, whether bluntly or subtly, because it poses an inherent challenge to their rule. That’s no less true today, in an age when corporate, political, and religious interests form a global bloc whose interests threaten all earthly life, including human life. Mushrooms have a way of inoculating the mind against the kind of thought control the prevailing order in any age needs to sustain itself. I’m not naively suggesting that the work of building a better world stops with the psychedelic experience. But it could be where it begins, or is renewed—in the moment of freedom when one glimpses the transient nature of reality and its ever-present potential for change.

Terence, by example, gave people permission to explore consciousness, to think, and to entertain new ideas. He reminded his listeners that it’s fun to exercise the imagination; astonishment and wonder awaken our desires to look inwardly at who we are and outwardly at the marvelous universe we inhabit. No matter how much we come to understand, there will always be infinitely more to be understood. One of Terence’s favorite quotes was from the English geneticist J.B.S. Haldane: “My own suspicion is that the universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose.” Terence reveled in that insight. The fact is that “funny ideas,” no matter how strange, play a crucial role in enticing us beyond the perimeters of the imaginable. As a leading, late-twentieth-century advocate of funny ideas, Terence deserves credit for leaving the scope of what we can suppose just a bit wider than he found it.

One challenge for him was finding a way to turn his gift of gab into tangible products that would help him pay the bills. He began working with others to capture and market his raps on tape. One early example was the original version of True Hallucinations , an audio-book account of our trip to La Chorerra that he read aloud, released by a company called Sound Photosynthesis in 1984. That and other early recordings helped him garner renown and some royalties, which Sound Photosynthesis, for one, eventually stopped paying. Terence’s talks and lectures are now widely available for free on the Internet, which is great in one sense and heartbreaking in another. Unlike the ephemeral “works” of other legendary conversationalists, Terence’s talks will live on as long as people care to listen. On the other hand, once such creations are available to all in digital form, they cease to belong to their creators or their families, making it that much harder for an unaffiliated free thinker like Terence to achieve the kind of stability needed to make ends meet, let alone to step back and assess one’s work, or push it in new directions.

By 1990, Terence had fully assumed his role as the bardic, shaman-trickster figure that became his beloved (and occasionally ridiculed) public persona. In addition to his role as spokesman for the new psychedelic culture, he’d achieved some notoriety for his timewave theory and its predicted end of history. He had found his “shtick,” as he sometimes lightly called it, and that kept him on the public stage before a growing legion of fans. There was no real competition for his niche; Leary was still around, but by then he was old and boring. If the original sixties psychedelic message was about peace, free love, Eastern wisdom, and getting back to nature, Terence’s take, while deeply informed by all that, had is own distinct edge. His audiences were mostly younger inhabitants of the Global Village foreseen by McLuhan, and by the early nineties becoming a reality. They were far from Luddite back-to-the-landers; these were world-spanning techno-nomads of an emerging global tribalism, the enthusiastic vanguard of a new post-historical archaic revival. Two decades ago, the hyper-connected informational environment and global neural network that most of us inhabit today was still nascent. Terence was the perfect avatar to give voice and vision to that emerging shift. Cool, articulate, eclectically educated, funny, steeped in psychedelics and sci-fi, Terence channeled the logos of the age. Silver-tongued and a riveting speaker, he articulated the concepts that his fans groped for but could not express, and he did so in a witty, disarming way. He was the gnomic trickster and bard, an elfin comedian delivering the cosmic punch line, even as he assured us we were all in on the joke. You just had to love him, and many people did, and still do.

Another important step for Terence was his association with the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. In the late eighties into the early nineties, he spent time as a “scholar in residence” at Esalen during the summers. During those years, he also began to attract notice from publishers. The Archaic Revival: Speculations on Psychedelic Mushrooms, the Amazon, Virtual Reality, UFOs, Evolution, Shamanism, the Rebirth of the Goddess, and the End of History appeared in 1992. Terence was never one for the short, catchy title. Food of the Gods: The Search for the Original Tree of Knowledge and a Radical History of Plants, Drugs, and Human Evolution was also published in 1992, as was Trialogues at the Edge of the West: Chaos, Creativity and the Resacralization of the West , the first of three published conversations with the mathematician Ralph Abraham and the theoretical biologist Rupert Sheldrake. True Hallucinations first appeared in book form in 1993; of all Terence’s writings during this prolific period, that work stands out for me as his most accessible and personal. Most of our contemporaries never embarked on such an adventure, but many could understand why we did; Terence’s account of it is a quest narrative at heart, imbued with the dreams and illusions of our time and of youth in general. The story’s broad appeal and his skillful telling of it resulted in what is arguably a classic of the era’s literature.

I always thought Terence was at his best when he spoke on topics that were not directly related to the timewave or psychedelics. He was extremely well read on a variety of interesting and obscure topics, partly because of his experience in the Tussman program at Berkeley, but mostly through the books he lovingly accumulated over years of creating his amazing library, which eventually numbered more than 3,000 volumes. He told me he’d read most of them, and I believe him. He was an astute observer of contemporary culture, and often prescient about many of the social, historical, and technological forces that have created our post-millennial world. That may explain why so many of Terence’s lectures survive on the Internet, and why people are still listening to them. Even though they date back to the eighties and nineties, they sound as fresh and timely as if they were uttered yesterday. As I’ve noted, Terence’s genius was that he could see the future that was immanent in current events, and then articulate that insight for the rest of us. He may have gotten the details wrong in places, and been hobbled by the assumptions of the metaphysics he constructed, but one only has to look around to realize that, basically, he got it remarkably right. If Terence returned tomorrow, he would be unsurprised by most of what has transpired since his death. He would, no doubt, have incisive thoughts to share about the world at present, and the future impending within it, invisible to all but the few with his gift of perceiving it.

Terence put his ideas out there, but he was never wedded to them, or inclined to present them as scripture. He was anti-dogmatic by nature. He always maintained a sense of humor and a bemused perspective about his theories, and that was part of his appeal. He insisted that people should think for themselves and make their own judgments about his “crazy” notions. His ability to keep those notions at arm’s length, so to speak, was an affirmation of his inherent stability. He was able to say, “Hey, here’s a whole set of really wild ideas that are fun to think about; maybe some are even true. What do you think?”

It was an irreverent stance for a guru, which he never wanted to be. He had no desire to tell people what they should think; he just wanted them to think, period. I believe he viewed himself as a teacher, perhaps in some respects an entertainer, but never a guru. Many younger people have told me that what they’ve learned from Terence was more relevant to them than any other part of their educations, which is an enormous compliment to him and his talents.

And yet for every charismatic figure there is a legion of people who are eager to follow, and a certain contingent of Terence’s audience viewed him in that way. He liked being recognized and admired, of course, but he never took himself that seriously, and had no desire to lead a flock. Most of the world’s religions are empowered by the human readiness to worship charismatic figures and seek solace in mass identification. Religious and political demagogues use these impulses to lure believers into relinquishing self-responsibility and the capacity for critical thought. Sociopathic or psychopathic personalities who achieve fame are usually quite happy to exploit their status, unburdened as they are by conscience, self-insight, or doubt.

Terence wanted no part of that sick dynamic. He was keenly aware of the difference between how some chose to see him and who he really was. One of his thoroughly sane admirers told me a story that revealed Terence’s healthy perspective on his celebrity. The moment occurred at an appearance he made with the spiritual leader Ram Dass, who has had his own issues with guru-worship and cult followers. It happened during the nineties, at a time when Terence was dealing with his share of personal setbacks. In their dialog, Ram Dass said, “Your life is your message,” a typical guru-esque pronouncement; Terence replied, “My life is a mess. My message is my message.”

So that was Terence, as I saw him, at the zenith of his creative powers and career. I dare say those years, especially later on, were not his happiest. By the time my family and I moved from Bethesda back to the Bay Area in 1988, Terence’s marriage was already under strain. By the time we left for Minnesota in late 1992, he and Kat had decided to get a divorce. The end of their marriage would affect my ties to both of them in profound and lasting ways. Terence visited us in Minnesota in late 1993, and we thoroughly enjoyed his company. With my new job and comfortable home life, it was a good time for me. After his recent publishing successes, Terence had much to be proud of as well. I may have thought we were adjusting to the fact of his pending divorce, which would be finalized in the year ahead, but I was underestimating its impact on both of us.

Though he sometimes railed against monogamy in his lectures, Terence was basically a serial monogamist at heart. Multiple partners and free love didn’t work for him. He may have had a few short affairs in the period of emotional turbulence after his separation, but what he was looking for was someone to share the next phase of his life. Eventually he found her, or so he felt. Terence met Jill at a conference near Palenque, the famous Maya ruins in southern Mexico. Known as the Entheobotany Seminars, the event, hosted annually by the Botanical Preservation Corps, had become the place to see and be seen by everybody who was anybody in the psychedelic world. Terence had actually met Jill’s mother, a Jungian psychologist, years earlier when she invited him to give a workshop she was organizing in Los Angeles. Jill had been busy raising her own young daughter at the time and had not attended. Terence and Jill dated for several months and then moved in together on the Big Island in mid-1994. They parted in late 1997.

In retrospect, I realize that by 1994 Terence was dealing with one of the most difficult periods in his life. His separation and eventual divorce had left him depressed. He was regularly suffering migraines, a malady that had plagued him off and on since adolescence. He was also feeling the pressures of maintaining a public persona, the constant travel it required, and the effort it took to meet the expectations of his audience. Jill was one of the few people he could turn to for emotional support, and their relationship became a refuge from the demands of his work.

My sense is that Terence had a growing ambivalence about his career. One event that may have contributed to that feeling occurred at the Palenque seminars in early 1996. Prior to the conference, Terence had been corresponding with a young mathematician named Matthew Watkins, who wanted to discuss what he believed to be flaws in the calculations underlying the timewave. The two agreed to meet in Palenque and talk it out.

Watkins later said he didn’t set out to “debunk” the timewave. In fact, over the conference, the two men had several friendly conversations about what Terence later dubbed “the Watkins Objection.” During their chats, Watkins more or less deconstructed the timewave theory, to the point where Terence conceded that his challenger had identified some critical flaws. The sessions amounted to a cordial but serious exchange between two serious thinkers discussing the merits of a fairly arcane and abstract set of concepts.

Nevertheless, I believe the encounter deeply affected Terence. Watkins’s critique was perhaps the first time anyone with mathematical expertise had questioned the tenets of his theory; as such, it carried more weight than previous criticisms, including my own. To make things worse, Terence had been suffering such severe migraines that he was barely able to leave his room much of the time. Once back home in Hawaii, he posted a response to Watkins on his website Hyperborea (www.levity.com/eschaton/hyperborea.html ) but took it down when Watkins declared it unsatisfactory. He then allowed Watkins to furnish his own response, which Terence linked to under a title he’d given it: “Autopsy for a Mathematical Hallucination?” The statement remains posted to this day (www.fourmilab.ch/rpkp/autopsy.html ).

There was a brief flurry of revisionism by certain timewave supporters, which according to Watkins, in a 2010 recap, failed to produce a better version. Much of this history is recounted from a different perspective on Peter Meyer’s website (www.fractal-timewave.com ). Meyer is the computer programmer who worked with Terence during the mid-eighties to develop the Timewave Zero software program that he still sells on CD-ROM. Back in 1996, the Watkins Objection remained front and center for a while on the Novelty List, an email forum devoted to timewave-related topics, devolving at certain moments into objections aimed at Watkins himself. While eventually the contributors moved on, the impact lingered for Terence. I believe the affair shook his confidence in the validity of the timewave, a project that constituted a major part of his life’s work.

At the time, I was living in Minnesota, tending to my own career and family. It was a difficult period in my relationship with Terence. Whether my perceptions were accurate or not, I wasn’t happy with the way he’d been dealing with the fallout from his divorce. I also challenged him for not “walking his talk.” He was active on the lecture circuit promoting psychedelics but taking them only rarely, just at a point when I thought he should have been taking them to facilitate insight and self-reflection. He disagreed and resented my efforts to engage him on it. For me, the emotions tied to these events stirred up a lot of turmoil and memories dating back to our earliest childhood. We didn’t overtly argue, but tensions between us were definitely high.

Looking back on that period from a distance of fifteen years or so, I can see now that I failed to appreciate how depressed Terence was at the time, and how badly he felt about the failure of his marriage and the challenges of his career. I should have had more compassion for him. I am chagrined and a little ashamed to admit that I was not there for Terence at a moment when a brother should have been.

Terence was fifty when our Father died in 1997, and I was forty-six. Dad had long since retired to Mesa, Arizona, and lived there with Lois, his second wife. The rheumatic fever he’d had as a child had caused a heart valve defect that deteriorated over time. “Leaky valves” in old age are a common long-term outcome of this childhood disease, and the accepted treatment is a pig valve transplant. Our father had this procedure in the early eighties, and it fixed the problem for more than a decade. He wasn’t climbing mountains or hang-gliding, but he played golf and swam regularly and had few problems until the mid-1990s.

After that, the valve became less efficient, but a second transplant wasn’t indicated because of his age; what awaited him was advancing congestive heart failure. During this period we happened to be on a family vacation in Colorado at the same time Dad and Lois were. We were all staying at the Redstone Inn on the Crystal River, our old childhood family haunt. Dad became so short of breath sitting in the dining room I thought he was going to faint. He could barely make it upstairs to his room and appeared on the verge of a heart attack. Fortunately, the episode passed (it was probably triggered by high altitude) but he was definitely on the decline. He made a remark that day that has stuck with me: “You’re just living your life and everything is going along fine,” he said, “and the next thing you know, you look in the mirror and you see an old man looking back at you. You suddenly realize that you’re old. How did that happen?” He seemed genuinely puzzled. By then he could do little but sit in a chair. He was very uncomfortable and usually short of breath. It was wrenching to see this old man, my old man, suffering so much. It almost seemed as if death would be merciful even though he was “only” eighty at the time.

His doctors came up with the brilliant idea of implanting a defibrillator in his chest. Neither Terence nor I were consulted or even informed about this until the deed had been done. When I found out, I was furious. Dad did not have arrhythmia or irregular heartbeat; he had congestive heart failure. Though some would argue the devices reduce the risk of “sudden death,” a defibrillator struck me as an inappropriate treatment for a man of his age and condition. For me, convincing him to undergo the procedure amounted to malpractice. But Medicare would pay for it and reward his physicians well for doing so—another regrettable illustration of high-tech medicine out of control.

We had no idea just how regrettable until our father’s death—or rather, his many deaths. His ordeal began on April 27, 1997, a day when I had flown to Boston for a meeting with a company I was consulting for. Terence, as it happened, was also on the East Coast, giving a workshop in North Carolina. There was a message from Sheila awaiting me when I checked into the hotel. Lois had called to tell her my father had fallen in the shower after suffering an apparent heart attack or stroke. He’d been taken, unconscious, to the emergency room and died shortly thereafter. I went to my room and called Lois. After talking to her a few minutes, I hung up and sat there gathering my thoughts. The news wasn’t a surprise; we’d been expecting something like it for some time.

Then Lois called back with an odd and disturbing follow-up: it seemed that Dad had not died after all. He had not recovered consciousness, but his heart had started beating again due to the defibrillator, which kept kicking in when his heart stopped. The thing would literally resurrect him every time. Lois gave me the number at the hospital, and I called and talked to a nurse, explained the situation to him, and asked if they could just turn off the defibrillator. Clearly, Dad was not going to recover and yet was being denied a peaceful death.

The nurse’s answer shocked me. Actually, no, he said, they could not turn off the device, because it belonged to the corporation, and only a company technician could access the software codes that deactivated it. The request to do so had to be authorized by my father’s physician.

“Well, get the goddamn physician on the line and have him authorize it!” I demanded, by now screaming into the phone. But the physician was on a golf junket in Florida and couldn’t be reached, and no one was aware of a Plan B. The nurse, who shared my distress, said the only way to resolve the matter was for me to get there as soon as I could and get in someone’s face.

I hung up and called Terence at the conference center, and we both started making plans to get to Mesa. I left around ten p.m. and finally made it to Phoenix three stops and twelve hours later. Terence had been going through the same nightmare and reached the hospital an hour before me. Overnight, the staff had finally had gotten someone to turn off the device, but Dad had lingered on until Terence arrived and then stopped breathing twenty minutes later. I arrived shortly after that, but by then Terence, having no idea when I’d get there, had left, hoping to catch his connection for Hawaii out of L.A.

Being in the presence of someone who has just expired is a strange experience. The room was still crackling with the energy of our father’s departing spirit; I had a definite, eerie sense that it was still hanging around, as if reluctant to leave until I showed up. The sight of him was enough to tell me his death had not been peaceful; the device in his chest would not permit that. The signature of his suffering, his agony and exhaustion, was etched into his face, and I will never forget it.

Both of our parent’s deaths were fraught with drama. Our mother’s had been disrupted by our concern over Terence, at the time a fugitive, trying to sneak into the country to spend some final moments with her. That did not happen, and Mom died never getting the chance to forgive or speak with her eldest and favorite son. At least Dad got to see Terence before he died, though I don’t know if Dad was conscious when Terence was with him. I felt like the one who lost out; Dad had expired by the time I got there. Over the years, reflecting on these events, I’ve often berated myself for not taking legal action against the physicians who implanted the device. The death of a loved one is often a moment of great vulnerability. Lawyers and lawsuits are the last things a survivor wants to think about, and I didn’t, though I feel now I should have. It wouldn’t be the last time that a paralysis born of grief would cloud my judgment and keep me from making the right decision. I had no idea how to go about filing a suit, and I had doubts about whether we’d have the resources to sustain such a long and costly action if we did file. Life was pressing in, and I made the decision to move on.

I’ve often regretted it. Dad was a good and ethical man. He was a good husband to our mother, and a good father to Terry and me despite the grief we caused him. He fought bravely in the war and paid a price for it. He enjoyed his friends, his fishing and hunting, his golf, his flying. He was an admirable person in many ways, someone to look up to and emulate. He was certainly not “an average guy” even though that’s how he wanted to think of himself. He was a good, practicing, believing Catholic to the very end. I hope he went to that heaven, if that’s the one he wanted, because he deserved to.

In January 1998, I took part in a twelve-day Ayahuasca workshop in Iquitos, Peru, at Francisco Montes’s retreat, Jardín Etnobotánico Sachamama, an hour outside Iquitos. Luis Eduardo Luna showed up, as did Francisco’s cousin, the painter Pablo Amaringo. The workshop had been touted as a splendid retreat in a beautiful setting, and that proved to be true. Luis Eduardo, Pablo, and I were there to provide entertainment in the form of our lectures. The group would be taking ayahuasca with Francisco, who had begun practicing vegetalismo , and with some other local practitioners. Luis Eduardo and Pablo had not been on good terms since their falling out over the art school in Pucallpa a few years earlier, but they both agreed to show up. We were hoping the reunion would bring some healing and reconciliation, which it did, although the truce was an uneasy one.

Among the interesting people there was a gentleman with some serious mental issues. For one, he believed he was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ and had come back to earth to overcome a coven of witches and warlocks who were bent on destroying the world. This evil cabal turned out to be us—the workshop participants. He became convinced we had lured him there to kill him. Muttering darkly under his breath, he let us now know he was on to us and, come nightfall, “the tables would turn.” He was quite serious about it and at one point tore off into the forest in a paranoid mania. Another group member, Bill, probably the sanest among us, found him hours later in a farmer’s yard, sitting in the lotus position and wearing only a towel, with a machete stuck into the ground beside him. After thirty or forty minutes of conversation, during which the guy didn’t open his eyes, Bill convinced him to find a hotel room in town and get some rest. The guy’s girlfriend, who had brought him to the workshop, later confided that he’d suffered these paranoid delusions for years and that she’d hoped the ayahuasca could help him.

Earlier, in a lucid moment, he told a fascinating story about how he had cured his severe dyslexia in adolescence using high doses of LSD. He’d always had difficulty reading, he said, because the letters just seemed to float off the page. Apparently, he’d taken LSD to play football in high school, believing that it improved his game. He was a good player, and his skill helped him gain social acceptance despite his learning disabilities; maybe LSD could help him tackle those as well. He described to me how, in a series of high-dose sessions, he was able to visualize the “wiring” in his brain, as he put it, and the “damaged filing cabinets” where his linguistic functions resided. In a shamanic act of psychic neurosurgery, he then identified a set of “alternate” cabinets and transferred his linguistic functions into them. After that, he never had any problems with dyslexia, he said. He read easily and enjoyed it.

I have no reason to doubt his story, though it obviously warrants skepticism in light of his mental health issues. It did lead me to speculate about the use of LSD as a potential treatment for dyslexia. We have a limited understanding of neuroplasticity, to say nothing of how psychedelics might affect it. That man’s anecdote hints at the curious link between psychedelics and language, as do the more prevalent accounts of synesthesia I’ve discussed earlier. Psychedelics have some fundamental relationship to the way our brains create meaning and understanding out of sounds and images. I’m convinced that further investigations into this phenomenon would yield new insights.

Another participant was Jill, Terence’s ex-girlfriend. The two had very recently split up, and one reason she attended the workshop was to look for some understanding and peace of mind. I’d gotten to know her somewhat on my visits to Hawaii while she and Terence were together; back then I’d mistaken her quiet self-possession and reserve for shyness. I knew their parting had hurt her, though I believe it had been her choice. I was still feeling a lot of turmoil over my own relationship with Terence and, fairly or otherwise, Jill’s experience may have heightened those emotions, which started surfacing for me in the Ayahuasca sessions. They were difficult sessions, very dark and disturbing. I kept seeing images of Terence with a black shadow in the center of his chest, a black, hard knot located over his heart. Given my feelings at the time, I interpreted this as an expression of his coldness and lack of compassion. Only later did I understand what the Ayahuasca was really showing me. It was a foreshadowing, literally, of a black tumor, the seeds of which even then were forming, though in my anger I had misplaced its location. I can’t vouch for the validity of this perception, of course. It was an Ayahuasca vision, after all. But in reflection, I have come to believe this is what I’d been shown—a premonition of the nightmare to come, still more than a year in the future.

Indeed, the rest of 1998 passed quietly. Terence went to the Palenque “entheobotany” event as usual, and in May he visited us briefly in Minnesota when he came out to speak at the Whole Life Expo in St. Paul. He informed me that he had a new girlfriend, Christy, whom he’d met in Palenque, a young woman from Ohio. I wouldn’t actually meet her for another year, but her age alone, twenty-five, had me privately conjuring up all sorts of presumptions about what she had to be like. Surely as impatient with me as I was with him, Terence wasn’t in the mood to care what I thought, so we really didn’t discuss it.