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When I first met Ken in the fall of 1972, little did I realize that I had found an inspiring mentor and begun a deep friendship that would span almost 40 years. I was starting graduate school at an unaccredited start-up housed in the top of a warehouse on Potrero Avenue. Ken, a professor, was an established and respected psychoanalytic psychologist. I was dressed in torn jeans and work shirts with hair down to my shoulders. Ken wore elegant suits and slicked his hair across with a hair product. Given that this was the early ‘70s, and San Francisco, and CSPP, the hair gel didn't last long.
Ken was a brilliant teacher—thoughtful, creative, inspired—and had an ability to think on his feet and take the class on journeys where new ideas came frequently and easily. When he used the blackboard there was no predictable, organized way to copy to one's notes. Words were spread out all over the place with circles around them and arrows going every which way. Ken also had an unnerving habit at times of taking notes of what students said during class, and could remain silent when necessary, at ease in an analytic attitude that gave the class space to come to life.
As time went by, Ken enjoyed more freedom in the classes he offered. While he taught childhood psychopathology, Eriksonian psychobiography, and adult psychotherapeutic technique from a familiar psychoanalytic perspective, he also offered courses with titles like “Search for Ambiguity,” and “Magic Light, Mystic Sound.” The first involved reading Carlos Casteneda, and reflected Ken's interest in transpersonal transformation and indigenous shamanism. The second course reflected his deep love of art and music, and involved simply listening to music and watching slides of art. Ken's courses were held at 9:00 a.m., a very early time for many of us in the early ‘70s. I once asked him about this, and he said that he liked teaching early in the morning as people were closer to sleeping and dreaming. With less ego present, he felt